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SESAME AND LILIES

THREE LECTURES

BY

JOHN RUSKIN

EDITED BY

CHARLES ROBERT GASTON, Ph.D.

TEACHER OF ENGLISH IN THE RICHMOND HILL HIGH SCHOOL, NEW YORK CITY

BOSTON, U.S.A. D. C. HEATH & CO., PUBLISHERS ' . f - ■ 1909

Copyright, 1909, By D. C. Heath & Co.

LIBRARY of CONGRESS Two CoDies Heceived

^ Ccuyriijnt Entry ^

1 u r Li Qc

CONTENTS

PAGE

Introduction 5

Author's Preface 23

SESAME AND LILIES

I. Of Kings' Treasuries 53

11. Of Queens' Gardens no

III. The Mystery of Life and its Arts . . . 148

Notes 189

INTRODUCTION

PROFESSOR JOHN RUSKIN (i8i 9-1900)

The most characteristic thing about Ruskin was that his attitude throughout his Hfe was that of a teacher. To be sure, he did not hold official position as professor for a pro- tracted period, but even when not engaged in actual teaching he went by the title of Professor, for he taught by his books as well as by his lectures. He had certain definite ideas about the truths of art and architecture, education and religion, natural science and political economy ; he gave his energies freely for years as author and teacher to bring these ideas home to the English people. As a useful member of society, too, he taught good lessons. He had clear conceptions re- garding the duties of men to their fellows ; to carry out these ideas he spent his whole fortune of over _;^ 150,000 in various projects for the improvement of his fellow-men. As professor, as writer, and as citizen he was always doing what he could to make the world better. He was always teaching by word and by deed. This preeminent characteristic may be seen very clearly in a simple narrative of his early life, his years of maturity, and his old age, each from the point of view of man and writer.

I. Youth

In his early years Ruskin had many advantages that pre- pared the way for his active life as one of the great teachers of the nineteenth century. Born February 8, 18 19, in London, England, he was the only child of well-to-do parents who loved

5

6 INTRODUCTION

him devotedly yet did not spoil him. They brought him up with a sense of order and self-reliance. Mrs. Ruskin did not approve of coddling children with heaps of toys ; she would not permit her son to have a costly Punch and Judy which an aunt wished him to add to his slight store of playthings. The boy had only a bunch of keys to play with for several years, then a cart and a ball ; at five or six he was allowed two boxes of well-cut bricks made of lignum vitas. Since he had few toys and was punished if he cried, if he did not come when called, or if he tumbled on the stairs, he learned to amuse himself by inspecting his surroundings closely, watch- ing the water cart in the street, counting bricks in the walls, looking sharply at patterns in the carpet, and enjoying com- binations of colors.

For reading, he had principally the Bible, twenty-seven chapters of which he learned by heart and recited to his mother. His father used to read good books aloud evenings. In this way, Ruskin heard the Waverley novels of Scott, all the Shakespeare comedies and historical plays, and all of Do7i Quixote.

Neither of his parents ever promised him anything without giving it to him ; ever said, " I'll whip you, John, if — " without carrying out the threat when the boy did not obey ; or ever lied to him. Such training as this, in Ruskin's case, made an orderly, truthful boy, who was nevertheless high-spirited and self-reliant.

Two elements in the childhood of Ruskin need special mention. His father, John James Ruskin, a wine merchant, every summer drove with Mrs. Ruskin and John through several counties of England, taking orders along the way. While the carriage was moving, the son would often make rough sketches, and then at night he would fill in the outlines. It was at this early period that Ruskin learned to love nature and to cultivate minute accuracy of observation. His sum- mer tours so interested him in drawing that when, on his thirteenth birthday, he received a copy of the poet Rogers's

JOHN RUSKIN : YOUTH 7

Italy^ illustrated by Turner, he became completely enamored of Turner. The boy spent hours in making copies of Turner's sketches. This Turner infatuation, together with the summer tours in the family post-chaise, profoundly influenced Ruskin's later years.

Further details of his childhood, readers will find set forth in Ruskin's own recollections in his autobiography entitled FrcEterita, Volume I ; in W. G. Collingwood's authoritative and fascinating life of Ruskin ; and in Frederic Harrison's shorter, but interesting narrative in the English Men of ■Letters series.

Ruskin's education lasted from the age of four, when he taught himself to read, until 1845, when he returned to the family home on Denmark Hill, London, on the completion of the travels of his youth. It was an irregular, unusual kind of education. He was taught by his mother at home until he was ten. Then he had private tutors in Latin, Greek, French, geometr}^, and drawing until he was fifteen. After that, he went for a little less than two years to a day school in London. In 1835 his studies were interrupted by an attack of pleurisy. While he was going to school in London, he spent much time in the British Museum, studying the collection of minerals ; he was interested because he was making a collection him- self.

In 1836 Ruskin matriculated at Christ Church College, Oxford. Being a gentleman-commoner at the most fashion- able college in Oxford, he had the opportunity of associating with young men of refinement and scholarly attainments, as well as with sporting youths of the nobility. Some of the quieter men of his set used to go to his rooms and look at his sketches, and talk over with him the art of Raphael and other old masters of painting. In 1839 he won the Newdigate prize for a poem. In the spring of 1840 he learned that Adele Domecq, whose father was a partner of his father, had married a Frenchman. In a timid, unavailing manner young Ruskin had been trying for some years to win the affection of the

8 INTRODUCTION

charming young French lady. Partly as a result of the news of her marriage, and partly as a result of his studying daily for a month from six in the morning until twelve at night, with no exercise outdoors, he began to cough and spit blood. He was pronounced consumptive by the doctors, had to give up college, and start traveling. In Italy he caught the Roman fever, but finally, by being in the open air most of the time, regained his health and returned to college.

On his twenty-first birthday his father gave him an allow- ance of about ^200 a year. As soon as the young collegian received his allowance the first year, he expended a third of it for a Turner water color. In 1842 he took his degree of B.A. The next year he took his M.A. Having received his degree at Oxford, he traveled for some years. Again he jour- neyed to Switzerland as in his boyhood. Again he visited great art galleries in France and Italy ; in 1844 he studied the old masters in the Louvre, Paris; in 1845 he gave special study to the paintings of Tintoretto in Venice. In the second volume of PrcEterita, he says that by 1845, ^^^i" ^^^ studies in Rouen, Geneva, and Pisa, he had fixed in his mind the fun- damental principles of art and architecture to which he held ever after.

Now he was prepared for his teaching career. But, as will be shown presently, he was so impatient to begin impressing his opinions on the public that he had already done some didactic writing.

As a writer, during his early life, Ruskin established his reputation as one of the notable teachers of his time. Renown came early to him. It was in 1842, the year he took his B.A. at Oxford, that, at the age of twenty-three, he set to work on the first volume of his famous book published the next year — Modern Painters.

As a mere child Ruskin had dabbled in composition. He wrote verses before he was seven, and when he reached seven he began to print a book in imitation of book print. He called it Harry afid Liccy, or Early Lessons. It contained

JOHN RUSKIN : YOUTH 9

six poems and some prose composition on subjects suggested by Miss Edgeworth's stories and by Joyce's Scietitific Dia- logues. Similar juvenile poetry Ruskin wrote to record his impressions of the long, rambling carriage journeys which the family took, his model in this poetic diary being Byron.

In 1834 and in 1836 he contributed a series of geological articles, illustrated by himself, to Loudon's Magazine of Natural History. In November, 1837, there appeared in Loudon's Architectural Magazine a Ruskin article signed by the nom-de-plume Kataphusin, and entitled " Introduction to the Poetry of Architecture: or. The Architecture of the Nations of Europe considered in its Association with Natural Scenery and National Character." In this, as in his other early essays, Ruskin deliberately imitated Johnson in style. Salsette and Elephanta^ 1839, ^''is college prize poem, was not of particular poetic value, though it deluded the father for a time into thinking that his son was destined to be a great poet. Other poems by Ruskin written during his college days were published in the London Monthly Miscellany, and in 1850 were gathered into a volume. In 1841 Ruskin wrote the fairy story. The King of the Golden River ^ for a Scotch maiden of whom he was fond.

Next, he set to work on his great art book, the first volume of which appeared in April, 1843, under the signature "A Graduate of Oxford." The book was published with the full descriptive title, Modern Painters: their Superiority in the Art of Landscape Painting to all the Ancient Masters, proved by Exa7nples of the True, the Beautiful and the Intellectual, from the Works of Modern Artists, especially from those of /. M. W. Turner, Esq.,R.A.

Modern Painters was such a glorification of the painting of a contemporary artist. Turner, and such a depreciation of established masters of landscape painting — like Salvator Rosa, Caspar Poussin, and Claude — that it was attacked fiercely by the critics. It attracted much favorable attention, however, by its form, if not by its substance. Such brilliant

10 INTRODUCTION

style and such eloquent description had rarely been seen in the history of English prose.

Thus, during his early years, Ruskin experimented much with his pen, and produced one didactic book that gained him instant recognition as a writer whose words of instruction must thereafter be received with attention.

II. Midlife

The next period of Professor Ruskin's life, his maturity, dates roughly from 1845 to 1884. By 1845 ^e was well pre- pared for his life work ; as he says in Prceterita (Vol. II, Ch. 8), " the industry of midlife " had begun for him. In 1884, when he completed his letters on the problems of life, Fors Clavi- gera, and resigned as art lecturer at Oxford, he felt that his message to the world was ended, and he hoped to have rest. These years, then, about forty in number, may be considered his mature, working period as a teacher of the whole English nation.

The incidents during the first half of the period may be chronicled in a few paragraphs. In 1846 Ruskin visited, with his father and mother, the places where he had studied alone the year before ; at Pisa he found that he and his father were no longer in sympathy in their points of view about works of art. In 1847 he made a tour through Scotland. During part of the year he took treatment for the consumptive tendency which had interrupted his college course, but after this year he was not again similarly troubled. On April 10, 1848, at Perth, he married Euphemia Chalmers Gray, the Scotch beauty for whom he had written The King of the Golde?i River. In the summer of 1849 ^^^ was at Chamouni, taking " heavenly walks," as he says, and enjoying ''heavenly Alpine mornings."

The events which Ruskin considered most important in his life from 1850 to i860 are given in the first chapter of the third volume of Prcsterita. For several years now Ruskin cham- pioned in letters to the press and in magazine articles the ideas of the group of artists known as the Preraphaelites.

JOHN ruskin: midlife 11

These artists wished to establish a school of painting, the foundation of which was to be absolute truth to nature in all things,. especially in respect to detail. The summer of 1853 Ruskin and his friend Millais, the Preraphaelite painter, spent in Scotland. In the autumn Ruskin gave a much-dis- cussed course of art lectures before the Philosophical Society of Edinburgh. While he was on the way to Edinburgh, he met Dr. John Brown, author of Rab and his Friends ; Ruskin calls Dr. Brown '"'the best and truest friend^' of all his life. In 1854 Ruskin's wife left him, and the marriage was legally annulled. This year Ruskin took charge of drawing classes at theWork- ingmen's College, London ; two of his associates in the teaching were the poet and painter D. G. Rossetti, and the artist Burne-Jones, leading members of the Preraphaelite group.

The next year, 1855, Ruskin studied shipping at Deal, in order to treat intelligently the subject of navigation in a book he was writing. The Harbours of England. In a letter to Car- lyle he says that during this year he had to make in his books remarks on " German Metaphysics, Poetry, Political Economy, Cookery, Music, Geology, Dress, Agriculture, Horticulture, and Navigation," and that he had to '• read up " on nearly all these subjects.

This year, 1855, ^^ ^^^ friendly letters from Robert and Elizabeth Barrett Browning. In 1857 he gave lectures on art and on political economy in Manchester and London. Six months of the year he worked in the National Gallery, arranging the Turner drawings. On October 29, 1858, Rus- kin gave the inaugural address at the opening of the Cam- bridge School of Art for workmen. Early in 1859 he met Mrs. Gaskell, author of Cranford. Later in the year, he made his last tour with his parents, this time in Germany, to see the pictures at Berlin, Dresden, and Munich. After hard work all the winter of 1859 and the spring of i860, he went off to Chamouni to rest and meditate.

This decade, from 1850 to i860, as Professor Ruskin realized

12 INTRODUCTION

after, was very important in his life, for in these years he made a number of friends among distinguished people, and he be- gan actual instruction to classes.

In 1861 Ruskin presented a series of Turner drawings to Oxford University and another set of twenty-five to Cam- bridge. The two years following he spent mainly in the study of geology and in geologizing excursions in the Alps. In 1864 his father died. To cheer the loneliness of Ruskin's aging mother, a cousin, Joanna Agnew, came on a visit to the Ruskin home. Since Ruskin's mother immediately took a liking for her, she remained as guest for seven years, when she was married to Arthur Severn, an artist. Not long after her marriage, she and her family took charge of Ruskin's home, and continued affectionately to watch over him the rest of his life, as one may read in the last chapter of Praterita.

When the estate left by his 'father was settled, John Ruskin made model tenements out of several old buildings in the poorer quarter of London. By this means he reduced the annual income from the property from twelve to five per cent. Though he did not keep the tenements many years, it was practical philanthropy like this — to help those who were somewhat able to help themselves — that Ruskin zealously advocated. His practice gained many adherents among the rich who were inclined to do good with their property.

Even as early as 1864, a year before the completion of his first score of mature, working years, Ruskin had established a considerable reputation for deeds of philanthropy. During this period of about twenty years, he had become recognized not only as a philanthropist, but as a penetrating student of the Middle Age and Renaissance civihzation, as a master in "seeing the beauty and meaning of the work of other minds" ; in short, as the leading teacher of art criticism of his generation.

In the second half of this long working period. Professor Ruskin deepened the impression he had already made on his generation. On December 6 and December 14, 1864, he

JOHN ruskin: midlife 13

delivered at Manchester two lectures which later became his most popular book, Sesame and Lilies. The incidents of chief importance for half a dozen years after this have to do with his lectures in different cities. In a lecture to the Royal Military Academy at Woolwich, in 1865, he showed that he had been keeping track of events in America; he said in- cidentally that, though most wars stimulate the arts and bring out the highest human faculties, the war just ended in America, being a civil war, could have no such effect. In 1867 Ruskin received the honorary degree of LL.D. from Cambridge University, and lectured there on the relation of national ethics to national arts. In 1868 his most important public address was "The Mystery of Life and its Arts," delivered in the theater of the Royal College of Science, Dublin ; it is usually now printed as a third essay in the volume, Sesame and Lilies.

In 1869 Ruskin was elected Professor of Fine Arts, at Ox- ford University, filling the chair founded the preceding year by Felix Slade. The audience for his first lecture, February 8, 1870, was so great that it had to adjourn from the small lecture room provided for the professor to the spacious Shel- donian Theater of the University.

Ruskin must have been a fascinating lecturer. Here is a description of him as a university lecturer by Collingwood, his secretary and biographer : " It was not strictly academic, the way he used to come in, with a little following of familiars and assistants, — exchange recognition with friends in the audience, arrange the objects he had brought to show, — fling oflf his long-sleeved Master's gown, and plunge into his dis- course. ... He used to begin by reading, in his curious intonation, the carefully written passages of rhetoric, which usually occupied only about the half of his hour.

"By and by he would break off, and whh quite another air extemporize the liveliest interpolations, describing his diagrams or specimens, restating his arguments, reenforcing his appeal. His voice, till then artificially cadenced, suddenly became

14 INTRODUCTION

vivacious ; his gestures, at first constrained, became dramatic. He used to act his subject, apparently without premeditated art, in the liveliest pantomime. He had no power of voice- mimicry, and none of the ordinary gifts of the actor.

" A tall and slim figure, not yet shortened from its five feet ten or eleven by the habitual stoop which ten years later brought him down to less than middle height ; a stiff, blue frock-coat; prominent, half-starched wristbands, and tall collars of the Gladstonian type ; . • . bright blue stock . . . no rings or gewgaws ... a plain old-English gentleman."

In his lectures Ruskin was entirely sincere and so enthu- siastic that he forgot himself completely in his interest in the subject and the audience. This was his facial appearance as remembered by Collingwood : —

" There was his face, still young-looking and beardless ; made for expression, and sensitive to every change of emotion. A long head with enormous capacity of brain, veiled by thick wavy hair, not affectedly lengthy but as abundant as ever, and darkened into a deep brown without a trace of grey ; and short light whiskers growing high over his cheeks. ... A big nose, aquiline, and broad at the base, with great thorough- bred nostrils. . . . Scotch in original type, and suggesting a side to his character not all milk and roses. And under shaggy eyebrows . . . the fieriest blue eyes, that changed with changing expression, from grave to gay, from lively to severe, that riveted you, magnetised you, seemed to look you through and read your soul."

Such was Ruskin the lecturer at Oxford, a few years after the time when he first delivered his Sesa?ne and Lilies lectures.

The year 1871 proved eventful. When Paris was besieged by the Germans, early in the year, Ruskin, with Professor Huxley and others, formed a Paris Food Fund to bring relief to the sufferers. In the summer, while painting a spray of wild roses one morning before breakfast, Ruskin took a chill that was followed by a serious illness. This year, 1871, Rus- kin bought the country cottage, Brantwood, in the beautiful

JOHN RUSKIN : MIDLIFE 15

lake region of northern England ; from this house could be seen perhaps the finest view in Cumberland or Lancashire. Brantwood, with the Severns in charge, was his principal home thereafter. This year, too, Raskin gave ^5000 to en- dow a mastership of drawing at Oxford University, and he gave ^15,000 to start a relative in business. In 1871, also, Ruskin himself, independent of regular publishers, undertook the publication of one of his works, Fors Clavigera. In this memorable year Ruskin started the St. George's Company with ^7000, a tenth of the fortune then remaining to him after his many public and private philanthropic acts. Lastly, in December, 1871, his mother died, ninety years old. Ruskin, in the words of Mr. Collingwood, " had loved her truly, obeyed her strictly, and tended her faithfully." In a life for the most part uneventful, the year 1871 stands out as character- ized by numerous important incidents in Professor Ruskin's career.

In 1872 Ruskin said that he was always unhappy. The reason was that he had his fourth disappointment in love ; the young lady, Miss Rose La Touche, a firm believer in the evangelical creed, decided that she could not be unequally yoked with an unbeliever. Even if unhappy himself, Ruskin carried on his beneficent work as a helper of the poor. In 1872 he established a tea shop, where one of his old servants sold the best teas at a fair price. Another of his social proj- ects was that of keeping a street clean near the British Mu- seum. He himself took a broom and started the sweeping, afterwards putting several servants at the task, in order to teach Londoners the principle of cleanliness. In 1S73 ^^^ was reelected Slade Professor at Oxford, and in 1876 he was elected for a third term of three years. In 1875 he took les- sons in stone breaking and induced a band of enthusiastic students of his at Oxford to spend their recreation hours in repairing a bad bit of road leading into Oxford. In his rooms at Corpus Christi College he would talk humorously with his students on all sorts of subjects.

16 INTRODUCTION

By the end of 1876, the St. George's Company, started in 1 87 1, had developed into St. George's Guild, the objects of which were agricultural, industrial, and educational : to buy land which should be worked principally by hand instead of by machinery by members paying rent to the company ; to buy mills and factories which should be operated by water power rather than by steam by members receiving fair wages, having healthful work, and living in comfortable homes ; to maintain libraries and museums where working men might receive instruction and recreation. As a matter of fact the plan did not work out very well ; a company of Communists who, assisted by the Guild, tried to farm thirteen acres, made a miserable failure. More success, however, came to the industrial and educational experiments of the Guild. At Keswick and Ambleside thriving linen industries were started on the Guild principles. The Museum established at Shef- field has grown in size and popularity.

This general plan was so attractive in theory that Ruskin societies sprang up in many places in England and America to discuss Ruskin's ideas. Much good resulted from the widening recognition of the broad principles underlying all Ruskin's projects : the desire to introduce higher aims into ordinary life, to give true refinement to the lower classes and true simplicity to the upper.

Ruskin's course of twelve lectures at Oxford in the autumn of 1877 was popular as usual, but was an unusual drain on his time and strength. In December he wrote that he had a hoarseness and wheezing and sneezing and coughing and choking; the plain truth was that this zealous teacher had about worked himself out. Early in 1878 came his first serious mental breakdown, an inflammation of the brain. For some time he felt that every day would be his last. Bul- letins from Brantwood announcing his condition were read with sorrow all over England and America. Even in Italy prayers were offered for his recovery. Newspapers on both continents recorded his recovery. When his mind became

JOHN ruskin: midlife 17

clear again, there was general rejoicing, but the intimate friends knew that this illness was likely to be followed by similar attacks.

The next year, 1879, at the expiration of his third term as Slade Professor, Ruskin resigned on account of his poor health. In 1880 he- traveled through the cathedral towns of northern France. Late that year he lectured on Amiens at Eton ; he especially enjoyed lecturing before boys' schools. An address to over three hundred Coniston children to whom he gave a dinner early in 1881 reveals the simple, serious religious views he had come to hold after his years of uncer- tainty and doubt. An interesting incident of 18S2 was his attempt to copy a Turner picture in the National Gallery. People stared at him and bothered him so much by trying to sketch him that he went away disgusted.

In both 1 88 1 and 1882 he had brain attacks like that of 1878, so that it was feared for a time that he would lose his mind. In January, 1883, he was reelected Slade Professor. Again he gave a course of lectures in a packed lecture room, some of the undergraduates listening from seats in the win- dows and on the cupboards. At the close of 1884 he resigned his Oxford professorship because the University established a physiological laboratory where vivisection was to be prac- ticed. Feeling out of touch with the trend of thought of his time, Ruskin considered it best to retire from his professor- ship. This event ended his real working years.

Such is a bare skeleton of an active forty years spent in travel, in lecturing on art and architecture, in helping the workingman to improve his condition, and in diverse attempts to do good — a life almost entirely given to the public. In all the chronicle there has been little mention of domestic life, because Ruskin was essentially a lonely man, except for the companionship so long maintained with his father and mother and with a few chosen friends. Throughout these working years of his middle life, Ruskin, the purposeful teacher, obviously kept in mind when in health the motto he adopted

18 INTRODUCTION

on his seal, ^^ To-day," with interpretation, " The night cometh, when no man can work."

Of his writings during this forty-year period much might be related. It will be sufficient here to tell something of the writings on art and architecture that naturally resulted from the studies and influences of his youth ; of his miscellaneous writings, principally on education and on natural science ; and of the writings on social subjects that more and more engrossed his thought as he grew older. For summaries of most of Ruskin's books, the reader should consult /(c/^;^ Riiskin, by Mrs. Meynell, or John Riiskin : His Life and Teaching, by J. Marshall Mather.

In art, Ruskin continued the Modern Painters, publishing the second volume in 1846. In ten years, two more volumes appeared, and in i860 the last volume, the fifth, was published. By the time the last volume appeared, the nature of the work had changed until it was now really Ruskin's philosophy of landscape painting. The Two Paths, a book on art as applied to manufactures and decoration, was published in 1859.

In the course of his journeying for art material, Ruskin became so much interested in reforming domestic architecture that he brought out a number of books on architecture : Seven Lamps of Architecture, 1849 5 Stones of Venice (3 vol.), 1851- 1853; Lectures on Architecture and Painting, 1854; Study of Architecture in our Schools, 1865. The first two of these were illustrated by engravings made from his own drawings.

It is surprising how wide a range Ruskin covers in what may be called his miscellaneous writings. His didactic pur- pose appears in every volume. Exemplifying as well as any of his other work his intense desire to teach, are the two lec- tures on educational subjects, published in 1865, under the title Sesame and Lilies. In 1871 he republished this book as the first volume of his collected works, including three lectures instead of two. These three essays are discussed more fully in another section of the Introduction (pages 24-27).

The didactic nature of Elements of Drawing and Eleinenti

JOHN ruskin: midlife 19

of Perspective is apparent from the very titles. Another text- book by Ruskin is Elements of English Prosody for Use in St. George's Schools, a 62-page booklet with as many more blank leaves for annotation.

In Ethics of the Dust, called by a subtitle Lectures to Little Housewives on the Elements of Crystallization, Ruskin teaches the science of crystallization. In Aratra Pentelici he teaches the rudiments of sculpture ; in The Eagle'' s Nest he treats of the wisdom that presides over science, hterature, and art ; in Ariadne Florentina he discusses engraving. In Val d'' Arno he presents a historical study of Tuscan art for five years in the middle of the thirteenth century ; and in Mornings in Florence he provides a guidebook for travelers in Florence.

Ethics of the Dust was pronounced by Carlyle supreme in power of expression and expository clearness ; the others also are remarkable books of their kind. In still other strangely labeled works Ruskin teaches about geology and flowers and birds.

Arrows of the Chace, 1880, is the heading for a collection of newspaper letters contributed by Ruskin to The Ti?nes, The Daily Telegraph, and The Pall Mall Gazette. These, with others which he contributed later to London and Manchester papers, make a series extending through fifty years. He always interested the newspaper reading public by his vivacious man- ner, even when his views were entirely antagonistic to the views generally prevailing.

As the years went by, Ruskin's thoughts turned from art and architecture and science directly to social subjects. His writings on art had from the beginning insisted on the relation- ship between art and life ; he believed that there was great art in a nation when the nation was healthy, happy, and brave, but that art was poor when national life was impure. As signifying this belief, he wrote, in 1857, The Political Ecoiiomy of Art.

Thence he drifted into a number of books that might serve as treatises on political economy. Some of these books telling

20 INTRODUCTION

people how to live are: Unto this Last, i860; Miinera Piil- veris, 1 862-1 863 ; The Crown of Wild Olive, 1866 ; Time and Tide by Weave and Tyne, 1867; Fors Clavigera, 1 871-1884. Several of these vi^ere series of letters addressed to the work- ingmen of England. Fors Clavigera, for instance, appeared every month for eighty-four months, and then irregularly for twelve numbers more. These Fors Clavigera letters preached Ruskin's industrial doctrine that if men would be just and moral, do good work well, help others, harm none, obey law, without struggling for worldly success, there would be a change for the better in England. All these political economy books breathed the spirit of a passionate prophet urging men to right ideals of life.

It must not be inferred that Professor Ruskin wrote first about art and architecture and then about political economy. One of his last works during the period of his maturity was The Art of England, 1883, and he began treating subjects related to political economy almost as soon as he began to write.

The forty years of Ruskin's mature, creative authorship pro- duced a whole library of vivid, soul-expressing books on a wide selection of topics, nearly all expository or descriptive, and nearly all dealing with the subjects that had appealed to him as a child and young man ; all aglow with the living fire of personality that makes true literature ; all inspired by a desire to give instruction to as many persons as could be reached.

III. Old Age

In 1884 Professor Ruskin was sixty-five years old — he had reached the period of his old age {^Prceterita, II, Ch. 5). From 1884 until 1900, when he died, he entered upon no large new enterprises in either philanthropy or literature, and he gave few lectures. The hard tasks he had set himself for half a century began to show their effects on him. Though he still lectured occasionally in university extension classes,

JOHN ruskin: old age 21

he could not work so hard as he had been accustomed to do. His mind was not so clear, his body not so strong. He gradually became content to stay quietly at his home, Brant- wood, in Coniston. Yet he sometimes sallied forth by carriage with post horses, stopping from time to time at inns along the way. In 1888 he made a journey to Berne in Switzerland, and to Venice in Italy ; much of the tour was with horses, for he had a lifelong objection to railroads on account of their defacing a picturesque country and fouling the air.

He still ventured to take some slight hold of his manifold benevolent interests. His eccentricity appeared plainer now than in earlier days. He had trouble with the Oxford draw- ing school in 1886, and withdrew the pictures he had loaned ; but the next year he planned to give ^5000 to the school. His plan fell through because he found that he had given away all his capital and was now dependent on the income from his books. However, this carelessness in money matters is not necessarily a sign of senility, for Ruskin''s custom since he inherited his father's fortune had been consistently to live on the income and give away the capital wherever he saw a chance to do good. One year he gathered together some of his sketches and sent them to aid in building a recreation room, library, and museum at Coniston. The sale of his signed sketches brought a considerable sum for the benefit of the enterprise.

During this period of his life when he had ceased writing, he lived in quiet and happy repose among his books in com- pany with his cousins, the Severns, and occasional visitors. Yet sometimes during these years, Ruskin, " the greatest glad- iator of the age," able formerly to take the hard knocks of the critics with indifference, sank into moods of gloom. The attacks of mental disease came oftener, making life a series of tempests broken by seasons of calm. Conscious that his working days were over, he simply waited for the end of life.

In January, 1900, influenza made its rounds in Coniston. Ruskin's household feared for him, since for some months,

22 INTRODUCTION

being feeble, he had had to content himself with going about in a bath chair instead of walking. In spite of precautions, he was attacked by the influenza. On the morning of the 2oth of January in 1900 he suddenly became unconscious from heart failure brought on by the influenza. That afternoon he died, still unconscious, suffering no pain, in the room lined with his beloved Turner landscapes.

The offer of a grave in Westminster Abbey was declined. As Ruskin had resided for nearly thirty years at Coniston, endearing himself to his neighbors by many generous acts, and as he had often expressed a wish to be buried at Coniston if he should die there, it seemed fitting that the supreme honor of being buried with the great in Westminster should be de- clined. Therefore, on the 25th of January, in the presence of a multitude of friends, the funeral services were held in Conis- ton churchyard. Two years later, on his birthday, there was unveiled a bronze medallion of Ruskin, near the bust of Scott, in the Poets' Corner of Westminster Abbey.

In his intervals of health after 1884 until 1889, Ruskin did as much writing as he could, mainly in the way of autobiog- raphy and critical prefaces. After 1889 he wrote no more. The writing of an autobiography had been suggested to him some time before by his American friend, Professor Charles Eliot Norton of Harvard. In 1885 Ruskin took up this work, selecting a title which is characteristic of him — Prceterita : Oiitlmes of Scenes and Thoughts perhaps Worthy of Memory in My Past Life. In June, 1889, he ceased work on the autobiography. The last piece of writing that his growing in- firmity permitted him to do was the chapter in Volume III, entitled " Joanna's Care," giving an account of the care that his cousin, Mrs. Arthur Severn, took of him after the death of his father and mother.

From the narrative of Ruskin's life and literary work it plainly appears that he was never so happy as when teaching somebody. As a boy he began it, by playing preacher. As a young man in college he continued it by teaching his com-

JOHN ruskin: old age 23

panions about principles of painting and drawing. As a man of maturity he carried still further the didacticism of his earlier days. In lectures he explained his novel ideas on all kinds of subjects; in books he advocated principles that many thought heretical ; in newspaper letters he tried to turn people's thoughts his way. In private conversation he advocated his own beliefs determinedly. In drawings and paintings he illus- trated his tenets on art. In acts of philanthropy he always aimed to lead others in paths of helpfulness ; and in relations with workingmen he preached just compensation and practiced as he preached. In actual class-room teaching in the drawing school he upheld the principles of truth and sincerity in the use of pencil and brush. Even in his old age, when he had stopped working, he dictated a slashing letter to The Times regarding a matter in which he thought the public needed a lesson. Always he lived a purposeful life of instruction.

Ruskin says himself in Prceterita (Vol. II, Ch. 12), ''All my faculty was merely in showing that such and such things were so." What happiness he had in life came almost entirely from his endeavor to impress certain ideas on his day and generation. His happiness consisted in his struggle to teach by word of mouth, by writing, and by beneficent action.

QUESTIONS ON THE BIOGRAPHY

1. Give a brief narrative of Ruskin's achievements.

2. In Ruskin's life, what aim or purpose of his stands out most promi- nently ?

3. What were his principal wntings during his early days; his maturity ; and his old age ?

4. In what controversies did he engage ?

5. Who were some of his friends ?

6. What have you learned about his home life ?

7. What training prepared him for his life work ?

8. What was his appearance as a lecturer ?

9. What good did he do in the world ?

24 INTRODUCTION

THE MEANING OF SESAME AND LILIES

Sesame and Lilies consists of three lectures. The first lecture, " Sesame, Of Kings' Treasuries," was delivered Decem- ber 6, 1864, at Rusholme Town Hall near Manchester, in aid of a library fund for Rusholme Institute. Hence, very appropriately, the theme is the gaining of treasures from books, or, as the author himself puts it, the treasures hidden in books — how to find these treasures and how to lose them. During the year 1864 Ruskin's mind was turned to this subject often in the evenings, as he talked with Carlyle, founder of the London Library.

In the first paragraph of his second lecture, he states the theme of the first lecture as How and What to Read, both questions rising out of the far deeper question. Why to Read. In " Of Kings' Treasuries," he develops the idea of what to read by saying that of the two kinds of books, books of the hour and books of all time, we should especially give our at- tention to the books of all time, books which contain the best thoughts of their authors on truly important subjects, books which say something that the authors perceive "to be true and useful, or helpfully beautiful."

Ruskin tries to show that we should waste none of the precious hours in reading valueless books. We should, if possible, found Kings' Treasuries of our own by collecting good home libraries which will solve for us the question of what to read. Then he explains that there are two ways of readirfg good books, namely, entering into the thoughts of the authors by patient word by word study, and entering into the souls or hearts of the authors by becoming like them in high and noble aspirations, in fi,neness of sensation.

Sesame, the word. in the old Arabian Nights'" Tales for opening the cave where riches were stored, is used by Ruskin figuratively to indicate that he will try to teach the magic way to open the best treasuries of the past, that is, books.

But tlie most vital question about reading is why to read at

THE MEANING OF SESAME AND LILIES 25

all. We should read in order that we may become noble- minded, filled with true feehng or sensation ; in order, also, that we may in the best sense advance in life. This idea about reading, Ruskin says over and over, is most important.

He states that his real theme in " Of Kings' Treasuries'' is the majesty of the influence of good books — how to have the companionship of great authors, the true kings of this world ; how to open the treasuries of thought stored by these kingly minds and thus to become also kingly. The lecture "is intended to show somewhat the use and preciousness " of the treasures of libraries.

The second lecture, " Lilies, Of Queens' Gardens," was de- livered December 14, 1864, in Manchester, in aid of girls' schools. It was first printed alone in 1864 as a pamphlet to aid the St. Andrew's Schools Fund, and the next year was put out in a volume with " Of Kings' Treasuries."

In the third section of the second lecture, Ruskin explains his purpose in " Of Queens' Gardens." He aims in this essay to show the true queenly power of women arising out of noble education. " Lilies," then, seems an appropriate title for an essay which deals with the true place and power of women inside and outside the home. Since women are everywhere to exercise a queenly and gracious influence, the places over which they rule may figuratively be called Queens' Gardens. The lecture, as Ruskin says, dwells on the majesty of the in- fluence of good women.

The two lectures together form Ruskin's explanation of how people must be developed in mind and soul if society is to be conducted according to his ideals. He taught that " the happy life of the workman should be led and the gracious laws of beauty and labor recognized dy the iipper no less than the lower classes of England." Sesatne and Lilies^ he said, was written chiefly for young people belonging to the upper middle classes. Real kingship and real queenliness could result only from the presence of beauty and truth in their everyday lives. In these lectures Ruskin indicated how the best in human

26 INTRODUCTION

nature can be brought out, and he explained what should be the standards toward which education and legislation should immediately point the public mind.

These two essays, infused with lofty ideals of literature and education, and containing the chief truths which Ruskin endeavored all his life to display, have proved to be the author's most popular message. Through the aid of his own explana- tions they become easily intelligible to the earnest and thoughtful reader.

On the other hand, the third lecture, ^'The Mystery of Life and Its Arts," usually proves difficult for young students. It was first delivered in Dublin in 1868 in the theater of the Royal College of Science as one of a series of lectures on Art. Three years later it appeared as the third lecture of the vol- ume Sesame and Lilies. Ruskin afterward had doubts about keeping it in a volume with " Of Kings' Treasuries " and " Of Queens' Gardens," because he felt that it disturbed the sim- plicity with which the two original lectures dwell on their themes. Consequently he eliminated it from the edition of 1882. Later, however, his publishers restored it to the volume, and now it is usually so printed.

In this third lecture, the author tells his thoughts on the true nature of our life and its powers and responsibilities, especially in connection with art. The great mystery of life is the apathy of artists and all other people to the discovery of the real motive of life. If men engaged in the fine arts show apathy about the true meaning of life, from whom might one expect to find light on the question ? Can we learn the motive of life from the poets Milton and Dante, wise religious men as they are ? Will the wise' contemplative men, Shake- speare and Homer, explain to us ? Do the wise practical men show us how to live in this world ?

If we ask all these in vain concerning the real ends of life, let us ask still another group, the " workers in wood, and in marble, and in iron." From these last we receive great and constant lessons (§§ 127-129). The greatest lesson of all is

THE VICTORIAN AGE 27

that we are to do the work of men while life lasts. The true work of men is to do good in " feeding people/' in " dressing people," in "lodging people," and lastly in "rightly pleasing people, with arts, or sciences, or any other subject of thought."

RUSKIN AS A REPRESENTATIVE OF THE VICTORIAN AGE

The Victorian age, which includes the last sixty years of the nineteenth century, was different in literary spirit from the preceding fifty years. The reader who knows Coleridge's mystical manner in The Ancient Mariner, or Scott's romantic tone in Ivatihoe, does not need to be told that the end of the eighteenth century and the beginning of the nineteenth was a time of free literary activity. In those days the writers pushed boldly into new lines of thought and into new forms of ex- pression. Literature was natural and romantic. In fact, the age of Coleridge and Scott has been called the era of Natu- ralism or Romanticism. But after the death of Scott there came gradually into literature a different spirit. It is this new Victorian spirit that Ruskin mainly represents. Beginning his college study the year in which Victoria ascended the throne of England, he became stamped with the characteristics which distinguish the writers of Queen Victoria's reign. The sci- entific, critical, and humanitarian aspects of Victorian writers all show themselves in the substance of his writings.

The scientific spirit of Ruskin is shown in his love of truth. In his descriptions of nature he was intent on truth, while the romanticists were intent on expression of their feelings. His plea was for faithful and earnest as well as loving study of nature. He could not understand how the romantic poets could be so moved by nature as to scorn scientific accuracy. Yet he had such a sense for beauty in natural objects that he was at a loss to understand how Wordsworth could find any- thing poetical in the ugly yellow color of the celandine. Rus-

28 INTRODUCTION

kin's scientific spirit, it must be admitted, was sometimes marred a little by his unaccountable prejudices.

How his attitude to nature differs from that of writers in the preceding period may be seen best from an anecdote he re- lates in PrcBterita. He has been telling about the first con- tinental journey of the family. The father and mother and son have reached Schaffhausen, and there, high above the Rhine, they behold the Alps in the distance, clear as crystal, sharp on the pure horizon sky, and already tinged with rose by the sinking sun. This is how Ruskin goes on to give his impressions : '' It is not possible to imagine, in any time of the world, a more blessed entrance into life, for a child of such temperament as mine. True, the temperament belonged to the age: a very few years, — within the hundred, — before that, no child could have been born to care for mountains, or for the men that Hved in them, in that way. . . . For me the Alps and their people were alike beautiful in their snow and their humanity. . . . Thus, in perfect health of life and fire of heart, not wanting to be anything but the boy I was, not wanting to have anything more than I had ; knowing of sorrow only just so much as to make life serious to me, not enough to slacken in the least its sinews ; and with so much of science mixedwith feeling as to make the sight of the Alps not only the revela- tion of the beauty of the earth, but the opening of the first page of its volume, — I went down that evening from the gar- den-terrace of Schaffhausen with my destiny fixed in all of it that was to be sacred and useful."

In Prceterita, also, Ruskin says that in May, 1842, he sketched a tree stem with ivy upon it, for the first time trying to express the charm of the natural arrangement precisely as he saw it. That sincerity, that truthfulness, that presentation of exact facts was one of the main characteristics of the Victo- rian age. It became Ruskin's gospel of life and art. It was the fundamental canon of the physical scientists of the nine- teenth century, like Darwin and Huxley. These scholars were substituting observation and experiment for generaliza-

THE VICTORIAN AGE 29

tion and a priori theories. It was the foundation for the new logicians like John Stuart Mill. It was the war cry of the historian and essayist, Thomas Carlyle. It was the method of the poet Tennyson in his nature descriptions.

In his youth, Ruskin became imbued with this new spirit of the new age, the spirit of sincere observation of nature. In his study of nature, science was always mixed with feeling. Thus Ruskin, though loving nature as reverently as did the writers of the age before his, thoroughly represents his own time in one of its principal characteristics, a passion for facts, a scientific love of truth.

A second way in which he represents his age is in his critical spirit. He was prone to criticise almost everything. He felt that the standards for judging art works in his day were wrong ; he fought for a different standard of criticism, and became recognized as the greatest art critic of the age. He criticised mercilessly the materialism, the commercialism of his day. Other writers of the time were making critical examinations of methods of education and systems of reli- gious belief. Great essayists were in a state of unrest about problems of immortality and the nature of God. Ruskin at- tempted to formulate a philosophy of the relations of art to life. This critical, speculative tendency, then, was character- istic of Ruskin, as of the Victorian age.

The third leading way in which he represents his own age is that he has an extraordinary regard for the welfare of humanity. Even in looking at the beautiful Alps, he thought of the people living there as much as he thought of the Alpine sublimity. His contemporaries, too, in various ways, showed this humanitarian attitude. Matthew Arnold, in his piquant essays, tried to improve the taste of the English people. Tennyson and Browning were profoundly concerned with the highest interests of mankind. Dickens caricatured the faulty manners 'and customs of the period. Ruskin continuously preached the gospel of doing what could be done to improve the life of the time. To the full limit of his strength he

30 INTRODUCTION

strove to raise the ideals of the rank and file. Thus he repre- sents his era in his humanity, his love for his fellow-men.

The fourth leading characteristic in which Ruskin repre- sents his age has to do with form, not with subject, like the other three. In form, Ruskin represents the spirit of his time in what Saintsbury calls flamboyant prose {History of Nineteenth Centitry Literature), or in what less vigorous critics call ornate or picturesque language. The tendency to lavishness, to heaping up of phrases, to unusual forming of phrases was shown earlier in the century by the essayists Lamb and Landor and De Quincey. But Ruskin is the great master of the ornate style characteristic of nineteenth-century essayists. Some few readers find an element of unpleasant- ness in this kind of writing, for anything approaching the flamboyant is repellent to them ; but many relish it above all other styles.

Though some critics say that Ruskin's prose rhythm grows tiresome, and though they also point out the over-familiarity of his conversational manner, noticeable, for instance, in the opening of Sesame, they all acknowledge the essential richness of his prose. From his very wealth of ideas and his abun- dance of language, there results a certain largeness of effect that charms the most hostile critic ; the rich imagination and the earnest manner disarm criticism. Impulsive and wayward as he is in his manner of writing, he atones for all sins of style by his extraordinary mastery of language. Nobody better than Ruskin exhibited in the nineteenth century the characteristic Victorian prose style.

In summing up the characteristics of Ruskin as a repre- sentative of his age, it should be noted that he has the true scientific temperament of writers of his time, modified by his sometimes unreasoning love of the beautiful ; that he is even more critical than his contemporaries ; that he has a constant eye to the welfare of society ; and that in style he is the great exemplar of a distinctive Victorian manner.

SESAME AND LILIES

I. OF KINGS' TREASURIES II. OF QUEENS' GARDENS III. THE MYSTERY OF LIFE AND ITS ARTS

AUTHOR'S PREFACE, 1871

I. Being now fifty-one years old, and little likely to change my mind hereafter on any important subject of thought (unless through weakness of age), I wish to pub- lish a connected series of such parts of my works as now seem to me right, and likely to be of permanent use. Ill doing so I shall omit much, but not attempt to mend what I think worth reprinting. A young man necessarily writes otherwise than an old one, and it would be worse than wasted time to try to recast the juvenile language : nor is it to be thought that I am ashamed even of what I cancel ; for great part of my earlier work was rapidly written for temporary purposes, and is now unnecessary, though true, even to truism. What I wrote about reli- gion was, on the contrary, painstaking, and, I think, forcible, as compared with most religious writing ; es- pecially in its frankness and fearlessness : but it was wholly mistaken ; for I had been educated in the doc- trines of a narrow sect, and had read history as obliquely as sectarians necessarily must.

Mingled among these either unnecessary or erroneous statements, I find, indeed, some that might be still of value ; but these, in my earlier books, disfigured by affected language, pardy through the desire to be thought a fine writer, and partly, as in the second volume of Modern Paiiiters, in the notion of returning as far as I could to what I thought the better style of old English

34 SESAME AND LILIES

literature, especially to that of my then favorite, in prose Richard Hooker.

2. For these reasons, — though, as respects either art, policy, or morality, as distinct from rehgion, I not only still hold, but would even wish strongly to reaffirm the substance of what I said in my earhest books, — I shall reprint scarcely anything in this series out of the first and second volumes of Modern Painters ; and shall omit much of the Seven Lamps and Stones of Venice : but all my books written within the last fifteen years will be re- published without change, as new editions of them are called for, with here and there perhaps an additional note, and having their text divided, for convenient refer- ence, into paragraphs consecutive through each volume. I shall also throw together the shorter fragments that bear on each other, and fill in with such unprinted lectures or studies as seem to me worth preserving, so as to keep the volumes, on an average, composed of about a hundred leaves each.

3. The first book of which a new edition is required chances to be Sesame and Lilies^ from which I now de- tach the old preface, about the Alps, for use elsewhere ; and to which I add a lecture given in Ireland on a sub- ject closely connected with that of the book itself. I am glad that it should be the first of the complete series, for many reasons ; though in now looking over these two lectures, I am painfully struck by the waste of good work in them. They cost me much thought, and much strong emotion ; but it was foolish to suppose that I could rouse my audiences in a little while to any sympathy with the temper into which I had brought myself by years of think- ing over subjects full of pain ; while, if I missed my purpose

author's preface 35

at the time, it was little to be hoped I could attain it afterwards ; since phrases written for oral delivery become ineffective when quietly read. Yet I should only take away what good is in them if I tried to translate them into the language of books ; nor, indeed, could I at all. have done so at the time of their delivery, my thoughts then habitually and impatiently putting themselves into forms fit only for emphatic speech : and thus I am startled, in my review of them, to find that, though there is much, (forgive me the impertinence) which seems to me accurately and energetically said, there is scarcely anything put in a form to be generally convincing, or even easily intelligible ; and I can well imagine a reader laying down the book without being at all moved by it, still less guided, to any definite course of action.

I think, however, if I now say briefly and clearly what I meant my hearers to understand, and what I wanted, and still would fain have, them to do, there may after- wards be found some better service in the passionately written text.

4. The first Lecture says, or tries to say, that, life being very short, and the quiet hours of it few, we ought to waste none of them in reading valueless books ; and that valuable books should, in a civilized country, be within the reach of every one, printed in excellent form, for a just price ; but not in any vile, vulgar, or, by reason of smallness of type, physically injurious form, at a vile price. For we none of us need many books, and those which we need ought to be clearly printed, on the best paper, and strongly bound. And though we are, indeed, now, a wretched and poverty-struck nation, and hardly able to keep soul and body together, still, as no person

36 SESAME AND LILIES

ill decent circumstances would put on his table con- fessedly bad wine, or bad meat, without being ashamed, so he need not have on his shelves ill-printed or loosely and wretchedly stitched books ; for, though few can be rich, yet every man who honestly exerts himself may, I think, still provide for himself and his family good shoes, good gloves, strong harness for his cart or carriage horses, and stout leather binding for his books. And I would urge upon every young man, as the beginning of his due and wise provision for his household, to obtain as soon as he can, by the severest economy, a restricted, serviceable and steadily — however slowly — increasing series of books for use through life ; making his little library, of all the furniture in his room, the most studied and decorative piece ; every volume having its assigned place, like a Httle statue in its niche, and one of the earliest and strictest lessons to the children of the house being how to turn the pages of their own literary possessions lightly and deliberately, with no chance of tearing or dogs' ears.

That is my notion of the founding of Kings' Treasuries ; and the first Lecture is intended to show somewhat the use and preciousness of their treasures : but the two fol- lowing ones have wider scope, being written in the hope of awakening the youth of England, so far as my poor words might have any power with them, to take some thought of the purposes of the Hfe into which they are entering, and the nature of the world they have to conquer.

5. These two lectures are fragmentary and ill-arranged, but not, I think, diffuse or much compressible. The en- tire gist and conclusion of them, however, is in the last six paragraphs, 135 to the end, of the third lecture, which I would beg the reader to look over not once nor twice

author's preface 37

(rather than any other part of the book), for they con- tain the best expression I have yet been able to put in words of what, so far as is within my power, I mean henceforward both to do myself, and to plead with all over whom I have any influence, to do also according to their means : the letters begun on the first day of this year, to the workmen of England, having the object of originating, if possible, this movement among them, in true alliance with whatever trustworthy element of help they can find in the higher classes. After these para- graphs, let me ask you to read, by the fiery light of re- cent events, the fable at p. 165 (§ 117), and then §§ 129- 131 ; and observe, my statement respecting the famine at Orissa is not rhetorical, but certified by official docu- ments as within the truth. Five hundred thousand per- sons, at least, died by starvation in our British dominions, wholly in consequence of carelessness and want of fore- thought. Keep that well in your memory ; and note it as the best possible illustration of modern political econ- omy in true practice, and of the relations it has accom- phshed between Supply and Demand. Then begin the second lecture, and all will read clear enough, I think, to the end ; only, since that second lecture was written, questions have arisen respecting the education and claims of women which have greatly troubled simple minds and excited restless ones. I am sometimes asked my thoughts on this matter, and I suppose that some girl readers of the second lecture may at the end of it desire to be told sum- marily what I would have them do and desire in the pres- ent state of things. This, then, is what I would say to any girl who had confidence enough in me to beheve what I told her, or do what I ask her.

38 SESAME AND LILIES

6. First, be quite sure of one thing, that, however much you may know, and whatever advantages you may pos- sess, and however good you may be, you have not been singled out, by the God who made you, from all the other girls in the world, to be especially informed respecting His own nature and character. You have not been born in a luminous point upon the surface of the globe, where a perfect theology might be expounded to you from your youth up, and where everything you were taught would be true, and everything that was enforced upon you, right. Of all the insolent, all the foolish persuasions that by any chance could enter and hold your empty little heart, this is the proudest and foolishest, — that you have been so much the darling of the Heavens, and favorite of the Fates, as to be born in the very nick of time, and in the punctual place, when and where pure Divine truth had been sifted from the errors of the Nations ; and that your papa had been providentially disposed to buy a house in the convenient neighborhood of the steeple under which that Immaculate and final verity would be beautifully proclaimed. Do not think it, child ; it is not so. This, on the contrary, is the fact, — unpleasant you may think it ; pleasant, it seems to me, — that you, with all your pretty dresses, and dainty looks, and kindly thoughts, and saintly aspirations, are not one whit more thought of or loved by the great Maker and Master than any poor little red, black, or blue savage, running wild in the pesti- lent woods, or naked on the hot sands of the earth : and that, of the two, you probably know less about God than she does ; the only difference being that she thinks little of Him that is right, and you much that is wrong.

That, then, is the first thing to make sure of; — that you

39

are not yet perfectly well informed on the most abstruse of all possible subjects, and that if you care to behave with modesty or propriety, you had better be silent about it.

7. The second thing which you make sure of is, that however good you may be, you have faults ; that however dull you may be, you can find out what some of them are ; and that however slight they may be, you had better make some — not too painful, but patient — effort to get quit of them. And so far as you have confidence in me at all, trust me for this, that how many soever you may find or fancy your faults to be, there are only two that are of real consequence, — Idleness and Cruelty. Per- haps you may be proud. Well, we can get much good out of pride, if only it be not religious. Perhaps you may be vain : it is highly probable ; and v^ry pleasant for the people who like to praise you. Perhaps you are a Httle envious : that is really very shocking ; but then — so is everybody else. Perhaps, also, you are a little mali- cious, which I am truly concerned to hear, but should probably only the more, if I knew you, enjoy your con- versation. But whatever else you may be, you must not be useless, and you must not be cruel. If there is any one point which, in six thousand years of thinking about right and wrong, wise and good men have agreed upon, or successively by experience discovered, it is that God dislikes idle and cruel people more than any other ; that His first order is, " Work while you have light ; " and His second, " Be merciful while you have mercy."

8. " Work while you have hght," especially while you have the light of morning. There are few things more wonderful to me than that old people never tell .young ones how precious their youth is. They sometimes sen-

40 SESAME AND LILIES

timentally regret their own earlier days ; sometimes pru- dently forget them ; often foolishly rebuke the young, often more fooHshly indulge, often most fooHshly thwart and restrain ; but scarcely ever warn or watch them. Re- member, then, that I, at least, have warned you, that the happiness of your life, and its power, and its part and rank in earth or in heaven, depend on the way you pass your days now. They are not to be sad days ; far from that, the first duty of young people is to be dehghted and de- lightful ; but they are to be in the deepest sense solemn days. There is no solemnity so deep, to a rightly think- ing creature, as that of dawn. But not only in that beau- tiful sense, but in all their character and method, they are to be solemn days. Take your Latin dictionary, and look out " solemnis," and fix the sense of the word well in your mind, and remember that every day of your early life is ordaining irrevocably, for good or evil, the custom and practice of your soul ; ordaining either sacred customs of dear and lovely recurrence, or trenching deeper and deeper the furrows for seed of sorrow. Now, therefore, see that no day passes in which you do not make your- self a somewhat better creature ; and in order to do that, find out, first, what you are now. Do not think vaguely about it ; take pen and paper, and write down as accurate a description of yourself as you can, with the date to it. If you dare not do so, find out why you dare not, and try to get strength of heart enough to look yourself fairly in the face, in mind as well as body. I do not doubt but that the mind is a less pleasant thing to look at than the face, and for that very reason it needs more looking at ; so always have two mirrors on your toilet table, and see that with proper care you dress body and mind before them

author's preface 41

daily. After the dressing is once over for the day, think no more about it : as your hair will blow about your ears, so your temper and thoughts will get ruffled with the day's work, and may need, sometimes, twice dressing ; but I don't want you to carry about a mental pocket-comb ; only to be smooth braided always in the morning.

9. Write down, then, frankly, what you are, or, at least, what you think yourself, not dwelHng upon those inevi- table faults which I have just told you are of little conse- quence, and which the action of a right life will shake or smooth away ; but that you may determine to the best of your intelligence what you are good for, and can be made into. You will find that the mere resolve not to be use- less, and the honest desire to help other people, will, in the quickest and dehcatest ways, improve yourself. Thus, from the beginning, consider all your. accomplishments as means of assistance to others ; read attentively, in this volume, paragraphs 74, 75, 19, and 79, and you will un- derstand what I mean, with respect to languages and music. In music especially you will soon find what per- sonal benefit there is in being serviceable : it is probable that, however limited your powers, you have voice and ear enough to sustain a note of moderate compass in a concerted piece ; — that, then, is the first thing to make sure you can do. Get your voice disciplined and clear, and think only of accuracy ; never of effect or expression : if you have any soul worth expressing, it will show itself in your singing ; but most likely there are very few feel- ings in you, at present, needing any particular expression ; and the one thing you have to do is to make a clear- voiced Httle instrument of yourself, which other people can entirely depend upon for the note wanted. So, in

42 SESAME AND LILIES

drawing, as soon as you can set down the right shape of anything, and thereby explain its character to another person, or make the look of it clear and interesting to a child, you will begin to enjoy the art vividly for its own sake, and all your habits of mind and powers of memory will gain precision : but if you only try to make showy drawings for praise, or pretty ones for amusement, your drawing will have little of real interest for you, and no educational power whatever.

10. Then, besides this more delicate work, resolve to do every day some that is useful in the vulgar sense. Learn first thoroughly the economy of the kitchen ; the good and bad qualities of every common article of food, and the simplest and best modes of their preparation : when you have time, go and help in the cooking of poorer famihes, and show them how to make as much of every thing as possible, and how to make little, nice ; coaxing and tempting them into tidy and pretty ways, and plead- ing for well-folded table-cloths, however coarse, and for a flower or two out of the garden to strew on them. If you manage to get a clean table-cloth, bright plates on it, and a good dish in the middle, of your own cooking, you m.ay ask leave to say a short grace ; and let your religious ministries be confined to that much for the present.

11. Again, let a certain part of your day (as little as you choose, but not to be broken in upon) be set apart for making strong and pretty dresses for the poor. Learn the sound qualities of all useful stuffs, and make every- thing of the best you can get, whatever its price. I have many reasons for desiring you to do this, — too many to be told just now, — trust me, and be sure you get every- thing as good as can be ; and if, in the villainous state of

author's preface 43

modern trade, you cannot get it good at any price, buy its raw material, and set some of the poor women about you to spin and weave, till you have got stuff that can be trusted : and then, every day, make some little piece of useful clothing, sewn with your own fingers as strongly as it can be stitched ; and embroider it or otherwise beautify it moderately with fine needlework, such as a girl may be proud of having done. And accumulate these things by you until you hear of some honest persons in need of clothing, which may often too sorrowfully be ; and, even though you should be deceived, and give them to the dis- honest, and hear of their being at once taken to the pawnbroker's, never mind that, for the pawnbroker must sell them to some one who has need of them. That is no business of yours ; what concerns you is only that when you see a half-naked child, you should have good and fresh clothes to give it, if its parents will let it be taught to wear them. If they will not, consider how they came to be of such a mind, which it will be wholesome for you beyond most subjects of inquiry to ascertain. And after you have gone on doing this a little while, you will begin to understand the meaning of at least one chapter of your Bible, Proverbs xxxi., without need of any labored com- ment, sermon, or meditation.

In these, then (and of course in all minor ways besides, that you can discover in your own household), you must be to the best of your strength usefully employed during the greater part of the day, so that you may be able at the end of it to say, as proudly as any peasant, that you have not eaten the bread of idleness.

12. Then, secondly, I said, you are not to be cruel. Perhaps you think there is no chance of your being so ;

44 SESAME AND LILIES

and indeed I hope it is not likely that you should be deliberately unkind to any creature ; but unless you are deliberately kind to every creature, you will often be cruel to many. Cruel, partly through want of imagination (a far rarer and weaker faculty in women than men), and yet more, at the present day, through the subtle encourage- ment of your selfishness by the religious doctrine that all which we now suppose to be evil will be brought to a good end ; doctrine practically issuing, not in less earnest efforts that the immediate unpleasantness may be averted from ourselves, but in our remaining satisfied in the contempla- tion of its ultimate objects, when it is inflicted on others. 13. It is not likely that the more accurate methods of recent mental education will now long permit young people to grow up in the persuasion that, in any danger or distress, they may expect to be themselves saved by the Providence of God, while those around them are lost by His improvidence : but they may be yet long restrained from rightly kind action, and long accustomed to endure both their own pain occasionally, and the pain of others always, with an unwise patience, by misconception of the eternal and incurable nature of real evil. Observe, there- fore, carefully in this matter : there are degrees of pain as degrees of faultfulness, which are altogether conquerable, and which seem to be merely forms of wholesome trial or discipline. Your fingers tingle when you go out on a frosty morning, and are all the warmer afterwards ; your limbs are weary with wholesome work, and lie down in the pleas- anter rest ; you are tried for a little while by having to wait for some promised good, and it is all the sweeter when it comes. But you cannot carry the trial past a certain point. Let the cold fasten on your hand in an extreme

45

degree, and your fingers will moulder from their sockets. Fatigue yourself, but once, to utter exhaustion, and to the end of life you shall not recover the former vigor of your frame. Let heart-sickness pass beyond a certain bitter point, and the heart loses its life forever.

14. Now, the very definition of evil is in this irre- mediableness. It means sorrow, or sin, which end in death ; and assuredly, as far as we know, or can con- ceive, there are many conditions both of pain and sin which cannot but so end. Of course we are ignorant and blind creatures, and we cannot know what seeds of good may be in present suffering, or present crime ; but with what we cannot know, we are not concerned. It is conceivable that murderers and liars may in some dis- tant world be exalted into a higher humanity than they could have reached without homicide or falsehood ; but the contingency is not one by which our actions should be guided. There is, indeed, a better hope that the beggar, who lies at our gates in misery, may, within gates of pearl, be comforted ; but the Master, whose words are our only authority for thinking so, never Him- self inflicted disease as a blessing, nor sent away the hun- gry unfed, or the wounded unhealed.

15. Believe me, then, the only right principle of action here, is to consider good and evil as defined by our natu- ral sense of both ; and to strive to promote the one, and to conquer the other, with as hearty endeavor as if there were, indeed, no other world than this. Above all, get quit of the absurd idea that Heaven will interfere to correct great errors, while allowing its laws to take their course in punishing small ones. If you prepare a dish of food carelessly, you do not expect Providence to make it

46 SESAME AND LILIES

palatable ; neither if, through years of folly, you misguide your own life, need you expect Divine interference to bring round everything at last for the best. I tell you, positively, the world is not so constituted : the conse- quences of great mistakes are just as sure as those of small ones, and the happiness of your whole life, and of all the lives over which you have power, depends as lit- erally on your own common sense and discretion as the excellence and order of the feast of a day.

1 6. Think carefully and bravely over these things, and you will find them true : having found them so, think also carefully over your own position in life. I assume that you belong to the middle or upper classes, and that you would shrink from descending into a lower sphere. You may fancy you would not : nay, if you are very good, strong-hearted, and romantic, perhaps you really would not ; but it is not wrong that you should. You have then, I suppose, good food, pretty rooms to live in, pretty dresses to wear, power of obtaining every rational and wholesome pleasure ; you are, moreover, probably gentle and grateful, and in the habit of every day thanking God for these things. But why do you thank Him? Is it be- cause, in these matters, as well as in your religious knowl- edge, you think He has made a favorite of you? Is the essential meaning of your thanksgiving, " Lord, I thank Thee that I am not as other girls are, not in that I fast twice in the week while they feast, but in that I feast seven times a week while they fast," and are you quite sure this is a pleasing form of thanksgiving to your Heavenly Father? Suppose you saw one of your own true earthly sisters, Lucy or Emily, cast out of your mortal father's house, starving, helpless, heartbroken ; and

author's preface 47

that every morning when you went into your father's room you said to him, " How good you are, father, to give me what you don't give Lucy," are you sure that, whatever anger your parent might have just cause for, against your sister, he would be pleased by that thanksgiving, or flat- tered by that praise ? Nay, are you even sure that you ai-e so much the favorite : — suppose that, all this while, he loves poor Lucy just as well as you, and is only trying you through her pain, and perhaps not angry with her* in any wise, but deeply angry with you, and all the more for your thanksgivings ? Would it not be well that you should think, and earnestly too, over this standing of yours : and all the more if you wish to believe that text, which clergymen so much dislike preaching on, " How hardly shall they that have riches enter into the Kingdom of God?" You do not beheve it now, or you would be less complacent in your state ; and you cannot believe it at all, until you know that the Kingdom of God means — '' not meat and drink, but justice, peace, and joy in the Holy Ghost," nor until you know also that such joy is not by any means, necessarily, in going to church, or in singing hymns ; but may be joy in a dance, or joy in a jest, or joy in anything you have deserved to possess, or that you are willing to give ; but joy in nothing that separates you, as by any strange favor, from your fellow-creatures, that exalts you through their degradation — exempts you from their toil — or indulges you in time of their distress.

17. Think, then, and some day, I believe, you will feel also — no morbid passion of pity such as would turn you into a black Sister of Charity, but the steady fire of perpetual kindness which will make you a bright one. I speak in no disparagement of them ; I know well

48 SESAME AND LILIES

how good the Sisters of Charity are, and how much we owe to them ; but all these professional pieties (except so far as distinction or association may be necessary for effectiveness of work) are in their spirit wrong ; and in practice merely plaster the sores of disease that ought never to have been permitted to exist ; encouraging at the same time the herd of less excellent women in frivol- ity, by leading them to think that they must either be 'good up to the black standard, or cannot be good for anything. Wear a costume, by all means, if you like ; but let it be a cheerful and becoming one ; and be in your heart a Sister of Charity always, without either veiled or voluble declaration of it.

1 8. As I pause, before ending my preface — thinking of one or two more points that are difficult to write of — I find a letter in The Times, from a French lady, which says all I want so beautifully, that I will print it just as it stands :

Sir, — It is often said that one example is worth many sermons. Shall I be judged presumptuous if I point out one, which seems to me so striking just now, that, however painful, I cannot help dwell- ing upon it?

It is the share, the sad and large share, that French society and its recent habits of luxury, of expenses, of dress, of indul- gence in every kind of extravagant dissipation, has to lay to its own door in its actual crisis of ruin, misery, and humiliation. If our menageres can be cited as an example to English house- wives, so, alas ! can other classes of our society be set up as an example — not to be followed.

Bitter must be the feelings of many a Frenchwoman whose days of luxury and expensive habits are at an end : and whose bills of bygone splendor lie with a heavy weight on her conscience, if not on her purse ! • With us the evil has spread high and low. Everywhere have

author's preface 49

the examples given by the highest ladies in the land been followed but too successfully.

Every year did dress become more extravagant, entertainments more costly, expenses of every kind more considerable. Lower and lower became the tone of society, its good breeding, its delicacy. More and more were monde and demi-monde associated in newspaper accounts of fashionable doings, in scandalous gossip, on racecourses, in premieres represeniationsy in imitation of each other's costumes, mobiliers and slang.

Living beyond one's means became habitual — almost necessary — for every one to keep up with, if not to go beyond, every one else.

What the result of all this has been we now see in the wreck of our prosperity, in the downfall of all that seemed brightest and highest.

Deeply and fearfully impressed by what my own country has incurred and is suffering, I cannot help feeling sorrowful when I see in England signs of our besetting sins appearing also. Paint and chignons, slang and vaudevilles, knowing Anonymas by name, and reading doubtfully moral novels, are in themselves small offences, although not many years ago they would have appeared very heinous ones, yet they are quick and tempting conveyances on a very dangerous high-road.

I would that all Englishwomen knew how they are looked up to from abroad — what a high opinion, what honor and reverence we foreigners have for their principles, their truthfulness, the fresh and pure innocence of their daughters, the healthy youthfulness of their lovely children.

May I illustrate this by a short example which happened very near me? During the days of the emeutes of 1848, all the houses in Paris were being searched for firearms by the mob. The one I was living in contained none, as the master of the house repeatedly assured the furious and incredulous Republi- cans. They were going to lay violent hands on him when his wife, an English lady, hearing the loud discussion, came bravely forward and assured them that no arms were concealed. *' Vous etes anglaise, nous vous croyons ; les anglaises disent toujours la verite," was the immediate answer, and the rioters quietly left.

50 . SESAME AND LILIES

Now, Sir, shall I be accused of unjustified criticism if, loving and admiring your country, as these lines will prove, certain new features strike me as painful discrepancies in English life?

Far be it from me to preach the contempt of all that can make life lovable and wholesomely pleasant. I can love nothing better than to see a woman nice, neat, elegant, looking her best in the prettiest dress that her taste and purse can afford, or your bright, fresh young girls fearlessly and perfectly sitting their horses, or adorning their houses as pretty \_sic ; it is not quite grammar, but it is better than if it were] as care, trouble, and refinement can make them.

It is the degree beyond that which to us has proved so fatal, and that I would our example could warn you from as a small repayment for your hospitality and friendliness to us in our days of trouble.

May Englishwomen accept this in a kindly spirit as a Newyear's wish from A French Lady.

Dec. 29.

19. That, then, is the substance of what I would fain say convincingly, if it might be, to my girl friends ; at all events with certainty in my own mind that I was thus far a safe guide to them.

For other and older readers it is needful I should write a few words more, respecting what opportunity I have had to judge, or right I have to speak, of such things ; for, indeed, too much of what I have said about women has been said in faith only. A wise and lovely English lady told me, when Sesame and Lilies first appeared, that she was sure the Sesame would be useful, but that in the Lilies I had been writing of what I knew nothing about. Which was in a measure too true, and also that it is more partial than my writings are

usually : for as Ellesmere spoke his speech on the

intervention, not, indeed, otherwise than he felt, but yet altogether for the sake of Gretchen, so I wrote the Lilies

author's preface 51

to please one girl ; and were it not for what I remember of her, and of few besides, should now perhaps recast some of the sentences in the Lilies in a very different tone : for as years have gone by, it has chanced to me, untowardly in some respects, fortunately in others (be- cause it enables me to read history more clearly), to see the utmost evil that is in women, while I have had but to beHeve the utmost good. The best women are indeed necessarily the most difficult to know ; they are recognized chiefly in the happiness of their hus- bands and the nobleness of their children ; they are only to be divined, not discerned, by the stranger ; and, some- times, seem almost helpless except in their homes ; yet without the help of one of them,^ to whom this book is dedicated, the day would probably have come before now, when I should have written and thought no more.

20. On the other hand, the fashion of the time renders whatever is forward, coarse, or senseless, in feminine nature, too palpable to all men : — the weak picturesqueness of my earlier writings brought me ac- quainted with much of their emptiest enthusiasm ; and the chances of later life gave me opportunites of watch- ing women in states of degradation and vindictiveness which opened to me the gloomiest secrets of Greek and Syrian tragedy. I have seen them betray their house- hold charities to lust, their pledged love to devotion ; I have seen mothers dutiful to their children, as Medea ; and children dutiful to their parents, as the daughter of Herodias : but my trust is still unmoved in the precious- ness of the natures that are so fatal in their error, and I leave the words of the Lilies unchanged ; believing, yet,

1 0^77.

52 SESAME AND LILIES

that no man ever lived a right life who had not been chastened by a woman's love, strengthened by her cour- age, and guided by her discretion.

21. What I might myself have been, so helped, I rarely indulge in the idleness of thinking ; but what I am, since I take on me the function of a teacher, it is well that the reader should know, as far as I can tell him.

Not an unjust person ; not an unkind one ; not a false one ; a lover of order, labor, and peace. That, it seems to me, is enough to give me right to say all I care to say on ethical subjects ; more, I could only tell definitely through details of autobiography such as none but pros- perous and (in the simple sense of the word) faultless lives could justify ; — and mine has been neither. Yet, if any one, skilled in reading the torn manuscripts of the human soul, cares for more intimate knowledge of me, he may have it by knowing with what persons in past history I have most sympathy.

I will name three.

In all that is strongest and deepest in me, that fits me for my work, and gives light or shadow to my being, I have sympathy with Guido Guinicelli.

In my constant natural temper, and thoughts of things and of people, with Marmontel.

In my enforced and accidental temper, and thoughts of things and of people, with Dean Swift.

Any one who can understand the natures of those three men, can understand mine ; and having said so much, I am content to leave both life and work to be remembered or forgotten, as their uses may deserve.

Denmark Hill,

\st January, 1871.

SESAME AND LILIES^

LECTURE ,|1 — SESAME

OF KINGS TREASURIES

"You shall each have a cake of sesame, — and ten pound." — LuciAN : The Fisherman.

I. My first duty this evening is to ask° your pardon for the ambiguity of title under which the subject of lecture has been announced : for indeed I am not going to talk of kings," known as regnant, nor of treasuries, understood to contain wealth ; but of quite another order of royalty, and another material of riches, than those usually acknowledged. I had even intended to ask your attention for a little while on trust, and (as sometimes one contrives, in taking a friend to see a favorite piece of scenery) to hide what I wanted most to show, with such imperfect cunning as I might, until we unexpectedly reached the best point of view by winding paths. But — and as also I have heard it said,

1 The first edition of Sesame and Lilies, published in 1865 by Smith, Elder, and Company, London, contained only the first two lectures, viz., " Of Kings' Treasuries" and " Of Queens' Gardens." That same year, 1865, the second edition was published. In 1871 appeared the third edition, also published by Smith, Elder, and Company. This edition of 187 1 was the first volume of a collected series of Ruskin's works. As it included all three lectures, and was thus the first complete edition of Sesame and Lilies, the text of it is followed in the present edition.

53

54 SESAME AND LILIES

by men practised in public address, that hearers are never so much fatigued as by the endeavor to follow a speaker who gives them no clue to his purpose, — I will take the slight mask off at once, and tell you plainly that I want to speak to you about the treasures hidden in books ; and about the way we find them, and the way we lose them. A grave subject, you will say; and a wide one ! Yes ; so wide that I shall make no effort to touch the compass of it. I will try only to bring before you a few simple thoughts ° about reading, which press themselves upon me every day more deeply, as I watch the course of the public mind with respect to our daily enlarging means of education ; and the answer- ingly wider spreading on the levels, of the irrigation of literature.

2. It happens that I have practically some connexion" with schools for different classes of youth ; and I receive many letters from parents respecting the education of their children. In the mass of these letters I am always struck by the precedence which the idea of "a position ° in life " takes above all other thoughts in the parents' — more especially in the mothers' — minds. "The educa- tion befitting such and such a station in life " — this is the phrase, this the object, always. They never seek, as far as I can make out, an education good in itself; even the conception of abstract Tightness in training rarely seems reached by the writers. But, an education "which shall keep a good coat on my son's back; — which shall enable him to ring with confidence the visitors' bell° at double-belled doors; which shall result ultimately in the estabhshment of a double-belled door to his own house ; — in a word, which shall lead to

55

advancement in life ; — this we pray for on bent knees — and this is all we pray for." It never seems to occur to the parents that there may be an education which, in itself, is advancement in Life ; — that any other than that may perhaps be advancement in Death ; and that this essential education might be more easily got, or given, than they fancy, if they set about it in the right way ; while it is for no price, and by no favor, to be got, if they set about it in the wrong.

3. Indeed, among the ideas most prevalent and effec- tive in the mind of this busiest of» countries, I sup- pose the first — at least that which is confessed with the greatest frankness, and put forward as the fittest stimulus to youthful exertion — is this of "Advancement in Life." May I ask you to consider with me, what this idea practically includes, and what it should include.

Practically, then, at present, " advancement in hfe " means, becoming conspicuous in life ; — obtaining a posi- tion which shall be acknowledged by others to be re- spectable or honorable. We do not understand by this advancement, in general, the mere making of money, but the being known to have made it ; not the accom- plishment of any great aim, but the being seen to have accomplished it. In a word, we mean the gratification of our thirst for applause. That thirst, if the last in- firmity ° of noble minds, is also the first infirmity of weak ones ; and, on the whole, the strongest impulsive in- fluence of average humanity : the greatest efforts of the race hav^ always been traceable to the love of praise, as its greatest catastrophes to the love of pleasure.

4. I am not about to attack or defend this impulse. I want you only to feel how it lies at the root of effort ;

56 SESAME AND LILIES

especially of all modern effort. It is the gratification of vanity which is, with us, the stimulus of toil, and balm of repose ; so closely does it touch the very springs of life that the wounding of our vanity is always spoken of (and truly) as in its measure mo7'tal ; we call it " mor- tification," ° using the same expression which we should apply to a gangrenous and incurable bodily hurt. And although few of us may be physicians enough to recognize the various effect of this passion upon health and energy, I believe most honest men know, and would at once acknowledge, its kading power with them as a motive. The seaman does not commonly desire to be made cap- tain only because he knows he can manage the ship better than any other sailor on board. He wants to be made captain that he may be called captain. The clergy- man does not usually want to be made a bishop only be- cause he believes no other hand can, as firmly as his, direct the diocese through its difficultieSi He wants to be made bishop primarily that he may be called " My Lord." ° And a prince does not usually desire to enlarge, or a subject to gain, a kingdom, because he believes that no one else can as well serve the State, upon its throne ; but, briefly, because he wishes to be addressed as "Your Majesty," by as many lips as may be brought to such utterance.

5. This, then, being the main idea of " advancement in life," ° the force of it applies, for all of us, according to our station, particularly to that secondary result of such advancement which we call " getting into good society." We want to get into good society not that we may have it, but that we may be seen in it ; and our notion of its goodness depends primarily on its conspicuousness.

OF kings' treasuries 57

Will you pardon me if I pause for a moment to put what I fear you may think an impertinent question ? I never can go on with an address unless I feel, or know, that my audience are either'with me or against me : I do not much care which, in beginning; but I must know where they are ; and I would fain find out, at this in- stant, whether you think I am putting the motives of popular action too low. I am resolved, to-night, to state them low enough to be admitted as probable ; for whenever, in my writings ° on Political Economy, I assume that a little honesty, or generosity, — or what used to be called " virtue " — may be calculated upon as a human motive of action, people always answer me, saying, " You must not calculate on that : that is not in human nature : you must not assume anything to be common to men but acquisitiveness and jealousy ; no other feeling ever has influence on them, except accidentally, and in matters out of the way of business." I begin, accordingly, to- night low in the scale of motives ; but I must know if you think me right in doing so. Therefore, let me ask those who admit the love of praise to be usually the strongest motive in men's minds in seeking advancement and the honest desire of doing any kind of duty to be an entirely secondary one, to hold up their hands. (^About a dozen of hands held up — the audience, partly, not being sure the lecturer is serious, and, partly, shy of expressing opinion.) I am quite serious — I really do want to know what you think; however, I can judge by putting the reverse question. Will those who think that duty is generally the first, and love of praise the second, motive, hold up their hands ? ( One hand reported to have been held up, behind the lecturer.) Very good : I see you

58 SESAME AND LILIES

are with me, and that you think I have not begun too near the ground. Now, without teasing you by putting farther question, I venture to assume that you will admit duty as at least a secondary or tertiary ° motive. You think that the desire of doing something useful, or obtain- ing some real good, is indeed an existent collateral ° idea, though a secondary one, in most men's desire of advance- ment. You will grant that moderately honest men desire place and office, at least in some measure, for the sake of beneficent power ; and would wish to associate rather with sensible and well-informed persons than with fools and ignorant persons, whether they are seen in the company of the sensible ones or not. And finally, without being troubled by repetition of any common truisms ° about the preciousness of friends, and the influence of companions, you will admit, doubtless, that according to the sincerity of our desire that our friends may be true, and our com- panions wise, — and in proportion to the earnestness and discretion with which we choose both, will be the general chances of our happiness and usefulness.

6. But, granting that we had both the will and the sense to choose our friends well, how few of us have the power ! or, at least, how limited, for most, is the sphere of choice ! Nearly all our associations are determined by chance, or necessity ; and restricted within a narrow circle. We cannot know whom we would ; and those whom we know, we cannot have at our side when we most need them. All the higher circles of human intel- ligence are, to those beneath, only momentarily and partially open. We may, by good fortune, obtain a glimpse of a great poet, and hear the sound of his voice ; or put a question to a man of science, and be answered

OF kings' treasuries 59

good-humoredly. We may intrude ten minutes' talk on a cabinet minister," answered probably with words worse than silence, being deceptive ; or snatch, once or twice in our lives, the privilege of throwing a bouquet in the path of a Princess, or arresting the kind glance of a Queen. And yet these momentary chances we covet ; and spend our years, and passions, and powers in pursuit of Httle more than these ; while, meantime, there is a society ° continually open to us, of people who will talk to us as long as we like, whatever our rank or occupation ; — talk to us in the best words they can choose, and of the things nearest their hearts. And this society, because it is so numerous and so gentle, and can be kept waiting round us all daylong, — kings and statesmen lingering patiently, not to grant audience, but to gain it! — in those plainly furnished and narrow ante-rooms, our book- case shelves, — we make no account of that company, — perhaps never listen to a word they would say, all day long !

7. You may tell me, perhaps, or think within your- selves, that the apathy with which we regard this com- pany of the noble, who are praying us to listen to them ; and the passion with which we pursue the company, probably of the ignoble, who despise us, or who have nothing to teach us, are grounded in this, — that we can see the faces of the living men, and it is themselves, and not their sayings, with which we desire to become fa- miliar. But it is not so. Suppose you never were to see their faces : — suppose you could be put behind a screen in the statesman's cabinet, or the prince's cham- ber, would you not be glad to listen to their words, though you were forbidden to advance beyond the

60 SESAME AND LILIES

screen ? And when the screen is only a little less, folded in two instead of four, and you can be hidden behind the cover of the two boards that bind a book, and listen all day long, not to the casual talk, but to the studied, determined, chosen addresses of the wisest of men ; — this station of audience, and honorable privy council, you despise !

8. But perhaps you will say that it is because the living people talk of things that are passing, and are of immediate interest to youy that you desire to hear them/ Nay ; that cannot be so, for the living people will them- selves tell you about passing matters, much better in their writings than in their careless talk. But I admit that this motive does influence you, so far as you prefer those rapid and ephemeral ° writings to slow and endur- ing writings — books, properly so called. For all books are divisible ° into two classes, the books of the hour, and the books of all time. Mark this distinction — it is not one of quality only. It is not merely the bad book that does not last, and the good one that does. It is a dis- tinction of species. There are good books for the hour, and good ones for all time ; bad books for the hour, and bad ones for all time. I must define the two kinds before I go farther.

9. The good book of the hour, then, — I do not speak of the bad ones, — is simply the useful or pleasant talk of some person whom you cannot otherwise converse with, printed for you. Very useful often, telling you what you need to know ; very pleasant often, as a sensi- ble friend's present talk would be. These bright ac- counts of travels ; good-humored and witty discussions of question; lively or pathetic story-teUing in the form

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of novel ; firm fact-telling, by the real agents concerned in the events of passing history ; — all these books of the hour, multiplying among us as education becomes more general, are a peculiar possession of the present age ; we ought to be entirely thankful for them, and entirely ashamed of ourselves if we make no good use of them. But we make the worst possible use if we allow them to usurp the place of true books : for, strictly speaking, they are not books at all, but merely letters or newspapers in good print. Our friend's letter may be delightful, or necessary, to-day : whether worth keeping or not, is to be considered. The newspaper may be entirely proper at breakfast-time, but assuredly it is not reading for all day. So, though bound up in a volume, the long letter which gives you so pleasant an account of the inns, and roads, and weather last year at such a place, or which tells you that amusing story, or gives you the real cir- cumstances of such and such events, however valuable for occasional reference, may not be, in the real sense of the word, a " book " at all, nor, in the real sense, to be " read." A book is essentially not a talked thing, but a written thing ; and written, not with a view of mere communication, but of permanence. The book of talk is printed only because its author cannot speak to thou- sands of people at once ; if he could, he would — the volume is mere multiplication of his voice. You cannot talk to your friend in India ; if you could, you would ; you write instead : that is mere conveyance of voice. But a book is written, not to multiply the voice merely, not to carry it merely, but to perpetuate it. The au- thor has something to say which he perceives to be true and useful, or helpfully beautiful. So far as he knows,

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no one has yet said it ; so far as he knows, no one else can say it. He is bound to say it, clearly and melodi- ously if he may ; clearly, at all events. In the sum of his life he finds this to be the thing, or group of things, manifest to him; — this, the piece of true knowledge, or sight, which his share of sunshine and earth has per- mitted him to seize. He would fain set it down for ever : engrave it on rock, if he could ; saying, " This is the best of me ; for the rest, I ate, and drank, and slept, loved, and hated, like another ; my life ° was as the vapor, and is not ; but this I saw and knew : this, if anything of mine, is worth your memory." That is his "writing" ; it is, in his small human way, and with whatever degree of true inspiration is in him, his inscription, or scripture. That is a "Book."

10. Perhaps you think no books were ever so written ? But, again, I ask you, do you at all believe in honesty,

or at all in kindness? or do you think there is never any honesty or benevolence in wise people? None of us, I hope, are so unhappy as to think that. Well, whatever bit of a wise man's work is honestly and benevolently done, that bit is his book,° or his piece of art.^ It is mixed always with evil fragments — ill-done, redundant, affected work. But if you read rightly, you will easily discover the true bits, and those are the book.

11. Now books of this kind have been written in all ages by their greatest men; — by great readers, great statesmen, and great thinkers. These are all at your choice ; and Life is short. You have heard as much be- fore ; — yet have you measured and mapped out this

iNote this sentence carefully, and compare the Queeii of the Air^ § 106.

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short life and its possibilities ? Do you know, if you read this, that you cannot read that — that what you lose to-day you cannot gain to-morrow? Will you go and gossip with your housemaid, or your stable-boy, when you may talk with queens and kings ; or flatter yourselves that it is with any worthy consciousness of your own claims to respect that you jostle with the hungry and common crowd for entree'^ here, and audi- ence there, when all the while this eternal court is open to you, with its society, wide as the world, multitudinous as its days, the chosen, and the mighty, of every place and time? Into that you may enter always; in that you may take fellowship and rank according to your wish ; from that, once entered into it, you can never be outcast but by your own fault; by your aristocracy of companionship there, your own inherent ° aristocracy will be assuredly tested, and the motives with which you strive to take high place in the society of the living, measured, as to all the truth and sincerity that are in them, by the place you desire to take in this company of the Dead.

12. "The place you desire," and the place ° j'^// yf/ yourself for^ I must also say; because, observe, this court of the past differs from all living aristocracy in this : — it is open to labor and to merit, but to nothing else. No wealth will bribe, no name overawe, no artifice deceive, the guardian of those Elysian° gates. In the deep sense, no vile or vulgar person ever enters there. At the portieres ° of that silent Faubourg St. Germain," there is but brief question, "Do you deserve to enter? Pass. Do you ask to be the companion of nobles? Make yourself noble, and you shall be. Do you long

64 SESAME AND LILIES

for the conversation of the wise ? Learn to understand it, and you shall hear it. But on other terms? — no. If you will not rise to us, we cannot stoop to you. The living lord may assume courtesy, the living philosopher explain his thought to you with considerate pain ; but here we neither feign nor interpret ; you must rise tg the level of our thoughts if you would be gladdened by them, and share our feelings if you would recognize our

__^^^^^presence."

— -^"^ 13. This, then, is what you have to do, and I admit that it is much. You must, in a word, love° these peo- ple, if you are to be among them. No ambition is of any use. They scorn your ambition. You must love them, and show your love in these two following ways. I. First, by a true desire to be taught by them, and to enter into their thoughts. To enter into theirs, ob- serve ; not to find your own expressed by them. If the person who wrote the book is not wiser than you, you need not read it ; if he be, he will think differently from you in many respects.

Very ready we are to say of a book, " How good this is — that's exactly what I think ! " But the right feeling is, " How strange that is ! I never thought of that be- fore, and yet I see it is true ; or if I do not now, I hope I shall, some day." But whether thus submissively or not, at least be sure that you go to the author to get at his meaning, not to find yours. Judge it afterwards if you think yourself qualified to do so ; but ascertain it first. And be sure also, if the author is worth anything, that you will not get at his meaning all at once ; — nay, that at his whole meaning you will not for a long time arrive in any wise. Not that he does not say what he

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means, and in strong words too; but he cannot say it all ; and what is more strange, will not, but in a hidden way and in parables, in order that he may be sure you want it. I cannot quite see the reason of this, nor ana- lyze that cruel reticence ° in the breasts of wise men which makes them always hide their deeper thought. They do not give it you by way of help, but of reward ; and will make themselves sure that you deserve it before they allow you to reach it. But it is the same with the physical ° type of wisdom, gold. There seems, to you and me, no reason why the electric forces of the earth should not carry whatever there is of gold within it at once to the mountain tops, so that kings and people might know that all the gold they could get was there ; and without any trouble of digging, or anxiety, or chance, or waste of time, cut it away, and coin as much as they needed. But Nature does not manage it so. She puts it in little fissures in the earth, nobody knows where : you may dig long and find none ; you must dig painfully to find any.

14. And it is just the same with men's best wisdom. When you come to a good book, you must ask yourself, *' Am I inclined to work as an Australian ° miner would? Are my pickaxes and shovels in good order, and am I in good trim myself, my sleeves well up to the elbow, and my breath good, and my temper?" And, keeping the figure a Httle longer, even at cost of tiresomeness, for it is a thoroughly useful one, the metal you are in search of being the author's mind or meaning, his words are as the rock which you have to crush and smelt in order to get at it. And your pickaxes are your own care, wit, and learning; your smelting-furnace is your own thoughtful

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soul. Do not hope to get at any good author's meaning without those tools and that fire ; often you will need sharpest, finest chiselling, and patientest° fusing, before you can gather one grain of the metal.

15. And, therefore, first of all, I tell you, earnestly and authoritatively, (I know I am right in this,) you must get into the habit of looking intensely at words, and assur- ing yourself of their meaning, syllable by syllable — nay, letter by letter. For though it is only by reason of the opposition of letters in the function of signs, to sounds in the function of signs, that the study of books is called " literature," ° and that a man versed in it is called, by the consent of nations, a man of letters instead of a man of books, or of words, you may yet connect with that acci- dental nomenclature this real fact, — that you might read all the books in the British Museum ° (if you could live long enough), and remain an utterly "illiterate," unedu- cated person ; but that if you read ten pages of a good book, letter by letter, — that is to say, with real accuracy, — you are for evermore in some measure an educated person. The entire difference between education and non-education (as regards the merely intellectual part of it), consists in this accuracy. Ja well-educated gentleman may not know many languages, — may not be able to speak any but his own, — may have read very few books. But whatever language he knows, he knows precisely ; whatever word he pronounces, he pronounces rightly ; above all, he is learned in the peerage of words ; knows the words of true descent and ancient blood, at a glance, from words of modern canaille ° ; remembers all their ancestry, their intermarriages, distant relationships, and the extent to which they were admitted, and ofiices they

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held, among the national noblesse ° of words at any time and in any country. ) But an uneducated person may know, by memory, many languages, and talk them all, and yet truly not know a word of any, — not a word even of his own. An ordinary clever and sensible seaman will be able to make his way ashore at most ports ; yet he has only to speak a sentence of any language to be known for an illiterate person : so also the accent, or turn of expres- sion of a single sentence, will at once mark a scholar. And this is so strongly felt, so conclusively admitted, by educated persons, that a false accent or a mistaken sylla- ble is enough, in the parliament of any civilized nation, to assign to a man a certain degree of inferior standing for ever.

1 6. And this is right ; but it- is a pity that the accuracy insisted on is not greater, and required to a serious pur- pose. It is right that a false ° Latin quantity should ex- cite a smile in the House of Commons ; but it is wrong that a false EngHsh meaning should not excite a frown there. Let the accent of words be watched ; and closely : let their meaning be watched more closely still, and fewer will do the work. A few words, well chosen and distin- guished, will do work that a thousand cannot, when every one is acting, equivocally, in the function of another. Yes ; and words, if they are not watched, will do deadly work sometimes. There are masked ° words droning and skulking about us in Europe just now, — (there never were so many, owing to the spread of a shallow, blotching, blundering, infectious " information," or rather deforma- tion, everywhere, and to the teaching of catechisms and phrases at schools instead of human meanings) — there are masked words abroad, I say, which nobody under-

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Stands, but which everybody uses, and most people will also fight for, live for, or even die for, fancying they mean this or that, or the other, of things dear to them : for such words wear chamaeleon cloaks — " ground-lion " cloaks,° of the color of the ground of any man's fancy : on that ground they lie in wait, and rend him with a spring from it. There never were creatures of prey so mischievous, never diplomatists so cunning, never poi- soners so deadly, as these masked words ; they are the unjust stewards ° of all men's ideas : whatever fancy or favorite instinct a man most cherishes, he gives to his favorite masked word to take care of for him ; the word at last comes to have an infinite power over him, — you cannot get at him but by its ministry.

1 7. And in languages so mongrel ° in breed as the Eng- lish, there is a fatal power of equivocation put into men's hands, almost whether they will or no, in being able to use Greek or Latin words for an idea when they want it to be awful ; and Saxon or otherwise common words when they want it to be vulgar. What a singular and salutary effect, for instance, would be produced on the minds of people who are in the habit of taking the Form of the *' Word " they live by, for the Power of which that Word tells them, if we always either retained, or refused, the Greek form " biblos," or ''biblion," as the right expres- sion for "book" — instead of employing it only in the one instance in which we wish to give dignity to the idea, and translating it into English everywhere else. How wholesome it would be for many simple persons if, in such places (for instance) as Acts xix. 19, we retained the Greek expression, instead of translating it, and they had to read — " Many of them also which used curious arts,

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brought their Bibles together, and burnt them before all men ; and they counted the price of them, and found it fifty thousand pieces of silver " ! Or if, on the other hand, we translated where we retain it, and always spoke of *'the Holy Book,"° instead of " Holy Bible," ° it might come into more heads than it does at present, that the Word of God, by which the heavens were, of old, and by which they are now kept in store,^ cannot be made a present of to anybody in morocco binding ; nor sown ° on any wayside by help either of steam plough ° or steam press ; but is nevertheless being offered to us daily, and by us with contumely refused ; and sown in us daily, and by us, as instantly as may be, choked,

1 8. So, again, consider what effect has been produced on the English vulgar ° mind by the use of the sonorous Latin form " damno,'|^ in translating the Greek KaraKpiVd),) when people charitably wish to make it forcible ; and the substitution of the temperate " condemn " for it, when they choose to keep it gentle ; and what notable sermons have been preached by illiterate clergymen on — " He that believeth not shall be damned ; " though they would shrink with horror from translating Heb. xi. 7, " The saving of his house, by which he damned the world ; " or John viii. lo-ii, "Woman, hath no man damned thee? Shesaith, No man, Lord. Jesus answered her, Neither do I damn thee ; go, and sin no more." And divisions in the mind of Europe, which have cost seas° of blood, and in the de- fence of which the noblest souls of men have been cast away in frantic desolation, countless as forest-leaves — though, in the heart of them, founded on deeper causes — have nevertheless been rendered practically possible,

1 2 Peter iii. 5-7.

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mainly, by the European adoption of the Greek word for a public meeting, '^ecclesia," to give peculiar respecta- bility to such meetings, when held for religious purposes ; and other collateral equivocations, such as the vulgar English one of using the word " priest " as a contraction for " presbyter."

19. Now, in order to deal with words rightly, this is the habit ° you must form. Nearly every word in your language has been first a word of some other language — of Saxon, German, French, Latin, or Greek (not to speak of eastern and primitive dialects). And many words have been all these ; — that is to say, have been Greek first, Latin next, French or German next, and English last : undergoing a certain change of sense and use on the hps of each nation ; but retaining a deep vital meaning, which all good scholars feel in employing them, even at this day. If you do not know the Greek alphabet, learn it ; young or old — girl or boy — whoever you may be, if you think of reading seriously (which, of course, implies that you have some leisure at command), learn your Greek alpha- bet; then get good dictionaries of all these languages, and whenever you are in doubt about a word, hunt it down patiently. Read MaxMiiller's lectures ° thoroughly, to begin with ; and, after that, never let a word escape you that looks suspicious. It is severe work ; but you will find it, even at first, interesting, and at last, endlessly amusing. And the general gain to your character, in power and precision, will be quite incalculable.

Mind, this does not imply knowing, or trying to know, Greek, or Latin, or French. It takes a whole life to learn any language perfectly. But you can easily ascertain the meanings through which the English word has passed ;

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and those which in a good writer's work it must still bear.

20. And now, merely for example's sake, I will, with your permission, read a few lines of a true ° book with you, carefully ; and see what will come out of them. I will take a book perfectly known to you all. No EngHsh words ° are more famiUar to us, yet few perhaps have been read with less sincerity. I will take these few following lines of " Lycidas " :

"Last came, and last did go, The pilot of the Galilean lake. Two massy keys he bore of metals twain, [The golden opes, the iron shuts amain,] He shook his mitred locks, and stern bespake. ' How well could I have spared for thee, young swain, Enow of such as for their bellies' sake Creep, and intrude, and climb into the fold ! Of other care they little reckoning make. Than how to scramble at the shearers' feast,' And shove away the worthy bidden guest; Blind mouths ! that scarce themselves know how to hold A sheep-hook, or have learned aught else, the least That to the faithful herdsman's art belongs ! What recks it them? What need they? They are sped; And when they list, their lean and flashy songs Grate on their scrannel pipes of wretched straw; The hungry sheep look up, and are not fed. But, swoln with wind, and the rank mist they draw, Rot inwardly, and foul contagion spread ; Besides what the grim wolf with privy paw Daily devours apace, and nothing said.' "

Let US think over this passage, and examine its words.

First, is it not singular to find Milton assigning to St. Peter, not only his full episcopal function, but the very

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types of it which Protestants usually refuse most passion- ately? His "mitred" locks! Milton was no Bishop- lover ; how comes St. Peter to be " mitred " ? " Two massy keys he bore." Is this, then, the power of the keys claimed by the Bishops of Rome, and is it acknowledged here by Milton only in a poetical license, for the sake of its picturesqueness, that he may get the gleam of the golden keys to help his effect?

Do not think it. Great men do not play stage tricks with the doctrines of life and death : only little men do that. Milton means what he says ; and means it with his might too — is going to put the whole strength of his spirit presently into the saying of it. For though not a lover of false bishops, he was a lover of true ones ; and the Lake-pilot is here, in his thoughts, the type and head of true episcopal power. For Milton reads that text, " I will give unto thee the keys of the kingdom of Heaven " quite honestly. Puritan though he be, he would not blot it out of the book because there have been bad bishops ; nay, in order to understand hi7n, we must understand that verse first ; it will not do to eye it askance, or whisper it under our breath, as if it were a weapon of an adverse sect. It is a solemn, universal assertion, deeply to be kept in mind by all sects. But perhaps we shall be better able to reason on it if we go on a little farther, and come back to it. For clearly this marked insistence on the power of the true episcopate is to make us feel more weightily what is to be charged against the false claim- ants of episcopate ; or generally, against false claimants of power and rank in the body of the clergy ; they who, "for their belUes' sake, creep, and intrude, and cHmb into the fold."

73

21. Do not think Milton uses those three words ° to fill up his verse, as a loose writer would. He needs all the three ; — specially those three, and no more than those — " creep," and "intrude," and " cHmb" ; no other words would or could serve the turn, and no more could be added. For they exhaustively comprehend the three classes, correspondent to the three characters, of men who dishonestly seek ecclesiastical power. First, those who " creep " into the fold; who do not care for office, nor name, but for secret influence, and do all things occultly and cunningly, consenting to any servility of office or conduct, so only that they may intimately dis- cern, and unawares direct, the minds of men. Then those who " intrude " (thrust, that is) themselves into the fold, who by natural insolence of heart, and stout eloquence of tongue, and fearlessly perseverant self- assertion, obtain hearing and authority with the common crowd. Lastly, those who " climb," who, by labor and learning, both stout and sound, but selfishly exerted in the cause of their own ambition, gain high dignities and authorities, and become " lords over the heritage," ° though not " ensamples to the flock."

22. Now go on :

" Of other care they little reckoning make. Than how to scramble at the shearers' feast. Blind mouths "

I pause again, for this is a strange expression : a broken metaphor,° one might think, careless and unscholarly.

Not so ; its very audacity and pithiness are intended to make us look close at the phrase and remember it. Those two monosyllables express the precisely accurate con-

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traries of right character, in the two great offices of the Church — those of bishop and pastor.

A " Bishop " means " a person who sees." A " Pastor " means " a person who feeds." The most unbishoply character a man can have is therefore to be BHnd.

The most unpastoral is, instead of feeding, to want to be fed, — to be a Mouth.

Take the two reverses together, and you have " bhnd mouths." We may advisably follow out this idea a little. Nearly all the evils in the Church have arisen from bishops desiring poiver more than light They want au- thority, not outlook. Whereas their real office is not to rule ; though it may be vigorously to exhort and rebuke ; it is the king's office to rule ; the bishop's office is to oversee the flock ; to number it, sheep by sheep ; to be ready always to give full account of it. Now, it is clear he cannot give account of the souls, if he has not so much as numbered the bodies of his flock. The first thing, therefore, that a bishop has to do is at least to put him- self in a position in which, at any moment, he can obtain the history, from childhood, of every living soul in his diocese, and of its present state. Down in that back street, Bin,° and Nancy, knocking each other's teeth out ! — Does the bishop know all about it? Has he his eye upon them? Has he had\\\^ eye upon them? Can he circumstantially explain to us how Bill got into the habit of beating Nancy about the head ? If he cannot, he is no bishop, though he had a mitre as high as SaHsbury ° steeple ; he is no bishop, — he has sought to be at the helm instead of the masthead ; he has no sight of things. " Nay," you say, " it is not his duty to look after BUI in

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the back street." What ! the fat sheep that have full fleeces — you think it is only those he should look after, while (go back to your Milton) " the hungry sheep look up, and are not fed, besides what the grim wolf, with privy paw " (bishops knowing nothing about it) " daily devours apace, and nothing said " ?

" But that's not our idea of a bishop."^ Perhaps not ; but it was St. Paul's ; and it was Milton's. They may be right, or we may be ; but we must not think we are read- ing either one or the other by putting our meaning into their words.

23. I go on.°

" But, swoln with wind, and the rank mist they draw."

This is to meet the vulgar answer that " if the poor are not looked after in their bodies, they are in their souls ; they have spiritual food."

And Milton says, " They have no such thing as spirit- ual food ; they are only swollen with wind." At first you may think that is a coarse type, and an obscure one. But again, it is a quite literally accurate one. Take up your Latin and Greek dictionaries, and find out the meaning of " Spirit." It is only a contraction of the Latin ° word " breath," and an indistinct translation of the Greek word for " wind." The same word is used in writing, " The wind bloweth where it listeth ; and in writing, " So is every one that is born of the Spirit; " born of the breath, that is ; for it means the breath of God, in soul and body. We have the true sense of it in our words " inspiration " ° and " expire." Now, there are two kinds of breath with which the flock may be filled ; God's breath and man's. The 1 Compare the 13th Letter in Time and Tide.

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breath of God is health, and life, and peace to them, a? the air of heaven is to the flocks on the hills ; but man's breath — the word which he calls spiritual — is disease and contagion to them, as the fog ° of the fen. They rot inwardly with it ; they are puffed up by it, as a dead body by the vapors of its own decomposition. This is hterally true of all false religious teaching ; the first, and last, and fatalest sign of it is that " puffing up." Your converted children, who teach their parents ; your converted con- victs, who teach honest men ; your converted dunces, who, having lived in cretinous ° stupefaction half their lives, suddenly awaking to the fact of there being a God, fancy themselves therefore His peculiar people and mes- sengers ; your sectarians of every species, small and great. Catholic or Protestant, of high church or low, in so far as they think themselves exclusively in the right and others wrong ; and pre-eminently, in every sect, those who hold that men can be saved by thinking rightly instead of doing rightly, by word instead of act, and wish instead of work : — these are the true fog children ° — clouds, these, without water; bodies, these, of putrescent vapor and skin, without blood or flesh: blown bag-pipes for the fiends to pipe with — corrupt, and corrupting, — " Swoln with wind, and the rank mist they draw."

24. Lastly, let us return to the lines respecting the power of the keys, for now we can understand them. Note the difference between Milton and Dante in their interpretation of this power : for once, the latter° is weaker in thought ; he supposes both the keys to be of the gate of heaven ; one is of gold, the other of silver : they are given by St. Peter to the sentinel angel ; and it is not easy to determine the meaning either of the substances of the

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three steps of the gate, or of the two keys. But Milton makes one, of gold, the key of heaven ; the other, of iron, the key of the prison in which the wicked teachers are to be bound who " have taken away the key of knowledge, yet entered not in themselves."

We have seen that the duties of bishop and pastor are to see, and feed ; and of all who do so it is said, " He that watereth, shall be watered also himself." But the re- verse ° is truth also. He that watereth not, shall be withered himself, and he that seeth not, shall himself be shut out of sight — shut into the perpetual prison-house. And that prison opens here, as well as hereafter : he who is to be bound in heaven must first be bound on earth. That command to the strong angels, of which the rock- apostle is the image, "Take him, and bind him hand and foot, and cast him out," issues, in its measure, against the teacher, for every help withheld, and for every truth refused, and for every falsehood enforced ; so that he is more strictly fettered the more he fetters, and farther outcast, as he more and more misleads, till at last the bars of the iron cage close upon him, and as " the golden opes, the iron shuts amain."

25. We have got something out of the lines, I think, and much more ° is yet to be found in them ; but we have done enough by way of example of the kind of word-by- word examination of your author which is rightly called " reading " ° ; watching every accent and expression, and putting ourselves always in the author's place, annihilat- ing our own personality, and seeking to enter into his, so as to be able assuredly to say, " Thus Milton thought," not " Thus / thought, in mis-reading Milton." And by this process you will gradually come to attach less weight

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to your own " Thus I thought " at other times. You will begin to perceive that what you thought was a matter of no serious importance ; — that your thoughts on any sub- ject are not perhaps the clearest and wisest that could be arrived at thereupon : — in fact, that unless you are a very singular person, you cannot be said to have any " thoughts " at all ; that you have no materials for them, in any serious matters ; ^ — no right to " think," but only to try to learn more of the facts. Nay, most probably all your life (unless, as I said, you are a singular person) you will have no legitimate right to an " opinion " on any business, except that instantly under your hand. What must of necessity be done, you can always find out, be- yond question, how to do. Have you a house to keep in order, a commodity to sell, a field to plough, a ditch to cleanse? There need be no two opinions about the proceedings ; it is at your peril if you have not much more than an " opinion " on the way to manage such matters. And also, outside of your own business, there are one or two subjects on which you are bound to have but one opinion. That roguery and lying are objection- able, and are instantly to be flogged out of the way whenever discovered ; — that covetousness and love of quarrelling are dangerous dispositions even in children, and deafdly dispositions in men and nations ; — that in the end, the God of heaven and earth loves active, modest, and kind people, and hates idle, proud, greedy, and cruel ones ; — on these general facts you are bound to have but one, and that a very strong, opinion. For the rest,

1 Modern " education " for the most part signifies giving people the faculty of thinking wrong on every conceivable subject of importance to them.

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respecting religions, governments, sciences, arts, you will find that, on the whole, you can know nothing, — judge nothing ; that the best you can do, even though you may be a well-educated person, is to be silent, and strive to be wiser every day, and to understand a htde more of the thoughts of others, which so soon as you try to do honestly, you will discover that the thoughts even of the wisest are very little more than pertinent questions. To put the difficulty into a clear shape, and exhibit to you the grounds for /^decision, that is all they can generally do for you ! — and well for them and for us, if indeed they are able " to mix ° the music with our thoughts, and sad- den us with heavenly doubts." This writer," from whom I have been reading to you, is not among the first ° or wisest : he sees shrewdly as far as he sees, and therefore it is easy to find out his full meaning ; but with the greater men, you cannot fathom their meaning ; they do not even wholly measure it themselves, — it is so wide. Suppose I had asked you, for instance, to seek for Shakespeare's opinion, instead of Milton's, on this matter of Church authority? — or of Dante's? Have any of you, at this instant, the least idea what either thought about it? Have you ever balanced the scene with the bishops in Richard III against the character of Cranmer ? ° the de- scription of St. Francis and St. Dominic against that of him who made Virgil ° wonder to gaze upon him, — " dis- teso,° tanto vilmente, nell' eterno esilio " ; or of him whom Dante stood beside, "come° ' 1 frate che confessa lo perfido assassin"?^ Shakespeare and Alighieri° knew men bet- ter than most of us, I presume ! They were both in the midst of the main struggle between the temporal and

^/n/. xxiii. 125, 126; xix. 49, 50.

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spiritual powers. They had an opinion, we may guess. But where is it? Bring it into court ! Put Shakespeare's or Dante's creed into articles," and send that up into the Ecclesiastical Courts !

26. You will not be able, I tell you again, for many and many a day, to come at the real purposes and teach- ing of these great men ; but a very little honest study of them will enable you to perceive that what you took for your own "judgment" was mere chance prejudice, and drifted, helpless, entangled weed of castaway thought : nay, you will see that most men's minds are indeed little better than rough ° heath wilderness, neglected and stub- born, partly barren, partly overgrown with pestilent brakes, and venomous, wind-sown herbage of evil sur- mise ; that the first thing you have to do for them, and yourself, is eagerly and scornfully to set fire to ^/u's ; burn all the jungle into wholesome ash-heaps, and then plough and sow. All the true literary work before you, for life, must begin with obedience to that order, '' Break ° up your fallow ground, and sow not among thorns.'"

27. 11.^ Having then faithfully listened ° to the great teachers, that you may enter into their Thoughts, you have yet this higher advance to make; — you have to enter into their Hearts. As you go to them first for clear sight, so you must stay with them, that you may share at last their just and mighty Passion. Passion,° or "sen- sation." I am not afraid of the word ; still less of the thing. You have heard many outcries against sensation lately; but, I can tell you, it is not less sensation we want, but more. The ennobling difference between one man and another, — between one animal and another,

1 Compare § 13 above.

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— is precisely in this, that one feels more than another., If we were sponges, perhaps sensation might not be easily got for us ; if we were earth-worms, liable at every instant to be cut in two by the spade, perhaps too much sensation might not be good for us. But, being human creatures, it is good for us • nay, we are only human in so far as we are sensitive, and our honor is precisely in pro- portion to our passion.

28. You know I said of that great and pure society of the Dead, that it would allow " no vain or vulgar per- son to enter there." What do you think I meant by a "vulgar " person? What do you yourselves mean by "vul- garity "? You will find it a fruitful subject of thought; but, briefly, the essence of all vulgarity lies in want of sen- sation. Simple and innocent vulgarity is merely an un- trained and undeveloped bluntness of body and mind ; but in true inbred vulgarity, there is a dreadful callous- ness, which, in extremity, becomes capable of every sort of bestial habit and crime, without fear, without pleasure, without horror, and without pity. It is in the blunt hand and the dead heart, in the diseased habit, in the hard- ened conscience, that men become vulgar ; they are for ever vulgar, precisely in proportion as they are incapable of sympathy, — of quick understanding, — of all that, in deep insistence on the common, but most accurate term, may be called the " tact " ° or " touch-faculty," of body and soul ; that tact which the Mimosa ° has in trees, which the pure woman has above all creatures; — fineness aitd fulness of sensation, beyond reason; — the guide and sanctifier of reason itself. Reason can but determine what is true : — it is the God-given passion of humanity which alone can recognize what God has made good.

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29. We come then to the great concourse of the Dead, not merely to know° from them what is True, but chiefly to feel with them what is Righteous. Now, to feel with them, we must be like them; and none of us can become that without pains. As the true knowledge ° is disciplined and tested knowledge, — not the first thought that comes, — so the true passion is disciphned and tested passion, — not the first passion that comes. The first that come are the vain, the false, the treacherous ; if you yield to them they will lead you wildly and far in vain pursuit, in hollow enthusiasm, till you have no true purpose and no true passion left. Not that any feeling possible to humanity is in itself wrong, but only wrong when undisciplined. Its nobility is in its force and justice ; it is wrong when it is weak, and felt for paltry cause. There is a mean wonder, as of a child who sees a juggler tossing golden balls, and this is base, if you will. But do you think that the wonder is ignoble, or the sensation less, with which every human soul is called to watch the golden balls ° of heaven tossed through the night by the Hand that made them? There is a mean curiosity, as of a child opening a forbidden door, or a servant prying into her master's business ; — and a noble curiosity, question- ing, in the front of danger, the source ° of the great river beyond the sand, — the place of the great continents ° beyond the sea ; — a nobler curiosity still, which questions of the source of the River ° of Life, and of the space of the Continent of Heaven, — things which '' the angels ° desire to look into." So the anxiety is ignoble, with which you linger over the course and catastrophe of an idle tale ; but do you think the anxiety is less, or greater, with which you watch, or oi/g/if to watch, the deahngs of

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fate and destiny with tlie life of an agonized ° nation? Alas ! it is the narrowness, selfishness, minuteness, of your sensation that you have to deplore in England at this day; — sensation which spends itself in bouquets and speeches ; in revelHngs and junketings ; in sham fights and gay puppet shows, while you can look on and see noble nations ° murdered, man by man, without an effort or a tear.

30. I said " minuteness" and "selfishness" of sensa- tion, but I ought to have said " injustice " or " unrighteous- ness " of sensation. For as in nothing is a gentleman better to be discerned from a vulgar person, so in nothing is a gende nation (such nations have been) better to be discerned from a mob, than in this, — that their feelings are constant and just, results of due contemplation, and of equal thought. You can talk a mob into anything ; its feelings may be — usually are — on the whole, gener- ous and right ; but it has no foundation for them, no hold of them ; you may tease or tickle it into any, at your pleasure ; it thinks by infection, for the most part, catching an opinion like a cold, and there is nothing so little that it will not roar itself wild about, when the fit is on ; — nothing so great but it will forget in an hour, when the fit is past. But a gentleman's or a gentle nation's, passions are just, measured and continuous. A great nation, for instance, does not spend its entire national wits for a couple of months in weighing evidence of a single ruffian's having done a single murder; and for a couple of years, see its own children ° murder each other by their thousands or tens of thousands a day, consider- ing only what the effect is likely to be on the price of cotton, and caring nowise to determine which side of

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battle is in the wrong. Neither does a great nation send its poor little boys to jail for stealing six walnuts, and allow its bankrupts to steal their hundreds of thousands with a bow, and its bankers, rich with poor men's savings, to close their doors "under circumstances over which they have no control," with a " by your leave " ; and large landed estates ° to be bought by men who have made their money by going with armed steamers up and down the China Seas, selling opium ° at the cannon's mouth and altering, for the benefit of the foreign nation, the common highwayman's demand of " your money or your life," into that of "your money an(/ your life." Neither does a great nation allow the lives of its innocent poor to be parched out of them by fog fever, and rotted out of them by dunghill plague, for the sake of sixpence a life extra per week to its landlords ; ^ and then debate,

1 See the evidence in the Medical ofificer's report to the Privy Council, just published. There are suggestions in its preface which will make some stir among us, I fancy, respecting which let me note these points following :

There are two theories on the subject of land now abroad, and in contention ; both false.

The first is that, by Heavenly law, there have always existed, and must continue to exist, a certain number of hereditarily sacred persons to whom the earth, air, and water of the world belong, as personal prop- erty ; of which earth, air, and water, these persons may, at their pleasure, permit, or forbid the rest of the human race to eat, to breathe, or to drink. This theory is not for many years longer tenable. The adverse theory is that a division of the land of the world among the ipob of the world would immediately elevate the said mob into sacred personages; that houses would then build themselves, and corn grow of itself; and that everybody would be able to live, without doing any work for his living. This theory would also be found highly untenable in practice.

It will, however, require some rough experiments, and rougher catas- trophes, before the generality of persons will be convinced that no law concerning anything — least of all concerning land, for either holding or dividing it, or renting it high, or renting it low — would be of the small-

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with drivelling tears, and diabolical sympathies, whether it ought not piously to save, and nursingly cherish, the lives of its murderers. Also, a great nation having made up its mind that hanging is quite the wholesomest process for its homicides in general, can yet with mercy distin- guish between the degrees of guilt in homicides ; and does not yelp like a pack of frost-pinched wolf-cubs on the blood-track of an unhappy crazed boy, or grey-haired clodpate Othello, " perplexed ° i' the extreme," at the very moment that it is sending a Minister of the Crown to make polite speeches to a man who is bayoneting young girls in their fathers' sight, and killing noble youths

est ultimate use to the people, so long as the general contest for life, and for the means of life, remains one of mere brutal competition. That contest, in an unprincipled nation, will take one deadly form or another, whatever laws you make against it. For instance, it would be an entirely wholesome law for England, if it could be carried, that maximum limits should be assigned to incomes according to classes ; and that every nobleman's income should be paid to him as a fixed salary or pension by the nation ; and not squeezed by him in variable sums, at discretion, out of the tenants of his land. But if you could get such a law passed to-morrow, and if, which would be farther necessary, you could fix the value of the assigned incomes by making a given weight of pure bread for a given sum, a twelve-month would not pass before another currency would have been tacitly established, and the power of accumulated wealth would have re-asserted itself in some other article, or some other imaginary sign. There is only one cure for public distress — and that is public education, directed to make men thoughtful, merciful, and just. There are, indeed, many laws conceivable which would gradually bet- ter and strengthen the national temper ; but, for the most part, they are such as the national temper must be much bettered before it would bear. A nation in its youth may be helped by laws, as a weak child by back- boards, but when it is old it cannot that way strengthen its crooked spine. And besides ; the problem of land, at its worst, is a bye one ; distrib- ute the earth as you will, the principal question remains inexorable, — Who is to dig it ? Which of us, in brief word, is to do the hard and dirty work for the rest — and for what pay ? Who is to do the pleasant and

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in cool biftod, faster than a country butcher kills lambs in spring. And, lastly, a great nation ° does not mock Heaven and its Powers, by pretending belief in a revela- tion which asserts the love ° of money to be the root of a// evil, and declaring, at the same time, that it is actuated, and intends to be actuated, in all chief national deeds and measures, by no other love.

31. My friends, I do not know why any of us should talk about reading. We want some sharper discipline than that of reading ; but, at all events, be assured, we cannot read. No reading is possible for a people with

clean work, and for what pay ? Who is to do no work, and for what pay ? And there are curious moral and religious questions connected with these. How far is it lawful to suck a portion of the soul out of a great many persons, in order to put the abstracted psychical quantities together and make one very beautiful or ideal soul ? If we had to deal with mere blood, instead of spirit, (and the thing might literally be done — as it has been done with infants before now) — so that it were possible by taking a certain quantity of blood from the arms of a given number of the mob, and putting it all into one person, to make a more azure-blooded gentleman of him, the thing would of course be managed ; but secretly, I should conceive. But now, because it is brain and soul that we abstract, not visible blood, it can be done quite openly, and we live, we gentlemen, on delicatest prey, after the manner of weasels; that is to say, we keep a certain number of clowns ° digging and ditching, and generally stupefied, in order that we, being fed gratis, may have all the thinking and feeling to ourselves. Yet there is a great deal to be said for this. A highly-bred and trained English, French, Austrian, or Italian gentleman (much more a lady), is a great production, — a better production than most statues; being beautifully colored as well as shaped, and plus all the brains ; a glorious thing to look at, a wonder- ful thing to talk to ; and you cannot have it, any more than a pyramid -or a church, but by sacrifice of much contributed life. And it is, per- haps, better to build a beautiful human creature than a beautiful dome or steeple — and more delightful to look up reverently to a creature far above us, than to a wall ; only the beautiful human creature will have some duties to do in return — duties of living belfry and rampart — of which presently.

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its mind in this state. No sentence of any great writer is intelligible to them. It is simply and sternly impos- sible for the English pubHc, at this moment, to under- stand [any thoughtful writing, — so incapable of thought has it become in its insanity ° of avarice. Happily, our disease is, as yet, little worse than this incapacity of thought ; it is not corruption of the inner nature ; we ring true still, when anything strikes home to us ; and though the idea that everything should " pay " has infected our every purpose so deeply, that even when we would play the good Samaritan,^ we never take out our twopence and give them to the host, without saying, " When I come again, thou shalt give me fourpence," there is a capacity of noble passion left in our heart's core. We show it in our work, — in our war, — even in those un- just domestic affections which make us furious at a small private wrong, while we are polite to a boundless public one : we are still industrious to the last hour of the day, though we add the gambler's fury to the laborer's patience ; we are still brave to the death, though in- capable of discerning true cause for battle ; and are still true in affection to our own flesh, to the death, as the sea-monsters are, and the rock-eagles. And there is hope ° for a nation while this can be still said of it. As long as it holds its life in its hand, ready to give it for its honor (though a foolish honor), for its love (though a selfish love), and for its business (though a base business), there is hope for it. But hope only ; for this instinctive, reckless virtue cannot last. No nation can last, which has made a mob of itself, however generous at heart. It must discipline its passions,' and direct them, or they will discipline //, one day, with scorpion-whips.° Above

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all, a nation cannot last as a money-making mob : it can- not with impunity, — it cannot with existence, — go on despising literature, despising science, despising art, de- spising nature, despising compassion, and concentrating its soul on Pence. Do you think these are harsh or wild words? Have patience with me but a little longer. I will prove their truth to you, clause by clause."

32. I. I say first we have despised literature. What do we, as a nation, care about books? How much do you think we spend altogether on our libraries, public or private, as compared with what we spend on our horses? If a man spends lavishly on his library, you call him mad — a bibliomaniac." But you never call any one a horse-maniac, though men ruin themselves every day by their horses, and you do not hear of people ruin- ing themselves by their books. Or, to go lower still, how much do you think the contents of the book-shelves of the United Kingdom, public and private, would fetch, as compared with the contents of its wine-cellars ? What position would its expenditure on hterature take, as com- pared with its expenditure on luxurious eating? We talk of food for the mind, as of food for the body : now a good book contains such food inexhaustibly ; it is a pro- vision for life, and for the best part of us ; yet how long most people would look at the best book before they would give the price of a large turbot for it ! Though there have been men who have pinched their stomachs and bared their backs to buy a book, whose libraries were cheaper to them, I think, in the end, than most men's dinners are. We are few of us put to such trial, and more the pity ; for, indeed, a precious thing is all the more precious to us if it has been won by work or economy ;

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and if public libraries were half as costly as public din- ners, or books cost the tenth part of what bracelets do, even foolish men and women might sometimes suspect there was good in reading, as well as in munching and sparkhng; whereas the very cheapness of literature is making even wise people forget that if a book is worth reading, it is worth buying. No book° is worth anything which is not worth much; nor is it serviceable, until it has been read, and re-read, and loved, and loved again ; and marked, so that you can refer to the passages you want in it, as a soldier can seize the weapon he needs in an armory, or a housewife bring the spice she needs from her store. Bread of flour is good : but there is bread, sweet ° as honey, if we would eat it, in a good book ; and the family must be poor indeed which, once in their lives, cannot, for such multipHable barley-loaves,° pay their baker's bill. We call ourselves a rich nation, and we are filthy and foolish enough to thumb each other's books out of circulating libraries !

33. II. I say we have despised science. " What ! " you exclaim, " are we not foremost in all discovery, and is not the whole world giddy by reason, or unreason, of our inventions?" Yes; but do you suppose that is na- tional work ? That work is all done in spite of the nation ; by private people's zeal and money. We "are glad enough, indeed, to make our profit of science ; we snap up anything in the way of a scientific bone ° that has meat on it, eagerly enough ; but if the scientific man comes for a bone or a criist to us, that is another story. What have we pubhcly done for science ? We are obliged to know what o'clock it is, for the safety of our ships, and therefore we pay for an Observatory ° ; and we allow our-

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selves, in the person of our Parliament, to be annually tormented into doing something, in a slovenly way, for the British Museum ; sullenly apprehending that to be a place for keeping stuffed birds ° in, to amuse our children. If anybody will pay for their ° own telescope, and resolve ° another nebula,° we cackle over the discernment as if it were our own ; if one in ten thousand of our hunting squires suddenly perceives that the earth was indeed made to be something else than a portion for foxes, and burrows in it himself, and tells us where the gold is, and where the coals, we understand that there is some use in that ; and very properly knight him : but is the accident of his having found out how to employ himself usefully any credit to lis ? (The negation of such discovery among his brother squires may perhaps be some ^//Vcredit to us, if we would consider of it.) But if you doubt these generalities, here is one fact for us all to meditate upon, illustrative of our love of science. Two years ago ° there was a collection of the fossils of Solenhofen to be sold in Bavaria ; the best in existence, containing many speci- mens unique for perfectness, and one, unique as an ex- ample of a species (a whole kingdom of unknown living creatures being announced by that fossil). This collec- tion, of which the mere market worth, among private buyers, would probably have been some thousand or twelve hundred pounds, was offered to the English nation for seven hundred : but we would not give seven hundred, and the whole series would have been in the Munich museum at this moment, if Professor Ovven^ had not,

1 1 state this fact without Professor Owen's permission, which of course he could not with propriety have granted, had I asked it ; but I consider it so important that the public should be aware of the fact, that I do what seems to be right, though rude.

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with loss of his own time, and patient tormenting of the British public in person of its representatives, got leave to give four hundred pounds at once, and himself become answerable for the other three ! which the said public will doubtless pay him eventually, but sulkily, and caring nothing about the matter all the while ; only always ready to cackle if any credit comes of it. Consider, I beg of you, arithmetically, what this fact means. Your annual expenditure for public purposes (a third of it for military apparatus °), is at least fifty millions. Now ;£7oo is to ^50,000,000, roughly, as seven-pence to two thousand pounds. Suppose, then, a gentleman of un- known income, but whose wealth was to be conjectured from the fact that he spent two thousand a year on his park- walls and footmen only, professes himself fond of science ; and that one of his servants comes eagerly to tell him that an unique collection of fossils, giving clue to a new era of creation, is to be had for the sum of seven- pence sterling ; and that the gentleman, who is fond of science, and spends two thousand a year on his park, answers, after keeping his servant waiting several months, " Well ! I'll give you four-pence for them, if you will be answerable for the extra three-pence yourself, till next year ! "

34. III. I say you have despised Art! "What!" you again answer, "have we not Art exhibitions, miles long? and do not we pay thousands of pounds for single pictures ? and have we not Art schools and institutions, more than ever nation had before?" Yes, truly, but all that is for the sake of the shop. You would fain sell canvas as well as coals, and crockery as well as iron ; you would take every other nation's bread out of its mouth

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if you could ; ^ not being able to do that, your ideal of life is to stand in the thoroughfares of the world, like Ludgate ° apprentices, screaming to every passer-by, *' What d'ye lack ? " You know nothing of your own faculties or circumstances ; you fancy that, among your damp, flat fields of clay, you can have as quick art-fancy as the Frenchman among his bronzed vines, or the Italian under his volcanic cliffs ; — that Art may be learned as book-keeping ° is, and when learned, will give you more books to keep. You care for pictures, abso- lutely, no more than you do for the bills pasted on your dead walls. There is always room on the wall for the bills to be read, — never for the pictures to be seen. You do not know what pictures you have (by repute) in the country, nor whether they are false or true, nor whether they are taken care of or not; in foreign countries, you calmly see the noblest existing pictures in the world rot- ting in abandoned wreck — (in Venice you saw the Austrian ° guns deliberately pointed at the palaces con- taining them), and if you heard that all the fine pictures in Europe were made into sandbags to-morrow on the Austrian forts, it would not trouble you so much as the chance of a brace or two of game less in your own bags, in a day's shooting. That is your national love of Art.

35. IV. You have despised nature; that is to say, all the deep and sacred sensations of natural scenery. The French revolutionists made stables of the cathedrals of France ; you have made racecourses of the cathedrals of

1 That was our real idea of " Free Trade " — " All the trade to my- self." You find now that by " competition " other people can manage to sell something as well as you — and now we call for Protection again. Wretches !

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the earth. Your one conception of pleasure is to drive in railroad carriages round their aisles, and eat off their altars.^ You have put a railroad-bridge ° over the falls of Schaffhausen. You have tunnelled ° the cliffs of Lucerne by Tell's chapel ; you have destroyed the Clarens shore of the Lake of Geneva; there is not a quiet valley in England that you have not filled with bellowing fire ; there is no particle left of English land which you have not trampled ° coal ashes into — nor any foreign city in which the spread of your presence is not marked among its fair old streets and happy gardens by a consuming white leprosy of new hotels and perfumers' shops : the Alps themselves, which your own poets ° used to love so reverently, you look upon as soaped poles in a bear-garden, which you set yourselves to climb and slide down again, with " shrieks of delight." When you are past shrieking, having no human articulate voice to say you are glad with, you fill the quietude of their valleys with gunpowder blasts, and rush home, red with cutaneous eruption of conceit, and voluble with convulsive hic- cough of self-satisfaction. I think nearly the two sorrow- fullest spectacles I have ever seen in humanity, taking the deep inner significance of them, are the English mobs in the valley ° of Chamouni, amusing themselves with firing rusty howitzers ; and the Swiss vintagers of Zurich express- ing their Christian thanks for the gift of the vine, by as- sembhng in knots in the " towers ° of the vineyards," and slowly loading and firing horse-pistols from morning till

1 I meant that the beautiful places of the world — Switzerland, Ttaly, South Germany, and so on — are, indeed, the truest cathedrals — places to be reverent in, and to worship in ; and that we only care to drive through them ; and to eat and drink at their most sacred places.

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evening. It is pitiful to have dim conceptions of duty ; more pitiful, it seems to me, to have conceptions Hke these, of mirth.

^6. Lastly. You despise compassion. ° There is no need of words of mine for proof of this. I will merely print one of the newspaper paragraphs which I am in the habit of cutting out and throwing into my store-drawer ; ° here is one from a Daily Telegraph of an early date ° this year ; date which, though by me carelessly left unmarked, is easily discoverable, for on the back of the slip there is the announcement that *' yesterday the seventh of the special services of this year was performed by the Bishop of Ripon in St. Paul's " ; and there is a pretty piece of modern political economy besides, worth preserving note of, I think, so I print it in the note below.^ But my business is with the main paragraph relating one of such facts as happen now daily, which by chance has taken a form in which it came before the coroner. I will print the paragraph in red. Be sure, the facts themselves are written in that color, in a book ° which we shall all of us, literate or illiterate, have to read our page of, some day.

"An inquiry was held on Friday by Mr. Richards, dep- uty coroner, at the White Horse tavern, Christ Church, Spitalfields,° respecting the death of Michael ColUns,

1 It is announced that an arrangement has been concluded between the Ministry of Finance and the Bank of Credit for the payment of the eleven millions which the State has to pay to the National Bank by the 14th inst. This sum will be raised as follows : — The eleven commercial members of the committee of the Bank of Credit will each borrow a million of florins for three months of this bank, which will accept theii bills, which again will be discounted by the National Bank. By this, arrangement the National Dank will itself furnish the funds with which it will be paid.

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aged 58 years. Mary Collins, a miserable-looking woman, said that she lived with the deceased and his son in a room at 2, Cobb's Court, Christ Church. Deceased was a 'translator' of boots. Witness went out and bought old boots ; deceased and his son made them into good ones, and then witness sold them for what she could get at the shops, which was very little indeed. Deceased and his son used to work night and day to try and get a little bread and tea, and pay for the room (2^. a week), so as to keep the home together. On Friday night week deceased got up from his bench and began to shiver. He threw down the boots, saying, ' Somebody else must finish them when I am gone, for I can do no more.' There was no fire, and he said, ' I would be better if I was warm.' Witness therefore took two pairs of trans- lated boots ^ to sell at the shop, but she could only get 14^. for the two pairs, for the people at the shop said, ' We must have our profit.' Witness got 14 lb. of coal, and a little tea and bread. Her son sat up the whole night to make the ' translations,' to get money, but deceased died on Saturday morning. The family never had enough to eat. — Coroner : ' It seems to me deplorable that you did not go into the workhouse.' Witness : * We wanted the com- forts of our little home.' A juror asked what the comforts were, for he only saw a little straw in the corner of the room, the windows of which were broken. The witness began to cry, and said that they had a quilt and other little things. The deceased said he never would go into the workhouse. In summer, when the season was good,

1 One of the things which we must very resolutely enforce, for the good of all classes, in our future arrangements, must be that they wear no " translated " article of dress.

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they sometimes made as much as loi-. profit in the week. They then always saved towards the next week, which was generally a bad one. In winter they made not half so much. For three years they had been getting from bad to worse. — Cornelius Collins said that he had assisted his father since 1847. They used to work so far into the night that both nearly lost their eyesight. Witness now had a film over his eyes. Five years ago deceased applied to the parish for aid. The relieving officer gave him a 4 lb. loaf, and told him if he came again he should ' get the stones.' ° ^ That disgusted deceased,

1 This abbreviation of the penalty of useless labor is curiously coinci- dent in verbal form with a certain passage which some of us may remem- ber. It may perhaps be well to preserve beside this paragraph another cutting out of my store-drawer from the Morning Post, of about a paral- lel date, Friday, March loth, 1865 : — " The salons of Mme. C , who

did the honors with clever imitative grace and elegance, were crowded with princes, dukes, marquises, and counts — in fact, with the same i?iale company as one meets at the parties of the Princess Metternich and Ma- dame Drouyn de Lhuys. Some English peers and members of Parlia- ment were present, and appeared to enjoy the animated and dazzling im- proper scene. On the second floor the supper tables were loaded with every delicacy of the season. That your readers may form some idea of the dainty fare of the Parisian demi-monde, I copy the menu of the sup- per, which was served to all the guests (about 200) seated at four o'clock. Choice Yquem, Johannisberg, Laffitte, Tokay, and champagne of the finest vintages were served most lavishly throughout the morning. After supper dancing was resumed with increased animation, and the ball ter- minated with a chame dlaboUque and a cancan d^enfer at seven in the morning. (Morning service — ' Ere the fresh lawns appeared, under the opening eyelids of the Morn.') Here is the menu : — ' Consomme de vo- laille k la Bagration : 16 hors-d'oeuvres varies. Bouchees k la Talleyrand. Saumons froids, sauce Ravigote. Filets de boeuf en Bellevue, timbales milanaises, chaudfroid de gibier. Dindes truffees. Pates de foies gras, buissons d'ecrevisses, salades venetiennes, gelees blanches aux fruits, gateaux mancini, parisiens et parisiennes. Fromages glaces. Ananas. Dessert.' "

97

and he would have nothing to do with them since. They got worse and worse until last Friday week, when they had not even a halfpenny to buy a candle. De- ceased then lay down on the straw, and said he could not live till morning. — A juror : ' You are dying of star- vation yourself, and you ought to go into the house ° un- til the summer.' — Witness : ' If we went in, we should die. When we come out in the summer, we should be like people dropped from the sky. No one would know us, and we would not have even a room. I could work now if I had food, for my sight would get better.' Dr. G. P. Walker said deceased died from syncope, from exhaus- tion from want of food. The deceased had had no bedclothes. For four months he had had nothing but bread to eat. There was not a particle of fat in the body. There was no disease, but if there had been medical at- tendance, he might have survived the syncope or fainting. The coroner having remarked upon the painful nature of the case, the jury returned the following verdict, ' That deceased died from exhaustion from want of food and the common necessaries of life ; also through want of medical aid.' "

37. " Why would witness not go into the workhouse? " you ask. Well, the poor seem to have a prejudice against the workhouse which the rich have not ; for of course every one who takes a pension from Government goes into the workhouse on a grand scale : only the work- houses for the rich do not involve the idea of work, and should be called playhouses. But the poor hke to die independently, it appears ; perhaps if we made the play- houses for them pretty and pleasant enough, or gave them their pensions ° at home, and allowed them a little

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introductory peculation with the public money, their minds might be reconciled to the conditions. Mean- time, here are the facts : we make our relief either so insulting to them, or so painful, that they rather die than take it at our hands; or, for third alternative, we leave them so untaught and foolish that they starve like brute creatures, wild and dumb, not knowing what to do, or what to ask. I say, you despise compassion ; if you did not, such a newspaper paragraph would be as impossible in a Christian country as a dehberate assassination per- mitted in its public streets.^ "Christian" did I say?

1 I am heartily glad to see such a paper as the Pall Mall Gazette estab- lished; for the power of the press in the hands of highly educated men, in independent position, and of honest purpose, may indeed become all that it has been hitherto vainly vaunted to be. Its editor w^ill therefore, I doubt not, pardon me, in that, by very reason of my respect for the jour- nal, I do not let pass unnoticed an article in its third number, page 5, which was wrong in every word of it, with the intense wrongness which only an honest man can achieve who has taken a false turn of thought in the outset, and is following it, regardless of consequences. It contained at the end this notable passage : —

" The bread of affliction, and the water of affliction — aye, and the bed- stead and blankets of affliction, are the very utmost that the law ought to give to outcasts merely as outcasts." I merely put beside this expres- sion of the gentlemanly mind of England in 1865, a part of the message which Isaiah was ordered to " lift up his voice like a trumpet " in declar- ing to the gentlemen of his day : " Ye fast for strife, and to smite with the fist of wickedness. Is not this the fast that I have chosen, to deal thy bread to the hungry, and that thou bring the poor that are cast out (margin, ' afflicted ') to thy house? " The falsehood on which the writer had mentally founded himself, as previously stated by him, was this: " To confound the functions of the dispensers of the poor rates with those of the dispensers of a charitable institution is a great and pernicious error." This sentence is so accurately and exquisitely wrong, that its substance must be thus reversed in our minds before we can deal with any existing problem of national distress. " To understand that the dis- pensers of the poor-rates are the almoners of the nation, and should dis- tribute its alms with a gentleness and freedom of hand as much greater

99

Alas, if we were but wholesomely un-Christian, it would be impossible : it is our imaginary Christianity that helps us to commit these crimes, for we revel and luxuriate in our faith, for the lewd sensation of it ; dressing // up, hke everything else, in fiction. The dramatic Christianity of the organ and aisle, of dawn-service and twilight- revival

— the Christianity which we do not fear to mix the mock- ery of, pictorially, with our play about the devil, in our Sa- tanellas,° — Roberts, — Fausts ; chanting ° hymns through traceried windows for back-ground effect, and artistically modulating the " Dio " through variation on variation of mimicked prayer : (while we distribute tracts, next day, for the benefit of uncultivated swearers, upon what we suppose to be the signification of the Third Command- ment) ; — this gas-lighted, and gas-inspired, Christianity we are triumphant in, and draw back the hem of our robes from the touch of the heretics who dispute it. But to do a piece of common Christian righteousness in a plain English word or deed ; to make Christian law any rule of life, and found one National act or hope thereon,

— we know too well what our faith comes to for that ! You might sooner get lightning out of incense smoke than true action or passion out of your modern English re- ligion. You had better get rid of the smoke, and the organ pipes, both : leave them, and the Gothic windows, and the painted glass, to the property man ; give up your carburetted ° hydrogen ghost in one healthy expira- tion,° and look after Lazarus ° at the doorstep. For there is a true Church wherever one hand meets another help-

and franker than that possible to individual charity, as the collective national wisdom and power may be supposed greater than those of any single person, is the foundation of all law respecting pauperism."

100 SESAME AND LILIES

fully, and that is the only holy or Mother Church which ever was, or ever shall be.

^S. All these pleasures," then, and all these virtues, I repeat, you nationally despise. You have, indeed, men among you who do not ; by whose work, by whose strength, by whose life, by whose death, you live, and never thank them. Your wealth, your amusement, your pride, would all be ahke impossible, but for those whom you scorn or forget. The policeman, who is walking up and down the black lane all night to watch the guilt you have created there ; and may have his brains beaten out, and be maimed for life, at any moment, and never be thanked ; the sailor wrestling with the sea's rage ; the quiet student poring over his book or his vial ; the com- mon worker, without praise, and nearly without bread, fulfilling his task as your horses drag your carts, hope- less, and spurned of all : these are the men by whom England lives ; but they are not the nation ; they are only the body and nervous force of it, acting still from old habit in a convulsive perseverance, while the mind is gone. Our National mind and purpose are to be amused ; our National religion, the performance of church ceremonies, and preaching of soporific truths (or untruths) to keep the mob quietly at work, while we amuse ourselves ; and the necessity for this amusement is fastening on us as a feverish disease of parched throat and wandering eyes — senseless, dissolute, merciless.

39. When men are rightly occupied, their amusement grows out of their work, as the color-petals out of a fruitful flower; — when they are faithfully helpful and compassionate, all their emotions become steady, deep, perpetual, and vivifying to the soul as the natural pulse

OF kings' treasuries 101

to the body. But now, having no true business, we pour our whole masculine energy into the false business of money-making ; and having no true emotion," we must have false emotions dressed up for us to play with, not innocently, as children with dolls, but guiltily and darkly, as the idolatrous Jews ° with their pictures on cavern walls, which men had to dig to detect. The justice we do not execute, we mimic in the novel and on the stage ; for the beauty we destroy in nature, we substitute the metamorphosis of the pantomime, and (the human nature of us imperatively requiring awe and sorrow of some kind) for the noble grief we should have borne with our fellows, and the pure tears we should have wept with them, we gloat over the pathos of the police court, and gather the night-dew of the grave.

40. It is difficult to estimate the true significance of these things ; the facts are frightful enough ; — the meas- ure ° of national fault involved in them is perhaps not as great as it would at first seem. We permit, or cause, thousands of deaths daily, but we mean no harm ; we set fire to houses, and ravage peasants' fields ; yet we should be sorry to find we had injured anybody. We are still kind at heart ; still capable of virtue, but only as children are. Chalmers," at the end of his long life, having had much power with the public, being plagued in some se- rious matter by a reference to "public opinion," uttered the impatient exclamation, " The public is just a great baby ! " And the reason that I have allowed all these graver subjects of thought to mix themselves up with an inquiry ° into methods of reading, is that, the more I see of our national faults or miseries, the more they re- solve themselves into conditions of childish illiterateness

102 SESAME AND LILIES

and want of education in the most ordinary habits of thought. It is, I repeat, not vice, not selfishness, not dulness of brain, which we have to lament ; but an un- reachable schoolboy's recklessness, only differing from the true schoolboy's in its incapacity of being helped, because it acknowledges no master.

41. There is a curious type of us given in one of the lovely, neglected works of the last of our great painters.° It is a drawing of Kirkby Lonsdale churchyard, and of its brook, and valley, and hills, and folded morning sky beyond. And unmindful alike of these, and of the dead who have left these for other valleys and for other skies, a group of schoolboys have piled their little books upon a grave, to strike them off with stones. So, also, we play ° with the words of the dead that would teach us, and strike them far from us with our bitter, reckless will, little thinking that those leaves which the wind scatters had been piled, not only upon a gravestone, but upon the seal of an enchanted vault — nay, the gate of a great city of sleeping kings, who would awake for us, and walk with us, if we knew but how to call them by their names. How often, even if we lift the marble entrance gate, do we but wander among those old kings in their repose, and finger the robes they lie in, and stir the crowns on their fore- heads ; and still they are silent to us, and seem but a dusty imagery ; because we know not the incantation ° of the heart that would wake them ; — which, if they once heard, they would start up to meet us in their power of long ago, narrowly to look upon us, and consider us ; and, as the fallen kings of Hades meet the newly fallen, saying, " Art thou also become weak as we — art thou also be- come one of us?" so would these kings,° with their un-

OF kings' treasuries 103

dimmed, unshaken diadems, meet us, saying, " Art thou also become pure° and mighty of heart as we? art thou also become one of us? "

42. Mighty of heart, mighty of mind — "magnani- mous""— to be this, is indeed to be great in life; to become this increasingly, is, indeed, to " advance ° in hfe," — in life itself — not in the trappings of it. My friends, do you remember that old Scythian ° custom, when the head of a house died? How he was dressed in his finest dress, and set in his chariot, and carried about to his friends' houses; and each of them placed him at his table's head, and all feasted in his presence? Suppose it were offered to you, in plain words, as it is offered to you in dire facts, that you should gain this Scythian honor, gradually, while you yet thought yourself alive. Suppose the offer were this : You shall die slowly ; your blood shall daily grow cold, your flesh petrify, your heart beat at last only as a rusted group of iron valves. Your hfe shall fade from you, and sink through the earth into the ice ° of Caina ; but, day by day, your body shall be dressed more gaily, and set in higher chariots, and have more orders on its breast — crowns on its head, if you will. Men shall bow before it, stare and shout round it, crowd after it up and down the streets; build palaces for it, feast with it at their tables' heads all the night long ; your soul shall stay enough within it to know what they do, and feel the weight of the golden dress on its shoulders, and the furrow of the crown-edge on the skull ; — no more. Would you take the offer, verbally made by the death-angel ? Would the meanest among us take it, think you ? Yet practically and verily we grasp at it, every one of us, in a measure ; many of us grasp at it in its fulness

104 SESAME AND LILIES

of horror. Every man accepts it, who desires to advance in hfe without knowing what Hfe is ; who means only that he is to get more horses, and more footmen, and more fortune, and more pubUc honor, and — not more personal soul. He only is advancing in life, whose heart is getting softer, whose blood warmer, whose brain quicker, whose spirit is entering into Living^ peace.° And the men who have this life in them are the true lords ° or kings of the earth — they, and they only. All other kingships, so far as they are true, are only the practical issue and expression of theirs ; if less thani this, they are either dramatic royalties, — costly shows, set off, indeed, with real jewels instead of tinsel — but still only the toys of nations ; or else, they are no royalties at all, but tyran- nies, or the mere active and practical issue of national folly ; for which reason I have said of them elsewhere," " Visible governments are the toys of some nations, the diseases of others, the harness of some, the burdens of more."

43. But I have no words for the wonder with which I hear Kinghood° still spoken of, even among thoughtful men, as if governed nations were a personal property, and might be bought and sold, or otherwise acquired, as sheep, of whose flesh their king was to feed, and whose fleece he was to gather; as if Achilles' indignant epithet ° of base kings, " people- eating," were the constant and proper title of all monarchs ; and enlargement of a king's do- minion meant the same thing as the increase of a private man's estate ! Kings who think so, however powerful, can no more be the true kings of the nation than gad- flies are the kings of a horse ; they suck it, and may drive

^ "to 6e (jtpofqixa rov nvivixaros ^<«jij nal eiprjvr]."

OF kings' treasuries* 105

it wild, but do not guide it. They, and their courts, and their armies are, if one could see clearly, only a large species of, marsh mosquito, with bayonet proboscis and melodious, band-mastered trumpeting, in the summer air ; the twihght being, perhaps, sometimes fairer, but hardly more wholesome, for its glittering mists of midge com- panies. The true kings, meanwhile, rule quietly, if at all, and hate ruhng; too many of tliem make "il gran rifiuto " ;° and if they do not, the mob, as soon as they are likely to become useful to it, is pretty sure to make its " gran rifiuto " of them.

44. Yet the visible ° king may also be a true one, some day, if ever day comes when he will estimate his do- minion by \k\Q force of it, — not the geographical bounda- ries. It matters very little whether Trent ° cuts you a cantel out here, or Rhine rounds you a castle less there. But it does matter to you, king of men, whether you can verily say to this man, " Go,"° and he goeth ; and to an- other, " Come," and he cometh. Whether you can turn your people, as you can Trent — and where it is that you bid them come, and where go. It matters to you, king of men, whether your people hate you, and die by you, or love you, and live by you. You may measure your dominion by multitudes better than by miles ; and count degrees of love-latitude, not from, but to, a wonderfully warm and infinite equator.

45. Measure ! — nay, you cannot measure. Who shall measure the difference ° between the power of those who "do and teach," ° and who are greatest in the kingdoms of earth, as of heaven — and the power of those who undo, and consume — whose power, at the fullest, is only the power of the moth and the rust ? Strange ! to think

106 * SESAME AND LILIES

how the Moth-kings lay up treasures for the moth ; and the Rust-kings, who are to their people's strength as rust to armor, lay up treasures for the rust ; and the Robber-kings, treasures for the robber; but how few kings have ever laid up treasures that needed no guard- ing— treasures of which, the more thieves there were, the better ! Broidered robe, only to be rent ; helm and sword, only to be dimmed ; jewel and gold, only to be scattered ; — there have been three kinds of kings who have gathered these. Suppose there ever should arise a Fourth order of kings, who had read, in some obscure writing of long ago, that there was a Fourth ° kind of treasure, which the jewel and gold could not equal, neither should it be valued with pure gold. A web made fair in the weaving, by Athena's shutde ; an armor, forged in divine fire by Vulcanian ° force ; a gold to be mined in the sun's red heart, where he sets over the Delphian ° cliffs ; — deep-pictured tissue, — impenetra- ble armor, — potable gold ! — the three great Angels of Conduct, Toil, and Thought, still calling to us, and wait- ing at the posts of our doors, to lead us, with their winged power, and guide us, with their unerring eyes, by the path ° which no fowl knoweth, and which the vulture's eye has not seen ! Suppose kings should ever arise, who heard and believed this word, and at last gathered and brought forth treasures of — Wisdom — for their people ? 46. Think what an amazing business //laf would be ! How inconceivable, in the state of our present national wisdom ! That we should bring up our peasants to a book exercise instead of a bayonet exercise ! — organize, drill, maintain with pay, and good generalship, armies of thinkers, instead of armies of stabbers ! — find national

OF kings' treasuries 107

amusement ° in reading-rooms as well as rifle-grounds; give prizes for a fair shot at a fact, as well as for a leaden splash on a target. What an absurd idea it seems, put fairly in words, that the wealth of the capitalists of civilized nations should ever come to support literature instead of war !

47. Have yet patience with me, while I read you a single sentence out of the only ° book, properly to be called a book, that I have yet written myself, the one that will stand, (if anything stand,) surest and longest of all work of mine.

" It is one very awful form of the operation of wealth in Europe that it is entirely capitalists' wealth which supports unjust wars. Just wars do not need so much money to support them; for most of the men who wage such, wage them gratis; but for an unjust war, men's bodies and souls have both to be bought; and the best tools of war for them besides, which makes such war costly to the maximum; not to speak of the cost of base fear, and angry sus- picion, between nations which have not grace nor honesty enough- in all their multitudes to buy an hour's peace of mind with; as, at present, France and England, purchasing of each other ten mil- lions sterling worth of consternation, annually (a remarkably light crop, half thorns and half aspen leaves, sown, reaped, and grana- ried by the * science ' of the modern political economist, teaching covetousness instead of truth). And, all unjust war being sup- portable, if not by pillage of the enemy, only by loans from capi- talists, these loans are repaid by subsequent taxation of the people, who appear to have no will in the matter, the capitalists' will being the primary root of the war; but its real root is the covetousness of the whole nation, rendering it incapable of faith, frankness, or justice, and bringing about, therefore, in due time, his own separate loss and punishment to each person."

48. France and England literally, observe, buy panic of each other ; they pay, each of them, for ten thousand-

108 SESAME AND LILIES

thousand pounds' worth of terror, a year. Now sup- pose, instead of buying these ten miUions' worth of panic annually, they made up their minds to be at peace with each other, and buy ten milHons' worth ° of knowledge annually ; and that each nation spent its ten thousand- thousand pounds a year in founding royal libraries, royal art galleries, royal museums, royal gardens, and places of rest. Might it not be better somewhat for both French and English?

49. It will be long, yet, before that comes to pass. Nevertheless, I hope it will not be long before royal or national ° libraries will be founded in every considerable city, with a royal series of books in them ; the same series in every one of them, chosen books, the best in every kind, prepared for that national series in the most perfect way possible ; their text printed all on leaves of equal size, broad of margin, and divided into pleasant volumes, light in the hand, beautiful, and strong, and thorough as examples of binders' work; and that these great libraries will be accessible to all clean and orderly persons at all times of the day and evening ; strict law being enforced for this cleanliness and quietness.

50. I could shape for you other plans, for art galleries, and for natural history galleries, and for many precious — many, it seems to me, needful — things ; but this book° plan is the easiest and needfullest,° and would prove a considerable tonic to what we call our British Constitu- tion, which has fallen dropsical of late, and has an evil thirst, and evil hunger, and wants healthier feeding. You have got its corn laws repealed for it ; try if you cannot get corn laws established for it, dealing in a bet- ter bread ; — bread made of that old enchanted Arabian

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grain, the Sesame, which opens doors ; — doors, not of robbers', but of Kings' Treasuries.

Friends, the treasuries ° of, true kings are the streets of their cities ; and the gold they gather, which for others is as the mire of the streets, changes itself, for them and their people, into a crystalline pavement for evermore.

LECTURE II. — LILIES OF queens' gardens

"Be thou glad, oh thirsting Desert; let the desert be made cheerful, and bloom as the lily; and the barren places of Jordan shall run wild with wood." — ISAIAH XXXV. i. (Septuagint.)

51. It will, perhaps, be well, as this Lecture is the sequel of one previously given, that I should shortly- state to you my general intention in both. The ques- tions specially proposed to you in the first, namely, How and What to Read,° rose out of a far deeper one, which it was my endeavor to make you propose ear- nestly to yourselves, namely, W/iy to Read. I want you to feel, with me, that whatever advantages we possess in the present day in the diffusion of education and of literature, can only be rightly used by any of us when we have apprehended clearly what education is to lead to, and literature to teach. I wish you to see that both well-directed moral training and well-chosen reading lead to the possession of a power over the ill-guided and illiterate, which is, according to the measure of it, in the truest sense, kingly; conferring indeed the purest kingship that can exist among men : too many other kingships (however distinguished by visible insignia or material power) being either spectral, or tyrannous ; — spectral — that is to say, aspects and shadows only of royalty, hollow as death, and which only the " likeness °

OF queens' gardens 111

of a kingly crown have on ; " or else tyrannous — that is to say, substituting their own will for the law of justice and love by which all true kings rule.

52. There is, then, I repeat ° — and as I want to leave this idea with you, I begin with it, and shall end with it — only one pure kind of kingship ; an inevitable and eternal kind, crowned or not : the kingship, namely, which consists in a stronger moral state, and a truer thoughtful state, than that of others ; enabling you, therefore, to guide, or to raise them. Observe that word " State " ; we have got into a loose way of using it. It means Hterally the standing and stabiHty of a thing ; and you have the full force of it in the derived word " statue " — " the immovable thing." A king's maj- esty or " state," then, and the right of his kingdom to be called a state, depends on the movelessness of both : — without tremor, without quiver of balance ; established and enthroned upon a foundation of eternal law which nothing can alter nor overthrow.

53. Believing that all literature and all education are only useful so far as they tend to confirm this calm, beneficent, and therefore kingly, power — first, over our- selves, and, through ourselves, over all around us, I am now going to ask you to consider with me farther, what special portion or kind of this royal authority, arising out of noble education, may rightly be possessed by women ; and how far they also are called to a true queenly power. Not in their households merely, but over all within their sphere. And in what sense, if they rightly understood and exercised this royal or gracious influence, the order and beauty induced by such benig- nant power would justify us in speaking of the terri-

112 SESAME AND LILIES

tories over which each of them reigned, as " Queens' Gardens."

54. I. And here, in the very outset, we are met by a far deeper question, which — strange though this may seem — remains among many of us yet quite undecided, in spite of its infinite importance.

We cannot determine what the queenly power of women should be, until we are agreed what their ordi- nary power ° should be. We cannot consider how edu- cation may fit them for any widely extending duty, until we are agreed what is their true constant duty. And there never was a time when wilder words were spoken, or more vain imagination permitted, respect- ing this question — quite vital to all social happiness. The relations of the womanly to the manly nature, their different capacities of intellect or of virtue, seem never to have been yet estimated with entire consent. We hear of the mission and of the rights of Woman, as if these could ever be separate from the mission and the rights of Man ; — as if she and her lord were creatures of independent kind, and of irreconcileable claim. This, at least, is wrong. And not less wrong — perhaps even more foolishly wrong (for I will anticipate thus far what I hope to prove) — is the idea that woman is only the shadow and attendant image of her lord, owing him a thoughtless and servile obedience, and supported al- together in her weakness by the pre-eminence of his fortitude.

This, I say, is the most fooHsh of all errors respecting her who was made to be the helpmate of man. As if he could be helped effectively by a shadow, or worthily by a slave !

OF queens' gardens 113

55. Let us try, then, whether we cannot get at some clear and harmonious idea (it must be harmonious if it is true) of what womanly mind and virtue are in power and office, with respect to man's ; and how their rela- tions, rightly accepted, aid, and increase, the vigor, and honor, and authority of both.

And now I must repeat ° one thing I said in the last lecture : namely, that the first use of education was to enable us to consult with the wisest and the greatest men on all points of earnest difficulty. That to use books rightly, was to go to them for help : to appeal to them when our own knowledge and power of thought failed; to be led by them into wider sight, purer con- ception, than our own, and receive from them the united sentence of the judges and councils of all time, against our solitary and unstable opinion.

Let us do this now. Let us see whether the greatest, the wisest, the purest-hearted of all ages are agreed in any wise on this point : let us hear the testimony° they have left respecting what they held to be the true dignity of woman, and her mode of help to man.

56. And first let us take Shakespeare.

Note broadly in the outset, Shakespeare ° has no heroes ; — he has only heroines. There is not one entirely heroic figure in all his plays, except the slight sketch of Henry the Fifth, exaggerated for the purposes of the stage ; and the still slighter Valentine in The Two Gentlemen of Verona. In his labored and perfect plays you have no hero. Othello would have been one, if his simphcity had not been so great as to leave him the prey of every base practice round him ; but he is the only example even approximating to the heroic type. Coriolanus —

114 SESAME AND LILIES

Caesar — Antony stand in flawed strength, and fall by their vanities ; — Hamlet is indolent, and drowsily specu- lative ; Romeo an impatient boy ; the Merchant of Venice languidly submissive to adverse fortune ; Kent, in King Lear, is entirely noble at heart, but too rough and un- polished to be of true use at the critical time, and he sinks into the office of a servant only. Orlando, no less noble, is yet the despairing toy of chance, followed, com- forted, saved, by Rosalind. Whereas there is hardly a play that has not a perfect woman in it, steadfast in grave hope, and errorless purpose ; Cordelia, Desdemona, Isabella, Hermione, Imogen, Queen Catherine, Perdita, Sylvia, Viola, Rosalind, Helena, and last, and perhaps loveliest, Virgilia, are all faultless ; conceived in the high- est heroic type of humanity.

57. Then observe, secondly.

The catastrophe of every play is caused always by the folly or fault of a man ; the redemption, if there be any, is by the wisdom and virtue of a woman, and failing that, there is none. The catastrophe of King Lear is owing to his own want of judgment, his impatient vanity, his misunderstanding of his children ; the virtue of his one true daughter would have saved him from all the injuries of the others, unless he had cast her away from him ; as it is, she all but saves him.

Of Othello I need not trace the tale ; nor the one weakness of his so mighty love ; nor the inferiority of his perceptive intellect to that even of the second woman character in the play, the Emilia who dies in wild testi- mony against his error : —

Oh murderous coxcomb ! what should such a fool Do with so good a wife ?

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In Romeo and Juliet, the wise and brave stratagem of tlie wife is brought to ruinous issue by the reckless impatience of her husband. In Winter's Tale, and in Cymbeline, the happiness and existence of two princely households, lost through long years, and imperilled to the death by the folly and obstinacy of the husbands, are re- deemed at last by the queenly patience and wisdom of the wives. In Measure for Measure, the injustice of the judges, and the corrupt cowardice of the brother, are op- posed to the victorious truth and adamantine purity of a woman. In Coriolanus, the mother's counsel, acted upon in time, would have saved her son from all evil; his momentary forgetfulness of it is his ruin ; her prayer at last granted, saves him — not, indeed, from death, but from the curse of living as the destroyer of his country.

And what shall I say of Julia, constant against the fic- kleness of a lover who is a mere wicked child ? — of Helena, against the petulance and insult of a careless youth? — of the patience of Hero, the passion of Beatrice, and the calmly devoted wisdom of the "unlessoned° girl," who ap- pears among the helplessness, the blindness, and the vin- dictive passions of men as a gentle angel, to save merely by her presence, and defeat the worst intensities of crime by her smile ?

58. Observe, further, among all the principal figures in Shakespeare's plays, there is only one weak woman — Ophelia ; and it is because she fails Hamlet at the critical moment, and is not, and cannot in her nature be, a guide to him when he needs her most, that all the bitter catas- trophe follows. Finally, though there are three wicked women among the principal figures. Lady Macbeth, Re- gan, and Goneril, they are felt at once to be frightful

116 SESAME AND LILIES

exceptions to the ordinary laws of life; fatal in their influence also in proportion to the^ power for good which they have abandoned.

Such, in broad light, is Shakespeare's testimony to the position and character of women in human life. He represents them as infallibly faithful and wise counsellors,

— incorruptibly just and pure examples — strong always to sanctify, even when they cannot save.

59. Not as in any wise comparable in knowledge of the nature of man, — still less in his understanding of the causes and courses of fate, — but only as the writer who has given us the broadest view of the conditions and modes of ordinary thought in modern society, I ask you next to receive the witness of Walter Scott.

I put aside his merely romantic prose writings as of no value ;° and though the early romantic poetry is very beautiful, its testimony is of no weight, other than that of a boy's ideal. But his true works, studied from Scot- tish Hfe, bear a true witness, and, in the whole range of these, there are but three men who reach the heroic type ^ — Dandie Dinmont, Rob Roy, and Claverhouse : of these, one is a border farmer ; another a freebooter ; the third a soldier in a bad cause. And these touch the ideal of heroism only in their courage and faith, together

I I ought, in order to make this assertion fully understood, to have noted the various weaknesses which lower the ideal of other great char- acters of men in the Waverley novels — the selfishness and narrowness of thought in Redgauntlet, the weak religious enthusiasm in Edward Glen- dinning, and the like ; and I ought to have noticed that there are several quite perfect characters sketched sometimes in the backgrounds ; three

— let us accept joyously this courtesy to England and her soldiers — are English officers : Colonel Gardiner, Colonel Talbot, and Colonel Mannering.

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with a strong, but uncultivated, or mistakenly applied, intellectual power ; while his younger men are the gen- tlemanly playthings of fantastic fortune, and only by aid (or accident) of that fortune, survive, not vanquish, the trials they involuntarily sustain. Of any disciplined, or consistent character, earnest in a purpose wisely con- ceived, or deahng with forms of hostile evil, definitely challenged, and resolutely subdued, there is no trace in his conceptions of men. Whereas in his imaginations of women, — in the characters of Ellen Douglas, of Flora Maclvor, Rose Bradwardine, Catherine Seyton, Diana Vernon, Lilias Redgauntlet, AHce Bridgenorth, Alice Lee, and Jeanie Deans, — with endless varieties of grace, tenderness, and intellectual power we find in all a quite infalHble and inevitable sense of dignity and justice ; a fearless, instant, and untiring self-sacrifice, to even the appearance of duty, much more to its real claims ; and, finally, a patient wisdom of deeply-restrained affection, which does infinitely more than protect its objects from a momentary error; it gradually forms, animates, and exalts the characters of the unworthy lovers, until, at the close of the tale, we are just able, and no more, to take patience in hearing of their unmerited success.

So that in all cases, with Scott as with Shakespeare, it is the woman who watches over, teaches, and guides the youth ; it is never, by any chance, the youth who watches over, or educates, his mistress.

60. Next, take, though more briefly, graver and deeper testimony — that of the great Italians and Greeks. You know well the plan of Dante's great poem° — that it is a love-poem to his dead lady ; a song of praise for her watch over his soul. Stooping only to pity, never to

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love, she yet saves him from destruction — saves him from hell. He is going eternally astray in despair ; she comes down from heaven to his help, and throughout the ascents of Paradise is his teacher, interpreting for him the most difficult truths, divine and human ; and leading him, with rebuke upon rebuke, from star to star.

I do not insist upon Dante's conception ; if I began I could not cease : besides, you might think this a wild imagination of one poet's heart. So I will rather read to you a few verses of the deliberate writing of a knight of Pisa to his living lady, wholly characteristic of the feeling of all the noblest men of the thirteenth century, preserved among many other such records of knightly honor and love, which Dante Rossetti° has gathered for us from among the early Italian poets.

For lo ! thy law is passed That this my love should manifestly be

To serve and honor thee : And so I do; and my delight is full, Accepted for the servant of thy rule.

Without almost, I am all rapturous,

Since thus my vi'ill was set : To serve, thou flower of joy, thine excellence: Nor ever seems it anything could rouse

A pain or a regret. But on thee dwells mine every thought and sense: Considering that from thee all virtues spread

As from a fountain head, — That in thy gift is wisdom'' s best avails

And honor without fail ; With whom each sovereign good dwells separate. Fulfilling the perfection of thy state.

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Lady, since I conceived Thy pleasurable aspect in my heart,

My life has been apart In shining brightness and the place of truth ;

Which till that time, good sooth. Groped among shadows in a darken'd place,

Where many hours and days It hardly ever had remember'd good.

But now my servitude Is thine, and I am full of joy and rest.

A man from a wild beast Thou madest me, since for thy love I lived.

6i. You may think, perhaps, a Greek knight would have had a lower estimate of women than this Christian lover. His own spiritual subjection to them was indeed not so absolute ; but as regards their own personal char- acter, it was only because you could not have followed me so easily, that I did not take the Greek women in- stead of Shakespeare's ; and instance, for chief ideal types of human beauty and faith, the simple mother's and wife's heart of Andromache ;° the divine, yet rejected wisdom of Cassandra ;° the playful kindness and simple princess- life of happy Nausicaa ;° the housewifely calm of that of Penelope,° with its watch upon the sea ; the ever patient, fearless, hopelessly devoted piety of the sister, and daugh- ter, in Antigone f the bowing down of Iphigenia,° lamb- like and silent; and, finally, the expectation of the resur- rection, made clear to the soul of the Greeks in the return from her grave of that Alcestis,° who, to save her hus- band, had passed calmly through the bitterness of death.

62. Now I could multiply witness upon witness of this kind upon you if I had time. I would take Chaucer, and show you why he wrote a Legend of Good Women ;

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but no Legend of Good Men. I would take Spenser, and show you how all his fairy knights are sometimes deceived and sometimes vanquished ; but the soul of Una is never darkened, and the spear of Britomart is never broken. Nay, I could go back into the mythical teaching of the most ancient times, and show you how the great people, — by one of whose princesses it was appointed that the Lawgiver ° of all the earth should be educated, rather than by his own kindred; — how that great Egyptian people, wisest then of nations, gave to their Spirit of Wisdom the form of a woman ; and into her hand, for a symbol, the weaver's shuttle : and how the name and the form of that spirit, adopted, beUeved, and obeyed by the Greeks, became that Athena ° of the olive-helm, and cloudy shield, to faith in whom you owe, down to this date, whatever you hold most precious in art, in Hterature, or in types of national virtue.

6^. But I will not wander into this distant and mythi- cal element ; I will only ask you to give its legitimate value to the testimony of these great poets and men of the world, — consistent as you see it is on . this head. I will ask you whether it can be supposed that these men, in the main work of their lives, are amusing themselves with a fictitious and idle view of the relations between man and woman ; — nay, worse than fictitious or idle ; for a thing may be imaginary, yet desirable, if it were possible ; but this, their ideal of woman, is, according to our common idea of the marriage relation, wholly un- desirable. The woman, we say, is not to guide, nor even to think for herself. The man is always to be the wiser ; he is to be the thinker, the ruler, the superior in knowl- edge and discretion, as in power.

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64. Is it not somewhat important to make up our minds on this matter ? Are all these great men mistaken, or are we? Are Shakespeare and ^Eschylus, Dante and Homer, merely dressing dolls for us ; or, worse than dolls, uni^atural visions, the realization of which, were it pos- sible, would bring anarchy into all households and ruin into all affections ? Nay, if you could suppose this, take lastly the evidence of facts,° given by the human heart itself. In all Christian ages which have been remarkable for their purity of progress, there has been absolute yield- ing of obedient devotion, by the lover, to his mistress. I say obediettt; — not merely enthusiastic and worshipping in imagination, but entirely subject, receiving from the beloved woman, however young, not only the encourage- ment, the praise, and the reward of all toil, but, so far as any choice is open, or any question difficult of decision, the direction of all toil. That chivalry, to the abuse and dishonor of which are attributable primarily whatever is cruel in war, unjust in peace, or corrupt and ignoble in domestic relations ; and to the original purity and power of which we owe the defence ahke of faith, of law, and of love ; — that chivalry, I say, in its very first conception of honorable life, assumes the subjection of the young knight to the command — should it even be the com- mand in caprice — of his lady. It assumes this, because its masters knew that the first and necessary impulse of every truly taught and knightly heart is this of blind ser- vice to its lady ; that where that true faith and captivity are not, all wayward and wicked passions must be ; and that in this rapturous obedience to the single love of his youth, is the sanctification of all man's strength, and the continuance of all his purposes. And this, not because

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such obedience would be safe, or honorable, were it ever rendered to the unworthy ; but because it ought to be impossible for every noble youth — it is impossible for every one rightly trained — to love any one whose gentle counsel he cannot trust, or whose prayerful command he can hesitate to obey.

65. I do not insist by any farther argument ° on this, for I think it should commend itself at once to your knowledge of what has been and to your feelings of what should be. You cannot think that the buckling on of the knight's armor by his lady's hand was a mere caprice of romantic fashion. It is the type of an eternal truth — that the soul's armor is never well set to the heart unless a woman's hand has braced it ; and it is only when she braces it loosely that the honor of manhood fails. Know you not those lovely lines — I would they were learned by all youthful ladies of England : —

Ah, wasteful woman ! ° — she who may On her sweet self set her own price, Knowing he cannot choose but pay — How has she cheapen'd Paradise ! How given for nought her priceless gift. How spoil'd the bread and spill'd the wine, Which, spent with due, respective thrift. Had made brutes men, and men divine !

66. Thus much, then, respecting the relations of lovers I believe you will accept. But what we too often doubt is the fitness of the continuance of such a relation through- out the whole of human life. We think it right in the lover and mistress, not in the husband and wife. That is to say, we think that a reverent and tender duty is due to one whose affection we still doubt, and whose charac-

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ter we as yet do but partially and distantly discern ; and that this reverence and duty are to be withdrawn when the affection has become wholly and limitlessly our own, and the character has been so sifted and tried that we fear not to entrust it with the happiness of our lives. Do you not see how ignoble this is, as well as how unrea- sonable ? Do you not feel that marriage, — when it is marriage at all, — is only the seal which marks the vowed transition of temporary into untiring service, and of fitful into eternal love ?

67. But how, you will ask, is the idea of this guiding function of the woman reconcileable with a true wifely subjection? Simply in that it is a guiding, not a deter- mining, function. Let me try to show you briefly how these powers seem to be rightly distinguishable. °

We are foolish, and without excuse foolish, in speak- ing of the "superiority" of one sex to the other, as if they could be compared in similar things. Each has what the other has not : each completes the other, and is completed by the other : they are in nothing alike, and the happiness and perfection of both depends on each asking and receiving from the other what the other only can give.

68. Now their separate characters are briefly these. The man's power is active, progressive, defensive. He is eminently the doer, the creator, the discoverer, the defender. His intellect is for speculation and inven- tion ; his energy for adventure, for war, and for conquest, wherever war is just, wherever conquest necessary. But ° the woman's power is for rule, not for battle, — and her intellect is not for invention or creation, but for sweet ordering, arrangement, and decision. She sees the quali-

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ties of things, their claims and their places. Her great function is Praise : she enters into no contest, but in- fallibly adjudges the crown of contest. By her office, and place, she is protected from all danger and tempta- tion. The man, in his rough work in open world, must encounter all peril and trial : — to him, therefore, the failure, the offence, the inevitable error : often he must be wounded, or subdued ; often misled ; and always hardened. But he guards the woman from all this ; within his house, as ruled by her, unless she herself has sought it, need enter no danger, no temptation, no cause of error or offence. This is the true nature of home — it is the place of Peace ; the shelter, not only from all injury, but from all terror, doubt, and division. In so far as it is not this, it is not home ; so far as the anxieties of the outer life penetrate into it, and the inconsistently- minded, unknown, unloved, or hostile society of the outer world is allowed by either husband or wife to cross the thi-eshold, it ceases to be home ; it is then only a part of that outer world which you have roofed over, and lighted fire in. But so far as it is a sacred place,° a vestal temple, a temple of the hearth watched over by House- hold Gods, before whose faces none may come but those whom they can receive with love, — so far as it is this, and roof and fire are types only of a nobler shade and light, — shade as of the rock in a weary land, arid hght as of the Pharos in the stormy sea; — so far it vindicates the name, and fulfils the praise, of Home.

And wherever ° a true wife comes, this home is always round her. The stars only may be over her head ; the glow-worm in the night-cold grass may be the only fire at her foot : but home is yet wherever she is ; and

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for a noble woman it stretches far round her, better than ceiled ° with cedar, or painted with vermiHon, shedding its quiet light far, for those who else were homeless.

69. This, then, I believe to be, — will you not admit it to be? — the woman's true place and power. But do not you see that, to fulfil this, she must — as far as one can use such terms of a human creature — be incapable of error? So far as she rules, all must be right, or nothing is. She must be enduringly, incorruptibly good ; instinc- tively, infallibly wise — wise, not for self-development, but for self-renunciation : wise, not that she may set herself above her husband, but that she may never fail from his side : wise, not with the narrowness of insolent and loveless pride, but with the passionate gentleness of an infinitely variable, because infinitely applicable, modesty of service — the true changefulness of woman. In that great sense — " La donna ° e mobile," not " Qual° pium' al vento " ; no, nor yet " Variable ° as the shade, by the light quivering aspen made " ; but variable as the /ig/i^, manifold in fair and serene division, that it may take the color of all that it falls upon, and exalt it.

70. 11. I have been trying, thus far, to show you what should be the place, and what the power of woman. Now, secondly, we ask. What kind of education is to fit her for these?

And if you indeed think this a true conception of her office and dignity, it will not be difficult to trace the course of education which would fit her for the one, and raise her to the other.

The first of our duties to her — no thoughtful persons now doubt this, — is to secure for her such physical train-

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ing and exercise as may confirm her health, and perfect her beauty, the highest refinement of that beauty being unattainable without splendor of activity and of dehcate strength. To perfect her beauty, I say, and increase its power; it cannot be too powerful, nor shed its sacred light too far : only remember that all physical freedom is vain to produce beauty without a corresponding free- dom of heart. There are two passages of that poet ° who is distinguished, it seems to me, from all others — not by power, but by exquisite rig/i/ness — which point you to the source, and describe to you, in a few syllables, the completion of womanly beauty. I will read the intro- ductory stanzas, but the last is the one I wish you spe- cially to notice : —

Three years she grew in sun and shower, Then Nature said, " A lovelier flower

On earth was never sown ; This child I to myself will take ; She shall be mine and I will make

A lady of my own.

" Myself will to my darling be Both law and impulse; and with me

The girl, in rock and plain. In earth and heaven, in glade and bower, Shall feel an overseeing power

To kindle, or restrain.

"The floating clouds their state shall lend To her, for her the willow bend ;

Nor shall she fail to see Even in the motions of the storm, Grace that shall mould the maiden's form

By silent sympathy.

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**And vital feelings of delight Shall rear her form to stately height, —

Her virgin bosom swell. Such thoughts to Lucy I will give, While she and I together live,

Here in this happy dell."

" Vital feelings of delight," observe. There are deadly feelings of dehght ; but the natural ones are vital, nec- essary to very life.

And they must be feelings of delight, if they are to be vital. Do not think you can make a girl lovely, if you do not make her happy. There is not one restraint you put on a good girl's nature — there is not one check you give to her instincts of affection or of effort — which will not be indelibly written on her features, with a hardness which is all the more painful because it takes away the bright- ness from the eyes of innocence, and the charm from the brow of virtue.

71. This for the means: now note the end. Take from the same poet, in two lines, a perfect description of womanly beauty —

A countenance in which did meet Sweet records, promises as sweet.

The perfect loveliness of a woman's countenance can only consist in that majestic peace, which is founded in memory of happy and useful years, — full of sweet rec- ords; and from the joining of this with that yet more majestic childishness, which is still full of change and promise ; — opening always — modest at once, and bright, with hope of better things to be won, and to be be- stowed. There is no old age where there is still that promise — it is eternal youth.

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72. Thus,° then, you have first to mould her physical frame, and then, as the strength she gains will permit you, to fill and temper her mind with all knowledge and thoughts which tend to confirm its natural instincts of justice, and refine its natural tact of love.

All such knowledge should be given her as may en- able her to understand, and even to aid, the work of men : and yet it should be given, not as knowledge, — not as if it were, or could be, for her an object to know; but only to feel, and to judge. It is of no moment, as a matter of pride or perfectness in herself, whether she knows many languages ° or one; but it is of the utmost, that she should be able to show kindness to a stranger, and to understand the sweetness of a stranger's tongue. It is of no moment to her own worth or dignity that she should be acquainted with this science or that ; but it is of the highest that she should be trained in habits of accurate thought ; that she should understand the mean- ing, the inevitableness, and the loveliness of natural laws, and follow at least some one path of scientific at- tainment, as far as to the threshold of that bitter Valley ° of Humiliation, into which only the wisest and bravest of men can descend, owning themselves for ever children, gathering pebbles on a boundless shore. It is of little consequence how many positions of cities she knows, or how many dates of events, or how many names of cele- brated persons — it is not the object of education to turn the woman into a dictionary ; but it is deeply necessary that she should be taught to enter with her whole per- sonality into the history she reads ; to picture the pas- sages of it vitally in her own bright imagination ; to apprehend, with her fine instincts, the pathetic circum-

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stances and dramatic relations, which the historian too often only eclipses by his reasoning, and disconnects by his arrangement : it is for her to trace the hidden equities of divine reward, and catch sight, through the darkness, of the fateful threads of woven fire that connect error with its retribution. But, chiefly of all, she is to be taught to extend the limits of her sympathy with respect to that history which is being for her determined as the mo- ments pass in which she draws her peaceful breath : and to the contemporary calamity which, were it but rightly mourned by her, would recur no more hereafter. She is to exercise herself in imagining what would be the effects upon her mind and conduct, if she were daily brought into the presence of the suffering which is not the less real because shut from her sight. She is to be taught somewhat to understand the nothingness ° of the proportion which that little world in which she lives and loves, bears to the world in which God lives and loves; — and solemnly she is to be taught to strive that her thoughts of piety may not be feeble in proportion to the number they embrace, nor her prayer more languid than it is for the momentary relief from pain of her hus- band or her child, when it is uttered for the multitudes of those who have none to love them, — and is, " for all who are desolate and oppressed." °

73. Thus far, I think, I have had your concurrence ; perhaps you will not be with me in what I believe is most needful for me to say. There is one dangerous science for women — one which let them indeed beware how they profanely touch — that of theology. Strange, and miserably strange, that while they are modest enough to doubt their powers, and pause at the threshold of

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sciences where every step is demonstrable and sure, they will plunge headlong, and without one thought of in- competency, into that science in which the greatest men have trembled, and the wisest erred. Strange, that they will complacently and pridefully bind up whatever vice or folly there is in them, whatever arrogance, petulance, or bhnd incomprehensiveness, into one bitter bundle of consecrated myrrh. Strange, in creatures born to be Love visible, that where they can know least, they will condemn first, and think to recommend themselves to their Master, by scrambling up the steps of His judgment- throne, to divide it with Him. Most strange, that they should think they were led by the Spirit ° of the Com- forter into habits of mind which have become in them the unmixed elements of home discomfort ; and that they dare to turn the Household Gods of Christianity into ugly idols of their own — spiritual dolls, for them to dress ac- cording to their caprice ; and from which their husbands must turn away in grieved contempt, lest they should be shrieked at for breaking them.

74. I believe, then, with this exception, that a girl's education should be nearly, in its course and material of study, the same as a boy's ; but quite differently di- rected.° A woman, in any rank of life, ought to know whatever her husband is likely to know, but to know it in a different way. His command of it should be foundational and progressive ; hers, general and accom- plished for daily and helpful use. Not but that it would often be wiser in men to learn things in a womanly sort of way, for present use, and to seek for the discipline and training of their mental powers in such branches of study as will be afterwards fitted for social service; but,

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speaking broadly, a man ought to know any language or science he learns, thoroughly, while a woman ought to know the same language, or science, only so far as may enable her to sympathize in her husband's pleasures, and in those of his best friends.

75. Yet, observe, with exquisite accuracy as far as she reaches. There is a wide difference between ele- mentary knowledge and superficial knowledge — between a firm beginning, and a feeble smattering. A woman may always help her husband by what she knows, how- ever little ; by what she half-knows, or mis-knows, she will only teaze him.

And, indeed, if there were to be any difference between a girl's education and a boy's, I should say that of the two the girl should be earlier led, as her intellect ripens faster, into deep and serious subjects ; and that her range of Hterature should be, not more, but less frivolous, calculated to add the qualities of patience and serious- ness to her natural poignancy of thought and quick- ness of wit ; and also to keep her in a lofty and pure element of thought. I enter not now into any question of choice of books; only be sure that her books are not heaped up in her lap as they fall out of the pack- age of the circulating ° library, wet with the last and lightest spray of the fountain of folly.

76. Or even of the fountain of wit ; for with respect to that sore temptation ° of novel reading, it is not the badness of a novel that we should dread, but its over- wrought interest. The weakest romance is not so stupefying as the lower forms of religious exciting lit- erature, and the worst romance is not so corrupting as false history, false philosophy, or false political essays.

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But the best romance becomes dangerous, if, by its ex- citement, it renders the ordinary course of Hfe unin- teresting, and increases the morbid thirst for useless acquaintance with scenes in which we shall never be called upon to act.

77. I speak therefore of good novels only ; and our modern literature is particularly rich in types of such. Well read, indeed, these books have serious use, being nothing less than treatises on. moral anatomy and chem- istry ; studies of human nature in the elements of it. But I attach little weight to this function : they are hardly ever read with earnestness enough to permit them to fulfil it. The utmost they usually do is to en- large somewhat the charity of a kind reader, or the bitterness of a maUcious one ; for each will gather, from the novel, food for her own disposition. Those who are naturally proud and envious will learn from Thackeray to despise humanity ; those who are naturally gentle, to pity it ; those who are naturally shallow, to laugh at it. So, also, there might be a serviceable power in novels to bring before us, in vividness, a human truth which we had before dimly conceived ; but the temptation to picturesqueness of statement is so great, that often the best writers of fiction cannot resist it ; and our views are rendered so violent and one-sided, that their vitality is rather a harm than good.

78. Without, however, venturing here on any attempt at decision how much novel reading should be allowed, let me at least clearly assert this, that whether novels, or poetry, or history be read, they should be chosen, not for what is out of them, but for what is in them. The chance and scattered evil that may here and there haunt, or hide

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itself in, a powerful book, never does any harm to a noble girl ; but the emptiness of an author oppresses her, and his amiable folly degrades her. And if she can have access to a good library of old and classical books, there need be no choosing at all. Keep the modern magazine and novel out of your girl's way : turn her loose into the old library every wet day, and let her alone. She will find what is good for her ; you cannot : for there is just this difference between the making of a girl's character and a boy's — you may chisel a boy into shape, as you would a rock, or hammer him into it, if he be of a better kind, as you would a piece of bronze. But you cannot hammer a girl into anything. She grows as a flower does, — she will wither without sun ; she will decay in her sheath, as the narcissus will, if you do not give her air enough ; she may fall, and defile her head in dust, if you leave her without help at some moments of her life ; but you cannot fetter her ; she must take her own fair form and way, if she take any, and in mind as in body, must have always

Her° household motions light and free, And steps of virgin liberty.

Let her loose in the library, I say, as you do a fawn in the field. It knows the bad weeds twenty times better than you ; and the good ones too, and will eat some bitter and prickly ones, good for it, which you had not the slightest thought were good.

79. Then, in art, keep the finest models before her, and let her practice in all accomplishments be accurate and thorough, so as to enable her to understand more than she accomplishes. I say the finest models — that is to say, the truest, simplest, usefullest. Note those

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epithets ; they will range through all the arts. Try them in music, where you might think them the least applica- ble. I say the truest, that in which the notes most closely and faithfully express the meaning of the words, or the character of intended emotion ; again, the simplest, that in which the meaning and melody are attained with the fewest knd most significant notes possible ; and, finally, the usefullest, that music which makes the best words most beautiful, which enchants them in our mem- ories each with its own glory of sound, and which ap- plies them closest to the heart at the moment we need them.

80. And not only in the material and in the course, but yet more earnestly in the spirit of it, let a girl's education be as serious as a boy's. You bring up your girls as if they were meant for sideboard ornament, and then complain of their frivolity. Give them the same advantages that you give their brothers — appeal to the same grand instincts of virtue in them ; teach them also that courage and truth are the pillars of their being : do you think that they would not answer that appeal, brave and true as they are even now, when you know that there is hardly a girls' school in this Christian king- dom where the children's courage or sincerity would be thought of half so much importance as their way of com- ing in at a door ; and when the whole system of society, as respects the mode of estabhshing them in life, is one rotten plague of cowardice and imposture — cowardice, in not daring to let them live, or love, except as their neighbors choose ; and imposture, in bringing, for the purpose of our own pride, the full glow of the world's worst vanity upon a girl's eyes, at the very period when

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the whole happiness of her future existence depends upon her remaining undazzled?

8i. And give them, lastly, not only noble teachings, but noble teachers. You consider somewhat, before you send your boy to school, what kind of a man the master is j — whatsoever kind of a man he is, you at least give him full authority over your son, and show some respect for him yourself; if he comes to dine with you, you do not put him at a side table ; you know also that, at his college, your child's immediate tutor will be under the direction of some still higher tutor, for whom you have absolute reverence. You do not treat the Dean° of Christ Church or the Master of Trinity as your inferiors.

But what teachers do you give your girls, and what reverence do you show to the teachers you have chosen? Is a girl hkely to think her own conduct, or her own intellect, of much importance, when you trust the entire formation of her character, moral and intellectual, to a per- son whom you let your servants treat with less respect than they do your housekeeper (as if the soul of your child were a less charge than jams and groceries), and whom you yourself think you confer an honor upon by letting her sometimes sit in the drawing-room in the evening?

82. Thus,° then, of literature as her help, and thus of art. There is one more help which she cannot do with- out — one which, alone, has sometimes done more than all other influences besides, — the help of wild and fair nature. Hear this of the education of Joan of Arc : —

"The education of this poor girl was mean according to the present standard; was ineffably grand, according to a purer philo- sophic standard; and only not good for our age, because for us it would be unattainable. . . .

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"Next after her spiritual advantages, she owed most to the advantages of her situation. The fountain of Domremy vi^as on the brink of a boundless forest; and it was haunted to that degree by fairies, that the parish priest {cure) was obhged to read mass there once a year, in order to keep them in decent bounds. . . .

" But the forests of Domremy — those were the glories of the land, for in them abode mysterious powers and ancient secrets that towered into tragic strength. * Abbeys there were, and abbey windows,' — 'like Moorish temples of the Hindoos,' — that exer- cised even princely power both in Touraine and in the German Diets. These had their sweet bells that pierced the forests for many a league at matins or vespers, and each its own dreamy legend. Few enough, and scattered enough, were these abbeys, so as in no degree to disturb the deep solitude of the region; yet many enough to spread a network or awning of Christian sanctity over what else might have seemed a heathen wilderness." ^

Now, you cannot, indeed, have here m England, woods eighteen miles deep to the centre ; but you can, perhaps, keep a fairy or two for your children yet, if you wish to keep them. But do you wish it? Suppose you had each, at the back of your houses, a garden, large enough for your children to play in, with just as much lawn as would give them room to run, — no more — and that you could not change your abode ; but that, if you chose., you could double your income, or quadruple it, by digging a coal shaft in the middle of the lawn, and turning the fiower-bed into heaps of coke. Would you do it? I think not. I can tell you, you would be wrong if you did, though it gave you income sixty-fold instead of four-fold.

d)T,. Yet this is what you are doing with all England. The whole country is but a little garden, not more than enough for your children to' run on the lawns of, if you

^ Joan of Arc : in reference to M. Michelet's History of France. — De Quincey's Works, vol. ill., p. 217.

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would let them all run there. And this little garden you will turn into furnace-ground, and fill ° with heaps of cinders, if you can ; and those children of yours, not you, will suffer for it. For the fairies will not be all banished ; there are fairies of the furnace as of the wood, and their first gifts seem to be " sharp ° arrows of the mighty"; but their last gifts are " coals ° of juniper."

84. And yet I cannot — though there is no part of my subject that I feel more — press this upon you ; for we made so little use of the power of nature while we had it that we shall hardly feel what we have lost. Just on the other side of the Mersey you have your Snowdon, and your Menai Straits, and that mighty granite rock beyond the moors of Anglesea, splendid in its heathery crest, and foot planted in the deep sea, once thought of as sacred — a divine promontory, looking westward ; the Holy Head or Headland, still not without awe when its red light glares first through storm. These are the hills, and these the bays and blue inlets, which, among the Greeks, would have been always loved, always fateful in influence on the national mind. That Snowdon ° is your Parnassus; but where are its Muses? That Holyhead mountain is your Island of ^gina ; but where is its Temple to Minerva?

85. Shall I read you what the Christian Minerva ° had achieved under the shadow of our Parnassus, up to the year 1848? — Here is a litde account of a Welsh school, from page 261 of the Report on Wales, pubhshed by the Committee of Council on Education. This is a school close to a town containing 5,000 persons : —

"I then called up a larger class, most of whom had recently come to the school. Three girls repeatedly declared they had never

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heard of Christ, and two that they had never heard of God. Two out of six thought Christ was on earth now " (they might have had a worse thought perhaps) ; " three knew nothing about the Cruci- fixion. Four out of seven did not know the names of the months, nor the number of days in a year. They had no notion of addi- tion beyond two and two, or three and three; their minds were perfect blanks."

Oh, ye women of England ! from the Princess of that Wales to the simplest of you, do not think your own children can be brought into their true fold of rest, while these are scattered on the hills, as sheep ° having no shepherd. And do not think your daughters can be trained to the truth of their own human beauty, while the pleasant places, which God made at once for their school-room and their play-ground, he desolate and de- filed. You cannot baptize them rightly in those inch- deep fonts of yours, unless you baptize them also in the sweet waters ° which the great Lawgiver strikes forth for ever from the rocks of your native land — waters which a Pagan would have worshipped in their purity, and you worship only with pollution. You cannot lead your chil- dren faithfully to those narrow axe-hewn church altars of yours, while the dark azure altars in heaven — the mountains that sustain your island throne, — mountains on which a Pagan would have seen the powers of heaven rest in every wreathed cloud — remain for you without inscription ; altars built, not to, but by an Unknown God.°

86. III. Thus far,° then, of the nature, thus far of the teaching, of woman, and thus of her household office, and queenhness. We come now to our last, our widest question, — What is her queenly office with respect to the state ?

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Generally we are under an impression that a man's duties are public, and a woman's private. But this is not alto- gether so. A man has a personal work or duty, relating to his own home, and a public work or duty, which is the expansion of the other, relating to the state. So a woman has a personal work or duty, relating to her own home, and a public work or duty, which is also the expansion of that.

Now the man's work for his own home is, as has been said, to secure its maintenance, progress, and defence ; the woman's to secure its order, comfort, and loveliness.

Expand both these functions. The man's duty, as a member of a commonwealth, is to assist in the mainte- nance, in the advance, in the defence of the state. The woman's duty, as a member of the commonwealth, is to assist in the ordering, in the comforting, and in the beau- tiful adornment of the state.

What the man is at his own gate, defending it, if need be, against insult and spoil, that also, not in a less, but in a more devoted measure, he is to be at the gate of his country, leaving his home, if need be, even to the spoiler, to do his more incumbent work there.

And, in like manner, what the woman is to be within her gates, as the centre of order, the balm of distress, and the mirror of beauty : that she is also to be without her gates, where order is more difficult, distress more immi- nent, loveliness more rare.

And as within the human heart there is always set an instinct for all its real duties, — an instinct which you cannot quench, but only warp and corrupt if you with- draw it from its true purpose; — as there is the intense instinct of love, which, rightly disciplined, maintains all the sanctities ofhfe, and, misdirected, undermines them;

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and must do either the one or the other ; — so there is in the human heart an inextinguishable instinct, the love of power, which, rightly directed, maintains all the majesty of law and Hfe, and misdirected, wrecks them.

87. Deep rooted in the innermost life of the heart of man, and of the heart of woman, God set it there, and God keeps it there. Vainly, as falsely, you blame or rebuke the desire of power ! — For Heaven's sake, and for Man's sake, desire it all you can. But what power? That is .all the question. Power to destroy ? the lion's Hmb, and the dragon's breath? Not so. Power to heal, to redeem, to guide, 'and to guard, Power of the sceptre and shield; the power of the royal hand that heals in touching, — that binds the fiend and looses the captive ; the throne that is founded on the rock of Justice, and descended from only by steps of Mercy. Will you not covet such power as this, and seek such throne as this, and be no more housewives, but queens ?

88. It is now long since the women of England arro- gated, universally, a title which once belonged to nobility only, and, having once been in the habit of accepting the simple title of gentlewoman, as correspondent to that of gentleman, insisted on the privilege of assuming the title of " Lady," ^ which properly corresponds only to the title of " Lord."

1 I wish there were a true order of chivalry instituted for our English youth of certain ranks, in which both boy and girl should receive, at a given age, their knighthood and ladyhood by true title ; attainable only by certain probation and trial both of character and accomplishment ; and to be forfeited, on conviction, by their peers, of any dishonorable act. Such an institution would be entirely, and with all noble results, possible, in a nation which loved honor. That it would not be possible among us is not to the discredit of the scheme.

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I do not blame them for this ; but only for their narrow- motive in this. I would have them desire and claim the title of Lady, provided they claim, not merely the title but the office and duty signified by it. Lady° means ^'bread-giver" or "loaf-giver," and Lord means " main- tainer of laws," and both titles have reference, not to the law which is maintained in the house, nor to the bread which is given to the household ; but to law maintained for the multitude, and to bread broken among the multi- tude. So that a Lord has legal claim only to his title in so far as he is the maintainer of the justice of the Lord of Lords ; and a Lady has legal claim to her title, only so far as she communicates that help to the poor representa- tives of her Master, which women once, ministering ° to Him of their substance, were permitted to extend to that Master Himself; and when she is known, as He Himself once was, in breaking ° of bread.

89. And this beneficent and legal dominion, this power of the Dominus, or House-Lord, and of the Domina, or House-Lady, is great and venerable, not in the number of those through whom it has lineally descended, but in the number of those whom it grasps within its sway ; it is alw^ays regarded with reverent worship wherever its dynasty is founded on its duty, and its ambition correla- tive with its beneficence. Your fancy is pleased with the thought of being noble ladies, with a train of vassals. Be it so : you cannot be too noble, and your train cannot be too great ; but see to it that your train is of vassals whom you serve and feed, not merely of slaves who serve and feed yoi/; and that the multitude which obeys you is of those whom you have comforted, not oppressed, — whom you have redeemed, not led into captivity.

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90. And this, which is true of the lower or household dominion, is equally true of the queenly dominion ; — that highest dignity is open to you, if you will also accept that highest duty. Rex ° et Regina — Roi ° et Reine — " /^ig/U- doers; " they differ but from the Lady and Lord, in that their power is supreme over the mind as over the person — that they not only feed and clothe, but direct and teach. And whether consciously or not, you must be, in many a heart, enthroned : there is no putting by that crown ; queens you must always be ; queens to your lovers ; queens to your husbands and your sons ; queens of higher mystery to the world beyond, which bows itself, and will for ever bow, before the myrtle ° crown, and the stainless sceptre, of womanhood. But, alas ! you are too often idle and careless queens, grasping at majesty in the least things, while you abdicate it in the greatest ; and leaving misrule and violence to work their will among men, in defiance of the power, which, holding straight in gift from the Prince ° of all Peace, the wicked among you betray, and the good forget.

91. *' Prince of Peace." Note that name. When kings rule in that name, and nobles, and the judges of the earth, they also, in their narrow place, and mortal measure, receive the power of it. There are no other rulers than they : other rule than theirs is but misTule ; they who govern verily ° " Dei gratia " are all princes, yes, or princesses, of peace. There is not a war in the world, no, nor an injustice, but you women are answerable for it ; not in that you have provoked, but in that you have not hindered. Men, by their nature, are prone to fight ; they will fight for any cause, or for none. It is for you to choose their cause for them, and to forbid them when

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there is no cause. There is no suffering, no injustice, no misery in the earth, but the guilt of it Hes lastly with you. Men can bear the sight of it, but you should not be able to bear it. Men may tread it down without sympathy in their own struggle ; but men are feeble in sympathy, and contracted in hope ; it is you only who can feel the depths of pain, and conceive the way of its heaUng. Instead ° of trying to do this, you turn away from it ; you shut your- selves within your park walls and garden gates ; and you are content to know that there is beyond them a whole world in wilderness — a world of secrets which you dare not penetrate ; and of suffering which you dare not conceive. 92. I tell you that this is to me quite the most amaz- ing among the phenomena of humanity. I am surprised at no depths to which, when once warped from its honor, that humanity can be degraded. I do not wonder ° at the miser's death, with his hands, as they relax, dropping gold. I do not wonder at the sensualist's life, with the shroud wrapped about his feet. I do not wonder at the single-handed murder of a single victim, done by the assassin in the darkness of the railway, or reed-shadow of the marsh. I do not even wonder at the myriad- handed ° murder of multitudes, done boastfully in the daylight, by the frenzy of nations, and the immeasurable, unimaginable guilt, heaped up from hell to heaven, of their priests, and kings. But this is wonderful to me — oh, how wonderful ! — to see the tender and dehcate woman among you, with her child at her breast, and a power, if she would wield it, over it, and over its father, purer than the air of heaven, and stronger than the seas of earth — nay, a magnitude of blessing which her hus- band would not part with for all that earth itself, though

144 SESAME AND LILIES

it were made of one entire and perfect chrysolite : — to see her abdicate this majesty to play at precedence with her next-door neighbor ! This is wonderful — oh, won- derful ! — to see her, with every innocent feehng fresh within her, go out in the morning into her garden to play with the fringes of its guarded flowers, and lift their heads when they are drooping, with her happy smile upon her face, and no cloud upon her brow, because there is a little wall around her place of peace : and yet she knows, in her heart, if she would only look for its knowledge, that, outside of that little rose-covered wall, the wild grass, to the horizon, is torn up by the agony of men, and beat level by the drift of their life-blood.

93. Have you ever considered what a deep under meaning there lies, or at least may be read, if we choose, in our custom of strewing flowers before those whom we think most happy ? Do you suppose it is merely to de- ceive them into the hope that happiness is always to fall thus in showers at their feet ? — that wherever they pass they will tread on herbs of sweet scent, and that the rough ground will be made smooth for them by depth of roses? So surely as they believe that, they will have, instead, to walk on bitter herbs and thorns; and the only softness to their feet will be of snow. But it is not thus intended they should believe ; there is a better mean- ing in that old custom. The path of a good woman is in- deed strewn with flowers : but they rise behind her steps, not before them. " Her feet ° have touched the meadows, and left the daisies rosy."

94. You think that, only a lover's fancy; — false and vain! How if it could be true? You think this also, perhaps, only a poet's fancy —

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Even" the light harebell raised its head Elastic from her airy tread.

But it is little to say of a woman, that she only does not destroy where she passes. She should revive ; the hare- bells should bloom, not stoop, as she passes. You think I am going into wild hyperbole? Pardon me, not a whit — I mean what I say in calm English, spoken in reso- lute truth. You have heard it said — (and I believe there is more than fancy even in that saying, but let it pass for a fanciful one) — that flowers only flourish rightly in the garden of some one who loves them. I know you would like that to be true ; you would think it a pleasant magic if you could flush your flowers into brighter bloom by a kind look upon them : nay, more, if your look had the power, not only to cheer, but to guard them — if you could bid° the black bhght turn away, and the knotted caterpillar spare — if you could bid the dew fall upon them in the drought, and say to the south wind, in frost — "Come,°thou south, and breathe upon my gar- den, that the spices of it may flow out." This you would think a great thing? And do you think it not a greater thing, that all this, (and how much more than this !) you call do, for fairer flowers than these — flowers that could bless you for having blessed them, and will love you for having loved them ; — flowers that have eyes like yours, and thoughts like yours, and lives hke yours; which, once saved, you save for ever? Is this only a little power? Far among the moorlands and the rocks, — far in the darkness of the terrible streets, — these feeble florets are lying, with all their fresh leaves torn, and their stems broken — will you never go down to them, nor set them in order in their little fragrant beds, nor fence

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them in their shuddering from the fierce wind? Shall morning follow morning, for you, but not for them ; and the dawn rise to watch, far away, those frantic Dances of Death ; but no dawn rise to breathe upon these living banks of wild violet, and woodbine, and rose ; nor call to you, through your casement, — call, (not giving you the name of the English poet's lady, but the name of Dante's great Matilda,° who on the edge of happy Lethe, stood, wreathing flowers with flowers), saying: —

Come into the garden Maud,

For the black bat, night, has flown,

And the woodbine spices are wafted abroad

And the musk of the roses blown?

Will you not go down among them? — among those sweet living things, whose new courage, sprung from the earth with the deep color of heaven upon it, is starting up in strength of goodly spire ; and whose purity, washed from the dust, is opening, bud by bud, into the flower of promise ; — and stiU they turn to you and for you, " The Larkspur ° listens — I hear, I hear ! And the Lily whis- pers— I wait."

95. Did you notice that I missed two lines when I read you that first stanza ; and think that I had forgotten them? Hear them now : —

Come into the garden, Maud, For the black bat, night, has flown. Come into the garden, Maud, I am here at the gate alone.

Who is it, think you, who stands at the gate of this sweeter garden, alone, waiting for you? Did you ever hear, not of a Maud, but a Madeleine," who went down to

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her garden in the dawn, and found One waiting at the gate, whom she supposed to be the gardener? Have you not sought Him often ; sought Him in vain, all through the night ; ° sought Him in vain at the gate of that old garden ° where the fiery sword is set ? He is never there ; but at the gate of ^/lis garden ° He is waiting always — waiting to take your hand — ready to go down to see the fruits of the valley, to see whether the vine ° has flourished, and the pomegranate budded. There you shall see with Him the little tendrils of the vines that His hand is guiding — there you shall see the pomegranate spring- ing where His hand cast the sanguine seed ; — more : you shall see the troops of the angel keepers, that, with their wings, wave away the hungry birds from the pathsides where He has sown, and call to each other between the vineyard rows, " Take ° us the foxes, the httle foxes, that spoil the vines, for our vines have tender grapes." Oh — you queens ° — you queens ! among the hills and happy greenwood of this land of yours, shall the foxes ° have holes, and the birds of the air have nests ; and in your cities, shall the stones cry out against you, that they are the only pillows where the Son of Man can lay His head?

LECTURE III

THE MYSTERY OF LIFE AND ITS ARTS

Lecture delivered in the theatre of the Royal College of Science, Dublin, 1868

96. When I accepted the privilege of addressing you to-day, I was not aware of a restriction with respect to the topics of discussion which may be brought before this Society ^ — a restriction which, though entirely wise and right under the circumstances contemplated in its intro- duction, would necessarily have disabled me, thinking as I think, from preparing any lecture for you on the sub- ject of art in a form which might be permanently useful. Pardon me, therefore, in so far as I must transgress such limitation ; for indeed my infringement will be of the let- ter — not of the spirit — of your commands. In whatever I may say touching the religion which has been the foun- dation of art, or the policy which has contributed to its power, if I offend one, I shall offend all ; for I shall take no note of any separations in creeds, or antagonisms in parties : neither do I fear that ultimately I shall offend any, by proving — or at least stating as capable of posi- tive proof — the connection of all that is best in the crafts and arts of man, with the simplicity of his faith, and the sincerity of his patriotism.

1 That no reference should be made to religious questions. 148

THE MYSTERY OF LIFE 149

97. But I speak to you under'another disadvantage, by which I am checked in frankness of utterance, not here only, but everywhere ; namely, that I am never fully aware how far my audiences are disposed to give me credit for real knowledge of my subject, or how far they grant me attention only because I have been sometimes thought an ingenious or pleasant essayist ° upon it. For I have had what, in many respects, I boldly call the misfortune, to set my words sometimes prettily together; not without a foolish vanity in the poor knack that I had of doing so ; until I was heavily punished for this pride, by finding that many people thought of the words only, and cared nothing for their meaning. Happily, therefore, the power of using such pleasant language — if indeed it ever were mine — is passing away from me ; and whatever I am now able to say at all, I find myself forced to say with great plainness. For my thoughts have changed also, as my words have ; and whereas in earlier life, what little influ- ence I obtained was due perhaps chiefly to the enthusi- asm with which I was able to dwell on the beauty of the physical clouds, and of their colors in the sky ; so all the in- fluence I now desire to retain must be due to the earnest- ness with which I am endeavoring to trace the form and beauty of another kind of cloud than those ; the bright cloud, of which it is written —

" What° is your life? It is even as a vapor that ap- peareth for a little time, and then vanisheth away."

98. I suppose few people reach the middle or latter period of their age, without having, at some moment of change or disappointment, felt the truth of those bitter words ; and been startled by the fading of the sunshine from the cloud of their life, into the sudden agony of the

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knowledge that the fabric of it was as fragile as a dream, and the endurance of it as transient as the dew. But it is not always that, even at such times of melancholy sur- prise, we can enter into any true perception that this human hfe shares, in the nature of it, not only the evanes- cence, but the mystery ° of the cloud ; that its avenues are wreathed in darkness, and its forms and courses no less fantastic, than spectral and obscure ; so that not only in the vanity which we cannot grasp, but in the shadow which we cannot pierce, it is true of this cloudy life of ours, that " man walketh in a vain shadow, and disquiet- eth himself in vain."

99. And least of all, whatever may have been the eager- ness of our passions, or the height of our pride, are we able to understand in its depth the third ° and most solemn character in which our life is like those clouds of heaven ; that to it belongs not only their transience, not only their mystery, but also their power; that in the cloud of the human soul there is a fire stronger than the lightning, and a grace more precious than the rain ; and that though of the good and evil it shall one day be said alike, that the place that knew them knows them no more, there is an infinite separation between those whose brief presence had there been a blessing, like the mist of Eden that went up from the earth to water the garden, and those whose place knew them only as a drifting and changeful shade, of whom the heavenly sentence is, that they are " wells without water ; clouds that are carried with a tempest, to whom the mist of darkness is reserved for ever."

100. To those among us, however, who have lived long enough to form some just estimate of the rate of the changes which are, hour by hour in accelerating catas-

THE MYSTERY OF LIFE 151

trophe, manifesting themselves in the laws, the arts, and the creeds of men, it seems to me, that now at least, if never at any former time, the thoughts of the true nature ° of our Hfe, and of its powers and responsibilities, should present themselves with absolute sadness and sternness. And although I know that this feeling is much deepened in my own mind by disappointment," which, by chance, has attended the greater number of my cherished purposes, I do not for that reason distrust the feeling itself, though I am on my guard against an exaggerated degree of it : nay, I rather beHeve that in periods of new effort and vio- lent change, disappointment is a wholesome medicine ; and that in the secret of it, as in the twilight so beloved by Titian,° we may see the colors of things with deeper truth than in the most dazzling sunshine. And because these truths about the works of men, which I want to bring to-day before you, are most of them sad ones, though at the same time helpful ; and because also I believe that your kind Irish hearts will answer more gladly to the truthful expression of a personal feeling, than to the ex- position of an abstract principle, I will permit myself so much unreserved speaking of my own causes of regret, as may enable you to make just allowance for what, ac- cording to your sympathies, you will call either the bit- terness, or the insight, of a mind which has surrendered its best hopes, and been foiled in its favorite aims.

loi. I spent the ten strongest years of my life, (from twenty to thirty,) in endeavoring to show the excellence of the work of the man whom I believed, and rightly believed, to be the greatest painter of the schools of England since Reynolds. I had then perfect faith in the power of every great truth or beauty to prevail ultimately,

152 SESAME AND LILIES

and take its right place in usefulness and honor ; and I strove to bring the painter's work into this due place, while the painter was yet alive.° But he knew, better than I, the uselessness of talking about what people could not see for themselves. He always discouraged me scorn- fully, even when he thanked me — and he died before even the superficial effect of my work was visible. I went on, however, thinking I could at least be of use to the public, if not to him, in proving his power. My books got talked about a little. The prices of modern pictures, generally, rose, and I was beginning to take some pleasure in a sense of gradual victory, when, fortunately or unfortunately, an opportunity of perfect trial undeceived me at once, and for ever. The Trustees of the National Gallery com- missioned me to arrange the Turner drawings there, and permitted me to prepare three hundred examples of his studies from nature, for exhibition at Kensington. At Kensington they were and are, placed for exhibition ; but they are not exhibited, for the room in which they hang is always empty.

102. Well — this showed me at once, that those ten years of my life had been, in their chief purpose, lost. For that, I did not so much care ; I had, at least, learned ray own business thoroughly, and should be able, as I fondly supposed, after such a lesson, now to use my knowl- edge with better effect. But what I did care for was the — to me frightful — discovery, that the most splendid genius in the arts might be permitted by Providence to labor and perish uselessly ; that in the very fineness of it there, might be something rendering it invisible to ordinary eyes ; but, that with this strange excellence, faults might be mingled which would be as deadly as its virtues were

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vain ; that the glory of it was perishable, as well as invis- ible, and the gift and grace of it might be to us as snow in summer, and as rain in harvest.

103. That was the first mystery ° of life to me. But, while my best energy was given to the study of painting, I had put collateral effort, more prudent if less enthusi- astic, into that of architecture ; and in this I could not complain of meeting with no sympathy. Among several personal reasons which caused me to desire that I might give this, my closing lecture on the subject of art here, in Ireland, one of the chief was, that in reading it, I should stand near the beautiful building, — the engineers' school of your college, — which was the first realization I had the joy to see, of the principles I had, until then, been endeav- oring to teach ; but which alas, is now, to me, no more than the richly canopied monument of one of the most earnest souls that ever gave itself to the arts, and one of my truest and most loving friends, Benjamin Woodward. Nor was it here in Ireland only that I received the help of Irish sympathy and genius. When, to another friend. Sir Thomas Deane, with Mr. Woodward, was entrusted the building of the museum at Oxford, the best details of the work were executed by sculptors who had been born and trained here ; and the first window of the facade of the building, in which was inaugurated the study of natural science in England, in true fellowship with litera- ture, was carved from my design by an Irish sculptor.

104. You may perhaps think that no man ought to speak of disappointment, to whom, even in one branch of labor, so much success was granted. Had Mr, Wood- ward now been beside me, I had not so spoken ; but his gentle and passionate spirit was cut off from the fulfilment

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of its purpQses, and the work we did together is now be- come vain. It may not be so in future ; but the archi- tecture we endeavored to introduce is inconsistent alike with the reckless luxury, the deforming mechanism, and the squaUd misery of modern cities ; among the formative fashions of the day, aided, especially in England, by eccle- siastical sentiment, it indeed obtained notoriety ; and sometimes behind an engine furnace, or a railroad bank, you may detect the pathetic discord of its momentary grace, and, with toil, decipher its floral carvings choked ° with soot. I felt answerable to the schools I loved, only for their injury. I perceived that this new portion of my strength had also been spent in vain ; and from amidst streets of iron, and palaces of crystal, shrank back at last to the carving of the mountain and color of the flower.

105. And still I could tell of failure, and failure re- peated as years went on ; but I have trespassed enough on your patience to show you, in part, the causes of my discouragement. Now let me more deliberately tell you its results. You know there is a tendency in the minds of many men, when they are heavily disappointed in the main purposes of their life, to feel, and perhaps in warn- ing, perhaps in mockery, to declare, that life itself is a vanity. Because it has disappointed them, they think its nature is of disappointment always, or at best, of pleasure that can be grasped by imagination only ; that the cloud of it has no strength nor fire within ; but is a painted cloud only, to be dehghted in, yet despised. You know how beautifully Pope ° has expressed this particular phase of thought : —

Meanwhile opinion gilds, with varying rays, These painted clouds that beautify our days;

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Each want of happiness by hope supplied, And each vacuity of sense, by pride. Hope builds as fast as Knowledge can destroy; In Folly's cup, still laughs the bubble joy. One pleasure past, another still we gain, And not a vanity is given in vain.

But the effect of failure upon my own mind has been just the reverse of this. The more that my Hfe disappointed me, the more solemn and wonderful it became to me. It seemed, contrarily to Pope's saying, that the vanity of it was indeed given in vain ; but that there was something behind the veil of it, which was not vanity. It became to me not a painted cloud, but a terrible and impenetrable one : not a mirage, which vanished as I drew near, but a pillar ° of darkness, to which I was forbidden to draw near. For I saw that both my own failure, and such suc- cess in petty things as in its poor triumph seemed to me worse than failure, came from the want of sufficiently earnest effort to understand the whole law and meaning of existence, and to bring it to noble and due end ; as, on the other hand, I saw more and more clearly that all enduring success in the arts, or in any other occupation, had come from the ruling of lower purposes, not by a conviction of their nothingness, but by a solemn faith in the advancing power of human nature, or in the promise, however dimly apprehended, that the mortal part of it would one day be swallowed up in immortality ; and that, indeed, the arts themselves never had reached any vital strength or honor but in the effort to proclaim this immor- tality, and in the service either of great and just religion, or of some unselfish patriotism, and law of such national life as must be the foundation of religion.

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io6. Nothing that I have ever said is more true or necessary — nothing has been more misunderstood or misapphed — than my strong assertion that the arts can never be right themselves, unless their motive is right. It is misunderstood this way : weak painters, who have never learned their business, and cannot lay a true hne, continually come to me, crying out — " Look at this picture of mine ; it must be good, I had such a lovely motive. I have put my whole heart into it, and taken years to think over its treatment." Well, the only answer for these people is — if one had the cruelty to make it — ''Sir, you cannot think over any'&vmg in any number of years, — you haven't the head to do it; and though you had fine motives, strong enough to make you burn yourself in a slow fire, if only first you could paint a picture, you can't paint one, nor half an inch of one; you haven't the hand to do it."

But, far more decisively we have to say to the men who do know their business, or may know it if they choose — " Sir, you have this gift, and a mighty one ; see that you serve your nation faithfully with it. It is a greater trust than ships and armies : you might cast them away, if you were their captain, with less treason to your people than in casting your own glorious power away, and serving the devil with it instead of men. Ships and armies you may replace if they are lost, but a great intellect, once abused, is a curse to the earth for ever."

107. This,° then, I meant by saying that the arts must have noble motive. This also I said respecting them, that they never had prospered, nor could prosper, but when they had such true purpose, and were devoted to the proclamation of divine truth or law. And yet I saw

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also that they had ahvays failed in this proclamation — that poetry, and sculpture, and painting, though only great when they strove to teach us something about the gods, never had taught us anything trustworthy about the gods, but had always betrayed their trust in the crisis of it, and, with their powers at the full reach, became minis- ters to pride and to lust. And I felt also, with increasing amazement, the unconquerable apathy in ourselves the hearers, no less than in these the teachers; and that, while the wisdom and rightness of every act and art of Hfe could only be consistent with a right understanding of the ends of life, we were all plunged as in a languid dream — our heart fat,° and our eyes heavy, and our ears closed, lest the inspiration of hand or voice should reach us — lest° we should see with our eyes, and understand with our hearts, and be healed.

io8. This intense apathy in all of us is the first great mystery ° of Hfe ; it stands in the way of every perception, every virtue. There is no making ourselves feel enough astonishment at it. That the occupations or pastimes of life should have no motive, is understandable ; but — That Hfe itself should have no motive — that we neither care to find out what it may lead to, nor to guard against its being for ever taken away from us — here is a mystery indeed. For, just suppose I were able to call at this mo- ment to any one in this audience by name, and to tell him positively that I knew a large estate had been lately left to him on some curious conditions ; but that though I knew it was large, I did not know how large, nor even where it was — whether in the East Indies or the West, or in England, or at the Antipodes. I only knew it was a vast estate, and that there was a chance of his losing it

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altogether if he did not soon find out on what terms it had been left to him. Suppose I were able to say this positively to any single man in this audience, and he knew that I did not speak without warrant, do you think that he would rest content with that vague knowledge, if it were anywise possible to obtain more? Would he not give every energy to find some trace of the facts, and never rest till he had ascertained where this place was, and what it was like ? And suppose he were a young man, and all he could discover by his best endeavor was, that the estate was never to be his at all, unless he persevered, during certain years of probation, in an orderly and in- dustrious life ; but that, according to the rightness of his conduct, the portion of the estate assigned to him would be greater or less, so that it literally depended on his be- havior from day to day whether he got ten thousand a year, or thirty thousand a year, or nothing whatever — would you not think it strange if the youth never troubled himself to satisfy the conditions in any way, nor even to know what was required of him, but lived exactly as he chose, and never inquired whether his chances of the es- tate were increasing or passing away ? Well, you know that this is actually and literally so with the greater number of the educated persons now living in Christian countries. Nearly every man and woman in any company such as this, outwardly professes to believe — and a large number unquestionably think they believe — much more than this ; not only that a quite unlimited estate is in prospect for them if they please the Holder of it, but that the infinite contrary of such a possession — an estate of per- petual misery, is in store for them if they displease this great Land-Holder, this great Heaven- Holder. And yet

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there is not one in a thousand of these human souls that cares to think, for ten minutes of the day, where this estate is, or how beautiful it is, or what kind of Hfe they are to lead in it, or what kind of life they must lead to obtain it.

109. You fancy that you care to know this : so little do you care that, probably, at this moment many of you are displeased with me for talking of the matter ! You came to hear about the Art ° of this world, not about the Life of the next, and you are provoked with me for talking of what you can hear any Sunday in church. But do not be afraid. I will tell ° you something before you go about pictures, and carvings, and pottery, and what else you would like better to hear of than the other world. Nay, perhaps you say, " We want you to talk of pictures and pottery, because we are sure that you know something of them, and you know nothing of the other world." Well — I don't. That is quite true. But the very strangeness and mystery of which I urge you to take notice is in this — that I do not ; — nor you either. Can you answer a single bold question unflinchingly about that other world? — Are you sure there is a heaven? Sure there is a hell? Sure that men are dropping before your faces through the pavements of these streets into eternal fire, or sure that they are not? Sure that at your own death you are going to be delivered from all sorrow, to be endowed with all virtue, to be gifted with all felicity and raised into per- petual companionship with a King, compared to whom the kings of the earth ° are as grasshoppers, and the nations as the dust of His feet? Are you sure of this? or, if not sure, do any of us so much as care to make it sure? and, if not, how can anything that we do be right — how can

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anything we think be wise ; what honor can there be in the arts that amuse us, or what profit in the possessions that please ?

Is not this a mystery of Hfe ?

no. But farther, you may, perhaps, think it a benefi- cent ordinance for the generahty of men that they do not, with earnestness or anxiety, dwell on such questions of the future : because the business of the day could not be done if this kind of thought were taken by all of us for the morfow. Be it so : but at least we might anticipate that the greatest and wisest of us, who were evidently the ap- pointed teachers ° of the rest, would set themselves apart to seek out whatever could be surely known of the future destinies of their race ; and to teach this in no rhetorical or ambiguous manner, but in the plainest and most se- verely earnest words.

Now, the highest representatives of men who have thus endeavored, during the Christian era, to search out these deep things, and relate them, are Dante and Milton. There are none who for earnestness of thought, for mastery of word, can be classed with these. I am not at present, mind you, speaking of persons set apart in any priestly or pastoral office, to deliver creeds to us, or doctrines ; but of men who try to discover and set forth, as far as by human intellect is possible, the facts of the other world. Divines may perhaps teach us how to arrive there, but only these two poets have in any powerful manner striven to discover, or in any definite words professed to tell, what we shall see and become there ; or how those upper and nether worlds are, and have been, inhabited.

III. And what have they told us? Milton's account of the most important event in his whole system of the

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universe, the fall of the angels, is evidently unbehevable to himself; and the more so, that it is wholly founded on, and in a great part spoiled and degraded from, Hesiod's account ° of the decisive war of the younger gods with the Titans. The rest of his poem is a picturesque drama, in which every artifice of invention is visibly and consciously employed ; not a single fact being, for an instant, con- ceived as tenable by any living faith. Dante's conception ° is far more intense, and, by himself, for the time, not to be escaped from ; it is indeed a vision, but a vision only, and that one of the wildest that ever entranced a soul — a dream in which every grotesque type or phantasy of heathen tradition is renewed, and adorned ; and the des- tinies of the Christian Church, under their most sacred symbols, become literally subordinate to the praise, and are only to be understood by the aid, of one dear Floren- tine maiden.

112. I tell you truly that, as I strive more with this strange lethargy and trance in myself, and awake to the meaning and power of life, it seems daily more amazing to me that men such as these should dare to play with the most precious truths, (or the most deadly untruths), by which the whole human race listening to them could be informed, or deceived ; — all the world their audiences for ever, with pleased ear, and passionate heart ; — and yet, to this submissive infinitude of souls, and evermore suc- ceeding and succeeding multitude, hungry for bread of Hfe, they do but play upon sweetly modulated pipes ; with pompous nomenclature adorn the councils of hell ; touch a troubadour's guitar to the courses of the suns ; and fill the openings of eternity, before which prophets have veiled their faces, and which angels desire to look into, with idle

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puppets of their scholastic imagination, and melancholy lights of frantic faith in their lost mortal love.

Is not this a mystery of life?

113. But more. We have to remember that these two great teachers were both of them warped in their temper, and thwarted in their search for truth. They were men of intellectual war, unable, through darkness of contro- versy,° or stress of personal grief,° to discern where their own ambition modified their utterances of the moral law; or their own agony mingled with their anger at its viola- tion. But greater men than these have been — innocent- hearted — too great for contest. Men, like Homer and Shakespeare, of so unrecognized personality, that it dis- appears in future ages, and becomes ghostly, like the tra- dition of a lost heathen god. Men, therefore, to whose unoffended, uncondemning sight, the whole of human nature reveals itself in a pathetic weakness, with which they will not strive ; or in mournful and transitory strength, which they dare not praise. And all pagan and Christian civilization thus becomes subject to them. It does not matter how little, or how much, any of us have read, either of Homer or Shakespeare : everything round us, in substance, or in thought, has been moulded by them. All Greek gentlemen were educated under Homer. All Roman gentlemen, by Greek literature. All Italian, and French, and English gentlemen, by Ro- man literature, and by its principles. Of the scope of Shakespeare, I will say only, that the intellectual meas- ure of every man since born, in the domains of creative thought, may be assigned to him, according to the degree in which he has been taught by Shakespeare. Well, what do these two men, centres of mortal intelligence, deliver

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to US of conviction respecting what it most behooves that intelligence to grasp ? What is their hope ; their crown of rejoicing? what manner of exhortation have they for us, or of rebuke ? what lies next their own hearts, and dictates their undying words? Have they any peace to promise to our unrest — any redemption to our misery?

114. Take Homer first, and think if there is any sad- der image of human fate than the great Homeric story. The main features in the character of Achilles are its intense desire of justice, and its tenderness of affection. And in that bitter song of the " Iliad," this man, though aided continually by the wisest of the gods, and burning with the desire of justice in his heart, becomes yet, through ill-governed passion, the most unjust of men : and, full of the deepest tenderness in his heart, becomes yet, through ill-governed passion, the most cruel of men. Intense alike in love and in friendship, he loses, first his mistress, and then his friend ; for the sake of the one, he surrenders to death the armies of his own land ; for the sake of the other, he surrenders all. Will a man lay down his life for his friend? Yea — even for his dead friend this Achilles, though goddess-born, and goddess-taught, gives up his kingdom, his country, and his hfe — casts alike the innocent and guilty, with himself, into one gulf of slaughter, and dies at last by the hand of the basest of his adversaries.

Is not this a mystery of life ?

115. But what, then, is the message to us of our own poet, and searcher if hearts, after fifteen hundred years ° of Christian faith hr*^/e been numbered over the graves of men ? Are his words more cheerful than the Heathen's — is his hope more near — his trust more sure — his read-

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ing of fate more happy ? Ah, no ! He differs from the Heathen poet chiefly in this — that he recognizes, for dehverance, no gods nigh at hand ; and that, by petty chance — by momentary folly — by broken message — by fool's tyranny — or traitor's snare, the strongest and most righteous are brought to their ruin, and perish with- out word of hope. He indeed, as part of his rendering of character, ascribes the power and modesty of habitual devotion to the gentle and the just. The death-bed of Katherine ° is bright with visions of angels ; and the great soldier-king,° standing by his few dead, acknowledges the presence of the Hand that can save alike by many or by few. But observe that from those who with deepest spirit, meditate, and with deepest passion, mourn, there are no such words as these ; nor in their hearts are any such consolations. Instead of the perpetual sense of the helpful presence of the Deity, which, through all heathen tradition, is the source of heroic strength, in batde, in exile, and in the valley of the shadow of death, we find only in the great Christian poet, the consciousness of a moral law, through which " the gods ° are just, and of our pleasant vices make instruments to scourge us " ; and of the resolved arbitration of the destinies, that conclude into precision of doom what we feebly and blindly began ; and force us, when our indiscretion serves us, and our deepest plots do pall, to the confession, that " there's ° a divinity that shapes our ends, rough hew them how we will."

Is not this a mystery of hfe?

ii6. Be it so then. About this aman life that is to be, or that is, the wise religious men tell us nothing that we can trust ; and the wise contemplative men, nothing

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that can give us peace. But there is yet a third class," to whom we may turn — the wise practical men. We have sat at the feet of the poets who sang of heaven, and they have told us their dreams. We have Hstened to the poets who sang of earth, and they have chanted to us dirges, and words of despair. But there is one class of men more : — men, not capable of vision, nor sensitive to sorrow, but firm of purpose — practised in business : learned in all that can be, (by handling,) known. Men whose hearts and hopes are wholly in this present world, from whom, therefore, we may surely learn, at least, how, at present, conveniently to live in it. What will they say to us, or show us by example? These kings — these councillors — these statesmen and builders of kingdoms — these capitalists and men of business, who weigh the earth, and the dust of it, in a balance. They know the world, surely ; and what is the mystery of life to us, is none to them. They can surely show us how to live, while we live, and to gather out of the present world what is best.

117. I think I can best tell you their answer, by telHng you a dream I had once. For though I am no poet, I have dreams sometimes : — I dreamed ° I was at a child's May-day party, in which every means of entertainment had been provided for them, by a wise and kind host. It was in a stately house, with beautiful gardens attached to it ; and the children had been set free in the rooms and gardens, with no care whatever but how to pass their after- noon rejoicingly. They did not, indeed, know much about what was to happen next day ; and some of them, I thought, were a little frightened, because there was a chance of their beinor sent to a new school where there

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were examinations ; but they kept the thoughts of that out of their heads as well as they could, and resolved to enjoy themselves. The house, I said, was in a beautiful garden, and in the garden were all kinds of flowers ; sweet grassy banks for rest ; and smooth lawns for play ; and pleasant streams and woods ; and rocky places for climb- ing. And the children were happy for a little while, but presently they separated themselves into parties ; and then each party declared, it would have a piece of the garden for its own, and that none of the others should have any- thing to do with that piece. Next, they quarrelled vio- lently, which pieces they would have ; and at last the boys took up the thing, as boys should do, " practically," and fought in the flower-beds till there was hardly a flower left standing ; then they trampled down each other's bits of the garden out of spite ; and the girls cried till they could cry no more ; and so they all lay down at last breath- less in the ruin, and waited for the time when they were to be taken home in the evening.^

1 1 8. Meanwhile, the children in the house had been making themselves happy also in their manner. For them, there had been provided every kind of in-doors pleasure : there was music for them to dance to ; and the library was open, with all manner of amusing books ; and there was a museum full of the most curious shells, and animals and birds ; and there was a workshop, with lathes and carpenter's tools, for the ingenious boys ; and there were pretty fantastic dresses, for the girls to dress in ; and there were microscopes, and kaleidoscopes ; and whatever

1 1 have sometimes been asked what this means. I intended it to set forth the wisdom of men in war contending for kingdoms, and what follows to set forth their wisdom in peace, contending for wealth.

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toys a child could fancy ; and a table, in the dining-room, loaded with everything nice to eat.

But, in the midst of all this, it struck two or three of the more " practical " children, that they would like some of the brass-headed nails that studded the chairs ; and so they set to work to pull them out. Presently, the others, who were reading, or looking at shells, took a fancy to do the like ; and, in a little while, all the children, nearly, were spraining their fingers, in pulling out brass-headed nails. With all that they could pull out, they were not satisfied ; and then, everybody wanted some of somebody else's. And at last the really practical and sensible ones declared, that nothing was of any real consequence, that afternoon, except to get plenty of brass-headed nails ; and that the books, and the cakes, and the microscopes were of no use at all in themselves, but only, if they could be exchanged for nail-heads. And, at last, they began to fight for nail-heads, as the others fought for the bits of garden. Only here and there, a despised one shrank away into a corner, and tried to get a Httle quiet with a book, in the midst of the noise ; but all the practical ones thought of nothing else but counting nail-heads all the afternoon — even though they knew they would not be allowed to carry so much as one brass knob away with them. But no — it was — "Who has most nails? I have a hun- dred, and you have fifty ; or, I have a thousand, and you have two. I must have as many as you before I leave the house, or I cannot possibly go home in peace." At last, they made so much noise that I awoke, and thought to myself, " What a false dream that is, of children! " The child is the father of the man ; and wiser. Children never do such foolish things. Only men do.

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119. But there is yet one last class of persons to be in- terrogated. The wise religious men we have asked in vain ; the wise contemplative men, in vain ; the wise worldly men, in vain. But there is another group yet. In the midst of this vanity of empty religion — of tragic contem- plation — of wrathful and wretched ambition, and dispute for dust, there is yet one great group of persons, by whom all these disputers live — the persons who have determined, or have had it by a beneficent Providence determined for them, that they will do something useful ; that whatever may be prepared for them hereafter, or happen to them here, they will, at least, deserve the food that God gives them by winning it honorably ; and that, however fallen from the purity, or far from the peace, of Eden, they will carry out the duty of human dominion, though they have lost its felicity ; and dress and keep the wilderness, though they no more can dress or keep the garden.

These, — hewers of wood,° and drawers of water — these bent under burdens, or torn of scourges — these, that dig and weave — that plant and build ; workers in wood, and in marble, and in iron — by whom all food, clothing, habi- tation, furniture, and means of delight are produced, for themselves, and for all men beside ; men, whose deeds are good, though their words may be few ; men, whose lives are serviceable, be they never so short, and worthy of honor, be they never so humble ; — from these, surely, at least, we may receive some clear message of teaching ; and pierce, for an instant, into the mystery of life, and of its arts.

120. Yes ; from these, at last,° we do receive a lesson. ° But I grieve to say, or rather — for that is the deeper truth of the matter — I rejoice to say — this message of

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theirs can only be received by joining them — not by think- ing about them.

You sent for me to talk to you of art; and I have obeyed you in coming. But the main thing I have to tell you is, — that art must not be talked about. The fact that there is talk about it at all, signifies that it is ill done, or cannot be done. No true painter ever speaks, or ever has spoken, much of his art. The greatest speak nothing. Even Reynolds is no exception, for he wrote of all that he could not himself do, and was utterly silent respecting all that he himself did.

The moment a man can really do his work he becomes speechless about it. All words become idle to him — all theories.

121. Does a bird need° to theorize about building its nest, or boast of it when built ? All good work is essen- tially done that way — without hesitation, without diffi- culty, without boasting ; and in the doers of the best, there is an inner and involuntary power which approxi- mates Uterally to the instinct of an animal — nay, I am certain that in the most perfect human artists, reason does not supersede instinct, but is added to an instinct as much more divine than that of the lower animals as the human body is more beautiful than theirs ; that a great singer sings not with less instinct than the nightingale, but with more — only more various, applicable, and governable ; that a great architect does not build with less instinct than the beaver or the bee, but with more — with an innate cunning of proportion that embraces all beauty, and a divine ingenuity of skill that improvises all construction. But be that as it may — be the instinct less or more than that of inferior animals — like or unlike theirs, still the

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human art is dependent on that first, and then upon an amount of practice, of science, — and of imagination dis- cipHned by thought, which the true possessor of it knows to be incommunicable, and the true critic of it, inexpUcable, except through long process of laborious years. That jour- ney of life's conquest, in which hills over hills, and Alps on Alps arose, and sank, — do you think you can make an- other trace it painlessly, by talking? Why, you cannot even carry us up an Alp, by talking. You can guide us up it, step by step, no otherwise — even so, best silently. You girls, who have been among the hills, know how the bad guide chatters and gesticulates, and it is '^ put your foot here," and " mind how you balance yourself there " ; but the good guide walks on quietly, without a word, only with his eyes on you when need is, and his arm like an iron bar, if need be.

122. In that slow way, also, art can be taught — if you have faith in your guide, and will let his arm be to you as an iron bar when need is. But in what teacher of art have you such faith? Certainly not in me ; for, as I told you at first, I know well enough it is only because you think I can talk, not because you think I know my business, that you let me speak to you at all. If I were to tell you anything that seemed to you strange you would not believe it, and yet it would only be in telling you strange things that I could be of use to you. I could be of great use to you — infinite use — with brief saying, if you would believe it ; but you would not, just because the thing that would be of real use would displease you. You are all wild, for instance, with admiration of Gustave Dor^. Well, suppose I were to tell you in the strongest terms I could use, that Gustave Dora's art ° was bad — bad, not in

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weakness, — not in failure, — but bad with dreadful power — the power of the Furies and the Harpies mingled, en- raging, and polluting ; that so long as you looked at it, no perception of pure or beautiful art was possible for you. Suppose I were to tell you that ! What would be the use ? Would you look at Gustave Dor^ less ? Rather, more, I fancy. On the other hand, I could soon put you into good humor with me, if I chose. I know well enough what you like, and how to praise it to your better liking. I could talk to you about moonhght, and twihght, and spring flowers, and autumn leaves, and the Madonnas of Raphael — how motherly ! and the Sibyls of Michael An- gelo — how majestic ! and the Saints of Angehco — how pious! and the Cherubs of Correggio — how delicious! Old as I am, I could play a tune on the harp yet, that you would dance to. But neither you nor I should be a bit the better or wiser; or, if we were, our increased wisdom could be of no practical effect. For, indeed, the arts, as regards teachableness, differ from the sciences also in this, that their power is founded not merely on facts which can be communicated, but on dispositions which require to be created. Art is neither to be achieved by effort of thinking, nor explained by accuracy of speaking. It is the instinctive and necessary result of powers, which can only be developed through the mind of successive genera- tions, and which finally burst into hfe under social con- ditions as slow of growth as the faculties they regulate. Whole Eeras of mighty history are summed, and the pas- sions of dead myriads are concentrated, in the existence of a noble art ; and if that noble art were among us, we should feel it and rejoice ; not caring in the least to hear lectures on it ; and since it is not among us, be assured

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we have to go back to the root of it, or, at least, to the place where the stock of it is yet alive, and the branches began to die.

123. And now, may I have your pardon for pointing out, pardy with reference to matters which are at this time of greater moment than the arts — that if we under- took such recession to the vital germ of national arts that have decayed, we should find a more singular arrest ° of their power in Ireland than in any other European coun- try. For in the eighth century, Ireland possessed a school of art in her manuscripts and sculpture, which, in many of its quaUties — apparently in all essential quahties of decorative invention — was quite without rival ; seeming as if it might have advanced to the highest triumphs in ar- chitecture and in painting. But there was one fatal flaw in its nature, by which it was stayed, and stayed with a conspicuousness of pause to which there is no parallel : so that, long ago, in tracing the progress of European schools from infancy to strength, I chose for the students of Kensington, in a lecture since published, two charac- teristic examples of early art, of equal skill ; but in the one case, skill which was progressive — in the other, skill which was at pause. In the one case, it was work recep- tive of correction — hungry for correction — and in the other, work which inherently rejected correction. I chose for them a corrigible Eve, and an incorrigible Angel, and I grieve to say that the incorrigible Angel was also an Irish Angel ! ^

124. And the fatal difference lay wholly in this. In both pieces of art there was an equal falling short of the needs of fact ; but the Lombardic Eve knew she was in

1 See The Two Paths, ^^ 28 et seq.

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the wrong, and the Irish Angel thought himself all right. The eager Lombardic sculptor, though firmly insisting on his childish idea, yet showed in the irregular broken touches of the features, and the imperfect struggle for softer lines in the form, a perception of beauty and law that he could not render ; there was the strain of effort, under conscious imperfection, in every line. But the Irish missal-painter had drawn his angel with no sense of failure, in happy complacency, and put red dots into the palm of each hand, and rounded the eyes into perfect circles, and, I regret to say, left the mouth out altogether, with perfect satisfaction to himself.

125. May I without offence ask you to consider whether this mode of arrest in ancient Irish art may not be indic- ative of points of character ° which even yet, in iome measure, arrest your national power ? I have seen much of Irish character, and have watched it closely, for I have also much loved it. And I think the form of failure to which it is most Hable is this, that being generous-hearted, and wholly intending always to do right, it does not attend to the external laws of right, but thinks it must necessarily do right because it means to do so, and therefore does wrong without finding it out ; and then when the conse- quences of its wrong come upon it, or upon others con- nected with it, it cannot conceive that the wrong is in anywise of its causing or of its doing, but flies into wrath, and a strange agony of desire for justice, as feeling itself wholly innocent, which leads it farther astray, until there is nothing that it is not capable of doing with a good conscience.

126. But mind, I do not mean to say that, in past or present relations between Ireland and England, you have

174 ^ SESAME AND LILIES

been wrong, and we right. Far from that, I beheve that in all great questions of principle, and in all details of administration of law, you have been usually right, and we wrong ; sometimes in misunderstanding you, some- times in resolute iniquity to you. Nevertheless, in all disputes between states, though the stronger is nearly al- ways mainly in the wrong, the weaker ■ is often so in a minor degree ; and I think we sometimes admit the pos- sibiHty of our being in error, and you never do.

127. And now, returning to the broader question what these arts and labors of hfe have to teach us of its mys- tery, this is the first of their lessons ° — that the more beau- tiful the art, the more it is essentially the work of people who fee/ themselves wrong; — who are striving for the fulfl^Tient of a law, and the grasp of a lovehness, which they have not yet attained, which they feel even farther and farther from attaining, the more they strive for it. And yet, in still deeper sense, it is the work of people who know also that they are right. The very sense of inevitable error from their purpose marks the perfectness of that purpose, and the continued sense of failure arises from the continued opening of the eyes more clearly to all the sacredest laws of truth.

128. This is one lesson. The second is a very plain, and greatly precious one, namely : — that whenever the arts and labors of Hfe are fulfilled in this spirit of striv- ing against misrule, and doing whatever we have to do, honorably and perfectly, they invariably bring happiness^ as much as seems possible to the nature of man. In al) other paths, by which that happiness ° is pursued, there is disappointment, or destruction : for ambition and fo/ passion there is no rest — no fruition ; the fairest plea?

THE MYSTERY OF LIFE 175

ures of youth perish in a darkness greater than their past Hght ; and the loftiest and purest love too often does but inflame the cloud of life with endless fire of pain. But, ascending from lowest to highest, through every scale of human industry, that industry worthily followed, gives peace. Ask the laborer in the field, at the forge, or in the mine ; ask the patient, delicate-fingered artisan, or the strong-armed, fiery-hearted worker in bronze, and in marble, and with the colors of light; and none of these,, who are true workmen, will ever tell you, that they have found the law of heaven an unkind one — that in the sweat ° of their face they should eat bread, till they return to the ground ; nor that they ever found it an un- rewarded obedience, if, indeed, it was rendered faithfully to the command — " Whatsoever ° thy hand findeth to do — do it with thy might."

129. These are the two great and constant lessons which our laborers teach us of the mystery of hfe. But there is another, and a sadder one, which they cannot teach us, which we must read on their tombstones.

"Do it with thy might." There have been myriads upon myriads of human creatures who have obeyed this law — who have put every breath and nerve of their being into its toil — who have devoted every hour, and ex- hausted every faculty — who have bequeathed their un- accomplished thoughts at death — who, being dead, have yet spoken, by majesty of memory, and strength of ex- ample. And, at last, what has all this " Might " of hu- manity accomplished, in six thousand years of labor and sorrow? What has it done ? Take the three chief occu- pations and arts of men, one by one, and count their achievements. Begin with the first — the lord of them

176 SESAME AND LILIES

all — Agriculture. Six thousand years have passed since we were set to till the ground, from which we were taken. How much of it is tilled ? How much of that which is, wisely or well? In the very centre and chief garden of Europe — where the two forms of parent Christianity have had their fortresses — where the noble Catholics of the Forest Cantons, and the noble Protestants of the Vaudois valleys, have maintained, for dateless ages, their faiths and liberties — there the unchecked Alpine rivers yet run wild in devastation ; and the marches, which a few hundred men could redeem with a year's labor, still blast their helpless inhabitants into fevered idiotism.° That is so, in the centre of Europe ! While, on the near coast of Africa, once the Garden of the Hesperides, an Arab woman, but a few sunsets since, ate her child, for famine. And, with all the treasures of the East at our feet, we, in our own dominion," could not find a few grains of rice, for a people that asked of us no more ; but stood by, and saw five hundred thousand of them perish of hunger.

130. Then, after agriculture, the art of kings, take the next head of human arts — Weaving; the art of queens, honored of all noble Heathen women, in the person of their virgin goddess — honored of all Hebrew women, by the word of their wisest king° — " She layeth° her hands to the spindle, and her hands hold the distaff; she stretcheth out her hand to the poor. She is not afraid of the snow for her household, for all her household are clothed with scarlet. She maketh herself covering of tapestry, her clothing is silk and purple. She maketh fine linen, and selleth it, and delivereth girdles to the mer- chant." What have we done in all these thousands of

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years with this bright art of Greek maid and Christian matron? Six thousand years of weaving, and have we learned to weave ? Might not every naked wall have been purple with tapestry, and every feeble breast fenced with sweet colors ° from the cold? What have we done? Our fingers are too few, it seems, to twist together some poor covering for our bodies. We set our streams to work for us, and choke the air with fire, to turn our spinning-wheels — and, — are we yet clothed? Are not the streets of the capitals of Europe foul with sale of cast clouts and rotten rags? Is not the beauty of your sweet children left in wretchedness of disgrace, while, with bet- ter honor, nature clothes the brood of the bird in its nest, and the suckling of the wolf in her den? And does not every winter's snow robe ° what you have not robed, and shroud what you have not shrouded ; and every winter's wind bear up to heaven its wasted souls, to witness againsi you hereafter, by the voice of their Christ, — "I was naked,° and ye clothed me not " ?

131. Lastly — take the Art of Building — the strongest — proudest — most orderly — most enduring of the arts of man ; that of which the produce is in the surest manner accumulative, and need not perish, or be replaced ; but if once well done, will stand more strongly than the un- balanced rocks — more prevalently than the crumbling hills. The art which is associated with all civic pride and sacred principle ; with which men record their power — satisfy their enthusiasm — make sure their defence — de- fine and make dear their habitation. And in six thousand years of building, what have we done? Of the greater part of all that skill and strength, no vestige is left, but fallen stones, that encumber the fields and impede the

178 SESAME AND LILIES

Streams. But, from this waste of disorder, and of time, and of rage, what is left to us ? Constructive and pro- gressive creatures, that we are, with ruHng brains, and forming hands, capable of fellowship, and thirsting for fame, can we not contend, in comfort, with the insects of the forest, or, in achievement, with the worm of the sea? The white surf rages in vain against the ramparts built by poor atoms of scarcely nascent life ; but only ridges of formless ruin mark the places where once dwelt our noblest multitudes. The ant and the moth have cells for each of their young, but our little ones lie in festering heaps, in homes that consume them like graves ; and night by night, from the corners of our streets, rises up the cry of the homeless — "I was a stranger,° and ye took me not in."

132. Must it be always thus? Is our life for ever to be without profit — without possession? Shall ° the strength of its generations be as barren as death ; or cast away their labor, as the wild fig-tree ° casts her untimely figs? Is it all a dream then — the desire of the eyes and the pride of fife — or, if it be, might we not live in nobler dream than this? The poets and prophets, the wise men, and the scribes, though they have told us nothing about a life to come, have told us much about the hfe that is now. They have had — they also, — their dreams, and we have laughed at them. They have dreamed ° of mercy, and of justice ; they have dreamed of peace and good- will ; they have dreamed of labor undisappointed, and of rest undisturbed ; they have dreamed of fulness in harvest, and overflowing in store ; they have dreamed of wisdom in council, and of providence in law ; of gladness of parents, and strength of children, and glory of grey

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hairs. And at these visions of theirs we have mocked, and held them for idle and vain, unreal and unaccom- plishable. What have we accomplished with our reali- ties? Is this what has come of our worldly wisdom, tried against their folly? this, our mightiest possible, against their impotent ideal ? or have we only wandered among the spectra of a baser felicity, and chased phantoms of the tombs, instead of visions of the Almighty ; and walked after the imaginations of our evil hearts, instead of after the counsels of Eternity, until our lives — not in the like- ness of the cloud of heaven, but of the smoke of hell — have become " as a vapor,° that appeareth for a httle time, and then vanisheth away " ?

133. Does it vanish then? Are you sure of that? — sure, that the nothingness of the grave will be a rest from this troubled nothingness ; and that the coiling shadow, which disquiets itself in vain, cannot change into the smoke of the torment that ascends for ever? Will any answer that they are sure of it, and that there is no fear, nor hope, nor desire, nor labor, whither they go ? Be it so ; will you not, then, make as sure of the Life that now is, as you are of the Death that is to come ? Your hearts are wholly in this world — will you not give them to it wisely, as well as perfectly ? And see, first of all, that you have hearts, and sound hearts, too, to give. Because you have no heaven to look for, is that any reason that you should remain ignorant of this wonderful and infinite earth, which is firmly and instantly given you in posses- sion ? Although your days are numbered, and the follow- ing darkness sure, is it necessary that you should share the degradation of the brute, because you are con- demned to its mortahty; or live the Hfe of the moth,

180 SESAME AND LILIES

and of the worm, because you are to companion them in the dust? Not so; we may have but a few thousands of days to spend, perhaps hundreds only — perhaps tens ; nay, the longest of our time and best, looked back on, will be but as a moment, as the twinkling ° of an eye ; still we are men, not insects ; we are living spirits, not passing clouds. "He maketh° the winds His messengers; the momentary fire. His minister ; " and shall we do less than these ? Let us do the work of men while we bear the form of them ; and, as we snatch our narrow portion of time out of Eternity, snatch also our narrow inheritance of passion out of Immortahty — even though our lives be as a vapor, that appeareth for a little time, and then van- isheth away.

134. But there are some of you who believe not this — who think this cloud of hfe has no such close — that it is to float, revealed and illumined, upon the floor of heaven, in the day when He cometh with clouds, and every eye shall see Him. Some day, you believe, within these five, or ten, or twenty years, for every one of us the judgment will be set, and the books opened. If that be true, far more than that must be true. Is there but one day of judgment? Why, for us every day is a day of judg- ment — every day is a Dies Irse, and writes its irrevocable verdict in the flame of its West. Think you that judg- ment waits till the doors of the grave are opened ? It waits at the doors of your houses — it waits at the corners of your streets; we are in the midst of judgment — the insects that we crush are our judges — the moments we fret away are our judges — the elements that feed us, judge, as they minister — and the pleasures that deceive us, judge, as they indulge. Let us, for our

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lives, do the work of Men while we bear the Form of them, if indeed those lives are Not as a vapor, and do Not vanish away.

135. " The work of men ' ' — and what is that ? Well, we may any of us know very quickly, on the condition of being wholly ready to do it. But many of us are for the most part thinking, not of what we are to do, but of what we are to get ; and the best of us are sunk into the sin of Ananias,^ and it is a mortal one — we want to keep back part of the price ; and we continually talk of taking up our cross, as if the only harm in a cross was the weight of it — as if it was only a thing to be carried, instead of to be — crucified upon. " They ° that are His have crucified the flesh, with the affections and lusts." Does that mean, think you, that in time of national distress, of religious trial, of crisis for every interest and hope of humanity — none of us will cease jesting, none cease idling, none put themselves to any wholesome work, none take so much as a tag of lace off their footmen's coats, to save the world? Or does it rather mean, that they are ready to leave houses, lands, and kindreds — yes, and hfe, if need be ? Life ! — some of us are ready enough to throw that away, joyless as we have made it. But " station ° in Life " — how many of us are ready to quit t/iat ? Is it not always the great objection, where there is a question of finding something useful to do — " We cannot leave our stations in Life " ?

Those of us who really cannot — that is to say, who can only maintain themselves by continuing in some business or salaried office, have already something to do ; and all that they have to see to, is that they do it honestly and with all their might. But with most people who use that apol- ogy, " remaining in the station of Hfe to which Providence

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has called them " means keepmg all the carriages, and all the footmen and large houses they can possibly pay for ; and, once for all, I say that if ever Providence did put them into stations of that sort — which is not at all a mat- ter of certainty — Providence is just now very distinctly caUing them out again. Levi's ° station in life was the re- ceipt of custom ; and Peter's,° the shore of Galilee ; and Paul's," the antechambers of the High Priest, — which " station in life " each had to leave, with brief notice.

And, whatever our station in hfe may be, at this crisis, those of us who mean to fulfil our duty ought, first, to five on as little as we can ; and, secondly, to do all the whole- some work for it we can, and to spend all we can spare in doing all the sure good we can.

And sure good° is, first in feeding people, then in dress- ing people, then in lodging people, and lastly in rightly pleasing people, with arts, or sciences, or any other sub- ject of thought.

136. I say first in feeding ; and, once for all, do not let yourselves be deceived by any of the common talk of " in- discriminate charity." The order to us is not to feed the deserving hungry, nor the industrious hungry, nor the amiable and well-intentioned hungry, but simply to feed the hungry. It is quite true, infalHbly true, that if any man will not work, neither should he eat — think of that, and every time you sit down to your dinner, ladies and gentlemen, say solemnly, before you ask a blessing, >' How much work have I done to-day for my dinner? '' But the proper way to enforce that order on those below you, as well as on yourselves, is not to leave vagabonds and hon- est people to starve together, but very distinctly to dis- cern and seize your vagabond ; and shut your vagabond

THE MYSTERY OF LIFE 183

Up out of honest people's way, and very sternly then see that, until he has worked, he does not^ eat. But the first thing is to be sure you have the food to give ; and, there- fore to enforce the organization of vast activities in agri- culture and in commerce, for the production of the whole- somest food, and proper storing and distribution of it, so that no famine shall any more be possible among civilized beings. There is plenty of work in this business alone, and at once, for any number of people who like to engage in it.

137. Secondly, dressing people — that is to say, urging every one within reach of your influence to be always neat and clean, and giving them means of being so. In so far as they absolutely refuse, you must give up the effort with respect to them, only taking care that no children within your sphere of influence shall any more be brought, up with such habits ; and that every person who is willing to dress with propriety shall have encouragement to do so. And the first absolutely necessary step towards this is the gradual adoption of a consistent dress for diff"erent ranks of persons, so that their rank shall be known by their dress ; and the restriction of the changes of fashion within certain limits. All which appears for the present quite impossible ; but it is only so far even difficult as it is dif- ficult to conquer our vanity, frivolity, and desire to appear what we are not. And it is not, nor ever shall be, creed of mine, that these mean and shallow vices are uncon- querable by Christian women.

138. And then, thirdly, lodging people, which you may think should have been put first, but I put it third, be- cause we must feed and clothe people where we find them, and lodge them afterwards. And providing lodgment for

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them means a great deal of vigorous legislature, and cut- ting down of vested interests that stand in the way, and after that, or before that, so far as we can get it, thorough sanitary and remedial action ° in the houses that we have ; and then the building of more, strongly, beautifully, and in groups of limited extent, kept in proportion to their streams, and walled round, so that there may be no fes- tering and wretched suburb anywhere, but clean and busy street within, and the open country without, with a belt of beautiful garden and orchard round the walls, so that from any part of the city perfectly fresh air and grass, and sight of far horizon, might be reachable in a few minutes' walk. This the final aim ; but in immediate action every minor and possible good to be instantly done, when, and as, we can ; roofs mended that have holes in them — fences patched that have gaps in them — walls buttressed that totter — and floors propped that shake ; cleanliness and order enforced with our own hands and eyes, till we are breathless, every day. And all the fine arts will healthily follow. I myself have washed a flight of stone stairs all down, with bucket and broom, in a Savoy inn, where they hadn't washed their stairs since they first went up them ; and I never made a better sketch than that afternoon.

139. These, then, are the three first needs of civilized life ; and the law for every Christian man and woman is, that they shall be in direct service towards one of these three needs, as far as is consistent with their own special occupation, and if they have no special business, then wholly in one of these services. And out of such exertion in plain duty all other good will come ; for in this direct contention with material evil, you will find out the real nature of all evil ; you will discern by the various kinds

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of resistance, what is really the fault and main antagonism to good ; also you will find the most unexpected helps and profound lessons given, and truths will come thus down to us which the speculation of all our lives would never have raised us up to. You will find nearly every educa- tional problem solved, as soon as you truly want to do something ; everybody will become of use in their own fit- test way, and will learn what is best for them to know in that use. Competitive examination will then, and not till then, be wholesome, because it will be daily, and calm, and in practice ; and on these famiUar arts, and minute, but certain and serviceable knowledges, will be surely edi- fied and sustained the greater arts and splendid theoreti- cal sciences.

140. But much more than this. On such holy and simple practice will be founded, indeed, at last, an infal- lible religion. The greatest ° of all the mysteries of life, and the most terrible, is the corruption of even the sin- cerest religion, which is not daily founded on rational, effective, humble, and helpful action. Helpful action, ob- serve ! for there is just one law, which, obeyed, keeps all religions pure — forgotten, makes them all false. When- ever in any religious faith, dark or bright, we allow our minds to dwell upon the points in which we differ from other people, we are wrong, and in the devil's power. That is the essence of the Pharisee's thanksgiving — " Lord,° I thank Thee, that I am not as other men are." At every moment of our lives we should be trying to find out, not in what we differ with other people, but in what we agree with them ; and the moment we find we can agree as to anything that should be done, kind or good, (and who but fools couldn't ?) then do it ; push at it together : you can't

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quarrel in a side-by-side push ; but the moment that even the best men stop pushing, and begin talking, they mis- take their pugnacity for piety, and it's all over. I will not speak of the crimes which in past times have been committed in the name of Christ, nor of the follies which are at this hour held to be consistent with obedience to Him ; but I a////speak of the morbid corruption and waste of vital power in religious sentiment, by which the pure strength of that which should be the guiding soul of every nation, the splendor of its youthful manhood, and spot- less light of its maidenhood, is averted or cast away. You may see continually girls who have never been taught to do a single useful thing thoroughly ; who cannot sew, who cannot ° cook, who cannot cast an account, nor prepare a medicine, whose whole Hfe has been passed either in play or in pride ; you will find girls like these, when they are earnest-hearted, cast all their innate passion of religious spirit, which was meant by God to support them through the irksomeness of daily toil, into grievous and vain medi- tation over the meaning of the great Book,° of which no syllable was ever yet to be understood but through a deed ; all the instinctive wisdom and mercy of their womanhood made vain, and the glory of their pure consciences warped into fruitless agony concerning questions which the laws of common serviceable life would have either solved for them in an instant, or kept out of their way. Give such a girl any true work that will make her active in the dawn, and weary at night, with the consciousness that her fellow- creatures have indeed been the better for her day, and the powerless sorrow of her enthusiasm will transform itself into a majesty of radiant and beneficent peace. So with our youths. We once taught them to make

THE MYSTERY OF LIFE 187

Latin verses, and called them educated ; now we teach them to leap and to row, to hit a ball with a bat, and call them educated. Can they plough, can they sow, can they plant at the right time, or build with a steady hand ? Is it the effort of their lives to be chaste, knightly, faithful, holy in thought, lovely in word and deed? Indeed it is, with some, nay, with many, and the strength of England is in them, and the hope ; but we have to turn their cour- age from the toil of war to the toil of mercy ; and their intellect from dispute of words to discernment of things ; and their knighthood from the errantry of adventure to the state and fidehty of a kingly power. And then, in- deed, shall abide, for them and for us an incorruptible felicity, and an infallible religion ; shall abide for us Faith, no more to be assailed by temptation, no more to be de- fended by wrath and by fear ; — shall abide with us Hope, no more to be quenched by the years that overwhelm, or made ashamed by the shadows that betray ; — shall abide for us, and with us, the greatest of these ; the abiding will, the abiding name, of our Father. For the greatest ° of these is Charity.

NOTES

OF KINGS' TREASURIES

[The numbers below correspond with the numbered sections of the essays.]

1. Ask your pardon. At the outset one feels Ruskin's easy, colloquial style. Being taken into the author's confidence, the reader is put at once into a receptive mood to understand the thoughts conveyed. In the preface to the edition of 1871, Ruskin says that he could not at all express himself in the language of books at the time he delivered the lectures, for then his thoughts habitually put themselves into forms fit only for emphatic speech. He says, too, that even though phrases written for oral delivery be- come ineffective when quietly read, he could not translate them into the language of books without taking away the good that was in them.

Kings known as regnant. In § 42, Ruskin tells what kind of kings he has in mind throughout this essay.

Thoughts about reading. Compare § 40, and consult pages 24-25 for a discussion of the theme of the essay.

2. Connection with schools. The most important connection was with the drawing classes of the Working Men's College, Lon- don. Through the charities of his father, Ruskin was honorary governor in other schools.

" Position in life." Compare § 135. Class distinctions are much more strongly marked in England than in the United States.

The visitors' bell. Doors in England sometimes have two bells, one for visitors, and one for servants and tradespeople.

3. The last infirmity of noble minds. An inaccurate quota- tion from Milton's Lycidas, line 71.

4. " Mortification." Look up the origin of this word as given in an unabridged dictionary. The following words derived from Latin or Greek are also used in this essay in a way not to be under-

180

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stood without a knowledge of their derivation : § 5, tertiary ; § 8, ephemeral; % 1\^ inherent aristocracy ; ^ it,, reticence ; ^ 1^, litera- ture ; § I'j, Bible ; §§ 18 and 28, vulgar; § 23, inspiration; § 27, sensation; §§ 27 and t,1, passion ; § 28, /ar// § 32, bibliomaniac ; § 33, resolve ; § 37, expiration; § 42, magnanimous.

"My Lord." English bishops, as members of the House of Lords, are addressed by the title, Lord.

5. Advancement in life. Compare § 42.

My writings on political economy. Consult page 20.

Tertiary. See note on § 4, 7nortiJication.

Collateral = subordinately connected, secondary. Could the idea of the sentence containing this word be expressed more briefly?

Truisms. Such as, "A man is known by the company he keeps." 4

6. A cabinet minister . . . deceptive. Observe Ruskin's pessimism regarding the sincerity of men who have been raised to the high political rank of member of the English cabinet. See § 30, "sending a Minister of the Crown to make polite speeches."

There is a society. One of the delights in reading a Ruskin essay is to notice his graceful approach to his theme. He may not have any very logical connection between his preliminary matter and the main point, but he always makes an obvious verbal connec- tion. To discover the thought connection between the first five sections and the sixth, look particularly at the next to the last sentence in the fifth section.

8. Ephemeral. See note on § 4, mortification.

Divisible into two classes. What bearing has this distinction en the general thought of the essay? Which class does the author mainly discuss? What does he say regarding the method of read- ing books of this class?

g. My life was as the vapor. Compare §97. The phraseol- ogy is adapted from the Bible. In his early days Ruskin com- mitted to memory the following chapters from the Bible : Exodus 15 and 20; Deuteronomy -^^-y 2 Satnuel i; i Kings ?>; Psal?ns 2-^, 32, 90, 91, 103, 112, 119, 139; Proverbs 2, 3, 8, 12; Isaiah ^S; Matthexv 5, 6, 7; Acts 26; i Corinthians 13, 15; James ^\ Reve- lation 5, 6.

NOTES 191

Other direct and indirect Biblical references in this essay are: § i6, unjust stewards, Luke i6: 1-8; §17, sown on any wayside, Matthew 13 : 3-8 ; § 21, lords over the heritage, / Peter 5:3; § 26, Break up your fallow ground, Jet'emiah 4:3; §29, River of Life, Revelation 22: I-2, the angels desire to look into, / Peter I : 12 ; § 30, the love of money, i Ti?nothy 6:10; § 31, the good Samaritan, Luke 10:30-35, scorpion whips, i Kings 12: 11-14; §32, sweet as honey, Revelation 10 : 9-10, barley loaves, Matthe^v 14 ; § 35, towers of the vineyards, Lsaiah 5:2; §37, Lazarus, Luke 16 : 20 ; § 39, idolatrous Jews, Ezekiel 8 : 7-12 ; §41, Art thou also become, Isaiah 14: 9-10 ; §44, Go, Luke 7:8; §45, Do and teach, Mat- thew 5:19, the path which no fowl knoweth, Job 28 : 7.

10. Book. V>y book Ruskin here means book for all time. Two other words that he uses in senses of his own are reading, §25; clowns, footnote §30.

Queen of the air, § 106 (in footnote) : "Thus far of Abbeville building. Now I have here asserted two things, — first, the foundation of art in moral character; next, the foundation of moral character in war. I must make both assertions clearer and prove them.

" First of the foundation of art in moral character. Of course the art gift and amiability of disposition are two different things; a good man is not necessarily a painter, nor does an eye for color necessarily imply an honest mind. But great art implies the union of both powers : it is the expression, by an art gift, of a pure soul. If the gift is not there, we can have no art at all ; and if the soul — and a right soul, too — is not there, the art is bad, however dex- terous." For a shorter statement of his art theory, see page 19.

11. Entree = entrance ; the privilege of entering as a visitor. How many other French words appear in the essay ?

Inherent aristocracy. See note on § 4, mortijication.

12. The place you fit yourself for. The contents of §§ 12-40 might be reduced to this : Show love for kingly authors in two ways if you hope to be their companion.

Elysian gates. Gates to the fields where, according to old belief, the good who have died abide in bliss. What is the connec- tion of this allusion with the subject in hand?

portieres = gates.

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Faubourg St. Germain. This district of Paris, on the left bank of the Seine, was formerly occupied by the aristocracy of the city.

13. Love these people. Study the general structure of the essay. Sections 13-26 develop the first way of showing love for the true aristocracy, the great authors. Sections 27-40 develop the second way of showing love for authors. What are the two ways ?

Reticence. See note on § 4, mortification. Physical type of wisdom, gold. Here is a slight hint suggest- ing how Ruskin came to choose his title, " Of Kings' Treasuries."

14. Australian miner. The comparison in this paragraph is usually found by readers to be one of the most interesting bits in the essay.

patientest. Ruskin sometimes takes liberties by forming super- latives of his own. See needfullest in § 50, and use/idlest in § 79.

15. "Literature." See note on § 4, mortification.

British Museum. The British Museum in London contains great collections of books, in addition to Prints and Drawings, An- tiquities, Coins, and Medals. The contents are truly vast.

Canaille = common people.

Noblesse = nobility.

i6. False Latin quantity. It is not so true now as it was in Ruskin's time that members of the House of Commons would smile at a false quantity in a Latin quotation. Yet the English system of education continues to place most emphasis on the classics.

Masked words. The following are examples of words which some persons fancy mean one thing and other persons fancy mean something different: economy, competition, personal liberty.

*' Ground-lion " cloaks. A pun on the word chameleon, which literally means ground-lion. A chameleon changes its color to be like the object it is near; so masked words take their color or meaning from the conceptions of the people using the words.

Unjust stewards. See note on § 9.

17. Mongrel in breed. Mention six foreign languages from which the English language has taken words, and give an example of a word adopted into English from each of the languages you mention. In his discussion of the English language, Ruskin does not sufficiently recognize the essentially English character of the

NOTES 193

great bulk of the words in common use. The percentage of words of native origin in the writings of the best-known authors shows the preponderance of the native stock : Shakespeare, 90 % ; Milton, 81 % ; Tennyson, 88 %. Consult Emerson's The History of the English Language.

" The Holy Book." Compare § 140.

Bible. See note on § 4, mortification.

Sown. See note on § 9.

Steam plough or steam press. For Ruskin's antipathy to steam see page 21, and also § 130. The seventeenth and eigh- teenth sections are a characteristic digression from the main theme. Ruskin takes the opportunity to express his notions about the proper use of the words Bible, datnn, ecclesiastic, and priest.

18. Vulgar. See note on § 4, mortification.

Seas of blood. A reference to the shedding of blood in Ger- many and Scotland in the time of the Reformation. The author holds that differences of opinion regarding the meaning of words such as ecclesiastic and priest and Presbyterian caused religious wars. Yet, in the phrase " though in the heart of them founded on deeper causes," Ruskin seems to recognize that the mere differ- ence of opinion about words was not the fundamental cause of the religious wars.

19. The habit you must form. The didactic tone of the author in this section proves rather attractive to most readers. The directness of appeal holds the attention.

Max Miiller's lectures. Professor Max M filler, of Oxford, de- livered his " Lectures on the Science of Language " during the three years preceding Ruskin's " Sesame " lecture.

20. A true book. Compare the end of the ninth section.

No English words are more familiar to us. In § 61 Ruskin shows some caution, about assuming too much knowledge in his readers, but he is certainly wrong in assuming that all his hearers would be perfectly familiar with Milton's Lycidas.

21. Those three words, i.e., creep and intrude and climb. Lords over the heritage. See note on § 9.

22. A broken metaphor. A curious example of broken or mixed metaphor appears in Mr. Dooley on Oratory : " Th' hand iv time marches with stately steps acrost th' face iv histhry."

194 SESAME AND LILIES

Bill and Nancy. The author gains force by saying specifically "Bill and Nancy" instead of " two persons."

Salisbury steeple. According to Baedeker's Great Britain^ the steeple of Salisbury cathedral, 404 ft. high, is the loftiest in England.

23. I go on. Study the variation of sentence length in this essay. What effect does the author gain by such a short sentence as this ?

The Latin word, viz. spb-itus, which literally means breath. The Greek word referred to is Trvevfia (pneuma), familiar in the derivative form pneumatic, as pneumatic tires, tires filled with wind or air.

Inspiration. See note on §4, mortification.

Fog of the fen. One of the characteristics of Ruskin's style is his frequent use of alliteration. Be on the lookout for such embel- lishment elsewhere in the three lectures.

Cretinous stupefaction. Compare fevered idiotism in §129. From his long residence in Switzerland, Ruskin no doubt became much impressed by the prevalence of cretinism, a form of idiocy combined with physical deformity.

These are the true fog children. The sentence containing these words needs study because of the involved phraseology. Similarly involved sentences occur not infrequently in Ruskin's writing. In fact, this feature of his style is decidedly characteristic.

24. The latter is weaker. Compare the twenty-fifth section, where Dante is ranked higher than Milton. See also §§60 and III.

Reverse. Distinguish between reverse and opposite. In a close reading of Sesatne and Lilies much can be learned regarding shades of meaning of words.

25. Much more is yet to be found. Very likely the average student will be unable to find anything more in the lines.

"Reading." See note on § 10, book.

" To mix the music." A reference to lines in R. W. Emerson's To Rhea : —

" He mixes music with her thoughts, And saddens her with heavenly doubts." This writer, i.e., Milton.

NOTES 195

Not among the first. Literary critics now rank Milton as among the first or leading writers in any language.

Character of Cranmer. In Shakespeare's Henry VIII, Act V.

Virgil. The Latin epic poet, Virgil, who died in 19 B.C., is represented by Dante in The Divine Comedy as guiding him in his imaginary and poetical visit to Hell.

" Disteso," etc. = " stretched out, so abjectly, in eternal exile." Dante's "Inferno," Canto 23, lines 126-129.

"Come '1 frate," etc. = "like the friar who listens to the con- fession of sins of the perfidious murderer." Dante's " Inferno," Canto 19, hnes 51-53.

Alighieri. That is, Dante, the great Italian poet, who died in 1321. The last half of § 25 contains several allusions to Shake- speare and Dante. To understand fully Ruskin's references, one must know well Shakespeare's plays Richard III and Henry VIII and Dante's poem. The Divine Comedy. This poem is divided into three parts, " Inferno," " Purgatory," and " Paradise." See Cary's translation of this greatest of Italian epics, Ruskin asks the reader to contrast Dante's description of the noble and upright St. Francis and St. Dominic in "Paradise," Canto II, lines 27-39, with the description of Caiaphas, the wicked high priest, in " Inferno," Canto 23, or with the description of the evil-doing Pope Nicholas III in " Inferno," Canto 19. The main point of the allu- sions is that by them Ruskin hopes to show Dante's and Shake- speare's true power of painting men as they are, no matter what may be their position in life.

Articles. Statements of belief, such as the Thirty-nine Articles of the Church of England.

26. Rough heath wilderness. Notice how the words chosen convey by their very sound something of the idea of harshness.

Break up, etc. See note on § 9.

27. Having then faithfully listened. Consider the structural coherence of the essay. By this participial phrase the writer links together two main divisions.

Passion or " sensation." See note on § 4, mortification.

28. Tact. See note on § 4, mortification.

The Mimosa. A large genus of tropical American herbs, shrubs, or trees of the bean family, with sensitive leaves that close at a touch.

196 SESAME AND LILIES

29. Not merely to know. Another instance of a cohering clause introduced at the beginning of a division of thought to join it closely to the next division.

True knowledge. Every little vi^hile one sees an example of Ruskin's analytic mind. He is always making distinctions in the use of words. Sometimes he refines needlessly.

Golden balls of heaven, i.e., the stars.

The source of the great river. Doubtless a reference to the explorations in 1858-59 of David Livingstone toward the source of the Zambesi. Livingstone returned to England in 1864 from an exploring expedition in Africa. The allusion, like that to Max Miiller's lectures, is simply another illustration of Ruskin's alert mind, open to impressions gained by his current reading and mak- ing use of the impressions when the occasion arises in his writings.

The place of the great continents. A reference to Columbus's voyages.

River of Life, and the angels desire, etc. See note on § 9.

An agonized nation. The United States, then engaged in the Civil War. Compare page 13 of Introduction.

Noble nations murdered. Poland by Russia, or the minor provinces by Turkey. England also refused to interfere in the Italian struggle for independence then going on under Garibaldi.

30. See its own children murder each other. An allusion to the American Civil War. English people, Ruskin says, worried at the effect of the war in stopping the exportation of cotton.

Estates. What is the syntax?

Selling opium. A reference to the Opium War between Eng- land and China a score of years before the essay was written. China objected to the importation of opium from India, but Eng- land forced China to receive the opium, thus causing incalculable harm to the Chinese. *

Clowns (in footnote). See note on § 10, book.

" Perplexed in the extreme." From the fifth act of Shake- speare's tragedy, Othello.

A great nation does not. What effect does the writer gain by repeating "great nation" as the subject of so many successive sentences ?

Love of money. See note on § 9.

NOTES 197

31. Insanity of avarice. Note Ruskin's own explanation in the next sentence, " the idea that everything should ' pay.' " See also § 39 for another of his explanations, " the false business of money-making." Experience shows that pupils are likely to use the phrase "insanity of avarice" glibly without understanding what the author means.

The good Samaritan and scorpion whips. See note on § 9.

Hope for a nation. Balance the good and the evil tendencies of British national life as explained in §§31-37.

Clause by clause. The systematic structure in the sections fol- lowing helps to make the idea clear.

32. Bibliomaniac. See note on §4, 7nortification.

No book is worth anything which is not worth much. Rus- kin carried out this idea consistently in the price put upon his own books. They were sold at a high price until near the end of his life.

Sweet as honey and barley-loaves. See note on §9.

33. Scientific bone. If you enjoy making collections, such as stamps or post-cards, try your hand at making a collection of Rus- kin's figures of speech in this essay. You will find some remarkably beautiful and some very homely, but all excellently calculated to make the idea intelligible.

An observatory. England maintains the Royal Observatory at Greenwich to fix at i p.m. every day the correct time for the whole of England.

Stuffed birds. As in the reference to Greenwich Observatoryy Ruskin exaggerates the English indifference. Only six years before the lecture was delivered, anew reading-room costing ;^ 150,000 was opened as part of the British Museum.

Their. Strict style would require his instead of their.

Resolve. See note on §4, mortijicadon.

Nebula = any luminous cloud-like object in the sky, as a star- cluster (Standard Dictionary).

Two years ago. Another example of Ruskin's alertness to current happenings in the field of science. See the Introduction (page 19) for an account of the author's own scientific studies and writings. The fossil referred to is the archaeopteryx.

For military apparatus. Just as in Ruskin's time, people are still inveighing against the disproportionate expenditures for mill-

198 SESAME AND LILIES

tary armament. In a current newspaper an American proposes that half the sum being spent for the navy be applied to the found- ing of agricultural high schools throughout the country.

34. Ludgate apprentices. See Baedeker's Zow^icw for explana- tion of Ludgate. On Ludgate Hill, a street leading to St. Paul's Cathedral, were small shops, at the doors of which young salesmen stood, trying to allure customers.

As book-keeping is. Ruskin was constantly fighting against the commerciaUzation of art. Modern business methods, he thought, interfered with true art appreciation. From his many journeys to France and Italy he came to feel that in those coun- tries there was a keener regard for things of the spirit than in Eng- land, absorbed as that country was in " business."

Austrian guns. In the war between Austria and Venice some of the paintings of the Venetian artist Tintoretto were slashed by Austrian shells during the siege of Venice in August, 1849 (cf. Ploetz's Epitome of Ancient, Medieval, and Modern History and Ruskin's Croiun of PVild Olive).

35. A railroad bridge over the falls of Schaffhausen. How Ruskin would feel about such a desecration as this can be seen by a reference to page 21. The falls were in the Rhine in Switzer- land.

Tunnelled the cliffs of Lucerne. A reference to the Axen- strasse, a road cut in the rock above Lake Lucerne near Tell's chapel, Switzerland.

Trampled coal ashes into. Compare §§ ?>i and 104 for a simi- lar protest.

Your own poets used to love, e.g., Wordsworth in his Swiss sonnet and Shelley in his " Lines Written in the Vale of Cha- mouni." Ruskin contrasts the love that the poets had for the Alps with the attitude of the tourist mountain climbers who ascend the highest peaks merely for the sake of being able to say they reached the top, like people who climb soaped poles in uncouth sport.

The valley of Chamouni. Near Mont Blanc. Ruskin grows sarcastic in his denunciation of tourists who fire cannon in this Swiss valley to hear the echo.

Towers of the vineyards. See note on § 9.

NOTES 199

36. You despise compassion. Perhaps the most touching chap- ter in literature to be read in connection with compassion despised is Victor Hugo's Les Miserables, Chapter 6 of Book II. The tenth chapter of Book VII is also harrowing.

Store-drawer. Place for storing clippings from newspapers. See preceding comments on this custom of the author.

An early date this year (1865). It would appear that the ex- tract from the Daily Telegraph was not part of the original lecture, but was inserted in the printed edition. In the footnote beginning, "This abbreviation of the penalty," there is also inserted a date later than the date of the lecture. See § 2 of Ruskin's Preface, also the footnote to § 37.

A book. The Book of Judgment.

Spitalfields. A manufacturing district of London, where boot- making is now one of the chief industries.

Get the "stones." Be made to work at breaking stone for roads.

" You ought to go into the house," i.e., the workhouse. Com- pare the second sentence of § 37.

37. Gave them their pensions at home. Recent legislation by the English Parliament provides old age pensions. Ruskin is ahead of his time.

Satanellas, — Roberts, — Fausts. The idea is that the chant- ing of hymns on a stage by opera singers in the presentation of the operas Satanella by Balfe, Robert le Diable, by Meyerbeer, and Faust by Gounod is worse than the swearing forbidden by the Biblical third commandment.

Chanting. "What is the syntax ? Another illustration of the author's tendency to write involved sentences that are difficult to comprehend structurally at the first glance.

Carburetted hydrogen = illuminating gas. In the last six sen- tences of § 37, Ruskin is scornfully exposing what he considers the sham, formal religion of his time, when worshippers gave more thought to fine surroundings and music and ceremonies than to true Christian charity. The reference to gaslights seems to lead the author whimsically to play on words and speak about giving up the ghost of false, gas-inspired Christianity; he would let such Christianity die and be replaced by helpful acts of charity.

200 SESAME AND LILIES

Expiration. See note on § 4. Lazarus. See note on § 9.

38. All these pleasures, then, and all these virtues. The

author appears to distinguish between the pleasures and virtues, but does not really. Enumerate Ruskin's reasons why the English cannot understand any thoughtful reading.

39. Having no true emotion. A summarizing phrase covering the contents of §§ 32-38.

Idolatrous Jews. See note on § 9.

40. The measure of national fault. Also a summary, with added explanation of the reason for the fault.

Chalmers. Thomas Chalmers died in 1847 ^^ ^^^ ^S^ o^ sixty- seven. He was a Scotch minister.

Inquiry into methods of reading. Compare the statement of the theme in the first section.

41. The last of our great painters. Turner. See the Intro- duction, page 9, and also § loi.

Play with the words of the dead. In the sentence containing these words and in the next sentence, there is a statement of the theme of the essay, along with a fanciful figure of speech that sug- gested the title " Of Kings' Treasuries."

41. Incantation = magic song to enchant. Compare the word " Sesame," § 50.

These kings. Note that the word ^ings appears four times in this section.

Become pure and mighty of heart. A summary of the second way of reading, viz. entering into the hearts and souls of authors. See Isaiah 14 : 9-10.

42. Magnanimous. See note on § 4, mortification. " Advance in life." Compare § 3.

Scythian custom. The customs of the people of Scythia, an ancient country northeast of the Black Sea, early impressed Ruskin from his reading of them in the history written by the Greek Herodotus. One of Ruskin's early poems is " The Scythian Guest."

Ice of Caina. Dante in Canto 32 of " Inferno " makes Caina a circle in hell where traitors and murderers dwell submerged, except for their heads, in ice. The Dante description is grewsomely pic- turesque as translated by Gary.

NOTES 201

Living peace. The footnote in Greek is from the Greek New Testament translated in Romans 8 : 6, as follows : " But to be spir- itually minded is life and peace." A literal translation would be : The mind of the spirit is life and peace.

True lords or kings of the earth. From here to §46 the author digresses from his main theme of the kingship which all may attain by entering into the thoughts and souls of great authors, to the kingship of actual earthly rulers.

Elsewhere. Munera Pulveris, § 1 22.

43. Kinghood. The substance of the paragraph is: Visible kings are grasping and callous. In the early part of Pra:terita Ruskin tells what he thinks of kings.

Achilles' indignant epithet. In Iliad, Book I, line 231, Achilles describes King Agamemnon as "people-eating."

"II gran rifiiito, i.e., the great refusal or abdication. See Dante's " Inferno," Canto 3, line 56.

44. Visible king. The substance of the paragraph is : Visible kings may attain true kingship of heart.

Trent cuts you a cantel. A reference to Shakespeare's Henry IV, I, Act III, Scene I. Trent is a river in the north central part of England.

"Go." See note on §9.

45. The difference. The first part of the paragraph explains what visible kings are and the second part what they may be.

"Do and teach" and the path which no fowl knoweth. See note on § 9.

Fourth kind of treasure, i.e., Wisdom. See Job 28: 12-19 and Proverbs 3: 13-18.

Vulcanian force. A reference to Vulcan, the god of fire.

Delphian cliffs. At Delphi, on the southern slope of Mount Parnassus, was the celebrated oracle of Apollo, god of the sun and of light. (See Lippincott's Pronouncing Gazetteer of the World.^

46. National amusement in reading-rooms. Observe the verbal return to the theme and the graceful ending of the essay. For Ruskin's practical belief in reading-rooms, see page 21.

47. The only book. Unto this Last.

48. Ten millions' worth of knowledge annually. Compare § T^i and note.

202 SESAME AND LILIES

49. National libraries. Observe how Ruskin keeps the idea of reading to the front by repeating the words reading-rooms and libraries.

50. This book plan. The closing idea of the essay is that England needs to tone up its system by giving more attention to spiritual than to corporal vv^ants. By establishing more libraries and becoming kingly in soul so as to be able to read the books, the English people will, Ruskin says, provide for themselves better spiritual food. Bread is cheaper now, he says, because of the repeal, in 1846, of the corn laws which kept the price of corn, or wheat, high. Still more should be the care at present, he con- cludes, to provide also for spiritual bread at the high price that must be paid, purity of heart.

Needfullest. See note on § 14, patientest.

The treasuries of true kings. The last few words of this essay, like the final words of the other essays in the volume, preach Rus- kin's message concerning true helpfulness.

OF QUEENS' GARDENS

51. What to read. Does the author anywhere in the first fifty sections (that is, in "Of Kings' Treasuries") answer this question?

"Likeness of a kingly crown have on." Milton's Paradise Lost, II, 673.

52. There is, then, I repeat. What is the central thought of this complicated sentence? Observe how well §§51 and 52 sum up the first essay.

54. Their ordinary power. By reference at once to the open- ing sentences of §§ 70 and 86, the general structure of the essay will become clear. Sections 55 through 69 treat of woman's ordinary power, that is, her function in the household. Sections 70 through 85 treat of the education which best fits her to exercise her powers. Sections 86 through 95 (the end) treat of her power and influence outside the home, as a member of the state or nation.

55. I must repeat. Many readers find Ruskin hard to follow, because of his luxuriance of thought, because of the agile working of his mind. Apparently he follows always the straight path of simple, direct exposition; in reality he often starts on a track, then

NOTES 203

covers up his track with related ideas so that the reader is lost. Note carefully here the connection between the discussion of woman's ordinary power and the appeal to great writers for testimony.

The testimony. What testimony is given by what writers?

56. Shakespeare has no heroes. In the discussion that fol- lows weigh every statement of Ruskin. From your reading of Shakespeare, do you reach the same conclusions that Ruskin reaches?

57. The "unlessoned girl." Portia, in Shakespeare's The Merchant of Venice.

59. As of no value. It is such curiously dogmatic statements as these that prejudice some readers against Ruskin. When he became seized with an idea, it was his custom to think that there could be no possible basis for any other idea. Do you consider Ivanhoe of no value?

60. Dante's great poem. Compare §§ 24, 25, and iii. Dante Rossetti. See page 11.

61. Andromache. For the story of Andromache, the M'ife of Hector, see the sixth book of Homer's Iliad. No doubt you have read of Andromache in Addison's De Coverley essay entitled " Sir Roger at the Play."

Cassandra. The prophecies of Cassandra, daughter of Priam, king of Troy, were disbelieved by the Trojans.

Nausicaa. In Lippincott's Pronouncing Biographical Diction- ary you will find that the princess Nausicaa, daughter of the king of the Phaeacians, showed kindness to Ulysses when he was wrecked on the island of Phoeacia or Corfu, where her father was king.

Penelope. . Faithful to her husband, Ulysses, during his long voyage, Penelope watched for him daily, and kept busy weaving, though insistent suitors wished her hand. Ruskin says that Nausi- caa's life showed kindness and simplicity, while the life of Penelope showed calmness.

Antigone. A play by Sophocles. In this play the heroine, contrary to the king's orders, buried the body of her brother, who died fighting against Thebes. In consequence of her disobedience of the orders of the king of Thebes, the heroine was to be buried alive, but she killed herself.

204 SESAME AND LILIES

Iphigenia. When the Greeks proposed to appease the of- fended goddess Diana, during the Trojan War, by the sacrifice of the daughter of King Agamemnon, she submitted silently ; but she was rescued by Diana.

Alcestis. According to fable, she gave up her life to save her husband, and then was rescued from the realms of death by the mighty Hercules.

62. Lawgiver of all the earth. Moses, educated among the Egyptians by a princess, daughter of King Pharaoh. See Exodus 2 : 9, 10, "And the woman took the child, and nursed it. And the child grew, and she brought him unto Pharaoh's daughter, and he became her son. And she called his name Moses." For the way in which Moses gave the law to the people of Israel, read chapters 31-34 of Exodus. Other direct and indirect Biblical references in this essay are as follows : § 68, shade as of the rock, Isaiah 32 : 2, ceiled with ce^dox, Jeremiah 22: 14; § 73, Spirit of the Comforter, John 16: 7 and 14: 26; § 83, sharp arrows, coals of juniper. Psalms 120:3-4; §85, as sheep having no shepherd, Matthew 9:36, waters . . . from the rocks. Exodus 17:6, an unknown God, ^<r^'5 17: 23; § 88, ministering to Him of their substance, Luke 8: 3, in breaking of bread, Mark 14: 22; § 90, Prince of all Peace, Isaiah 9:6; § 94, Come, thou south, and breathe upon my garden. Song of Solomon 4: 16; § 95, a Madeleine, Matthew 28: i, all through the night, Sotig of Solomon 3:1, that old garden. Genesis 3 : 24, the vine has flourished, Song of Solomon 6: ii, take us the. foxes. Song of Solomon 2:15, the foxes have holes, Matthew 8 : 20.

Athena. Goddess of Wisdom. She was the national divinity of the Athenians, whose capital, Athens, is named from the god- dess. For the symbolic significance of the worship of Athena, con- sult Ruskin's Queen of the Air.

64. The evidence of facts. Of all Ruskin's testimony concern- ing woman's household dignity, which evidence do you consider of most value?

65. Farther argument. What are this author's merits and de- fects in method of argument ? In the use of the word farther, purists are agreed that Ruskin has blundered. Strictly /zr/Z^^r is used to indicate distance ; further is the word for mere addition.

" Ah, wasteful woman ! " Quotation from Coventry Patmore,

NOTES 205

a nineteenth-century English poet who was for years assistant libra- rian at the British Museum. Ruskin speaks of Patmore's poem, The Angel in the House, as " the sweetest analysis we possess of quiet, modern domestic feeling."

67. Rightly distinguishable. See note on true knozuledge, § 29.

68. But. Observe the effectiveness of this transition word separating the discussion of the power of man and woman.

A sacred place. Study the beautiful ideal of home life pre- sented in this complicated sentence. The allusions make the meaning hard to grasp. First, the author speaks of the home as a sacred place. Then he calls it a vestal temple or a temple of the hearth. The allusion here is to Vesta, the Roman goddess of the hearth or home. Then he speaks of the Household Gods watching over it; these were the gods kept in Roman homes and worshipped by those who loved their home life. Then he alludes to the Bible by saying that the roof of the home is like the shade of the rock in a weary land (^Isaiah 32:2); and he alludes to the famous light- house of Pharos outside the harbor of Alexandria by saying that the fire of the home is like the light of the lighthouse. In short, he says that if the home is a place of purity and seclusion and love and rest and light, it is truly a home.

And wherever a true wife comes. This is a representative paragraph of Ruskin at his best in emotional eloquence. Com- pare it with the still more beautiful closing paragraph of the essay.

Ceiled with cedar. Com^d^xQ Jeremiah 22 : 14.

69. "La donna h mobile." These Italian words from the libretto of Verdi's opera, Rigoletto, mean, " Woman is changeable, fickle." The following Italian phrase means " as a feather in the wind." The quotation beginning " Variable as the shade " is from Scott's Marmion. Paraphrase the last sentence of § 69, using only English words, but bringing out all of the meaning.

70. That poet. Wordsworth.

72. Thus, then . . . frame. As usual, there is a skillful transi- tion from one division of thought to the next. Ruskin makes his main divisions stand out distinctly, and also takes pains to show the transition from point to point within the main divisions. In §§ 70 and 71, he discusses woman's physical education; in §§ 72 through 81, the mental education; in §§ 82 through 85, the imaginative.

206 SESAME AND LILIES

Languages. The elements of woman's mental education, according to this author's plan, are to be language, science, history, current events, and religion. Note the omissions. Is the proposed course of study a good one for girls?

Valley of Humiliation. A reference to Christian's journey in Bunyan's Pilgriui's Progress.

The nothingness of the proportion. Meditate long on this sentence when everything seems to be going wrong in school.

" For all who are desolate." From the English Book of Com- mon Prayer : " That it may please thee to defend and provide for the fatherless children and widows and all who are desolate and oppressed."

73. Spirit of the Comforter. Compare John 16: 'j and 14 : 26.

74. Quite differently directed. In §§ 74-Si, the points of difference in direction between a girl's and a boy's education are developed: I. The girl's is to be not so thorough. 2. It is to be just as accurate. 3. She is to enter earlier into deep subjects. 4. She is to select freely from classical books. 5. She is to use the finest models in art. 6. Her education is to be just as serious as a boy's. 7. She is to have just as noble teachers.

75. Circulating library. Compare § 49.

76. The sore temptation of novel reading. The four points discussed are : I. The danger in novel reading. 2. The serious uses of novels. 3. The determining factor in the choice of novels. 4. The free choice of novels in a library of classical books.

78. "Her household motions." From Wordsworth's poem, " She was a phantom of delight."

81. Dean of Christ Church. Consult page 7.

82. Thus, then, of literature. Transition phrase.

83. Fill with heaps of cinders. Compare § 35. Sections S3 through 85 are a digressive tirade about Ruskin's pet aversion.

Sharp arrows and coals of juniper. Compare Psalms 120:

3-4.

84. Snowdon is your Parnassus. Snowdon, a lofty and beau- tiful mountain of Wales, is compared with Parnassus, the mountain in Greece sacred to the Muses. The idea is that no spirit of poetry and music and art hovers over the mountain of Wales as it did

NOTES 207

according to legend over the mountain of Greece. Similarly, Holy- head Mountain, splendid as it is, commanding the sea, lacks the associations which have kept the name of the island of ^gina famous. On this island was a temple to Minerva, goddess of wis- dom or learning or education. At the beginning of the next sec- tion, the author means Christian education when he says Christian Minerva.

85. As sheep having no shepherd. For the Biblical refer- ences in this section, see note on § 62, Lawgiver.

86, Thus far, then. Would Ruskin have improved the order of his three main sections by discussing woman's education first; next, her home queenliness; and, lastly, her queenliness in the state?

88. Lady means "bread-giver." The word lady means not bread-giver, but bread-/^«^<'?^i?r (Kluge and Lutz, English Etymol- ogy). Zt>rc/ means bread-keeper.

Ministering to Him. For the Biblical references, see note on § 62, Laivgiver.

90. Rex et Regina — Roi et Reine. Latin and French for king and queen.

Myrtle crown. The myrtle was sacred to Venus. Venus was the goddess of beauty. " Myrtle crown " thus stands for crown of beauty.

Prince of all Peace. Compare Isaiah 9 : 6.

91. Verily " Dei gratia " = truly by the grace of God. Instead of trying to do this. Another of Ruskin's bursts of

sermonic eloquence.

92. I do not wonder. The repetition of the words " I do not wonder " at the beginning of four successive sentences gives force to the idea.

Myriad-handed murder of multitudes. These words are part of a sentence that admirably illustrates Ruskin's flamboyancy of style. See the Introduction, page 30.

93. "Her feet have touched." From Tennyson's Maud.

94. "Even the light harebell." See the first canto of Scott's Lady of the Lake.

Bid the black blight. Notice the other alliterations in this wonderfully beautiful section.

Come, thou south, etc. See note on § 62.

208 SESAME AND LILIES

Dante's great Matilda. In "Purgatory," Canto 28, Dante speaks of meeting a lady, Matilda, who went singing, culling flower from flower, and who drew the visitor through the river Lethe, in which are left all remembrances of wrong, and in which are brought to mind all good deeds. Note that Matilda, Maud, and Madeleine, of §§ 94 and 95, are all related proper names; Maud is a diminu- tive form of both Matilda and Madeleine.

" The Larkspur listens." This quotation is from Tennyson's Maud, Part I, 22, stanza 10; the preceding quotation from Maud is from Part I, 22, stanza I.

95. A Madeleine. For the six Biblical references in this sec- tion, see note on § 62, Latvgiver.

At the gate of this garden. A garden, that is, where human hearts are thirsting for waters of comfort.

You queens. In a flight of eloquence, the essayist pleads for true helpfulness. Compare with the endings of the first and third essays.

THE MYSTERY OF LIFE AND ITS ARTS

97. Ingenious or pleasant essayist. Beside the points enu- merated by Ruskin in this frank criticism of his style as an essB,yist, what other characteristics are mentioned in the notes on the first two essays and in the Introduction ?

" What is your life ?" Compare §§ 9 and 132.

98. The mystery. Observe how gracefully the writer draws near his theme, as in the two preceding essays.

99. The third and most solemn character. Compare the enumeration of items in §§ 135-139.

100. The true nature of our life. Is this the theme of the whole essay ?

Disappointment. Here, as often in personal remarks made by men of sensitive nature, Ruskin is probably exaggerating his disappointments. Consult again the introductory biography of this author.

Titian. In § 122 there are references to four other famous Italian artists. Have you seen paintings by any of them, or repro- ductions of any of their great paintings ?

NOTES 209

loi. While the painter was yet alive. Compare §41, and see the Introduction (page 9) for references to what Ruskin did for J, M. W.Turner. If there are any of Turner's works where you can see them (the Metropolitan Museum of Art in New York con- tains some), study them and make up your mind in what respects Turner is superior to other English artists since the time of Reynolds. If you do not find anywhere any Turner paintings, your town or city library may contain reproductions of some of his most celebrated works, such as " Slave Ship " and " Fighting Temeraire." Turner's " Mortlake " was recently sold to an American for ^75,000. The Turner water-colors which Ruskin arranged in the basement of the National Gallery (London) are still there. Several summers when the present editor has been there to see them, they were attracting many other visitors. Ruskin may perhaps justly have felt in 1864 that his work for Turner was in vain, but time has brought full recognition to the principles that underlie Turner's work and full honor to the painter.

103. The first mystery of life. Compare § 108.

104. Choked with soot. Compare § 35.

105. Pope has expressed. In his Essay on Man.

Pillar of darkness. The sentence containing this metaphor is adapted from Exodus 13 : 22. In most of the particularly beautiful rhetorical passages, Ruskin rises to Scriptural heights of eloquence, notably so, for instance, in §119. Other passages in this third essay having a distinct Biblical tinge or directly quoted from the Bible are: § 107, our heart fat. Psalms 119: 70, lest we should see with our eyes, John 12:40; §109, the kings of the earth, Isaiah 40: 22; § 119, hewers of wood, Joshua 9: 21; § 128, in the sweat of their face. Genesis 3:19, whatsoever thy hand findeth to do, Ecclesiastes 9 : 10; § 130, she layeth her hands to the spindle, Prov- erbs 31 : 19, I was naked, Matthew 25 : 36; § 131, I was a stranger, Matthew 25 :35; §132, the wild fig-tree, Revelation 6: 13, as a vapor, Jai7ies 4: 14; § 133, The twinkling of an eye, i Corinthians 15: 52; §135, They that are His, Galatians 5:24; §140, Lord, I thank Thee, Luke 18: ii, For the greatest of these is Charity, I Corinthians 13: 13.

107. This, then, I meant. Compare § 103, which also opens with a sentence looking back to the preceding section.

210 SESAME AND LILIES

Our heart fat. For the Biblical references in this section, see note on § 105.

108. The first great mystery of life. Criticise the following as a summary of the first mystery : the apathy of artists and all other people regarding the ends or motives of life.

109. The Art of this world. .See § 96.

I will tell you something. Where does he carry out his promise?

The kings of the earth. See note on § 105.

no. The appointed teachers of the rest. In § 9 is found Ruskin's idea of the mission of great writers. Note that in " Of Kings' Treasuries" the same writers, Milton and Dante, are spe- cially discussed.

III. Hesiod's account. In a poem called Theogony, said to have been written by Hesiod, a Greek poet of the eighth cen- tury, B.C.

Dante's conception. Compare §§ 24, 25, and 60.

113. Darkness of controversy. Referring to the political con- troversies engaged in by Milton in the middle of the seventeenth century.

Stress of personal grief. Dante's poem was written while he was in exile as a tribute to his " lost mortal love," Beatrice Porti- nari, the "dear Florentine maiden" referred to in § in.

115. After fifteen hundred years. Shakespeare was born in 1564.

Death-bed of Katharine. Henry VIII, Act IV, Scene 2.

The great soldier-king. Henry V, Act IV, Scene 8.

" The gods are just." King Lear, Act V, Scene 3.

" There's a divinity." Hamlet, Act V, Scene 2.

n6. A third class. Study the structure. Having discussed the first mystery of life, viz. that men engaged in the arts have no noble motive, no sense of the real ends of life, the author shows the same to be true of the great teachers, Milton and Dante, whom he calls " wise religious men," and Homer and Shakespeare, whom he calls "wise contemplative men." Now he is to show in §§ 116- 118 that wise practical or worldly men also lack the noble motive. In § 119, he begins to discuss still another group, the hand workers.

117. I dreamed. In §§ 117 and 118, Ruskin, under the guise

NOTES 211

of a dream, rails against modern commercialism. See the Intro- duction (page 1 6) for statements concerning his industrial ideals, and consider what faults he finds in this dream. See too Ruskin's own note on § 117, at the bottom of page 166.

119. Hewers of wood. See note on § 105.

120. At last. Ruskin's abundant connectives furnish an in- teresting study. Make a collection of the connectives for the pur- pose of adding to your own store.

A lesson. What is the lesson taught by the workers ? What mystery of life is discussed in §§ 120-139 ?

121. Does a bird need? Argument by analogy. Having grasped Ruskin's ideas in §§ 120 and 121, challenge them to find whether they are true.

122. Gustave Dor6's art was bad. Possibly you have seen Dore's illustrations for The Ancient Mariner or Dante's Divine Comedy or Milton's Paradise Lost, and have your own opinion about the art of this nineteenth-century French engraver.

123. Arrest of their power. Notice the equivalent expression later in this section, *' skill which was at pause." The trouble with the painter of the picture of the angel in the Irish prayer book was, according to this criticism, that he drew with perfect symmetry and assurance. On the other hand, the eager sculptor of Lombardy, one of the Italian provinces, depicted Eve in such a way that one felt that there was a struggle toward something better; there was some hope for art that had this strain of effort.

125. Points of character. For Ruskin's belief that national art and character always were closely joined, see page 19 and the note on § 10.

127. First of their lessons. Observe the method used in §§ 1 19-127 in explaining the first lesson received from the toilers concerning the mystery of life and its arts.

128. Happiness is pursued. The author himself sought hap- piness by work, as is explained on pages 18 and 23.

In the sweat of their face. For the two Biblical references in this section see note on § 10^, pillar of darkness.

129. Fevered idiotism. Compare § 23 and the note.

In our own dominion. India. One of the worst famines in India was in Orissa in 1866.

212 SESAME AND LILIES

130. Their wisest 'king. Solomon. 'Bi^^ Proverbs \:\. Sweet colors. Ruskin had prejudices in favor of certain colors

and against others. See page 28, for what he thought of yellow.

Robe. What part of speech is this ?

She layeth, etc., and I was naked, etc. See note on § 105, pillar of darkness.

131. I was a stranger. See note on § 105.

132. Shall the strength of their generations . . . cast away their labor? Ruskin would answer his rhetorical question by say- ing, "No. Take up the work of men and do what can be done." Sections 132-140 show what can be done.

The wild fig-tree. Compare Revelation 6: 13. They have dreamed. Observe the repeated structure in the sentence beginning thus.

"As a vapor." Compare § 97. See a.\so /ames 4: 14.

133. The twinkling of an eye. See note on § 105. He maketh the winds, etc. Compare Psalms 104 : 4.

135. Sin of Ananias. " But a certain man named Ananias, with Sapphira his wife, sold a possession and kept back part of the price, his wife also being privy to it, and brought a certain part, and laid it at the apostles' feet. But Peter said, Ananias, why hath Satan filled thine heart to lie to the Holy Ghost, and to keep back part of the price of the land? " Acts 5 : 1-3.

They that are His. Compare Galatians 5 : 24.

"Station in life." Compare § 2.

Levi's station in life. Read about Levi in the second chapter of Matthew^ about Peter in the fourth chapter of Matthew, and about Paul in the ninth chapter of The Acts of the Apostles.

And sure good is. For Ruskin's estimate of the importance of the subject-matter in §§ 135-140, see page 36.

138. Remedial action in the houses. How the author practiced this preaching is told on page 12.

140. The greatest of all the mysteries of life. Name the mysteries discussed in this essay. Consult structural notes on §§ 116 and 120.

"Lord, I thank thee," etc. Compare Luke 18 : 11.

Cannot cook, etc. Alliteration.

The great book. The Bible. Compare § 17.

NOTES 213

The greatest of these is Charity. Compare / Corinthians 13 : 13. The closing idea of this lecture is about the same as that of the two preceding lectures. Thus the main teaching of the author is the same in all three essays, and the three essays naturally form one book.

TOPICS FOR STUDY AND WRITING

1. Show that the most valuable work in the high school course in literature is Sesame arid Lilies.

2. Outline an argument to prove or disprove the proposition : Novel reading is a waste of time.

3. Construct a simple argument to prove or disprove the propo- sition : The education of girls should be different from the educa- tion of boys.

4. Write a brief for an argument on one of the following state- ments : —

a. Shakespeare has no heroes.

b. The novel is more effective than the essay for depicting man- ners and customs.

c. The noble minds of the past are the best teachers.

5. Explain as fully and as clearly as you can the proper way to read books.

6. Make a topical outline for an exposition of the manner in which Ruskin represents the spirit or tendency of the literary era to which he belongs.

7. Give briefly Ruskin's explanation of the difference between the books of the hour and the books of all time.

8. Give an outline of the history of English essays up to the time of Ruskin.

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