Lectures on art : delivered before the University of Oxford in Hilary term, 1870

THE LIBRARY

OF

THE UNIVERSITY
OF CALIFORNIA

LOS ANGELES

GIFT

From the library of
Henry Goldman, C.E. Ph.D,
1886-1972

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LECTURES ON ART.

R US KIN.

UonKon
MACMILLAN AND CO.

PUBLISHERS TO THE UNIVERSITY OF

•start

LECTURES ON ART

DELIVERED BEFORE THE UNIVERSITY OF OXFORD
IN HILARY TERM, 1870

BY

JOHN RUSKIN, M.A.

HONORARY STUDENT OB CHRIST CHURCH
BLADE PROFESSOR OF FINE ART

AT THE CLARENDON PRESS

M.DCCC.LXX
[All rights reserved]

CONTENTS.

PAGE

LECTURE I. INAUGURAL i

„ n. THE RELATION OP ART TO RELIGION . 33

„ III. THE RELATION OP ART TO MORALS . 63

„ IV. THE RELATION OF ART TO USE. . . 91

„ V. LINE 119

„ VI. LIGHT 143

„ VII. COLOUR 173

THE Catalogue referred to in the Lectures
is at present incomplete. It will however in
its present form be published shortly, and may
be had either from Messrs. Macmillan, 1 6 Bedford
Street, Covent Garden, London, or at the Uni-
versity Galleries, Oxford.

ERRATA.

Page 1 08, lines 18, 19 : — -/or Pan, athenaic read Pan-athenaic.
„ 146, line 2 : — -for (Edu. 2.) read (Edu. 43.)

LECTURE I.

INAUGURAL.

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V

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LECTURE I.

INAUGURAL.

-1 HE duty which is to-day laid on me, of introducing,
among the elements of education appointed in this great
University, one not only new, but such as to involve in
its possible results some modification of the rest, is, as
you well feel, so grave, that no man could undertake it
without laying himself open to the imputation of a kind
of insolence ; and no man could undertake it rightly,
without being in danger of having his hands shortened
by dread of his task, and mistrust of himself.

And it has chanced to me, of late, to be so little ac-
quainted either with pride, or hope, that I can scarcely
recover so much as I now need of the one for strength,
and of the other for foresight, except by remembering
that noble persons, and friends of the high temper that
judges most clearly where it loves best, have desired that
this trust should be given me ; and by resting also in
the conviction that the goodly tree, whose roots, by God's
help, we set in earth to-day, will not fail of its height
because the planting of it is under poor auspices, or the
first shoots of it enfeebled by ill gardening.

B 2

4 Inaugural. [LECT.

2. The munificence of the English gentleman to whom
we owe the founding of this Professorship at once in
our three great Universities, has accomplished the first
great group of a series of changes now taking gradual
effect in our system of public education ; and which, as
you well know, are the sign of a vital change in the
national mind, respecting both the principles on which
that education should be conducted, and the ranks of
society to which it should extend. For, whereas it was
formerly thought that the discipline necessary to form
the character of youth was best given in the study of
abstract branches of literature and philosophy, it is
now thought that the same, or a better, discipline may
be given by informing men in early years of things
it cannot but be of chief practical advantage to them
afterwards to know ; and by permitting to them the I
choice of any field of study which they may feel to be
best adapted to their personal dispositions. I have al-
ways used what poor influence I possessed in advancing
this change ; nor can any one rejoice more than I in
its practical results. But the completion — I will not
venture to say, correction — of a system established by
the highest wisdom of noble ancestors, cannot be too
reverently undertaken : and it is necessary for the
English people, who are sometimes violent in change in
proportion to the reluctance with which they admit its
necessity, to be now oftener than at other times re-
minded that the object of instruction here is not pri-
marily attainment, but discipline; and that a youth is
sent to our Universities, not (hitherto at least) to be
apprenticed to a trade, nor even always to be advanced

i.] Inaugural. 5

in a profession ; but, always, to be made a gentleman
and a scholar.

3. To be made these, — if there is in him the making
of either. The populace of all civilized countries have
lately been under a feverish impression that it is pos-
sible for all men to be both; and that having once
become, by passing through certain mechanical processes
of instruction, gentle and learned, they are sure to
attain in the sequel the consummate beatitude of being
rich.

Rich, in the way and measure in which it is well
for them to be so, they may, without doubt, all become.
There is indeed a land of Havilah open to them, of /
which the wonderful sentence is literally true — ' The gold
of that land is good/ But they must first understand,
that education, in its deepest sense, is not the equalizer,
but the discerner, of men; and that, so far from being
instruments for the collection of riches, the first lesson
of wisdom is to disdain them, and of gentleness, to
diffuse.

It is not therefore, as far as we can judge, yet possible ,
for all men to be gentlemen and scholars. Even under
the best training some will remain too selfish to refuse
wealth, and some too dull to desire leisure. But many
more might be so than are now ; nay, perhaps all men
in England might one day be so, if England truly desired
her supremacy among the nations to be in kindness and
in learning. To which good end, it will indeed contri-
bute that we add some practice of the lower arts to
our scheme of University education ; but the thing
which is vitally necessary is, that we should extend

6 Inaugural. [LECT.

the spirit of University education to the practice of
the lower arts.

4. And, above all, it is needful that we do this by
redeeming- them from their present pain of self-contempt,
and by giving- them rest. It has been too long- boasted
as the pride of England, that out of a vast multitude
of men confessed to be in evil case, it was possible for
individuals, by strenuous effort, and singular good for-
tune, occasionally to emerge into the light, and look
back with self-gratulatory scorn upon the occupations of
their parents, and the circumstances of their infancy.
Ought we not rather to aim at an ideal of national life,
when, of the employments of Englishmen, though each
shall be distinct, none shall be unhappy or ignoble;
when mechanical operations acknowledged to be debasing
in their tendency, shall be deputed to less fortunate and
more covetous races; when advance from rank to rank,
though possible to all men, may be rather shunned than
desired by the best; and the chief object in the mind
of every citizen may not be extrication from a condition
admitted to be disgraceful, but fulfilment of a duty which
shall be also a birth right ?

5. And then, the training of all these distinct classes
will not be by Universities of all knowledge, but by
distinct schools of such knowledge as shall be most use-
ful for every class : in which, first the principles of their
special business may be perfectly taught, and whatever
higher learning, and cultivation of the faculties for re-
ceiving and giving pleasure, may be properly joined with
that labour, taught in connection with it. Thus, I do
not despair of seeing a School of Agriculture, with its

i.] Inaugural. 7

fully-endowed institutes of zoology, botany, and chemis-
try; and a School of Mercantile Seamanship, with its
institutes of astronomy, meteorology, and natural history
of the sea : and, to name only one of the finer, I do not
say higher, arts, we shall, I hope, in a little time, have
a perfect school of Metal-work, at the head of which will
be, not the ironmasters, but the goldsmiths ; and therein,
I believe, that artists, being taught how to deal wisely
with the most precious of metals, will take into due
government the uses of all others ; having in connection
with their practical work splendid institutes of chemistry
and mineralogy, and of ethical and imaginative liter-
ature.

And thus I confess myself more interested in the final
issue of the change in our system of central education,
which is to-day consummated by the admission of the
manual arts into its scheme, than in any direct effect
likely to result upon ourselves from the innovation.
But I must not permit myself to fail in the estimate of
my immediate duty, while I debate what that duty may
hereafter become in the hands of others ; and I will
therefore now, so far as I am able, lay before you a brief
general view of the existing state of the arts in England,
and of the influence which her Universities, through
these newly-founded lectureships, may, I think, bring to
bear upon it for good.

6. And first, we have to consider the impulse which
has been given to the practice of all the arts of which
the object is the production of beautiful things, by the
extension of our commerce, and of the means of inter-
course with foreign nations, by which we now become

8 Inaugural. [LECT.

more familiarly acquainted with their works in past and
in present times. The immediate result of this new know-
ledge has been, I regret to say, to make us more jealous
of the genius of others, than conscious of the limitations
of our own; and to make us rather desire to enlarge
our wealth by the sale of art, than to elevate our enjoy-
ments by its acquisition.

Now, whatever efforts we make, with a true desire to
produce, and possess, as themselves a constituent part of
true wealth, things that are intrinsically beautiful, have
in them at least one of the essential elements of success.
But efforts having origin only in the hope of enriching
ourselves by the sale of our productions, are assuredly
condemned to dishonourable failure; not because, ulti-
mately a well-trained nation may not profit by the
exercise of its peculiar art-skill ; but because that pecu-
liar art-skill can never be developed with a view to
profit. The right fulfilment of national power in art
depends always on the direction of its aim by the ex-
perience of ages. Self-knowledge is not less difficult,
nor less necessary for the direction of its genius, to a
people than to an individual, and it is neither to be
acquired by the eagerness of unpractised pride, nor
during the anxieties of improvident distress. No nation
ever had, or will have, the power of suddenly developing,
under the pressure of necessity, faculties it had neglected
when it was at ease; nor of teaching itself in poverty,
the skill to produce, what it has never in opulence had
the sense to admire.

7. Connected also with some of the worst parts of
our social system, but capable of being directed to better

I.] Inaugural. 9

result than this commercial endeavour, we see lately a
most powerful impulse given to the production of costly
works of art by the various causes which promote the
sudden accumulation of wealth in the hands of private
persons. We have thus a vast and new patronage,
which, in its present agency, is injurious to our schools ;
hut which is nevertheless in a great degree earnest and
conscientious, and far from being influenced chiefly by
motives of ostentation. Most of our rich men would
be glad to promote the true interests of art in this
country ; and even those who buy for vanity, found
their vanity on the possession of what they suppose to
be best.

It is therefore in a great measure the fault of artists
themselves if they suffer from this partly unintelligent,
but thoroughly well-intended, patronage. If they seek
to attract it by eccentricity, to deceive it by superficial
qualities, or take advantage of it by thoughtless and
facile production, they necessarily degrade themselves and
it together, and have no right to complain afterwards
that it will not acknowledge better-grounded claims.
But if every painter of real power would do only what
he knew to be worthy of himself, and refuse to be in-
volved in the contention for undeserved or accidental
success, there is indeed, whatever may have been thought
or said to the contrary, true instinct enough in the
public mind to follow such firm guidance. It is one of
the facts which the experience of thirty years enables
me to assert without qualification, that a really good
picture is ultimately always approved and bought, unless
it is wilfully rendered offensive to the public by faults

io Inaugural. [LECT.

which the artist has been either too proud to abandon,
or too weak to correct.

8. The development of whatever is healthful and ser-
viceable in the two modes of impulse which we have
been considering, depends however, ultimately, on the
direction taken by the true interest in art which has
lately been aroused by the great and active genius of
many of our living, or but lately lost, painters, sculptors,
and architects. It may perhaps surprise, but I think it
will please you to hear me, or (if you will forgive me,
in my own Oxford, the presumption of fancying that
some may recognise me by an old name) to hear the
author of ( Modern Painters' say, that his chief error in
earlier days was not in over-estimating, but in too
slightly acknowledging the merit of living men. The
great painter whose power, while he was yet among us,
I was able to perceive, was the first to reprove me for
my disregard of the skill of his fellow-artists; and,
with this inauguration of the study of the art of all
time, — a study which can only by true modesty end
in wise admiration, — it is surely well that I connect
the record of these words of his, spoken then too truly
to myself, and true always more or less for all who
are untrained in that toil, — 'You don't know how
difficult it is.'

You will not expect me, within the compass of this
lecture, to give you any analysis of the many kinds of
excellent art (in all the three great divisions) which the
complex demands of modern life, and yet more varied
instincts of modern genius, have developed for pleasure
or service. It must be my endeavour, in conjunction

i.] Inaugural. 1 1

with my colleagues in the other Universities, hereafter to
enable you to appreciate these worthily ; in the hope that
also the members of the Royal Academy, and those of
the Institute of British Architects, may be induced to
assist, and guide, . the efforts of the Universities, by
organizing such a system of art education for their own
students as shall in future prevent the waste of genius
in any mistaken endeavours ; especially removing doubt
as to the proper substance and use of materials ; and
requiring compliance with certain elementary principles
of right, in every picture and design exhibited with their
sanction. It is not indeed possible for talent so varied
as that of English artists to be compelled into tbe for-
malities of a determined school; but it must certainly
be the function of every academical body to see that
their younger students are guarded from what must in
every school be error ; and that they are practised in the
best methods of work hitherto known, before their inge-
nuity is directed to the invention of others.

9. I need scarcely refer, except for the sake of com-
pleteness in my statement, to one form of demand for
art which is wholly unenlightened, and powerful only for
evil; — namely, the demand of the classes occupied solely
in the pursuit of pleasure, for objects and modes of art
that can amuse indolence or satisfy sensibility. There is
no need for any discussion of these requirements, or of
their forms of influence, though they are very deadly at
present in their operation on sculpture, and on jewellers'
work. They cannot be checked by blame, nor guided
by instruction; they are merely the necessary results of
whatever defects exist in the temper and principles of a

1 2 Inaugural. [LECT.

luxurious society; and it is only by moral changes, not
by art-criticism, that their action can be modified.

10. Lastly, there is a continually increasing- demand
for popular art, multipliable by the printing-press, illus-
trative of daily events, of general literature, and of
natural science. Admirable skill, and some of the best
talent of modern times, are occupied in supplying this
want; and there is no limit to the good which may be
effected by rightly taking advantage of the powers we
now possess of placing good and lovely art within the
reach of the poorest classes. Much has been already
accomplished; but great harm has been done also, — first,
by forms of art definitely addressed to depraved tastes ;
and, secondly, in a more subtle way, by really beautiful
and useful engravings which are yet not good enough
to retain their influence on the public mind; — which
weary it by redundant quantity of monotonous average
excellence, and diminish or destroy its power of accurate
attention to work of a higher order.

Especially this is to be regretted in the effect pro-
duced on the schools of line engraving, which had
reached in England an executive skill of a kind before
unexampled, and which of late have lost much of their
more sterling and legitimate methods. Still, I have seen
plates produced quite recently, more beautiful, I think, in
some qualities than anything ever before attained by the
burin : and I have not the slightest fear that photography,
or any other adverse or competitive operation, will in the
least ultimately diminish, — I believe they will, on the
contrary, stimulate and exalt — the grand old powers of
the wood and the steel.

i.] Inaugural. 13

11. Such are, I think, briefly the present conditions
of art with which we have to deal ; and I conceive it to
be the function of this Professorship, with respect to
them, to establish both a practical and critical school of
fine art for English gentlemen : practical, so that if they
draw at all, they may draw rightly ; and critical, so that
they may both be directed to such works of existing art
as will best reward their study ; and enabled to make
the exercise of their patronage of living artists delightful
to themselves by their consciousness of its justice, and,
to the utmost, beneficial to their country, by being given
only to the men who deserve it ; and, to those, in the
early period of their lives, when they both need it most,
and can be influenced by it to the best advantage.

12. And especially with reference to this function of
patronage, I believe myself justified in taking into account
future probabilities as to the character and range of art
in England ; and I shall endeavour at once to organize
with you a system of study calculated to develope chiefly
the knowledge of those branches in which the English
schools have shown, and are likely to show, peculiar ex-
cellence. Now, in asking your sanction both for the
nature of the general plans I wish to adopt, and for
what I conceive to be necessary limitations of them, I
wish you to be fully aware of my reasons for both : and
I will therefore risk the burdening of your patience while
I state the directions of effort in which I think English
artists are liable to failure, and those also in which past
experience has shown they are secure of success.

13. I referred, but now, to the effort we are making
to improve the designs of our manufactures. Within

14 Inaugural. [LECT.

certain limits I believe this improvement may indeed
take effect : so that we may no more humour momentary
fashions by ugly results of chance instead of design ; and
may produce both good tissues, of harmonious colours,
and good forms and substance of pottery and glass. But
we shall never excel in decorative design. Such design
is usually produced by people of great natural powers of
mind, who have no variety of subjects to employ them-
selves on, no oppressive anxieties, and are in circum-
stances, either of natural scenery or of daily life, which
cause pleasurable excitement. We cannot design because
we have too much to think of, and we think of it too
anxiously. It has long been observed how little real
anxiety exists in the minds of the partly savage races
which excel in decorative art ; and we must not sup-
pose that the temper of the middle ages was a troubled
one, because every day brought its danger or its changes.
The very eventfulness of the life rendered it careless, as
generally is still the case with soldiers and sailors. Now,
when there are great powers of thought, and little to
think of, all the waste energy and fancy are thrown into
the manual work, and you have as much intellect as
would direct the affairs of a large mercantile concern
for a day, spent all at once, quite unconsciously, in
drawing an ingenious spiral.

Also, powers of doing fine ornamental work are only
to be reached by a perpetual discipline of the hand as
well as of the fancy ; discipline as attentive and painful
as that which a juggler has to put himself through, to
overcome the more palpable difficulties of his profession.
The execution of the best artists is always a splendid

I.] Inaugural. 1 5

tour-de-force, and much that in painting is supposed to
be dependent on material is indeed only a lovely
and quite inimitable legerdemain. Now, when powers
of fancy, stimulated by this triumphant precision of
manual dexterity, descend uninterruptedly from genera-
tion to generation, you have at last, what is not so
much a trained artist, as a new species of animal, with
whose instinctive gifts you have no chance of contend-
ing. And thus all our imitations of other peoples'
work are futile. We must learn first to make honest
English wares, and afterwards to decorate them as may
please the then approving Graces.

14. Secondly — and this is an incapacity of a graver
kind, yet having its own good in it also — we shall never
be successful in the highest fields of ideal or theological
art. For there is one strange, but quite essential, cha-
racter in us : ever since the Conquest, if not earlier : —
a delight in the forms of burlesque which are connected in
some degree with the foulness in evil. I think the most
perfect type of a true English mind in its best possible
temper, is that of Chaucer; and you will find that, while
it is for the most part full of thoughts of beauty, pure
and wild like that of an April morning, there are even
in the midst of this, sometimes momentarily jesting pas-
sages which stoop to play with evil — while the power of
listening to and enjoying the jesting of entirely gross
persons, whatever the feeling may be which permits it,
afterwards degenerates into forms of humour which
render some of quite the greatest, wisest, and most
moral of English writers now almost useless for our
youth. And yet you will find that whenever English-

1 6 Inaugural. [LECT.

men are wholly without this instinct, their genius is
comparatively weak and restricted.

15. Now, the first necessity for the doing of any
great work in ideal art, is the looking upon all foulness
with horror, as a contemptible though dreadful enemy.
You may easily understand what I mean, by comparing
the feelings with which Dante regards any form of ob-
scenity or of base jest, with the temper in which the same
things are regarded by Shakespeare. And this strange
earthly instinct of ours, coupled as it is, in our good men,
with great simplicity and common sense, renders them
shrewd and perfect observers and delineators of actual
nature, low or high ; but precludes them from that spe-
ciality of art which is properly called sublime. If ever
we try anything in the manner of Michael Angelo or of
Dante, we catch a fall, even in literature, as Milton in
the battle of the angels, spoiled from Hesiod : while in
art, every attempt in this style has hitherto been the
sign either of the presumptuous egotism of persons who
had never really learned to be workmen, or it has been
connected with very tragic forms of the contemplation of
death, — it has always been partly insane, and never once
wholly successful.

But we need not feel any discomfort in these limit-
ations of our capacity. We can do much that others
cannot, and more than we have ever yet ourselves com-
pletely done. Our first great gift is in the portraiture
of living people — a power already so accomplished in
both Reynolds and Gainsborough, that nothing is left
for future masters but to add the calm of perfect work-
manship to their vigour and felicity of perception. And

i.] Inaugural. 17

of what value a true school of portraiture may become
in tlie future, when worthy men will desire only to be
known, and others will not fear to know them for what
they truly were, we cannot from any past records of art
influence yet conceive. But in my next address it will
be- partly my endeavour to show you how much, more
useful, because more humble, the labour of great masters
might have been, had they been content to bear record
of the souls that were dwelling with them on earth,
instead of striving to give a deceptive glory to those
they dreamed of in heaven.

16. Secondly, we have an intense power of invention
and expression in domestic drama; (King Lear and
Hamlet being essentially domestic in their strongest
motives of interest). There is a tendency at this moment
towards a noble development of our art in this direc-
tion, checked by many adverse conditions, which may be
summed in one, — the insufficiency of generous civic or
patriotic passion in the heart of the English people ;
a fault which makes its domestic affections selfish, con-
tracted, and, therefore, frivolous.

17. Thirdly, in connection with our simplicity and
good -humour, and partly with that very love of the
grotesque which debases our ideal, we have a sympathy
with the lower animals which is peculiarly our own ; and
which, though it has already found some exquisite ex-
pression in the works of Bewick and Landseer, is yet
quite undeveloped. This sympathy, with the aid of our
now authoritative science of physiology, and in association
with our British love of adventure, will, I hope, enable
us to give to the future inhabitants of the globe an

c

1 8 Inaugural. [LECT.

almost perfect record of the present forms of animal life
upon it, of which many are on the point of being ex-
tinguished.

Lastly, but not as the least important of our special
powers, I have to note our skill in landscape, of which
I will presently speak more particularly.

18. Such, I conceive, to be the directions in which,
principally, we have the power to excel; and you must
at once see how the consideration of them must modify
the advisable methods of our art study. For if our
professional painters were likely to produce pieces of art
loftily ideal in their character, it would be desirable to
form the taste of the students here by setting before
them only the purest examples of Greek, and the
mightiest of Italian, art. But I do not think you will
yet find a single instance of a school directed exclusively
to these higher branches of study in England, which has
strongly, or even definitely, made impression on its younger
scholars. While, therefore, I shall endeavour to point out
clearly the characters to be looked for and admired in the
great masters of imaginative design, I shall make no special
effort to stimulate the imitation of them ; and, above
all things, I shall try to probe in you, and to prevent,
the affectation into which it is easy to fall, even through
modesty, — of either endeavouring to admire a grandeur
with which we have no natural sympathy, or losing the
pleasure we might take in the study of familiar things,
by considering it a sign of refinement to look for what
is of higher class, or rarer occurrence.

19. Again, if our artisans were likely to attain any
distinguished skill in ornamental design, it would be in-

I.] Inaugural. 19

cumbent upon me to make my class here accurately
acquainted with the principles of earth and metal work,
and to accustom them to take pleasure in conventional
arrangements of colour and form. I hope, indeed, to do
this, so far as to enable them to discern the real merit
of many styles of art which are at present neglected ;
and, above all, to read the minds of semi-barbaric nations
in the only language by which their feelings were capable
of expression : and those members of my class whose
temper inclines them to take pleasure in the interpretation
of mythic symbols, will not probably be induced to quit
the profound fields of investigation which early art,
examined carefully, will open to them, and which belong
to it alone; for this is a general law, that, supposing
the intellect of the workman the same, the more imita-
tively complete his art, the less he will mean by it ; and
the ruder the symbol, the deeper is its intention. Never-
theless, when I have once sufficiently pointed out the
nature and value of this conventional work, and vindicated
it from the contempt with which it is too generally re-
garded, I shall leave the student to his own pleasure in
its pursuit ; and even, so far as I may, discourage all
admiration founded" on quaintness or peculiarity of style ;
and repress any other modes of feeling which are likely
to lead rather to fastidious collection of curiosities, than
to the intelligent appreciation of work which, being exe-
cuted in compliance with constant laws of right, cannot
be singular, and must be distinguished only by excellence
in what is always desirable.

20. While, therefore, in these and such other direc-
tions, I shall endeavour to put every adequate means of

C 2,

2o Inaugural, [LECT.

advance within reach of the members of my class, I shall
use my own best energy to show them what is consum-
mately beautiful and well done, by men who have past
through the symbolic or suggestive stage of design, and
have enabled themselves to comply, by truth of re-
presentation, with the strictest or most eager demands of
accurate science, and of disciplined passion. I shall there-
fore direct your observation, during the greater part of
the time you may spare to me, to what is indisputably
best, both in painting and sculpture; trusting that you
will afterwards recognise the nascent and partial skill
of former days both with greater interest and greater
respect, when you know the full difficulty of what it
attempted, and the complete range of what it foretold.

21. And with this view, I shall at once endeavour to
do what has for many years been in my thoughts, and
now, with the advice and assistance of the curators of
the University Galleries, I do not doubt may be accom-
plished here in Oxford, just where it will be pre-eminently
useful — namely, to arrange an educational series of exam-
ples of excellent art, standards to which you may at once
refer on any questionable point, and by the study of
which you may gradually attain an instinctive sense of
right, which will afterwards be liable to no serious error.
Such a collection may be formed, both more perfectly,
and more easily, than would commonly be supposed. For
the real utility of the series will depend on its restricted
extent, — on the severe exclusion of all second-rate, super-
fluous, or even attractively varied examples, — and on
the confining the students' attention to a few types of
what is insuperably good. More progress in power of

i.] Inaugural. 21

judgment may be made in a limited time by the ex-
amination of one work, than by the review of many ; and
a certain degree of vitality is given to the impressiveness
of every characteristic, by its being exhibited in clear
contrast, and without repetition.

The greater number of the examples I shall choose
will at first not be costly ; many of them, only engravings
or photographs : they shall be arranged so as to be easily
accessible, and I will prepare a catalogue, pointing out
my purpose in the selection of each. But in process of
time, I have good hope that assistance will be given me
by the English public in making the series here no less
splendid than serviceable ; and in placing minor collec-
tions, arranged on a similar principle, at the command
also of the students in our public schools.

S2. In the second place, I shall endeavour to prevail
upon all the younger members of the University who wish
to attend the art lectures, to give at least so much time
to manual practice as may enable them to understand the
nature and difficulty of executive skill. The time so spent
will not be lost, even as regards their other studies at
the University, for I will prepare the practical exercises
in a double series, one illustrative of history, the other
of natural science. And whether you are drawing a piece
of Greek armour, or a hawk's beak, or a lion's paw, you
will find that the mere necessity of using the hand com-
pels attention to circumstances which would otherwise
have escaped notice, and fastens them in the memory
without farther effort. But were it even otherwise, and
this practical training did really involve some sacrifice of
your time, I do not fear but that it will be justified to

22 Inaugural. [LECT.

you by its felt results : and I think that general public
feeling is also tending to the admission that accom-
plished education must include, not only full command of
expression by language, but command of true musical
sound by the voice, and of true form by the hand.

23. While I myself hold this professorship, I shall
direct you in these exercises very definitely to natural
history, and to landscape; not only because in these two
branches I am probably able to show you truths which
might be despised by my successors ; but because I think
the vital and joyful study of natural history quite the
principal element requiring introduction, not only into
University, but into national, education, from highest to
lowest ; and I even will risk incurring your ridicule by
confessing one of my fondest dreams, that I may suc-
ceed in making some of you English youths like better
to look at a bird than to shoot it ; and even desire to
make wild creatures tame, instead of tame creatures wild.
And for the study of landscape, it is, I think, now cal-
culated to be of use in deeper, if not more important
modes, than that of natural science, for reasons which I
will ask you to let me state at some length.

24. Observe first; — no race of men which is entirely
bred in wild country, far from cities, ever enjoys land-
scape. They may enjoy the beauty of animals, but scarcely
even that : a true peasant cannot see the beauty of cattle ;
but only the qualities expressive of their serviceableness.
I waive discussion of this to-day ; permit my assertion
of it, under my confident guarantee of future proof.
Landscape can only be enjoyed by cultivated persons ;
and it is only by music, literature, and painting, that

i.] Inaugural. 23

cultivation can be given. Also, the faculties which
are thus received are hereditary; so that the child of
an educated race has an innate instinct for beauty,
derived from arts practised hundreds of years before its
birth. Now farther note this, one of the loveliest things
in human nature. In the children of noble races, trained
by surrounding art, and at the same time in the prac-
tice of great deeds, there is an intense delight in the
landscape of their country as memorial; a sense not
taught to them, nor teachable to any others ; but, in
them, innate; and the seal and reward of persistence in
great national life ; — the obedience and the peace of ages
having extended gradually the glory of the revered
ancestors also to the ancestral land ; until the Motherhood
of the dust, the mystery of the Demeter from whose
bosom we came, and to whose bosom we return, surrounds
and inspires, everywhere, the local awe of field and foun-
tain ; the sacreduess of landmark that none may remove,
and of wave that none may pollute; while records of
proud days, and of dear persons, make every rock monu-
mental with ghostly inscription, and every path lovely
> with noble desolateness.

25. Now, however checked by lightness of tempera-
ment, the instinctive love of landscape in us has this
deep root, which, in your minds, I will pray you to dis-
encumber from whatever may oppress or mortify it, and
to strive to feel with all the strength of your youth
that a nation is only worthy of the soil and the scenes
that it has inherited, when, by all its acts and arts, it
is making them more lovely for its children.

And now, I trust, you will feel that it is not in mere

24 Inaugural. [LECT.

yielding to my own fancies that I have chosen, for the
first three subjects in your educational series, landscape
scenes ; — two in England, and one in France, — the asso-
ciation of these being not without purpose : — and for the
fourth, Albert Diirer's dream of the Spirit of Labour.
And of the landscape subjects, I must tell you this
much. The first is an engraving only; the original
drawing by Turner was destroyed by fire twenty years
ago. For which loss I wish you to be sorry, and to
remember, in connection with this first example, that
whatever remains to us of possession in the arts is,
compared to what we might have had if we had cared
for them, just what that engraving is to the lost drawing.
You will find also that its subject has meaning in it
which will not be harmful to you. The second example
is a real drawing by Turner, in the same series, and very
nearly of the same place; the two scenes are within a
quarter of a mile of each other. It will show you the
character of the work that was destroyed. It will show
you, in process of time, much more ; but chiefly, and
this is my main reason for choosing both, it will be a
permanent expression to you of what English landscape was
once ; — and must, if we are to remain a nation, be again.

I think it farther right to tell you, for otherwise you
might hardly pay regard enough to work apparently so
simple, that by a chance which is not altogether dis-
pleasing to me, this drawing, which it has become, for
these reasons, necessary -for me to give you, is — not
indeed the best I have, (I have several as good, though
none better) — but, of all I have, the one I had least
mind to part with.

i.] Inaugural. 25

The third example is also a Turner drawing — a scene
on the Loire — never engraved. It is an introduction to
the series of the Loire, which you have already ; it has
in its present place a due concurrence with the expres-
sional purpose of its companions ; and though small, it
is very precious, being a faultless, and, I believe, unsur-
passable example of water-colour painting.

Chiefly, however, remember the object of these three
first examples is to give you an index to your truest
feelings about European, and especially about your native
landscape, as it is pensive and historical ; and so far as
you yourselves make any effort at its representation, to
give you a motive for fidelity in handwork more ani-
mating than any connected with mere success in the art
itself.

26. With respect to actual methods of practice I will
not incur the responsibility of determining them for you.
We will take Lionardo's treatise on painting for our first
text-book; and I think you need not fear being misled
by me if I ask you to do only what Lionardo bids, or
what will be necessary to enable you to do his bidding.
But you need not possess the book, nor read it through.
I will translate the pieces to the authority of which I
shall appeal; and, in process of time, by analysis of this
fragmentary treatise, show you some characters not usually
understood of the simplicity as well as subtlety com-
mon to most great workmen of that age. Afterwards
we will collect the instructions of other undisputed
masters, till we have obtained a code of laws clearly
resting on the consent of antiquity.

While, however, I thus in some measure limit for the

2 6 Inaugural. [LECT.

present the methods of your practice, I shall endeavour
to make the courses of my University lectures as wide in
their range as my knowledge will permit. The range
so conceded will be narrow enough; but I believe that
my proper function is not to acquaint you with the
general history, but with the essential principles of art ;
and with its history only when it has been both great
and good, or where some special excellence of it requires
examination of the causes to which it must be ascribed.
27. But if either our work, or our enquiries, are to
be indeed successful in their own field, they must be
connected with others of a sterner character. Now listen
to me, if I have in these past details lost or burdened
your attention ; for this is what I have chiefly to say to
you. The art of any country is the exponent of its
social and political virtues. I will show you that it is
so in some detail, in the second of my subsequent course
of lectures; meantime accept this as one of the things,
and the most important of all things, I can positively
declare to you. The art, or general productive and forma-
tive energy, of any country, is an exact exponent of its
ethical life. You can have noble art only from noble
persons, associated under laws fitted to their time and
circumstances. And the best skill that any teacher of
art could spend here in your help, would not end in
enabling you even so much as rightly to draw the
water-lilies in the Cherwell (and though it did, the
work when done would not be worth the lilies them-
selves) unless both he and you were seeking, as I trust
we shall together seek, in the laws which regulate the
finest industries, the clue to the laws which regulate all

I.] Inaugural. 27

industries, and in better obedience to which we shall
actually have henceforward to live, not merely in com-
pliance with our own sense of what is right, but under
the weight of quite literal necessity. For the trades by
which the British people has believed it to be the highest
of destinies to maintain itself, cannot now long remain
undisputed in its hands; its unemployed poor are daily
becoming more violently criminal ; and a searching dis-
tress in the middle classes, arising partly from their
vanity in living always up to their incomes, and partly
from their folly in imagining that they can subsist in
idleness upon usury, will at last compel the sons and
daughters of English families to acquaint themselves
with the principles of providential economy ; and to
learn that food can only be got out of the ground,
and competence only secured by frugality; and that
although it is not possible for all to be occupied in
the highest arts, nor for any, guiltlessly, to pass their
days in a succession of pleasures, the most perfect mental
culture possible to men is founded on their useful
energies, and their best arts and brightest happiness
are consistent, and consistent only, with their virtue.

28. This I repeat, gentlemen, will soon become mani-
fest to those among us, and there are yet many, who
are honest-hearted. And the future fate of England
depends upon the position they then take, and on their
courage in maintaining it.

There is a destiny now possible to us — the highest
ever set before a nation to be accepted or refused. We
are still undegenerate in race ; a race mingled of the
best northern blood. We are not yet dissolute in temper,

28 Inaugural. [LECT.

but still have the firmness to govern, and the grace to
obey. We have been taught a religion of pure mercy,
which we must either now finally betray, or learn to
defend by fulfilling. And we are rich in an inheritance
of honour, bequeathed to us through a thousand years of
noble history, which it should be our daily thirst to
increase with splendid avarice, so that Englishmen, if it
be a sin to covet honour, should be the most offending
souls alive. Within the last few years we have had the
laws of natural science opened to us with a rapidity
which has been blinding by its brightness ; and means
of transit and communication given to us, which have
made but one kingdom of the habitable globe. One
kingdom; — but who is to be its king? Is there to be
no king in it, think you, and every man to do that
which is right in his own eyes ? Or only kings of
terror, and the obscene empires of Mammon and Belial ?
Or will you, youths of England, make your country again
a royal throne of kings ; a sceptred isle, for all the world
a source of light, a centre of peace; mistress of Learning
and of the Arts; — faithful guardian of great memories
in the midst of irreverent and ephemeral visions; — faith-
ful servant of time-tried principles, under temptation
from fond experiments and licentious desires ; and, amidst
the cruel and clamorous jealousies of the nations, wor-
shipped in her strange valour, of goodwill towards men?
29. ' Vexilla regis prodeunt.' Yes, but of which king ?
There are the two oriflammes; which shall we plant on
the farthest islands — the one that floats in heavenly fire,
or that hangs heavy with foul tissue of terrestrial gold?
There is indeed a course of beneficent glory open to

i.] Inaugural. 29

us, such as never was yet offered to any poor group of
mortal souls. But it must be — it is with us, now, ' Reign
or Die.' And if it shall be said of this country, ' Fece
per viltate, il gran rifiuto ; ' that refusal of the crown will
be, of all yet recorded in history, the shamefullest and
most untimely.

And this is what she must either do, or perish : she
must found colonies as fast and as far as she is able,
formed of her most energetic and worthiest men ; — seizing
every piece of fruitful waste ground she can set her foot
on, and there teaching these her colonists that their chief
virtue is to *be fidelity to their country, and that their
first aim is to be to advance the power of England by
land and sea : and that, though they live on a distant
plot of ground, they are no more to consider themselves
therefore disfranchised from their native land than the
sailors of her fleets do, because they float on distant
waves. So that literally, these colonies must be fastened
fleets, and every man of them must be under authority
of captains and officers, whose better command is to be
over fields and streets instead of ships of the line ; and
England, in these her motionless navies (or, in the true
and mightiest sense, motionless churches, ruled by pilots
on the Galilean lake of all the world) is to ' expect every
man to do his duty ; ' recognising that duty is indeed
possible no less in peace than war; and that if we can
get men, for little pay, to cast themselves against cannon-
mouths for love of England, we may find men also who
will plough and sow for her, who will behave kindly and
righteously for her, who will bring up their children to
love her, and who will gladden themselves in the bright-

3O Inaugural. [LECT.

ness of her glory, more than in all the light of tropic
skies.

But that they may be able to do this, she must make
her own majesty stainless ; she must give them thoughts
of their home of which they can be proud. The England
who is to be mistress of half the earth cannot remain
herself a heap of cinders, trampled by contending and
miserable crowds ; she must yet again become the England
she was once, and in all beautiful ways more ; so happy,
so secluded, and so pure, that in her sky — polluted by no
unholy clouds — she may be able to spell rightly of every
star that heaven doth show; and in her fields, ordered
and wide and fair, of every herb that sips the dew; and
under the green avenues of her enchanted garden, a sacred
Circe, true Daughter of the Sun, she must guide the
human arts, and gather the divine knowledge, of distant
nations, transformed from savageness to manhood, and
redeemed from despairing into Peace.

30. You think that an impossible ideal. Be it so;
refuse to accept it if you will; but see that you form
your own in its stead. All that I ask of you is to have
a fixed purpose of some kind for your country and your-
selves; no matter how restricted, so that it be fixed and
unselfish. I know what stout hearts are in you, to
answer acknowledged need ; but it is the fatallest form of
error in English youth to hide their best hardihood till
it fades for lack of sunshine, and to act in disdain of
purpose, till all purpose is vain. It is not by deliberate, \
but by careless selfishness ; not by compromise with evil,
but by dull following of good, that the weight of national
evil increases upon us daily. Break through at least

i.] Inaugural. 31

this pretence of existence; determine what you will be,
and what you would win. You will not decide wrongly
if you resolve to decide at all. Were even the choice
between lawless pleasure and loyal suffering, you would
not, I believe, choose basely. But your trial is not so
sharp. It is between drifting in confused wreck among
the castaways of Fortune, who condemns to assured ruin
those who know not either how to resist her, or obey;
between this, I say, and the taking your appointed part
in the heroism of Rest ; the resolving to share in the
victory which is to the weak rather than the strong ;
and the binding yourselves by that law, which, thought
on through lingering night and labouring day, makes a
man's life to be as a tree planted by the water-side, that
bringeth forth his fruit in his season ; —

<ET FOLIUM EJUS NON DEFLUET,
ET OMNIA, QU^ECUNQUE FACIET, PROSPERABUNTUR.'

LECTURE II.

THE RELATION OF ART TO RELIGION.

LECTURE II.

THE RELATION OF ART TO RELIGION.

31. IT was stated, and I trust partly with your ac-
ceptance, in my opening lecture, that the study on which
we are about to enter cannot he rightly undertaken ex-
cept in furtherance of the grave purposes of life with
respect to which the rest of the scheme of your educa-
tion here is designed. But you can scarcely have at
once felt all that I intended in saying so ; — you can-
not but be still partly under the impression that the so-
called fine arts are merely modes of graceful recreation,
and a new resource for your times of rest. Let me ask
you, forthwith, so far as you can trust me, to change
your thoughts in this matter. All the great arts have
for their object either the support or exaltation of human
life, — usually both ; and their dignity, and ultimately
their very existence, depend on their being '/xera Ao'you
a\r]0ovs,' that is to say, apprehending, with right reason,
the nature of the materials they work with, of the
things they relate or represent, and of the faculties to
which they are addressed. And farther, they form one
united system from which it is impossible to remove any

D 1

36 The relation of [LECT.

part without harm to the rest. They are founded first in
mastery, by strength of arm, of the earth and sea, in agri-
culture and seamanship; then their inventive power begins,
with the clay in the hand of the potter, whose art is
the humblest, but truest type of the forming of the human
body and spirit; and in the carpenter's work, which
probably was the early employment of the Founder of
our religion. And until men have perfectly learned the
laws of art in clay and wood, they can consummately
know no others. Nor is it without the strange signifi-
cance which you will find in what at first seems chance,
in all noble histories, as soon as you can read them
rightly, — that the statue of Athena Polias was of olive-
wood, and that the Greek temple and Gothic spire are
both merely the permanent representations of useful
wooden structures. On these two first arts follow build-
ing in stone, — sculpture, — metal work, — and painting;
every art being properly called c fine' which demands
the exercise of the full faculties of heart and intellect.
For though the fine arts are not necessarily imitative or
representative, for their essence is being ( Trepi ytvtaw ' —
occupied in the actual production of beautiful form or
colour — still, the highest of them are appointed also to
relate to us the utmost ascertainable truth respecting
visible things and moral feelings : and this pursuit of
fact is the vital element of the art power; — that in
which alone it can develope itself to its utmost. And I
will anticipate by an assertion which you will at present
think too bold, but which I am willing that you should
think so, in order that you may well remember it, — the
highest thing that art can do is to set before you the

ii.] Art to Religion. 37

true image of the presence of a noble human being.
It has never done more than this, and it ought not to
do less.

32. The great arts — forming thus one perfect scheme
of human skill, of which it is not right to call one
division more honourable, though it may be more subtle,
than another — have had, and can have, but three prin- !
cipal directions of purpose : — first, that of enforcing
the religion of men ; secondly, that of perfecting their
ethical state ; thirdly, that of doing them material ser-
vice.

33. I do not doubt but that you are surprised at
my saying the arts can in their second function only be
directed to the perfecting of ethical state, it being our
usual impression that they are often destructive of
morality. But it is impossible to direct fine art to an
immoral end, except by giving it characters unconnected
with its fineness, or by addressing it to persons who
cannot perceive it to be fine. Whosoever recognises it
is exalted by it. On the other hand, it has been com-
monly thought that art was a most fitting means for
the enforcement of religious doctrines and emotions ;
whereas there is, as I must presently try to show you,
room for grave doubt whether it has not in this function
hitherto done evil rather than good.

34. In this and the two next following lectures, I
shall endeavour therefore to show you the grave relations
of human art, in these three functions, to human life.
I can do this but roughly, as you may well suppose —
since each of these subjects would require for its right
treatment years instead of hours. Only, remember, I

38 The relation of [LECT.

have already given years, not a few, to each, of them ;
and what I try to tell you now will be only so much as
is absolutely necessary to set our work on a clear founda-
tion. You may not, at present, see the necessity for
any foundation, and may think that I ought to put
pencil and paper in your hands at once. On that point
I must simply answer, ' Trust me a little while,' asking
you however also to remember, that — irrespectively of
what you do last or first — my true function here is not
that of your master in painting, or sculpture, or pottery ;
but my real duty is to show you what it is that makes
any of these arts fine, or the contrary of fine : essen-
tially good, or essentially base. You need not fear my
not being practical enough for you ; all the industry
you choose to give me I will take ; but far the better
part of what you may gain by such industry would be
lost, if I did not first lead you to see what every form
of art-industry intends, and why some of it is justly
called right, and some wrong.

35. It would be well if you were to look over, with
respect to this matter, the end of the second, and what
interests you of the third book of Plato's Republic ; noting
therein these two principal things, of which I have to
speak in this and my next lecture : first, the power which
Plato so frankly, and quite justly, attributes to art, of
falsifying our conceptions of Deity : which power he by
fatal error partly implies may be used wisely for good,
and that the feigning is only wrong when it is of
evil, ' kav rt? fj.fi KaX&s \^ev8rjrai ; ' and you may trace
through all that follows the beginning of the change,
of Greek ideal art into a beautiful expediency, instead

ii.] Art to Religion. 39

/ of what it was in the days of Pindar, the statement of
what ' could not be otherwise than so.' But, in the
second place, you will find in those books of the Polity,
stated with far greater accuracy of expression than our
English language admits, the essential relations of art
to morality ; the sum of these being given in one lovely
sentence, which, considering that we have to-day grace
done us by fair companionship, you will pardon me for
translating. ' Must it be then only with our poets that
we insist they shall either create for us the image of
a noble morality, or among us create none? or shall we
not also keep guard over all other workers for the people,
and forbid them to make what is ill-customed, and un-
restrained, and ungentle, and without order or shape,
either in likenesses of living things, or in buildings, or
in any other thing whatsoever that is made for the
people? and shall we not rather seek for workers who
can track the inner nature of all that may be sweetly
.2hemed; so that the young men, as living in a whole-
some place, may be profited by everything that, in work
fairly wrought, may touch them through hearing or
sight — as, Nif it were a breeze bringing health to them
from places strong for life?'

•*****~~ -— ' T_TL . — ..^r-**- - ~* ™" ML ~~ L.

36. And now — but one word, before we enter on our
task, as to the way you must understand what I may
endeavour to tell you.

Let me beg you — now and always — not to think that
I mean more than I say. In all probability, I mean
just what I say, and only that. At all events I do
fully mean that, and if there is anything reserved in
my mind, it will be probably different from what you

4O The relation of [LECT.

would guess. You are perfectly welcome to know all
that I think, as soon as I have put before you all my
grounds for thinking it; but by the time I have done
so, you will be able to form an opinion of your own ;
and mine will then be of no consequence to you.

37. I use then to-day, as I shall in future use, the
word ' religion ' as signifying the feelings of love, reve- '
rence, or dread with which the human mind is affected *-
by its conceptions of spiritual being; and you know
well how necessary it is, both to the Tightness of our
own life, and to the understanding the lives of others,
that we should always keep clearly distinguished our ideas
of religion, as thus denned, and of morality, as the law j
of rightness in human conduct. For there are many
religions, but there is only one morality. There are
moral and immoral religions, which differ as much in
precept as in emotion ; but there is only one morality,
which has been, is, and must be for ever, an instinct
in the hearts of all civilized men, as certain and unal-
terable as their outward bodily form, and which receives
from religion neither law, nor peace ; but only hope, and
felicity.

38. The pure forms or states of religion hitherto
known, are those in which a healthy humanity, finding
in itself many foibles and sins, has imagined, or been
made conscious of, the existence of higher spiritual per-
sonality, liable to no such fault or stain ; and has been
assisted in effort, and consoled in pain, by reference to
the will or sympathy of such more pure spirits, whether
imagined or real. I am compelled to use these painful
latitudes of expression, because no analysis has hitherto

ii.] Art to Religion. 41

sufficed to distinguish accurately, in historical narrative,
the difference between impressions resulting from the
imagination of the worshipper, and those made, if any,
by the actually local and temporary presence of another
spirit. For instance, take the vision, which of all
others has been since made most frequently the sub-
ject of physical representation — the appearance to Eze-
kiel and St. John of the four living creatures, which
throughout Christendom have been used to symbolize
the Evangelists3. Supposing such interpretation just,
one of those figures was either the mere symbol to
St. John of himself, or it was the power which inspired
him manifesting itself in an independent form. Which
of these it was, or whether neither of these, but a
vision of other powers, or a dream, of which neither
the prophet himself knew, nor can any other person
yet know, the interpretation, I suppose no modestly-
tempered and accurate thinker would now take upon
himself to decide. Nor is it therefore anywise necessary
for you to decide on that, or any other such question ;
but it is necessary that you should be bold enough to
look every opposing question steadily in its face ; and
modest enough, having done so, to know when it is
too hard for you. But above all things, see that you
be modest in your thoughts, for of this one thing we
may be absolutely sure, that all our thoughts are but
degrees of darkness. And in these days you have to
guard against the fatallest darkness of the two opposite
Prides : the Pride of Faith, which imagines that the

* Only the Gospels, ' IV. Evangelia,' according to St. Jerome.

42 The relation of [LECT.

Nature of the Deity can be defined by its convictions ;
and the Pride of Science, which imagines that the
Energy of Deity can be explained by its analysis.

39. Of these, the first, the Pride of Faith, is now,
as it has been always, the most deadly, because the
most complacent and subtle ; — because it invests every
evil passion of our nature with the aspect of an angel
of light, and enables the self-love, which might other-
wise have been put to wholesome shame, and the cruel
carelessness of the ruin of our fellow-men, which might
otherwise have been warmed into human love, or at least
checked by human intelligence, to congeal themselves
into the mortal intellectual disease of imagining that
myriads of the inhabitants of the world for four thousand
years have been left to wander and perish, many of
them everlastingly, in order that, in fulness of time, divine
truth might be preached sufficiently to ourselves; with
this farther ineffable mischief for direct result, that mul-
titudes of kindly-disposed, gentle, and submissive persons,
who might else by their true patience have alloyed the
hardness of the common crowd, and by their activity for
good, balanced its misdoing, are withdrawn from all such
true service of man, that they may pass the best part of
their lives in what they are told is the service of God;
namely, desiring what they cannot obtain, lamenting what
they cannot avoid, and reflecting on what they cannot
understand.

40. This, I repeat, is the deadliest, but for you,
under existing circumstances, it is becoming daily, almost
hourly, the least probable form of Pride. That which
you have chiefly to guard against consists in the over-

ii.] Art to Religion. 43

valuing of minute though correct discovery; the ground-
less denial of all that seems to you to have been
groundlessly affirmed; and the interesting yourselves too
curiously in the progress of some scientific minds, which
in their judgment of the universe can be compared to
nothing so accurately as to the woodworms in the panel
of a picture by some great painter, if we may con-
ceive them as tasting with discrimination of the wood,
and with repugnance of the colour, and declaring that
even this unlooked-for and undesirable combination is a
normal result of the action of molecular Forces.

41. Now, I must very earnestly warn you, in the
beginning of my work with you here, against allowing
either of these forms of egotism to interfere with your
judgment or practice of art. On the one hand, you
must not allow the expression of your own favourite
religious feelings by any particular form of art to mo-
dify your judgment of its absolute merit; nor allow the
art itself to become an illegitimate means of deepening
and confirming your convictions, by realizing to your
eyes what you dimly conceive with the brain ; as if the
greater clearness of the image were a stronger proof of
its truth. On the other hand, you must not allow your
scientific habit of trusting nothing but what you have
ascertained, to prevent you from appreciating, or at least
endeavouring to qualify yourselves to appreciate, the
work of the highest faculty of the human mind, — its
imagination, — when it is toiling in the presence of things
that cannot be dealt with by any other power.

42. These are both vital conditions of your healthy
progress. On the one hand, observe that you do not

44 The relation of [LECT.

wilfully use the realistic power of art to convince your-
selves of historical or theological statements which you
cannot otherwise prove ; and which you wish to prove :
— on the other hand, that you do not check your imagi-
nation and conscience while seizing the truths of which
they alone are cognizant, because you value too highly
the scientific interest which attaches to the investigation
of second causes.

For instance, it may be quite possible to show the
conditions in water and electricity which necessarily pro-
duce the craggy outline, the apparently self-contained
silvery light, and the sulphurous blue shadow of a
thunder- cloud, and which separate these from the depth
of the golden peace in the dawn of a summer morning.
Similarly, it may be possible to show the necessities of
structure which groove the fangs and depress the brow
of the asp, and which distinguish the character of its
head from that of the face of a young girl. But it
is the function of the rightly-trained imagination to
recognise, in these, and such other relative aspects, the
unity of teaching which impresses, alike on our senses
and our conscience, the eternal difference between good
and evil : and the rule, over the clouds of heaven and
over the creatures in the earth, of the same Spirit which
teaches to our own hearts the bitterness of death, and
strength of love.

43. Now, therefore, approaching our subject in this
balanced temper, which will neither resolve to see only
what it would desire, nor expect to see only what it
can explain, we shall find our enquiry into the relation
of Art to Religion is distinctly threefold : first, we have

ii.] Art to Religion. 45

to ask how far art may have been literally directed by
spiritual powers ; secondly, how far, if not inspired, it
may have been exalted by them ; lastly, how far, in any
of its agencies, it has advanced the cause of the creeds it
has been used to recommend.

44. First: What ground have we for thinking that
art has ever been inspired as a message or revelation?
What internal evidence is there in the work of great
artists of their having been under the authoritative
guidance of supernatural powers?

It is true that the answer to so mysterious a question
cannot rest alone upon internal evidence ; but it is well
that you should know what might, from that evidence
alone, be concluded. And the more impartially you
examine the phenomena of imagination, the more firmly
you will be led to conclude that they are the result
of the influence of the common and vital, but not, there-
fore, less Divine, spirit, of which some portion is given
to all living creatures in such manner as may be
adapted to their rank in creation; and that everything
which men rightly accomplish is indeed done by Divine
help, but under a consistent law which is never departed
from.

The strength of this spiritual life within us may be
increased or lessened by our own conduct ; it varies from
time to time, as physical strength varies ; it is sum-
moned on different occasions by our will, and dejected
by our distress, or our sin ; but it is always equally
human, and equally Divine. We are men, and not
mere animals, because a special form of it is with us
always; we are nobler and baser men, as it is with us

46 The relation of [LECT.

more or less ; but it is never given to us in any degree
which can make us more than men.

45. Observe : — I give you this general statement
doubtfully, and only as that towards which an impar-
tial reasoner will, I think, be inclined by existing data.
But I shall be able to show you, without any doubt, in
the course of our studies, that the achievements of art
which have been usually looked upon as the results of
peculiar inspiration, have been arrived at only through
long courses of wisely-directed labour, and under the
influence of feelings which are common to all hu-
manity.

But of these feelings and powers which in different
degrees are common to humanity, you are to note that
there are three principal divisions : first, the instincts of
construction or melody, which we share with lower
animals, and which are in us as native as the instinct
of the bee or nightingale ; secondly, the faculty of
vision, or of dreaming, whether in sleep or in conscious
trance, or by voluntarily exerted fancy; and lastly, the
power of rational inference and collection, of both the
laws and forms of beauty.

46. Now the faculty of vision, being closely asso-
ciated with the innermost spiritual nature, is the one
which has by most reasoners been held for the peculiar
channel of Divine teaching : and it is a fact that great
part of purely didactic art has been the record, whether
in language, or by linear representation, of actual vision
involuntarily received at the moment, though cast on
a mental retina blanched by the past course of faithful
life. But it is also true that these visions, where most

ii.] Art to Religion. 47

distinctly received, are always — I speak deliberately —
always, the sign of some mental limitation or derange-
ment; and that the persons who most clearly recognise
their value, exaggeratedly estimate it, choosing what
they find to be useful, and calling that ' inspired,' and
disregarding what they perceive to be useless, though
presented to the visionary by an equal authority.

47. Thus it is probable that no work of art has
been more widely didactic than Albert Diirer's engrav-
ing, known as the ' Knight and Death V But that
is only one of a series of works representing similarly
vivid dreams, of which some are uninteresting, except
for the manner of their representation, as the ' St. Hu-
bert/ and others are unintelligible; some, frightful, and
wholly unprofitable ; so that we find the visionary
faculty in that great painter, when accurately examined,
to be a morbid influence, abasing his skill more fre-
quently than encouraging it, and sacrificing the greater
part of his energies upon vain subjects, two only being
produced, in the course of a long life, which are of high
didactic value, and both of these capable only of giving
sad courage0. Whatever the value of these two, it
bears more the aspect of a treasure obtained at great
cost of suffering, than of a directly granted gift from
heaven.

48. On the contrary, not only the highest, but the
most consistent results have been attained in art by

b Standard Series, No. 9.

c The meaning of the ' Knight and Death,' even in this respect, has
lately been questioned on good grounds. See note on the plate in
Catalogue.

48 The relation of [LECT.

men in whom the faculty of vision, however strong1, was
subordinate to that of deliberative design, and tran-
quillised by a measured, continual, not feverish, but
affectionate, observance of the quite unvisionary facts of
the surrounding world.

And so far as we can trace the connection of their
powers with the moral character of their lives, we shall
find that the best art is the work of good, but of not
distinctively religious men, who, at least, are conscious
of no inspiration, and often so unconscious of their supe-
riority to others, that one of the very greatest of them,
deceived by his modesty, has asserted that ' all things
are possible to well-directed labour.'

49. The second question, namely, how far art, if not
inspired, has yet been ennobled by religion, I shall not
touch upon to-day; for it both requires technical criti-
cism, and would divert you too long from the main
question of all, — How far religion has been helped by
art?

You will find that the operation of formative art — (I
will not speak to-day of music) — the operation of forma-
tive art on religious creed is essentially twofold; the
realisation, to the eyes, of imagined spiritual persons ;
and the limitation of their imagined presence to certain
places. We will examine these two functions of it suc-
cessively.

50. And first, consider accurately what the agency
of art is, in realising, to the sight, our conceptions of
spiritual persons.

For instance. Assume that we believe that the Ma-
donna is always present to hear and answer our prayers.

ii.] Art to Religion, 49

Assume also that this is true. I think that persons in
a perfectly honest, faithful, and humble temper, would
in that case desire only to feel so much of the Divine
presence as the spiritual Power herself chose to make
felt; and, above all things, not to think they saw, or
knew, anything- except what might be truly perceived or
known.

But a mind imperfectly faithful, and impatient in its
distress, or craving in its dulness for a more distinct
and convincing sense of the Divinity, would endeavour
to complete, or perhaps we should rather say to con-
tract, its conception, into the definite figure of a woman
wearing a blue or crimson dress, and having fair fea-
tures, dark eyes, and gracefully arranged hair.

Suppose, after forming such a conception, that we
have the power to realise and preserve it, this image
of a beautiful figure with a pleasant expression cannot
but have the tendency of afterwards leading us to think
of the Virgin as present, when she is not actually pre-
sent, or as pleased with us, when she is not actually
pleased ; or if we resolutely prevent ourselves from such
imagination, nevertheless the existence of the image
beside us will often turn our thoughts towards sub-
jects of religion, when otherwise they would have been
differently occupied ; and, in the midst of other occu-
pations, will familiarise more or less, and even me-
chanically associate with common or faultful states of
mind, the appearance of the supposed Divine person.

51. There are thus two distinct operations upon our
mind : first, the art makes us believe what we would
not otherwise have believed ; and secondly, it makes us

E

50 The relation of [LECT.

think of subjects we should not otherwise have thought
of, intruding them amidst our ordinary thoughts in
a confused and familiar manner. We cannot with any
certainty affirm the advantage or the harm of such
accidental pieties, for their effect will be very different
on different characters : but, without any question, the
art, which makes us believe what we would not have
otherwise believed, is misapplied, and in most instances
very dangerously so. Our duty is to believe in the
existence of Divine, or any other, persons, only upon
rational proofs of their existence; and not because we
have seen pictures of them. And since the real re-
lations between us and higher spirits are, of all facts
concerning our being, those which it is most important
to know accurately, if we know at all, it is a folly so
great as to amount to real, though most unintentional,
sin, to allow our conceptions of those relations to be
modified by our own undisciplined fancy.

52. But now observe, it is here necessary to draw a
distinction, so subtle that in dealing with facts it is
continually impossible to mark it with precision, yet so
vital, that not only your understanding of the power
of art, but the working of your minds in matters of
primal moment to you, depends on the effort you make
to affirm this distinction strongly. The art which real-
ises a creature of the imagination is only mischievous
when that realisation is conceived to imply, or does
practically induce a belief in, the real existence of the
imagined personage, contrary to, or unjustified by the
other evidence of its existence. But if the art only
represents the personage on the understanding that 'its

ii.] Art to Religion. 51

form is imaginary, then the effort at realisation is
healthful and beneficial.

For instance. I shall place in your Standard series
a Greek design of Apollo crossing the sea to Delphi,
which is an example of one of the highest types of
Greek or any other art. So far as that design is only
an expression, under the symbol of a human form, of
what may be rightly imagined respecting the solar
power, the art is right and ennobling ; but so far as
it conveyed to the Greek the idea of there being a real
Apollo, it was mischievous, whether there be, or be not,
a real Apollo. If there is no real Apollo, then the art
was mischievous because it deceived; but if there is a
real Apollo, then it was still more mischievous, for it not
only began the degradation of the image of that true
god into a decoration for niches, and a device for seals ;
but prevented any true witness being borne to his exist-
ence. For if the Greeks, instead of multiplying repre-
sentations of what they imagined to be the figure of
the god, had given us accurate drawings of the heroes
and battles of Marathon and Salamis, and had simply
told us in plain Greek what evidence they had of the
power of Apollo, either through his oracles, his help or
chastisement, or by immediate vision, they would have
served their religion more truly than by all the vase-
paintings and fine statues that ever were buried or
adored.

53. Now in this particular instance, and in many
other examples of fine Greek art, the two conditions
of thought, symbolic and realistic, are mingled; and
the art is helpful, as I will hereafter show you, in one

E 2

52 The relation of [LECT.

function, and in the other so deadly, that I think no
degradation of conception of Deity has ever been quite
so base as that implied by the designs of Greek vases
in the period of decline, say about 350 B.C.

But though among the Greeks it is thus nearly
always difficult to say what is symbolic and what realis-
tic, in the range of Christian art the distinction is clear.
In that, a vast division of imaginative work is occupied
in the symbolism of virtues, vices, or natural powers
or passions ; and in the representation of personages who,
though nominally real, become in conception symbolic.
In the greater part of this work there is no intention
of implying the existence of the represented creature ;
Durer's Melencolia and Giotto's Justice are accurately
characteristic examples. Now all such art is wholly good
and useful when it is the work of good men.

54. Again, there is another division of Christian work
in which the persons represented, though nominally real,
are treated only as dramatis-personae of a poem, and so
presented confessedly as subjects of imagination. All
this poetic art is also good when it is the work of good
men.

55. There remains only therefore to be considered, as
truly religious, the work which definitely implies and
modifies the conception of the existence of a real person.
There is hardly any great art which entirely belongs to
this class ; but Raphael's Madonna della Seggiola is
as accurate a type of it as I can give you; Holbein's
Madonna at Dresden, the Madonna di San Sisto, and
the Madonna of Titian's Assumption, all belong mainly
to this class, but are removed somewhat from it (as,

ii.] Art to Religion. 53

I repeat, nearly all great art is) into the poetical one.
It is only the bloody crucifixes and gilded virgins and
other such lower forms of imagery (by which, to the
honour of the English Church, it has been truly claimed
for her, that ' she has never appealed to the madness or
dulness of her people/) which belong to the realistic
class in strict limitation, and which properly constitute
the type of it.

There is indeed an important school of sculpture in
Spain, directed to the same objects, but not demanding
at present any special attention. And finally, there is
the vigorous and most interesting realistic school of our
own, in modern times, mainly known to the public by
Holman Hunt's picture of the Light of the World, though,
I believe, deriving its first origin from the genius of the
painter to whom you owe also the revival of interest,
first here in Oxford, and then universally, in the cycle
of early English legend, — Dante Rossetti.

56. The effect of this realistic art on the religious
mind of Europe varies in scope more than any other
art power ; for in its higher branches it touches the
most sincere religious minds, affecting an earnest class
of persons who cannot be reached by merely poetical
design ; while, in its lowest, it addresses itself not only
to the most vulgar desires for religious excitement, but
to the mere thirst for sensation of horror which charac-
terises the uneducated orders of partially civilised coun-
tries; nor merely to the thirst for horror, but to the
strange love of death, as such, which has sometimes
in Catholic countries showed itself peculiarly by the
endeavour to paint the images in the chapels of the

54 The relation of [LECT.

Sepulchre so as to look deceptively like corpses. The
same morbid instinct has also affected the minds of
many among the more imaginative and powerful artists
with a feverish gloom which distorts their finest work ;
and lastly — and this is the worst of all its effects — it has
occupied the sensibility of Christian women, universally,
in lamenting the sufferings of Christ, instead of pre-
venting those of His people.

57. When any of you next go abroad, observe, and
consider the meaning of, the sculptures and paintings,
which of every rank in art, and in every chapel and
cathedral, and by every mountain path, recall the hours,
and represent the agonies, of the Passion of Christ : and
try to form some estimate of the efforts that have been
made by the four arts of eloquence, music, painting,
and sculpture, since the twelfth century, to wring out
of the hearts of women the last drops of pity that could
be excited for this merely physical agony : for the art
nearly always dwells on the physical wounds or ex-
haustion chiefly, and degrades, far more than it animates,
the conception of pain.

Then try to conceive the quantity of time, and of
excited and thrilling emotion, which have been wasted
by the tender and delicate women of Christendom
during these last six hundred years, in thus picturing
to themselves, under the influence of such imagery, the
bodily pain, long since passed, of One Person; — which,
so far as they indeed conceived it to be sustained by a
Divine Nature, could not for that reason have been less
endurable than the agonies of any simple human death
by torture : and then try to estimate what might have

ii.] Art to Religion. 55

been the better result, for the righteousness and felicity
of mankind, if these same women had been taught the
deep meaning of the last words that were ever spoken
by their Master to those who had ministered to Him of
their substance : ' Daughters of Jerusalem, weep not for
me, but weep for yourselves, and for your children.' If
they had but been taught to measure with their pitiful
thoughts the tortures of battle-fields ; — the slowly con-
suming plagues of death in the starving children, and
wasted age, of the innumerable desolate those battles
left ; — nay in our own life of peace, the agony of
unnurtured, untaught, unhelped creatures, awaking at
the grave's edge to know how they should have lived;
and the worse pain of those whose existence, not the
ceasing of it, is death ; those to whom the cradle was
a curse, and for whom the words they cannot hear,
' ashes to ashes,' are all that they have ever received
of benediction. These, — you who would fain have wept
at His feet, or stood by His cross, — these you have
always with you, Him you have not always.

58. The wretched in death you have always with you.
Yes, and the brave and good in life you have always; —
these also needing help, though you supposed they had
only to help others ; these also claiming to be thought for,
and remembered. And you will find, if you look into his-
tory with this clue, that one of quite the chief reasons
for the continual misery of mankind is that they
are always divided in their worship between angels or
saints, who are out of their sight, and need no help,
and proud and evil-minded men, who are too definitely
in their sight, and ought not to have their help. And

56 The relation of [LECT.

consider how the arts have thus followed the worship of
the crowd. You have paintings of saints and angels,
innumerable ; — of petty courtiers, and contemptible or -
cruel kings, innumerable. Few, how few you have (but
these, observe, almost always by great painters) of the
best men, or of their actions. But think for yourselves,
— I have no time now to enter upon the mighty field,
nor imagination enough to guide me beyond the thres-
hold of it, — think, what history might have been to us
now; — nay, what a different history that of all Europe
might have become, if it had but been the object both
of the people to discern, and of their arts to honour
and bear record of, the great deeds of their worthiest
men. And if, instead of living, as they have always
hitherto done, in a hellish cloud of contention and re-
venge, lighted by fantastic dreams of cloudy sanctities,
they had sought to reward and punish justly, wherever
reward and punishment were due, but chiefly to re-
ward ; and at least rather to bear testimony to the
human acts which deserved God's anger or His blessing,
than only in presumptuous imagination to display the
secrets of Judgment, or the beatitudes of Eternity.

59. Such I conceive generally, though indeed with
good arising out of it, for every great evil brings
some good in its backward eddies — such I conceive to
have been the deadly function of art in its ministry to
what, whether in heathen or Christian lands, and whether
in the pageantry of words, or colours, or fair forms, is
truly, and in the deep sense, to be called idolatry — the
serving with the best of our hearts and minds, some
dear or sad fantasy which we have made for ourselves,

ii.] Art to Religion. 57

while we disobey the present call of the Master, who is
not dead, and who is not now fainting under His cross,
. but requiring us to take up ours.

60. I pass to the second great function of religious
art, the limitation of the idea of Divine presence to
particular localities. It is of course impossible within
my present limits to touch upon this power of art, as
employed on the temples of the gods of various reli-
gions ; we will examine that on future occasions. To-
day, I want only to map out main ideas, and I can do
this best by speaking exclusively of this localising influ-
ence as it affects our own faith.

Observe first, that the localisation is almost entirely
dependent upon human art. You must at least take a
stone and set it up for a pillar, if you are to mark the
place, so as to know it again, where a vision ap-
peared. A persecuted people, needing to conceal their
places of worship, may perform every religious cere-
mony first under one crag of the hill-side, and then
under another, without invalidating the sacredness of
the rites or sacraments thus administered. It is,
therefore, we all acknowledge, inessential, that a par-
ticular spot should be surrounded with a ring of stones,
or enclosed within walls of a certain style of architecture,
and so set apart as the only place where such ceremonies
may be properly performed ; and it is thus less by any
direct appeal to experience or to reason, but in con-
sequence of the effect upon our senses produced by the
architecture, that we receive the first strong impressions
of what we afterwards contend for as absolute truth.
I particularly wish you to notice how it is always by

58 The relation of [LECT.

help of human art that such a result is attained, because,
remember always, I am neither disputing nor asserting
the truth of any theological doctrine; — that is not my
province; — I am only questioning the expediency of en-
forcing that doctrine by the help of architecture. Put
a rough stone for an altar under the hawthorn on a
village green; — separate a portion of the green itself
with an ordinary paling from the rest ; — then consecrate,
with whatever form you choose, the space of grass you
have enclosed, and meet within the wooden fence as
often as you desire to pray or preach; yet you will not
easily fasten an impression in the minds of the villagers,
that God inhabits the space of grass inside the fence,
and does not extend His presence to the common beyond
it: and that the daisies and violets on one side of the
railing are holy, — on the other, profane. But, instead
of a wooden fence, build a wall ; pave the interior space ;
roof it over, so as to make it comparatively dark ; — and
you may persuade the villagers with ease that you have
built a house which Deity inhabits, or that you have
become, in the old French phrase, a 'logeur du Bon
Dieu.'

61. And farther, though I have no desire to intro-
duce any question as to the truth of what we thus
architecturally teach, I would desire you most strictly
to determine what is intended to be taught.

Do not think I underrate — I am among the last men
living who would underrate — the importance of the sen-
timents connected with their church to the population
of a pastoral village. I admit, in its fullest extent,
the moral value of the scene, which is almost always

ii.] Art to Religion, 59

one of perfect purity and peace; and of the sense of
supernatural love and protection, which fills and sur-
rounds the low aisles and homely porch. But the
question I desire earnestly to leave with you is, whether
all the earth ought not to be peaceful and pure,
and the acknowledgment of the Divine protection as
universal, as its reality? That in a mysterious way the
presence of Deity is vouchsafed where it is sought, and
withdrawn where it is forgotten, must of course be
granted as the first postulate in the enquiry : but the
point for our decision is just this, whether it ought
always to be sought in one place only, and forgotten in
every other.

It may be replied, that since it is impossible to con-
secrate the entire space of the earth, it is better thus
to secure a portion of it than none : but surely, if so,
we ought to make some effort to enlarge the favoured
ground, and even look forward to a time when in
English villages there may be a God's acre tenanted
by the living, not the dead ; and when we shall rather
look with aversion and fear to the remnant of ground
that is set apart as profane, than with reverence to a
narrow portion of it enclosed as holy.

62. But now, farther. Suppose it be admitted that
by enclosing ground with walls, and performing certain
ceremonies there habitually, some kind of sanctity is
indeed secured within that space, — still the question
remains open whether it be advisable for religious pur-
poses to decorate the enclosure. For separation the
mere walls would be enough. What is the purpose of
your decoration?

60 The relation of [LECT.

Let us take an instance — the most noble with which
I am acquainted, the Cathedral of Chartres. You have
there the most splendid coloured glass, and the richest
sculpture, and the grandest proportions of building,
united to produce a sensation of pleasure and awe. We
profess that this is to honour the Deity ; or, in other
words, that it is pleasing to Him that we should delight
our eyes with blue and golden colours, and solemnise
our spirits by the sight of large stones laid one on
another, and ingeniously carved.

63. I do not think it can be doubted that it is
pleasing to Him when we do this; for He has Himself
prepared for us, nearly every morning and evening, win-
dows painted with Divine art, in blue and gold and
vermilion ; windows lighted from within by the lustre
of that heaven which we may assume, at least with
more certainty than any consecrated ground, to be one
of His dwelling-places. Again, in every mountain side,
and cliff of rude sea shore, He has heaped stones one
upon another of greater magnitude than those of
Chartres Cathedral, and sculptured them with floral
ornament, — surely not less sacred because living?

64. Must it not then be only because we love our
own work better than His, that we respect the lucent
glass, but not the lucent clouds; that we weave em-
broidered robes with ingenious fingers, and make bright
the gilded vaults we have beautifully ordained — while
yet we have not considered the heavens the work of
His fingers; nor the stars of the strange vault which
He has ordained. And do we dream that by carving fonts
and lifting pillars in His honour, who cuts the way of

ii.] Art to Religion. 61

the rivers among the rocks, and at whose reproof the
pillars of the earth are astonished, we shall obtain pardon
for the dishonour done to the hills and streams by which
He has appointed our dwelling-place ; — for the infection
of their sweet air with poison ; — for the burning up of
their tender grass and flowers with fire, and for spread-
ing such a shame of mixed luxury and misery over our
native land, as if we laboured only that, at least here
in England, we might be able to give the lie to the
song, whether of the Cherubim above, or Church be-
neath— ' Holy, holy, Lord God of all creatures ; Heaven —
and JEartb—aTe full of Thy glory ? '

6-5. And how much more there is that I long to say
to you; and how much, I hope, that you would like
to answer to me, or to question me of! But I can say
no more to-day. We are not, I trust, at the end of
our talks or thoughts together ; but, if it were so, and
I never spoke to you more, this that I have said to
you I should have been glad to have been permitted
to say; and this, farther, which is the sum of it, — That
we may have splendour of art again, and with that, we
may truly praise and honour our Maker, and with that
set forth the beauty and holiness of all that He has
made : but only after we have striven with our whole
hearts first to sanctify the temple of the body and
spirit of every child that has no roof to cover its head
from the cold, and no walls to guard its soul from cor-
ruption, in this our English land.

One word more.

What I have suggested hitherto, respecting the rela-
tions of Art to Religion, you must receive throughout

62 The relation of Art to Religion.

as merely motive of thought; though you must have
well seen that my own convictions were established
finally on some of the points in question. But I must,
in conclusion, tell you something that I know; — which,
if you truly labour, you will one day know also ; and
which I trust some of you will believe, now.

During the minutes in which you have been listening
to me, I suppose that almost at every other sentence
those whose habit of mind has been one of veneration
for established forms and faiths, must have been in
dread that I was about to say, or in pang of regret at
my having said, what seemed to them an irreverent or
reckless word touching vitally important things.

So far from this being the fact, it is just because the
feelings that I most desire to cultivate in your minds
are those of reverence and admiration, that I am so
earnest to prevent you from being moved to either by
trivial or false semblances. This is the thing which
I KNOW — and which, if you labour faithfully, you shall
know also, — that in Reverence is the chief joy and power
of life ; — Reverence, for what is pure and bright in your
own youth; for what is true and tried in the age of
others ; for all that is gracious among the living, great
among the dead, — and marvellous in the Powers that
cannot die.

LECTURE III.

THE RELATION OF ART TO MORALS.

LECTURE III.

THE RELATION OF ART TO MORALS.

66. YOU probably recollect that, in the beginning
of my last lecture, it was stated that fine art had, and
could have, but three functions : the enforcing of the
religious sentiments of men, the perfecting their ethical
state, and the doing them material service. We have
to-day to examine the mode of its action in the second
power, that of perfecting the morality or ethical state
of men.

Perfecting, observe — not producing.

You must have the right moral state first, or you
cannot have the art. But when the art is once obtained,
its reflected action enhances and completes the moral
state out of which it arose, and, above all, communicates
the exaltation to other minds which are already morally
capable of the like.

67. For instance, take the art of singing, and the
simplest perfect master of it, (up to the limits of his
nature) whom you can find — a skylark. From him you
may learn what it is to 'sing for joy.' You must get
the moral state first, the pure gladness, then give it
finished expression ; and it is perfected in itself, and

F

66 The relation of [LECT.

made communicable to other creatures capable of such
joy. But it is incommunicable to those who are not
prepared to receive it.

Now, all right human song- is, similarly, the finished
expression, by art, of the joy or grief of noble persons,
for right causes. And accurately in proportion to the
Tightness of the cause, and purity of the emotion, is
the possibility of the fine art. A maiden may sing of
her lost love, but a miser cannot sing of his lost money.
And with absolute precision, from highest to lowest,
the fineness of the possible art is an index of the moral
purity and majesty of the emotion it expresses. You
may test it practically at any instant. Question with
yourselves respecting any feeling that has taken strong
possession of your mind, ' Could this be sung by a
master, and sung nobly, with a true melody and art ? '
Then it is a right feeling. Could it not be sung at all,
or only sung ludicrously? It is a base one. And that
is so in all the arts; so that with mathematical pre-
cision, subject to no error or exception, the art of a
nation, so far as it exists, is an exponent of its ethical
state.

68. An exponent, observe, and exalting influence ;
but not the root or cause. You cannot paint or sing
yourselves into being good men ; you must be good
men before you can either paint or sing, and then the
colour and sound will complete in you all that is best.

And this it was that I called upon you to hear, say-
ing, ' listen to me at least now,' in the first lecture,
namely, that no art-teaching could be of use to you,
but would rather be harmful, unless it was grafted on

in.] Art to Morals. 67

something deeper than all art. For indeed not only
with this, of which it is my function to show you the
laws, but much more with the art of all men, which
you came here chiefly to learn, that of language, the
chief vices of education have arisen from the one great
fallacy of supposing that noble language is a communi-
cable trick of grammar and accent, instead of simply the
careful expression of right thought. All the virtues of
language are, in their roots, moral ; it becomes accurate
if the speaker desires to be true ; clear, if he speaks with
sympathy and a desire to be intelligible ; powerful, if
he has earnestness ; pleasant, if he has sense of rhythm
and order. There are no other virtues of language pro-
ducible by art than these : but let me mark more deeply
for an instant the significance of one of them. Lan-
guage, I said, is only clear when it is sympathetic.
You can, in truth, understand a man's word only by
understanding his temper. Your own word is also as
of an unknown tongue to him unless he understands
yours. And it is this which makes the art of lan-
guage, if any one is to be chosen separately from the
rest, that which is fittest for the instrument of a gentle-
man's education. To teach the meaning of a word
thoroughly is to teach the nature of the spirit that
coined it ; the secret of language is the secret of
sympathy, and its full charm is possible only to the
gentle. And thus the principles of beautiful speech
have all been fixed by sincere and kindly speech. On
the laws which have been determined by sincerity, false
speech, apparently beautiful, may afterwards be con-
structed; but all such utterance, whether in oration or

F 2

68 The relation of [LECT.

poetry, is not only without permanent power, but it is
destructive of the principles it has usurped. So long
as no words are uttered but in faithfulness, so long
the art of language goes on exalting itself; but the
moment it is shaped and chiselled on external principles,
it falls into frivolity, and perishes. And this truth would
have been long ago manifest, had it not been that in
periods of advanced academical science there is always
a tendency to deny the sincerity of the first masters
of language. Once learn to write gracefully in the
manner of an ancient author, and we are apt to think
that he also wrote in the manner of ^some one else.
But no noble nor right style was ever yet founded but
out of a sincere heart.

No man is worth reading to form your style, who
does not mean what he says; nor was any great style
ever invented but by some man who meant what he
said. Find out the beginner of a great manner of
writing, and you have also found the declarer of some
true facts or sincere passions : and your whole method
of reading will thus be quickened, for, being sure that
your author really meant what he said, you will be
much more careful to ascertain what it is that he means.

69. And of yet greater importance is it deeply to
know that every beauty possessed by the language of
a nation is significant of the innermost laws of its being.
Keep the temper of the people stern and manly; make
their associations grave, courteous, and for worthy ob-
jects ; occupy them in just deeds ; and their tongue must
needs be a grand one. Nor is it possible, therefore—
observe the necessary reflected action — that any tongue

in.] Art to Morals. 69

should be a noble one, of which the words are not so
many trumpet-calls to action. All great languages in-
variably utter great things, and command them ; they
cannot be mimicked but by obedience ; the breath of
them is inspiration because it is not only vocal, but
vital ; and you can only learn to speak as these men
spoke, by becoming what these men were.

70. Now for direct confirmation of this, I want you
to think over the relation of expression to character in
two great masters of the absolute art of language, Virgil
and Pope. You are perhaps surprised at the last name ;
and indeed you have in English much higher grasp and
melody of language from more passionate minds, but you
have nothing else, in its range, so perfect. I name,
therefore, these two men, because they are the two most
accomplished Artists, merely as such, whom I know in
literature ; and because I think you will be afterwards
interested in investigating how the infinite grace in the
words of the one, the seventy in those of the other,
and the precision in those of both, arise wholly out of
the moral elements of their minds : — out of the deep
tenderness in Virgil which enabled him to write the stories
of Nisus and Lausus; and the serene and just benevo-
lence which placed Pope, in his theology, two centuries in
advance of his time, and enabled him to sum the law of
noble life in two lines which, so far as I know, are the
most complete, the most concise, and the most lofty ex-
pression of moral temper existing in English words : —
'•Never elated, while one man's oppress' d;
Never dejected, while another 's bless 'd.'
I wish you also to remember these lines of Pope, and

70 The relation of [LECT.

to make yourselves entirely masters of his system of
ethics ; because, putting Shakespeare aside as rather the
world's than ours, I hold Pope to be the most perfect
representative we have, since Chaucer, of the true
English mind; and I think the Dunciad is the most
absolutely chiselled and monumental work ' exacted' in
our country. You will find, as you study Pope, that
he has expressed for you, in the strictest language and
within the briefest limits, every law of art, of criticism,
of economy, of policy, and, finally, of a benevolence,
humble, rational, and resigned, contented with its allot-
ted share of life, and trusting the problem of its sal-
vation to Him in whose hand lies that of the universe.

71. And now I pass to the arts with which I have
special concern, in which, though the facts are exactly
the same, I shall have more difficulty in proving my
assertion, because very few of us are as cognizant of
the merit of painting as we are of that of language ;
and I can only show you whence that merit springs
from, after having thoroughly shown you in what it
consists. But, in the meantime, I have simply to tell
you, that the manual arts are as accurate exponents of
ethical state, as other modes of expression; first, with
absolute precision, of that of the workman, and then
with precision, disguised by many distorting influences,
of that of the nation to which he belongs.

And, first, they are a perfect exponent of the mind of
the workman ; but, being so, remember, if the mind be
great or complex, the art is not an easy book to read ;
for we must ourselves possess all the mental characters
of which we are to read the signs. No man can read

in.] Art to Morals. 71

the evidence of labour who is not himself laborious, for
he does not know what the work cost : nor can he
read the evidence of true passion if he is not passionate ;
nor of gentleness if he is not gentle : and the most
subtle signs of fault and weakness of character he can
only judge by having had the same faults to fight with.
I myself, for instance, know impatient work, and tired
work, better than most critics, because I am myself
always impatient, and often tired : — so also, the patient
and indefatigable touch of a mighty master becomes
more wonderful to me than to others. Yet, wonderful
in no mean measure it will be to you all, when I make
it manifest ; — and as soon as we begin our real work,
and you have learned what it is to draw a true line, I
shall be able to make manifest to you, — and indisput-
ably so, — that the day's work of a man like Mantegna
or Paul Veronese consists of an unfaltering, uninter-
rupted succession of movements of the hand more precise
than those of the finest fencer : the pencil leaving one
point and arriving at another, not only with unerring
precision at the extremity of the line, but with an un-
erring and yet varied course — sometimes over spaces a
foot or more in extent — yet a course so determined every-
where that either of these men could, and Veronese often
does, draw a finished profile, or any other portion of the
contour of a face, with one line, not afterwards changed.
Try, first, to realise to yourselves the muscular precision
of that action, and the intellectual strain of it ; for the
movement of a fencer is perfect in practised monotony;
but the movement of the hand of a great painter is at
every instant governed by direct and new intention.

72 The relation of [LECT.

Then imagine that muscular firmness and subtlety, and
the instantaneously selective and ordinant energy of the
brain, sustained all day long, not only without fatigue,
but with a visible joy in the exertion, like that which
an eagle seems to take in the wave of his wings ; and
this all life long, and through long life, not only with-
out failure of power, but with visible increase of it, until
the actually organic changes of old age. And then con-
sider, so far as you know anything of physiology, what
sort of an ethical state of body and mind that means!
— ethic through ages past ! what fineness of race there
must be to get it, what exquisite balance and symmetry
of the vital powers ! And then, finally, determine for
yourselves whether a manhood like that is consistent
with any viciousness of soul, with any mean anxiety,
any gnawing lust, any wretchedness of spite or remorse,
any consciousness of rebellion against law of God or
man, or any actual, though unconscious, violation of even
the least law to which obedience is essential for the glory
of life, and the pleasing of its Giver.

72. It is, of course, true that many of the strong
masters had deep faults of character, but their faults
always show in their work. It is true that some could
not govern their passions; if so, they died young, or
they painted ill when old. But the greater part of our
misapprehension in the whole matter is from our not
having well known who the great painters were, and
taking delight in the petty skill that was bred in the
fumes of the taverns of the North, instead of theirs who
breathed empyreal air, sons of the morning, under the
woods of Assisi and the crags of Cadore.

m.] Art to Morals. 73

73. It is true however also, as I have pointed out
long- ago, that the strong masters fall into two great
divisions, one leading simple and natural lives, the other
restrained in a Puritanism of the worship of beauty ;
and these two manners of life you may recognise in a
moment by their work. Generally the naturalists are the
strongest ; but there are two of the Puritans, whose work
if I can succeed in making clearly understandable to you
during my three years here, it is all I need care to do.
But of these two Puritans one I cannot name to you, and
the other I at present will not. One I cannot, for no
one knows his name, except the baptismal one, Bernard,
or 'dear little Bernard' — Bernardino, called, from his
birthplace, (Luino, on the lago Maggiore,) Bernard of
Luino. The other is a Venetian, of whom many of you
probably have never heard, and of whom, through me,
you shall not hear, until I have tried to get some picture
by him over to England.

74. Observe then, this Puritanism in the worship
of beauty, though sometimes weak, is always honourable
and amiable, and the exact reverse of the false Puri-
tanism, which consists in the dread or disdain of beauty.
And in order to treat my subject rightly, I ought to
proceed from the skill of art to the choice of its subject,
and show you how the moral temper of the workman is
shown by his seeking lovely forms and thoughts to
express, as well as by the force of his hand in expression.
But I need not now urge this part of the proof on you,
because you are already, I believe, sufficiently conscious of
the truth in this matter, and also I have already said
enough of it in my writings ; whereas I have not at all

74 The relation of [LECT.

said enough of the infallibleness of fine technical work
as a proof of every other good power. And indeed it
was long- before I myself understood the true meaning of
the pride of the greatest men in their mere execution,
shown, for a permanent lesson to us, in the stories
which, whether true or not, indicate with absolute
accuracy the general conviction of great artists ; — the
stories of the contest of Apelles and Protogenes in a line
only, (of which I can promise you, you shall know the
meaning to some purpose in a little while), — the story
of the circle of Giotto, and especially, which you may
perhaps not have observed, the expression of Diirer in
his inscription on the drawings sent him by Raphael.
These figures, he says, ' Raphael drew and sent to
Albert Diirer in Niirnberg, to show him' — What? Not
his invention, nor his beauty of expression, but ' sein
Hand zu weisen,' e To show him his fiand.' And you
will find, as you examine farther, that all inferior artists
are continually trying to escape from the necessity of
sound work, and either indulging themselves in their
delights in subject, or pluming themselves on their
noble motives for attempting what they cannot perform ;
(and observe, by the way, that a great deal of what is
mistaken for conscientious motive is nothing but a very
pestilent, because very subtle, condition of vanity) ; where-
as the great men always understand at once that the
first morality of a painter, as of everybody else, is to
know his business ; and so earnest are they in this, that
many, whose lives you would think, by the results of their
work, had been passed in strong emotion, have in reality
subdued themselves, though capable of the very strongest

in.] Art to Morals. 75

passions, into a calm as absolute as that of a deeply
sheltered mountain lake, which reflects every agitation
of the clouds in the sky, and every change of the shadows
on the hills, but is itself motionless.

75. Finally, you must remember that great obscurity
has been brought upon the truth in this matter by the
want of integrity and simplicity in our modern life. I
mean integrity in the Latin sense, wholeness. Everything
is broken up, and mingled in confusion, both in our
habits and thoughts; besides being in great part imita-
tive : so that you not only cannot tell what a man is, but
sometimes you cannot tell whether he is, at all ! — whether
you have indeed to do with a spirit, or only with an
echo. And thus the same inconsistencies appear now,
between the work of artists of merit and their personal
characters, as those which you find continually dis-
appointing expectation in the lives of men of modern
literary power; — the same conditions of society having
obscured or misdirected the best qualities of the im-
agination, both in our literature and art. Thus there is
no serious question with any of us as to the personal
character of Dante and Giotto, of Shakespeare and
Holbein ; but we pause timidly in the attempt to
analyse the moral laws of the art skill in recent poets,
novelists, and painters.

76. Let me assure you once for all, that as you grow
older, if you enable yourselves to distinguish, by the truth
of your own lives, what is true in those of other men,
you will gradually perceive that all good has its origin in
good, never in evil; that the fact of either literature or
painting being truly fine of their kind, whatever their

76 The relation of [LECT.

mistaken aim, or partial error, is proof of their noble
origin : and that, if there is indeed sterling- value in the
thing done, it has come of a sterling worth in the soul
that did it, however alloyed or denied by conditions of
sin which are sometimes more appalling or more strange
than those which all may detect in their own hearts,
because they are part of a personality altogether larger
than ours, and as far beyond our judgment in its dark-
ness as beyond our following in its light. And it is
sufficient warning against what some might dread as the
probable effect of such a conviction on your own minds,
namely, that you might permit yourselves in the weak-
nesses which you imagined to be allied to genius, when
they took the form of personal temptations ; — it is surely,
I say, sufficient warning against so mean a folly, to
discern, as you may with little pains, that, of all human
existences, the lives of men of that distorted and tainted
nobility of intellect are probably the most miserable.

77. I pass to the second, and for us the more prac-
tically important question, What is the effect of noble art
upon other men ; what has it done for national morality
in time past ; and what effect is the extended knowledge
or possession of it likely to have upon us now ? And
here we are at once met by the facts, which are as
gloomy as indisputable, that, while many peasant popu-
lations, among whom scarcely the rudest practice of art
has ever been attempted, have lived in comparative in-
nocence, honour, and happiness, the worst foulness and
cruelty of savage tribes have been frequently associated
with fine ingenuities of decorative design ; also, that no
people has ever attained the higher stages of art skill,

in.] Art to Morals. 77

except at a period of its civilisation which was sullied by
frequent, violent, and even monstrous crime; and, lastly,
that the attaining of perfection in art power, has been
hitherto, in every nation, the accurate signal of the begin-
ning of its ruin.

78. Respecting which phenomena, observe first, that
although good never springs out of evil, it is developed
to its highest by contention with evil. There are some
groups of peasantry, in far-away nooks of Christian coun-
tries, who are nearly as innocent as lambs ; but the
morality which gives power to art is the morality of
men, not of cattle.

Secondly, the virtues of the inhabitants of many
country districts are apparent, not real ; their lives are
indeed artless, but not innocent ; and it is only the mo-
notony of circumstances, and the absence of temptation,
which prevent the exhibition of evil passions not less
real because often dormant, nor less foul because shown
only in petty faults, or inactive malignities.

79. But you will observe also that absolute ai'tlessness,
to men in any kind of moral health, is impossible; they
have always, at least, the art by which they live — agri-
culture or seamanship ; and in these industries, skilfully
practised, you will find the law of their moral training;
while, whatever the adversity of circumstances, every
rightly-minded peasantry, such as that of Sweden, Den-
mark, Bavaria, or Switzerland, has associated with its
needful industry a quite studied school of pleasurable art
in dress ; and generally also in song, and simple domestic
architecture.

80. Again, I need not repeat to you here what I

78 The relation of [LECT.

endeavoured to explain in the first lecture in the book
I called ' The Two Paths/ respecting the arts of savage
races : but I may now note briefly that such arts are the
result of an intellectual activity which has found no room
to expand, and which the tyranny of nature or of man
has condemned to disease through arrested growth. And
where neither Christianity, nor any other religion con-
veying some moral help, has reached, the animal energy
of such races necessarily flames into ghastly conditions
of evil, and the grotesque or frightful forms assumed by
their art are precisely indicative of their distorted moral
nature.

81. But the truly great nations nearly always begin
from a race possessing this imaginative power; and for
some time their progress is very slow, and their state not
one of innocence, but of feverish and faultful animal
energy. This is gradually subdued and exalted into bright
human life ; the art instinct purifying itself with the
rest of the nature, until social perfectness is nearly
reached ; and then comes the period when conscience and
intellect are so highly developed, that new forms of
error begin in the inability to fulfil the demands of the
one, or to answer the doubts of the other. Then the
wholeness of the people is lost; all kinds of hypocrisies
and oppositions of science develope themselves; their
faith is questioned on one side, and compromised with
on the other; wealth commonly increases at the same
period to a destructive extent ; luxury follows ; and the
ruin of the nation is then certain: while the arts, all
this time, are simply, as I said at first, the exponents of
each phase Of its moral state, and no more control it in

in.] Art to Morals. 79

its political career than the gleam of the firefly guides its
oscillation. It is true that their most splendid results
are usually obtained in the swiftness of the power which

|

is hurrying to the precipice; but to lay the charge of
the catastrophe to the art by which it is illumined, is to
find a cause for the cataract in the hues of its iris. It
is true that the colossal vices belonging to periods of
great national wealth (for wealth, you will find, is the
real root of all evil) can turn every good gift and skill
of nature or of man to evil purpose. If, in such times,
fair pictures have been misused, how much more fair
realities ? And if Miranda is immoral to Caliban, is that
Miranda's fault?

82. And I could easily go on to trace for you what,
at the moment I speak, is signified, in our own national
character, by the forms of art, and unhappily also by the
forms of what is not art, but drex^ ia, that exist among
us. But the more important question is, What will be
signified by them ; what is there in us now of worth
and strength which, under our new and partly accidental
impulse towards formative labour, may be by that ex-
pressed, and by that fortified?

Would it not be well to know this? Nay, irrespective
of all future work, is it not the first thing we should
want to know, what stuff we are made of — how far we
are ayaOol or KOKOI — good, or good for nothing? We
may all know that, each of ourselves, easily enough, if
we like to put one grave question well home.

83. Supposing it were told any of you by a phy-
sician whose word you could not but trust, that you had
not more than seven days to live. And suppose also

8o The relation of [LECT.

that, by the manner of your education it had happened
to you, as it has happened to many, never to have heard
of any future state, or not to have credited what you
heard; and therefore that you had to face this fact
of the approach of death in its simplicity : fearing no
punishment for any sin that you might have before
committed, or in the coming days might determine to
commit ; and having similarly no hope of reward for
past, or yet possible, virtue; nor even of any conscious-
ness whatever to be left to you, after the seventh day
had ended, either of the results of your acts to those
whom you loved, or of the feelings of any survivors
towards you. Then the manner in which you would
spend the seven days is an exact measure of the morality
of your nature.

84. I know that some of you, and I believe the
greater number of you, would, in such a case, spend the
granted days entirely as you ought. Neither in num-
bering the errors, or deploring the pleasures of the past ;
nor in grasping at vile good in the present, nor vainly
lamenting the darkness of the future ; but in instant and
earnest execution of whatever it might be possible for
you to accomplish in the time, in setting your affairs
in order, and in providing for the future comfort, and
— so far as you might by any message or record of
yourself, for the consolation — of those whom you loved,
and by whom you desired to be remembered, not for
your good, but for theirs. How far you might fail
through human weakness, in shame for the past, despair
at the little that could in the remnant of life be accom-
plished, or the intolerable pain of broken affection, would

in.] Art to Morals. 81

depend wholly on the degree in which your nature had
been depressed or fortified by the manner of your past
life. But I think there are few of you who would not
spend those last days better than all that had preceded
them.

85. If you look accurately through the records of the
lives that have been most useful to humanity, you will
find that all that has been done best, has been done so;
— that to the clearest intellects and highest souls, — to
the true children of the Father, with whom a thousand
years are as one day, their poor seventy years are but
as seven days. The removal of the shadow of death
from them to an uncertain, but always narrow, distance,
never takes away from them their intuition of its
approach; the extending to them of a few hours more
or less of light abates not their acknowledgment of the
infinitude that must remain to be known beyond their
knowledge, — done beyond their deeds : the unprofitableness
of their momentary service is wrought in a magnificent
despair, and their very honour is bequeathed by them for
the joy of others, as they lie down to their rest, regarding
for themselves the voice of men no more.

86. The best things, I repeat to you, have been done
thus, and therefore, sorrowfully. But the greatest part
of the good work of the world is done either in pure
and unvexed instinct of duty, ( I have stubbed Thornaby
waste/ or else, and better, it is cheerful and helpful doing
of what the hand finds to do, in surety that at evening
time, whatsoever is right, the Master will give. And
that it be worthily done, depends wholly on that ultimate
quantity of worth which you can measure, each in him-

G

82 The relation of [LECT.

self, by the test I have just given you. For that test,
observe, will mark to you the precise force, first of your
absolute courage, and then of the energy in you for the
right ordering of things, and the kindly dealing with
persons. You have cut away from these two instincts
every selfish or common motive, and left nothing but the
energies of Order and of Love.

87. Now, where those two roots are set, all the other
powers and desires find right nourishment, and become
to their own utmost, helpful to others and pleasurable to
ourselves. And so far as those two springs of action
are not in us, all other powers become corrupt or dead ;
even the love of truth, apart from these, hardens into an
insolent and cold avarice of knowledge, which unused, is
more vain than unused gold.

88. These, then, are the two essential instincts of
humanity : the love of Order, and the love of Kindness.
By the love of order the moral energy is to deal with
the earth, and to dress it, and keep it; and with all
rebellious and dissolute forces in lower creatures, or in
ourselves. By the love of doing kindness it is to deal
rightly with all surrounding life. And then, grafted on
these, we are to make every other passion perfect; so
that they may every one have full strength and yet be
absolutely under control.

89. Every one must be strong, every one perfect, every
one obedient as a war horse. And it is among the
most beautiful pieces of mysticism to which eternal truth
is attached, that the chariot race, which Plato uses as
an image of moral government, and which is indeed the
most perfect type of it in any visible skill of men,

in.] Art to Morals. 83

should have been made by the Greeks the continual
subject of their best poetry and best art. Nevertheless,
Plato's use of it is not altogether true. There is no
black horse in the chariot of the soul. One of the
driver's worst faults is in starving his horses; another,
in not breaking them early enough; but they are all
good. Take, for example, one usually thought of as
wholly evil — that of Anger, leading to vengeance. I
believe it to be quite one of the crowning wickednesses
of this age that we have starved and chilled our faculty
of indignation, and neither desire nor dare to punish
crimes justly. We have taken up the benevolent idea,
forsooth, that justice is to be preventive instead of vin-
dictive ; and we imagine that we are to punish, not in
anger, but in expediency; not that we may give de-
served pain to the person in fault, but that we may
frighten other people from committing the same fault.
The beautiful theory of this non- vindictive justice is,
that having convicted a man of a crime worthy of death,
we entirely pardon the criminal, restore him to his place
in our affection and esteem, and then hang him, not as
a malefactor, but as a scarecrow. That is the theory.
And the practice is, that we send a child to prison for
a month for stealing a handful of walnuts, for fear that
other children should come to steal more of our walnuts.
And we do not punish a swindler for ruining a thousand
families, because we think swindling is a wholesome
excitement to trade.

90. But all true justice is vindictive to vice as it is
rewarding to virtue. Only — and herein it is distinguished
from personal revenge — it is vindictive of the wrong

84 The relation of [LECT.

done, not of the wrong done to us. It is the national
expression of deliberate anger, as of deliberate gratitude ;
it is not exemplary, or even corrective, but essentially
retributive; it is the absolute art of measured recom-
pense, giving honour where honour is due, and shame
where shame is due, and joy where joy is due, and pain
where pain is due. It is neither educational, for men
are to be educated by wholesome habit, not by rewards
and punishments; nor is it preventive, for it is to be
executed without regard to any consequences; but only
for righteousness' sake, a righteous nation does judgment
and justice. But in this, as in all other instances, the
Tightness of the secondary passion depends on its being
grafted on those two primary instincts, the love of order
and of kindness, so that indignation itself is against the
wounding of love. Do you think the JU.TJI'IS 'A\L\rjos came
of a hard heart in Achilles, or the ' Pallas te hoc vulnere,
Pallas/ of a hard heart in Anchises1 son?

91 . And now, if with this clue through the labyrinth
of them, you remember the course of the arts of great
nations, you will perceive that whatever has prospered,
and become lovely, had its beginning — for no other was
possible — in the love of order in material things asso-
ciated with true bmaiotrvvri, and the desire of beauty in
material things, which is associated with true affection,
charitas ; and with the innumerable conditions of true
gentleness expressed by the different uses of the words
Xa/ns and gratia. You will find that this love of beauty
is an essential part of all healthy human nature, and
though it can long co-exist with states of life in many
other respects unvirtuous, it is itself wholly good; — the

,IIL] Art to Morals. 85

direct adversary of envy, avarice, mean worldly care, and
especially of cruelty. It entirely perishes when these are
wilfully indulged; and the men in whom it has heen
most strong have always been compassionate, and lovers
of justice, and the earliest discerners and declarers of
things conducive to the happiness of mankind.

92. Nearly every important truth respecting the love
of beauty in its familiar relations to human life was
mythically expressed by the Greeks in their various
accounts of the parentage and offices of the Graces.
But one fact, the most vital of all, they could not in
its fulness perceive, namely, that the intensity of other
perceptions of beauty is exactly commensurate with the
imaginative purity of the passion of love, and with the
singleness of its devotion. They were not fully conscious
of, and could not therefore either mythically or philo-
sophically express, the deep relation within themselves
between their power of perceiving beauty, and the honour
of domestic affection which found their sternest themes
of tragedy in the infringement of its laws ; — which made
the rape of Helen the chief subject of their epic poetry,
and which fastened their clearest symbolism of resurrec-
tion on the story of Alcestis. Unhappily, the subordinate
position of their most revered women, and the partial
corruption of feeling towards them by the presence
of certain other singular states of inferior passion which
it is as difficult as grievous to analyse, arrested the
ethical as well as the formative progress of the Greek
mind ; and it was not until after an interval of nearly
two thousand years of various error and pain, that, partly
as the true reward of Christian warfare nobly sustained

86 The relation of [LECT.

through centuries of trial, and partly as the visionary
culmination of the faith which saw in a maiden's purity
the link between God and her race, the highest and
holiest strength of mortal love was reached ; and, together
with it, in the song of Dante, and the painting of
Bernard of Luino and his fellows, the perception, and
embodiment for ever of whatsoever things are pure,
whatsoever things are lovely, whatsoever things are of
good report; — that, if there be any virtue, and if there
be any praise, men might think on those things.

93. You probably observed the expression I used a
moment ago, the imaginative purity of the passion of
love. I have not yet spoken, nor is it possible for me
to-day to speak adequately, of the moral power of the ima-
gination : but you may for yourselves enough discern its
nature merely by comparing the dignity of the relations
between the sexes, from their lowest level in moths or
mollusca, through the higher creatures in whom they
become a domestic influence and law, up to the love of
pure men and women ; and, finally, to the ideal love
which animated chivalry. Throughout this vast ascent
it is the gradual increase of the imaginative faculty
which exalts and enlarges the authority of the passion,
until, at its height, it is the bulwark of patience, the
tutor of honour, and the perfectness of praise.

94. You will find farther, that as of love, so of all
the other passions, the right government and exaltation
begins in that of the Imagination, which is lord over
them. For to subdue the passions, which is thought so
often to be the sum of duty respecting them, is pos-
sible enough to a proud dulness ; but to excite them

in.] Art to Morals. 87

rightly, and make them strong for good, is the work of
the unselfish imagination. It is constantly said that
human nature is heartless. Do not believe it. Human
nature is kind and generous ; but it is narrow and blind ;
and can only with difficulty conceive anything but what
it immediately sees and feels. People would instantly
care for others as well as themselves if only they could
imagine others as well as themselves. Let a child fall
into the river before the roughest man's eyes; — he will
usually do what he can to get it out, even at some risk
to himself ; and all the town will triumph in the saving
of one little life. Let the same man be shown that
hundreds of children are dying of fever for want of
some sanitary measure which it will cost him trouble
to urge, and he will make no effort ; and probably all
the town would resist him if he did. So, also, the lives
of many deserving women are passed in a succession of
petty anxieties about themselves, and gleaning of minute
interests and mean pleasures in their immediate circle,
because they are never taught to make any effort to
look beyond it; or to know anything about the mighty
world in which their lives are fading, like blades of
bitter grass in fruitless fields.

95. I had intended to enlarge on this — and yet more
on the kingdom which every man holds in his con-
ceptive faculty, to be peopled with active thoughts and
lovely presences, or left waste for the springing up of
those dark desires and dreams of which it is written that
'every imagination of the thoughts of man's heart is
evil continually.' True, and a thousand times true it
is, that, here at least, ' greater is he that ruleth his

88 The relation of [LECT.

spirit, than he that taketh a city.' But this you can
partly follow out for yourselves without help, partly we
must leave it for future enquiry. I press to the con-
clusion which I wish to leave with you, that all you can
rightly do, or honourably become, depends on the govern-
ment of these two instincts of order and kindness, by
this great Imaginative faculty, which gives you inheri-
tance of the past, grasp of the present, authority over
the future. Map out the spaces of your possible lives
by its help ; measure the range of their possible agency !
On the walls and towers of this your fair city, there is
not an ornament of which the first origin may not be
traced back to the thoughts of men who died two
thousand years ago. Whom will you be governing by
your thoughts, two thousand years hence ? Think of it,
and you will find that so far from art being immoral,
little else except art is moral; that life without industry
is guilt, and industry without art is brutality : and for
the words ' good ' and ' wicked/ used of men, you may
almost substitute the words ' Makers' or ' Destroyers.' Far
the greater part of the seeming prosperity of the world
is, so far as our present knowledge extends, vain : wholly
useless for any kind of good, but having assigned to it
a certain inevitable sequence of destruction and of sorrow.
Its stress is only the stress of wandering storm ; its beauty
the hectic of plague : and what is called the history of
mankind is too often the record of the whirlwind, and
the map of the spreading of the leprosy. But underneath
all that, or in narrow spaces of dominion in the midst
of it, the work of every man, ' qui non accepit in vani-
tatem animam suam,' endures and prospers ; a small

in.] Art to Morals. 89

remnant or green bud of it prevailing at last over evil.
And though faint with sickness, and encumbered in ruin,
the true workers redeem inch by inch the wilderness
into garden ground ; by the help of their joined hands
the order of all things is surely sustained and vitally
expanded, and although with strange vacillation, in the
eyes of the watcher, the morning cometh, and also the
night, there is no hour of human existence that does not
draw on towards the perfect day.

96. And perfect the day shall be, when it is of all
men understood that the beauty of Holiness must be in
labour as well as in rest. Nay ! more, if it may be, in
labour ; in our strength, rather than in our weakness ;
and in the choice of what we shall work for through the
six days, and may know to be good at their evening
time, than in the choice of what we pray for on the
seventh, of reward or repose. With the multitude that
keep holiday, we may perhaps sometimes vainly have
gone up to the house of the Lord, and vainly there
asked for what we fancied would be mercy; but for
the few who labour as their Lord would have them,
the mercy needs no seeking, and their wide home no
hallowing. Surely goodness and mercy shall follow them,
all the days of their life; and they shall dwell in the
house of the Lord — FOR EVER.

LECTURE IV.

THE RELATION OF ART TO USE.

LECTURE IV.

THE RELATION OF ART TO USE.

97. OUR subject of enquiry to-day, you will re-
member, is the mode in which fine art is founded upon,
or may contribute to, the practical requirements of
human life.

Its offices in this respect are mainly twofold : it
gives Form to knowledge, and Grace to utility; that
is to say, it makes permanently visible to us things
which otherwise could neither be described by our
science, nor retained by our memory ; and it gives
delightfulness and worth to the implements of daily
use, and materials of dress, furniture, and lodging. In
the first of these offices it gives precision and charm to
truth; in the second it gives precision and charm to
service. For, the moment we make anything useful
thoroughly, it is a law of nature that we shall be
pleased with ourselves, and with the thing we have
made ; and become desirous therefore to adorn or com-
plete it, in some dainty way, with finer art expressive
of our pleasure.

And the point I wish chiefly to bring before you

94 The relation of [LECT.

to-day is this close and healthy connection of the fine
arts with material use; but I must first try briefly to
put in clear light the function of art in giving Form to
truth.

98. Much that I have hitherto tried to teach has
been disputed on the ground that I have attached too
much importance to art as representing natural facts,
and too little to it as a source of pleasure. And I
wish, in the close of these four prefatory lectures,
strongly to assert to you, and, so far as I can in the
time, convince you, that the entire vitality of art de-
pends upon its being either full of truth, or full of
use ; and that, however pleasant, wonderful, or impres-
sive it may be in itself, it must yet be of inferior kind,
and tend to deeper inferiority, unless it has clearly one
of these main objects, — either to state a true thing ; or
to adorn a serviceable one. It must never exist alone,
— never for itself; it exists rightly only when it is the
means of knowledge, or the grace of agency for life.

99. Now, I pray you to observe — for though I have
said this often before, I have never yet said it clearly
enough — every good piece of art, to whichever of these
ends it may be directed, involves first essentially the
evidence of human skill, and the formation of an actually
beautiful thing by it.

Skill, and beauty, always then ; and, beyond these, the
formative arts have always one or other of the two
objects which I have just defined to you — truth, or ser-
viceableness ; and without these aims neither the skill
nor their beauty will avail ; only by these can either
legitimately reign. All the graphic arts begin in keep-

iv.] Art to Use. 95

ing the outline of shadow that we have loved, and they
end in giving to it the aspect of life ; and all the ar-
chitectural arts begin in the shaping of the cup and
the platter, and they end in a glorified roof.

Therefore, you see, in the graphic arts you have Skill,
Beauty, and Likeness; and in the architectural arts,
Skill, Beauty, and Use ; and you must have the three
in each group, balanced and co-ordinate; and all the
chief errors of art consist in losing or exaggerating one
of these elements.

100. For instance, almost the whole system and hope
of modern life are founded on the notion that you may
substitute mechanism for skill, photograph for picture,
cast-iron for sculpture. That is your main nineteenth-
century faith, or infidelity. You think you can get
everything by grinding — music, literature, and paint-
ing. You will find it grievously not so; you can get
nothing but dust by mere grinding. Even to have the
barley-meal out of it, you must have the barley first;
and that comes by growth, not grinding. But essen-
tially, we have lost our delight in Skill ; in that ma-
jesty of it which I was trying to make clear to you in
my last address, and which long ago I tried to express,
under the head of ideas of power. The entire sense of
that, we have lost, because we ourselves do not take
pains enough to do right, and have no conception of
what the right costs ; so that all the joy and reverence
we ought to feel in looking at a strong man's work
have ceased in us. We keep them yet a little in looking at
a honeycomb or a bird's-nest; we understand that these
differ, by divinity of skill, from a lump of wax or a

96 The relation of [LECT.

cluster of sticks. But a picture, which is a much more
wonderful thing than a honeycomb or a bird's -nest, —
have we not known people, and sensible people too,
who expected to be taught to produce that, in six
lessons ?

101. Well, you must have the skill, you must have
the beauty, which is the highest moral element; and
then, lastly, you must have the verity or utility, which is
not the moral, but the vital element ; and this desire for
verity and use is the one aim of the three that always
leads in great schools, and in the minds of great mas-
ters, without any exception. They will permit them-
selves in awkwardness, they will permit themselves in
ugliness ; — but they will never permit themselves in use-
lessness or in unveracity.

102. And farther, as their skill increases, and as
their grace, so much more, their desire for truth. It
is impossible to find the three motives in fairer
balance and harmony than in our own Reynolds. He
rejoices in showing you his skill ; and those of you
who succeed in learning what painters' work really is,
will one day rejoice also, even to laughter — that highest
laughter which springs of pure delight, in watching the
fortitude and the fire of a hand which strikes forth its
will upon the canvas as easily as the wind strikes it
on the sea. He.- rejoices in all abstract beauty and
rhythm and melody of design; he will never give you
a colour that is not lovely, nor a shade that is unneces-
sary, nor a line that is ungraceful. But all his power
and all his invention are held by him subordinate, —
and the more obediently because of their nobleness, —

iv.] Art to Use. 97

to his true leading purpose of setting before you such
likeness of the living presence of an English gentleman
or an English lady, as shall be worthy of being looked
upon for ever.

103. But farther, you remember, I hope — for I said
it in a way that I thought would shock you a little,
that you might remember it — my statement, that art
had never done more than this, never more than given
the likeness of a noble human being. Not only so,
but it very seldom does so much as this ; and the best
pictures that exist of the great schools are all portraits,
or groups of portraits, often of very simple and nowise
noble persons. You may have much more brilliant
and impressive qualities in imaginative pictures ; you
may have figures scattered like clouds, or garlanded
like flowers ; you may have light and shade, as of
a tempest, and colour, as of the rainbow; but all
that is child's play to the great men, though it is
astonishment to us. Their real strength is tried to
the utmost, and as far as I know, it is never elsewhere
brought out so thoroughly, as in painting one man or
woman, and the soul that was in them ; nor that
always the highest soul, but often only a thwarted
one that was capable of height ; or perhaps not even
that, but faultful and poor, yet seen through, to the
poor best of it, by the masterful "sight. So that in
order to put before you in your Standard series the
best art possible, I am obliged, even from the very
strongest men, to take the portraits, before I take the
idealism. Nay, whatever is best in the great com-
positions themselves has depended on portraiture ; and

H

98 The relation of [LECT.

the study necessary to enable you to understand inven-
tion will also convince you that the mind of man never
invented a greater thing than the form of man, ani-
mated by faithful life. Every attempt to refine or exalt
such healthy humanity has weakened or caricatured it ;
or else consists only in giving it, to please our fancy,
the wings of birds, or the eyes of antelopes. Whatever
is truly great in either Greek or Christian art, is also
restrictedly human ; and even the raptures of the re-
deemed souls who enter, ' celestemente ballando,' the
gate of Angelico's Paradise, were seen first in the ter-
restrial, yet most pure, mirth of Florentine maidens.

104. I am aware that this cannot but at present
appear gravely questionable to those of my audience
who are strictly cognizant of the phases of Greek art ;
for they know that the moment of its decline is accu-
rately marked, by its turning from abstract form to
portraiture. But the reason of this is simple. The pro-
gressive course of Greek art was in subduing monstrous
conceptions to natural ones; it did this by general laws;
it reached absolute truth of generic human form, and
if its ethical force had remained, would have advanced
into healthy portraiture. But at the moment of change
the national life ended in Greece; and portraiture, there,
meant insult to her religion, and flattery to her tyrants.
And her skill perished, not because she became true
in sight, but because she became vile in heart.

105. And now let us think of our own work, and
ask how that may become, in its own poor measure,
active in some verity of representation. We certainly
cannot begin by drawing kings or queens ; but we must

iv.] Art to Use. 99

try, even in our earliest work, if it is to prosper, to
draw something- that will convey true knowledge both
to ourselves and others. And I think you will find
greatest advantage in the endeavour to give more life
and educational power to the simpler branches of natural
science : for the great scientific men are all so eager in
advance that they have no time to popularise their
discoveries, and if we can glean after them a little, and
make pictures of the things which science describes, we
shall find the service a worthy one. Not only so, but
we may even be helpful to science herself; for she has
suffered by her proud severance from the arts ; and
having made too little effort to realise her discoveries
to vulgar eyes, has herself lost true measure of what
was chiefly precious in them.

106. Take Botany, for instance. Our scientific bota-
nists are, I think, chiefly at present occupied in dis-
tinguishing species, which perfect methods of distinction
will probably in the future show to be indistinct; — in
inventing descriptive names of which a more advanced
science and more fastidious scholarship will show some
to be unnecessary, and others inadmissible ; — and in
microscopic investigations of structure, which through
many alternate links of triumphant discovery that tissue
is composed of vessels, and that vessels are composed of
tissue, have not hitherto completely explained to us
either the origin, the energy, or the course of the sap;
and which, however subtle or successful, bear to the real
natural history of plants only the relation that anatomy
and organic chemistry bear to the history of men. In
the meantime, our artists are so generally convinced of

H 2

ioo The relation of [LECT.

the truth of the Darwinian theory, that they do not
always think it necessary to show any difference be-
tween the foliage of an elm and an oak; and the gift-
books of Christmas have every page surrounded with
laboriously engraved garlands of rose, shamrock, thistle,
and forget-me-not, without its being thought proper by
the draughtsmen, or desirable by the public, even in
the case of those uncommon flowers, to observe the real
shape of the petals of any one of them.

107. Now what we especially need at present for edu-
cational purposes is to know, not the anatomy of plants,
but their biography — how and where they live and die,
their tempers, benevolences, malignities, distresses, and
virtues. We want them drawn from their youth to
their age, from bud to fruit. We ought to see the
various forms of their diminished but hardy growth in
cold climates, or poor soils; and their rank or wild
luxuriance, when full-fed, and warmly nursed. And all
this we ought to have drawn so accurately, that we
might at once compare any given part of a plant with
the same part of any other, drawn on the like con-
ditions. Now, is not this a work which we may set
about here in Oxford, with good hope and much plea-
sure? I think it so important, that the first exercise
in drawing I shall put before you will be an outline
of a laurel leaf. You will find in the opening sentence
of Leonardo's treatise, our present text-book, that you
must not at first draw from nature, but from a good
master's work, ' per assuefarsi a buone membra,' to
accustom yourselves, that is, to entirely good representa-
tive organic forms. So your first exercise shall be the

iv.] Art to Use. 101

top of the laurel sceptre of Apollo, drawn by an Italian
engraver of Lionardo's own time; then we will draw
a laurel leaf itself; and little by little, I think we may
both learn ourselves, and teach to many besides, somewhat
more than we know yet, of the wild olives of Greece,
and the wild roses of England.

108. Next, in Geology, which I will take leave to
consider as an entirely separate science from the zoology
of the past, which has lately usurped its name and
interest. In geology itself we find the strength of
many able men occupied in debating questions of which
there are yet no data even for the clear statement; and
in seizing advanced theoretical positions on the mere
contingency of their being afterwards tenable; while, in
the meantime, no simple person, taking a holiday in
Cumberland, can get an intelligible section of Skiddaw,
or a clear account of the origin of the Skiddaw slates ;
and while, though half the educated society of London
travel every summer over the great plain of Switzer-
land, none know, or care to know, why that is a plain,
and the Alps to the south of it are Alps ; and whether
or not the gravel of the one has anything to do with
the rocks of the other. And though every palace in
Europe owes part of its decoration to variegated mar-
bles, and nearly every woman in Europe part of her
decoration to pieces of jasper or chalcedony, I do not
think any geologist could at this moment with authority
tell us either how a piece of marble is stained, or what
causes the streaks in a Scotch pebble.

109. Now, as soon as you have obtained the power
of drawing, I do not say a mountain, but even a stone,

IO2 The relation of [LECT.

accurately, every question of this kind will become to
you at once attractive and definite; you will find that
in the grain, the lustre, and the cleavage-lines of the
smallest fragment of rock, there are recorded forces of
every order and magnitude, from those which raise a
continent by one volcanic effort, to those which at every
instant are polishing the apparently complete crystal in
its nest, and conducting the apparently motionless metal
in its vein ; and that only by the art of your own hand,
and fidelity of sight which it developes, you can obtain
true perception of these invincible and inimitable arts of
the earth herself: while the comparatively slight effort
necessary to obtain so much skill as may serviceably
draw mountains in distant effect will be instantly re-
warded by what is almost equivalent to a new sense of
the conditions of their structure.

110. And, because it is well at once to know some
direction in which our work may be definite, let me
suggest to those of you who may intend passing their
vacation in Switzerland, and who care about moun-
tains, that if they will first qualify themselves to take
angles of position and elevation with correctness, and
to draw outlines with approximate fidelity, there are a
series of problems of the highest interest to be worked
out on the southern edge of the Swiss plain, in the
study of the relations of its molasse beds to the rocks
which are characteristically developed in the chain of
the Stockhorn, Beatenberg, Pilate, Mythen above
Schwytz, and High Sentis of Appenzell ; the pursuit
of which may lead them into many pleasant, as well as
creditably dangerous, walks, and curious discoveries ; and

iv.] Art to Use, 103

will be good for the discipline of their fingers in the
pencilling- of crag form.

111. I wish I could ask you to draw, instead of the
Alps, the crests of Parnassus and Olympus, and the
ravines of Delphi and of Tempe. I have not loved
the arts of Greece as others have ; yet I love them,
and her, so much, that it is to me simply a standing
marvel how scholars can endure for all these centuries,
during which their chief education has been in the lan-
guage and policy of Greece, to have only the names of
her hills and rivers upon their lips, and never one line
of conception of them in their mind's sight. Which of
us knows what the valley of Sparta is like, or the great
mountain vase of Arcadia ? which of us, except in mere
airy syllabling of names, knows aught of ' sandy Ladon's
lilied banks, or old Lycaeus, or Cyllene hoar ? ' ' You can-
not travel in Greece?' — I know it; nor in Magna Gra-
cia. But, gentlemen of England, you had better find
out why you cannot, and put an end to that horror of
European shame, before you hope to learn Greek art.

112. I scarcely know whether to place among the
things useful to art, or to science, the systematic
record, by drawing, of phenomena of the sky. But I
am quite sure that your work cannot in any direction
be more useful to yourselves, than in enabling you to
perceive the quite unparalleled subtilties of colour and
inorganic form, which occur on any ordinarily fine
morning or evening horizon ; and I will even confess
to you another of my perhaps too sanguine expec-
tations, that in some far distant time it may come to
pass, that young Englishmen and Englishwomen may

IO4 The relation of [LECT.

think the breath of the morning- sky pleasanter than
that of midnight, and its light prettier than that of
candles.

113. Lastly, in Zoology. What the Greeks did for
the horse, and what, as far as regards domestic and
expressional character, Landseer has done for the dog
and the deer, remains to be done by art for nearly all
other animals of high organisation. There are few birds
or beasts that have not a range of character which, if
not equal to that of the horse or dog, is yet as interest-
ing within narrower limits, and often in grotesqueness,
intensity, or wild and timid pathos, more singular and
mysterious. Whatever love of humour you have, —
whatever sympathy with imperfect, but most subtle,
feeling, — whatever perception of sublimity in conditions
of fatal power, may here find fullest occupation : all
these being joined, in the strong animal races, to a
variable and fantastic beauty far beyond anything that
merely formative art has yet conceived. I have placed
in your Educational series a wing by Albert Diirer, which
goes as far as art yet has reached in delineation of
plumage ; while for the simple action of the pinion, it
is impossible to go beyond what has been done already
by Titian and Tintoret; but you cannot so much as
once look at the rufflings of the plumes of a pelican
pluming itself after it has been in the water, or care-
fully draw the contours of the wing either of a vulture
or a common swift, or paint the rose and vermilion on
that of a flamingo, without receiving almost a new con-
ception of the meaning of form and colour in creation.

114. Lastly. Your work, in all directions I have

iv.] Art to Use. 105

hitherto indicated, may be as deliberate as you choose;
there is no immediate fear of the extinction of many
species of flowers or animals ; and the Alps, and valley
of Sparta, will wait your leisure, I fear too long. But
the feudal and monastic buildings of Europe, and still
more the streets of her ancient cities, are vanishing like
dreams : and it is difficult to imagine the mingled envy
and contempt with which future generations will look
back to us, who still possessed such things, yet made
no effort to preserve, and scarcely any to delineate
them : for, when used as material of landscape by the
modern artist, they are nearly always superficially or
flatteringly represented, without zeal enough to penetrate
their character, or patience enough to render it in
modest harmony. As for places of traditional in-
terest, I do not know an entirely faithful drawing
of any historical site, except one or two studies made
by enthusiastic young painters in Palestine and Egypt :
for which, thanks to them always; but we want work
nearer home.

115. Now it is quite probable that some of you,
who will not care to go through the labour necessary
to draw flowers or animals, may yet have pleasure in
attaining some moderately accurate skill of sketching
architecture, and greater pleasure still in directing it
usefully. Suppose, for instance, we were to take up the
historical scenery in Carlyle's ' Frederick/ Too justly the
historian accuses the genius of past art, in that, types
of too many such elsewhere, the galleries of Berlin —
'are made up, like other galleries, of goat-footed Pan,
Europa's Bull, Romulus's She-Wolf, and the Correg-

io6 T/u relation of [LECT.

giosity of Correggio, and contain, for instance, no por-
trait of Friedrich the Great, — no likeness at all, or
next to none at all, of the noble series of Human
Realities, or of any part of them, who have sprung-,
not from the idle brains of dreaming- dilettanti, but
from the head of God Almighty, to make this poor
authentic earth a little memorable for us, and to do a
little work that may be eternal there/ So Carlyle tells
us — too truly ! We cannot now draw Friedrich for him,
but we can draw some of the old castles and cities that
were the cradles of German life — Hohenzollern, Hapsburg-,
Marburg, and such others ; — we may keep some authen-
tic likeness of these for the future. Suppose we were to
take up that first volume of ' Friedrich,' and put outlines
to it ? shall we begin by looking for Henry the Fowler's
tomb — Carlyle himself asks if he has any — at Quedlin-
burg, and so downwards, rescuing what we can? That
would certainly be making our work of some true use.

116. But I have told you enough, it seems to me,
at least to-day, of this function of art in recording fact ;
let me now finally, and with all distinctness possible to
me, state to you its main business of all ; — its service in
the actual uses of daily life.

You are surprised, perhaps, to hear me call this
its main business. That is indeed so, however. The
giving brightness to picture is much, but the giving
brightness to life more. And remember, were it as
patterns only, you cannot, without the realities, have
the pictures. You cannot have a landscape by Turner,
without a country for him to paint ; you cannot have
a portrait by Titian, without a man to be pourtrayed.

iv.] Art to Use. 107

I need not prove that to you, I suppose, in these short
terms ; but in the outcome I can get no soul to believe
that the beginning of art is in getting our country
clean and our people beautiful. I have been ten years
trying to get this very plain certainty — I do not say
believed — but even thought of, as anything but a mon-
strous proposition. To get your country clean, and
your people lovely ; — I assure you, that is a necessary
work of art to begin with ! There has indeed been art
in countries where people lived in dirt to serve God, but
never in countries where they lived in dirt to serve the
devil. There has indeed been art where the people were
not all lovely, — where even their lips were thick — and
their skins black, because the sun had looked upon them ;
but never in a country where the people were pale with
miserable toil and deadly shade, and where the lips of
youth, instead of being full with blood, were pinched
by famine, or warped with poison. And now, therefore,
note this well, the gist of all these long prefatory talks.
I said that the two great moral instincts were those of
Order and Kindness. Now, all the arts are founded on
agriculture by the hand, and on the graces, and kindness
of feeding, and dressing, and lodging your people.
Greek art begins in the gardens of Alcinous — perfect
order, leeks in beds, and fountains in pipes. And
Christian art, as it arose out of chivalry, was only pos-
sible so far as chivalry compelled both kings and knights
to care for the right personal training of their people ;
it perished utterly when those kings and knights became
8j7/uo/3opoi, devourers of the people. And it will become
possible again only, when, literally, the sword is beaten

io8 The relation of [LECT.

into the ploughshare, when your St. George of Eng-
land shall justify his name, and Christian art shall be
known, as its Master was, in breaking of bread.

117. Now look at the working out of this broad
principle in minor detail ; observe how, from highest to
lowest, health of art has first depended on reference to
industrial use. There is first the need of cup and platter,
especially of cup ; for you can put your meat on the
Harpies', or any other, tables ; but you must have your
cup to drink from. And to hold it conveniently, you
must put a handle to it ; and to fill it when it is empty
you must have a large pitcher of some sort ; and to carry
the pitcher you may most advisably have two handles.
Modify the forms of these needful possessions according
to the various requirements of drinking largely and
drinking delicately; of pouring easily out, or of keep-
ing for years the perfume in; of storing in cellars, or
bearing from fountains ; of sacrificial libation, of Pan,
athenaic treasure of oil, and sepulchral treasure of
ashes, — and you have a resultant series of beautiful form
and decoration, from the rude amphora of red earth up
to Cellini's vases of gems and crystal, in which series,
but especially in the more simple conditions of it, are
developed the most beautiful lines and most perfect
types of severe composition which have yet been attained
by art.

118. But again, that you may fill your cup with
pure water, you must go to the well or spring ; you
need a fence round the well; you need some tube or
trough, or other means of confining the stream at the
spring. Eor the conveyance of the current to any dis-

iv.] Art to Use. 109

tance you must build either enclosed or open aqueduct •,
and in the hot square of the city where you set it free,
you find it good for health and pleasantness to let it
leap into a fountain. On these several needs you have
a school of sculpture founded ; in the decoration of the
walls of wells in level countries, and of the sources of
springs in mountainous ones, and chiefly of all, where the
women of household or market meet at the city fountain.
There is, however, a farther reason for the use of art
here than in any other material service, so far as we
may, by art, express our reverence or thankfulness.
Whenever a nation is in its right mind, it always has
a deep sense of divinity in the gift of rain from heaven,
filling its heart with food and gladness; and all the
more when that gift becomes gentle and perennial in
the flowing of springs. It literally is not possible that
any fruitful power of the Muses should be put forth
upon a people which disdains their Helicon ; still less
is it possible that any Christian nation should grow up
'tanquam lignum quod plantatum est secus decursus
aquarum,' which cannot recognise the lesson meant in
their being told of the places where Rebekah was met ;
— where Rachel, — where Zipporah, — and she who was
asked for water under Mount Gerizim by a Stranger,
weary, who had nothing to draw with.

119. And truly, when our mountain springs are set
apart in vale or craggy glen, or glade of wood green
through the drought of summer, far from cities, then
it is best let them stay in their own happy peace; but
if near towns, and liable therefore to be defiled by com-
mon usage, we could not use the loveliest art more

no The relation of [LECT.

worthily than by sheltering the spring and its first
pools with precious marbles : nor ought anything to be
esteemed more important, as a means of healthy education,
than the care to keep the streams of it afterwards, to as
great a distance as possible, pure, full of fish, and easily
accessible to children. There used to be, thirty years
ago, a little rivulet of the Wandel, about an inch deep,
which ran over the carriage-road and under a foot-bridge
just under the last chalk hill near Croydon. Alas ! men
came and went; and it — did not go on for ever. It has
long since been bricked over by the parish authorities;
but there was more education in that stream with its
minnows than you could get out of a hundred pounds
spent yearly in the parish schools, even though you
were to spend every farthing of it in teaching the nature
of oxygen and hydrogen, and the names, and rate per
minute, of all the rivers in Asia and America.

120. Well, the gist of this matter lies here then. Sup-
pose we want a school of pottery again in England, all
we poor artists are ready to do the best we can, to show
you how pretty a line may be that is twisted first to one
side, and then to the other; and how a plain household-
blue will make a pattern on white ; and how ideal art may
be got out of the spaniel's colours, of black and tan.
But I tell you beforehand, all that we can do will be
utterly useless, unless you teach your peasant to say grace,
not only before meat, but before drink; and having pro-
vided him with Greek cups and platters, provide him also
with something that is not poisoned to put into them.

121. There cannot be any need that I should trace
for you the conditions of art that are directly founded

iv.] Art to Use. 1 1 1

on serviceableness of dress, and of armour ; but it is my
duty to affirm to you, in the most positive manner, that
after recovering, for the poor, wholesomeness of food, your
next step towards founding schools of art in England must
be in recovering, for the poor, decency and wholesome-
ness of dress; thoroughly good in substance, fitted for
their daily work, becoming to their rank in life, and worn
with order and dignity. And this order and dignity
must be taught them by the women of the upper and
middle classes, whose minds can be in nothing right,
as long as they are so wrong in this matter as to endure
the squalor of the poor, while they themselves dress gaily.
And on the proper pride and comfort of both poor and
rich in dress, must be founded the true arts of dress ;
carried on by masters of manufacture no less careful of
the perfectness and beauty of their tissues, and of all that
in substance and in design can be bestowed upon them,
than ever the armourers of Milan and Damascus were
careful of their steel.

122. Then, in the third place, having recovered some
wholesome habits of life as to food and dress, we must
recover them as to lodging. I said just now that the
best architecture was but a glorified roof. Think of it.
The dome of the Vatican, the porches of Rheims or
Chartres, the vaults and arches of their aisles, the canopy
of the tomb, and the spire of the belfry, are all forms
resulting from the mere requirement that a certain space
shall be strongly covered from heat and rain. More
than that — as I have tried all through 'The Stones of
Venice' to show — the lovely forms of these were every
one of them developed in civil and domestic building,

H2 The relation of [LECT.

and only after their invention employed ecclesiastically
on the grandest scale. I do not know whether you
have noticed, but I think you cannot but have noticed,
here in Oxford, as elsewhere, that our modern architects
never seem to know what to do with their roofs. Be
assured, until the roofs are right, nothing else will be ;
and there are just two ways of keeping them right.
Never build them of iron, but only of wood or stone ;
and secondly, take care that in every town the little
roofs are built before the large ones, and that every-
body who wants one has got one. And we must try
also to make everybody want one. That is to say, at
some not very advanced period of life, men should desire
to have a home, which they do not wish to quit any
more, suited to their habits of life, and likely to be
more and more suitable to them until their death. And
men must desire to have these their dwelling-places built
as strongly as possible, and furnished and decorated
daintily, and set in pleasant places, in bright light
and good air, being able to choose for themselves that
at least as well as swallows. And when the houses are
grouped together in cities, men must have so much civic
fellowship as to subject their architecture to a common
law, and so much civic pride as to desire that the whole
gathered group of human dwellings should be a lovely
thing, not a frightful one, on the face of the earth.
Not many weeks ago an English clergyman, a master
of this University, a man not given to sentiment, but
of middle age, and great practical sense, told me, by
accident, and wholly without reference to the subject
now before us, that he never could enter London from

iv.] Art to Use. 113

his country parsonage but with closed eyes, lest the
sight of the blocks of houses which the railroad inter-
sected in the suburbs should unfit him, by the horror of
it, for his day's work.

123. Now, it is not possible — and I repeat to you,
only in more deliberate assertion, what I wrote just
twenty-two years ago in the last chapter of the ' Seven
Lamps of Architecture ' — it is not possible to have
any right morality, happiness, or art, in any country
where the cities are thus built, or thus, let me rather
say, clotted and coagulated; spots of a dreadful mildew
spreading by patches and blotches over the country they
consume. You must have lovely cities, crystallised, not
coagulated, into form; limited in size, and not casting
out the scum and scurf of them into an encircling erup-
tion of shame, but girded each with its sacred pomo3-
rium, and with garlands of gardens full of blossoming
trees and softly guided streams.

That is impossible, you say ! It may be so. I have
nothing to do with its possibility, but only with its
indispensability. More than that must be possible,
however, before you can have a school of art; namely,
that you find places elsewhere than in England, or at
least in otherwise unserviceable parts of England, for
the establishment of manufactories needing the help of
fire, that is to say, of all the rexyai ^avavcrmal and
firipp-qToi, of which it was long ago known to be the
constant nature that ' doxoAfas fj.6Xi.a-Ta IXOVCTI Kol <}>(\<t>v
KO.I TTo'Aews (n;j>€7n/xeAei(r0ai,' and to reduce such manu-
factures to their lowest limit, so that nothing may ever
be made of iron that can as effectually be made of wood

i

1 1 4 The relation of [LECT.

or stone ; and nothing moved by steam that can be as
effectually moved by natural forces. And observe, that
for all mechanical effort required in social life and in
cities, water power is infinitely more than enough; for
anchored mills on the large rivers, and mills moved by
sluices from reservoirs ' filled by the tide, will give you
command of any quantity of constant motive power you
need.

Agriculture by the hand, then, and absolute refusal
or banishment of unnecessary igneous force, are the first
conditions of a school of art in any country. And until
you do this, be it soon or late, things will continue in
that triumphant state to which, for want of finer art,
your mechanism has brought them; — that, though Eng-
land is deafened with spinning wheels, her people have
not clothes — though she is black with digging of fuel,
they die of cold — and though she has sold her soul
for gain, they die of hunger. Stay in that triumph, if
you choose; but be assured of this, it is not one which
the fine arts will ever share with you.

124. Now, I have given you my message, containing,
as I know, offence enough, and itself, it may seem to
many, unnecessary enough. But just in proportion to
its apparent non-necessity, and to its certain offence, was
its real need, and my real duty to speak it. The study
of the fine arts could not be rightly associated with
the grave work of English Universities, without due
and clear protest against the misdirection of national
energy, which for the present renders all good results
of such study on a great scale, impossible. I can
easily teach you, as any other moderately good draughts-

iv.] Art to Use. 115

man could, how to hold your pencils, and how to lay
your colours; but it is little use my doing that, while
the nation is spending millions of money in the destruc-
tion of all that pencil or colour have to represent, and
in the promotion of false forms of art, which are only
the costliest and the least enjoyable of follies. And
therefore these are the things that I have first and last
to tell you in this place : — that the fine arts are not to
be learned by Locomotion, but by making the homes we
live in lovely, and by staying in them; — that the fine
arts are not to be learned by Competition, but by doing
our quiet best in our own way; — that the fine arts are
not to be learned by Exhibition, but by doing what is
right, and making what is honest, whether it be ex-
hibited or not; — and, for the sum of all, that men must
paint and build neither for pride nor for money, but
for love ; for love of their art, for love of their neigh-
bour, and whatever better love may be than these,
founded on these. I know that I gave some pain,
which I was most unwilling to give, in speaking of
the possible abuses of religious art; but there can be
no danger of any, so long as we remember that God
inhabits cottages as well as churches, and ought to be
well lodged there also. Begin with wooden floors ; the
tesselated ones will take care of themselves ; begin with
thatching roofs, and you shall end by splendidly vault-
ing them ; begin by taking care that no old eyes fail
over their Bibles, nor young ones over their needles, for
want of rushlight, and then you may have whatever true
good is to be got out of coloured glass or wax candles.
And in thus putting the arts to universal use, you

i 2

n6 T/ie relation of [LECT.

will find also their universal inspiration, their universal
benediction. I told you there was no evidence of a
special Divineness in any application of them ; that
they were always equally human and equally Divine ;
and in closing- these inaugural series of lectures, into
which I have endeavoured to compress the principles
that are to be the foundations of your future work, it
is my last duty to say some positive words as to the
Divinity of all art, when it is truly fair, or truly ser-
viceable.

125. Every seventh day, if not oftener, the greater
number of well-meaning persons in England thankfully
receive from their teachers a benediction, couched in
these terms : — ' The Grace of our Lord Christ, and
the Love of God, and the Fellowship of the Holy
Ghost, be with you/ Now I do not know precisely
what sense is attached in the English public mind to
those expressions. But what I have to tell you posi-
tively is, that the three things do actually exist, and
can be known if you care to know them, and possessed
if you care to possess them ; and that another thing
exists, besides these, of which we already know too
much.

First, by simply obeying the orders of the Founder
of your religion, all grace, graciousness, or beauty
and favour of gentle life, will be given to you in
mind and body, in work and in rest. The Grace of
Christ exists, and can be had if you will. Secondly, as
you know more and more of the created world, you will
find that the true will of its Maker is that its creatures
should be happy;— that He has made everything beau-

iv.] Art to Use. 117

tiful in its time and its place, and that it is chiefly
by the fault of men, when they are allowed the liberty
of thwarting His laws, that Creation groans or travails
in pain. The Love of God exists, and you may see it,
and live in it if you will. Lastly, a Spirit does actually
exist which teaches the ant her path, the bird her
building, and men, in an instinctive and marvellous
way, whatever lovely arts and noble deeds are possible
to them. Without it you can do no good thing. To
the grief of it you can do many bad ones. In the
possession of it is your peace a,nd your power.

And there is a fourth thing, of which we already know
too much. There is an evil spirit whose dominion is in
blindness and in cowardice, as the dominion of the Spirit
of wisdom is in clear sight and in courage.

And this blind and cowardly spirit is for ever telling
you that evil things are pardonable, and you shall not
die for them, and that good things are impossible, and
you need not live for them; and that gospel of his is
now the loudest that is preached in your Saxon tongue.
You will find some day, to your cost, if you believe the
first part of it, that it is not true; but you may never,
if you believe the second part of it, find, to your gain,
that also, untrue ; and therefore I pray you with all
earnestness to prove, and know within your hearts, that-
all things lovely and righteous are possible for those
who believe in their possibility, and who determine that,
for their part, they will make every day's work con-
tribute to them. Let every dawn of morning be to you
as the beginning of life, and every setting sun be to
you as its close : — then let every one of these short

1 1 8 The relation of Art to Use.

lives leave its sure record of some kindly thing- done
for others — some goodly strength or knowledge gained
for yourselves; so, from day to day, and strength to
strength, you shall build up indeed, by Art, by Thought,
and by Just Will, an Ecclesia of England, of which it
shall not be said, cSce what manner of stones are here/
but, ' See what manner of men/

LECTURE V.

LINE.

LECTURE V.

LINE.

1 26. Y OU will, I doubt not, willingly permit me to
begin your lessons in real practice of art in words of
higher authority than mine (I ought rather to say, of
all authority, while mine are of none), — the words of
the greatest of English painters : one also, than whom
there is indeed no greater, among those of any nation,
or any time, — our own gentle Reynolds.

He says in his first discourse : — ' The Directors ' (of the
Academy) ' ought more particularly to watch over the genius
of those students, who being more advanced, are arrived at
that critical period of study, on the nice management of
which their future turn of taste depends. At that age
it is natural for them to be more captivated with what
is brilliant, than with what is solid, and to prefer splendid
negligence to painful and humiliating exactness.

' A facility in composing, — a lively and, what is called,
a masterly handling of the chalk or pencil, are, it must
be confessed, captivating qualities to young minds, and
become of course the objects of their ambition. They
endeavour to imitate these dazzling excellences, which
they will find no great labour in attaining. After much

122 Line. [LECT.

time spent in these frivolous pursuits, the difficulty will
l>e to retreat ; but it will then be too late ; and there
is scarce an instance of return to scrupulous labour, after
the mind has been debauched and deceived by this fal-
lacious mastery.'

127. I read you these words, chiefly that Sir Joshua,
who founded, as first President, the Academical schools
of English painting, in these well-known discourses,
may also begin, as he has truest right to do, our system
of instruction in this University. But secondly, I read
them that I may press on your attention these singular
words, 'painful and humiliating exactness.' Singular, as
expressing the first conditions of the study required from
his pupils by the master, who, of all men except Velas-
quez, seems to have painted with the greatest ease. It
is true that he asks this pain, this humiliation, only
from youths who intend to follow the profession of
artists. But if you wish yourselves to know anything
of the practice of art, you must not suppose that because
your study will be more desultory than that of Academy
students, it may therefore be less accurate. The shorter
the time you have to give, the more careful you should
be to spend it profitably; and I would not wish you to
devote one hour to the practice of drawing, unless you
are resolved to be informed in it of all that in an hour
can be taught.

128. I speak of the practice of drawing only; though
elementary study of modelling may perhaps some day
be advisably connected with it; but I do not wish to
disturb or amuse you with a formal statement of the
manifold expectations I have formed respecting your future

v.] Line. 123

work. You will not, I am sure, imagine that I have
begun -without a plan, nor blame my reticence as to the
parts of it which cannot yet be put into execution, and
which there may occur reason afterwards to modify.
My first task must unquestionably be to lay before you
right and simple methods of drawing and colouring.

I use the word 'colouring' without reference to any
particular vehicle of colour, for the laws of good paint-
ing are the same, whatever liquid is employed to dissolve
the pigments. But the technical management of oil is
more difficult than that of water-colour, and the impos-
sibility of using it with safety among books or prints,
and its unavailableness for note-book sketches and memo-
randa, are sufficient reasons for not introducing it in a
course of practice intended chiefly for students of litera-
ture. On the contrary, in the exercises of artists, oil
should be the vehicle of colour employed from the first.
The extended practice of water-colour painting, as a
separate skill, is in every way harmful to the arts : its
pleasant slightness and plausible dexterity divert the
genius of the painter from its proper aims, and with-
draw the attention of the public from excellence of higher
claim ; nor ought any man, who has the consciousness of
ability for good work, to be ignorant of, or indolent in
employing, the methods of making its results permanent as
long as the laws of Nature allow. It is surely a severe
lesson to us in this matter, that the best works of Turner
could not be shown to the public for six months without
being destroyed,— and that his most ambitious ones for
the most part perished, even before they could be shown.
I will break through my law of reticence, however, so

1 24 Line. [LECT.

far as to tell you that I have hope of one day in-
teresting- you greatly (with the help of the Florentine
masters), in the study of the arts of moulding and
painting porcelain; and to induce some of you to use
your future power of patronage in encouraging the
various branches of this art, and turning the attention
of the workmen of Italy from the vulgar tricks of
minute and perishable mosaic to the exquisite sub-
tilties of form and colour possible in the perfectly ductile,
afterwards unalterable clay. And one of the ultimate
results of such craftsmanship might be the production
of pictures as brilliant as painted glass, — as delicate as
the most subtle water-colours, and more permanent
than the Pyramids.

129. And now to begin our own work. In order that
we may know how rightly to learn to draw, and to paint,
it will be necessary, will it not, that we know first what
we are to aim at doing ; — what kind of representation
of nature is best?

I will tell you in the words of Lionardo. 'That
is the most praiseworthy painting which has most con-
formity with the thing represented,' ' quella pittura e piu
laudabile, la quale ha piu conformita con la cosa imi-
tata,' (chap. 276). In plain terms, ' the painting which is
likest nature is the best/ And you will find by referring
to the preceding chapter, 'come lo specchio e maestro
de' pittori,' how absolutely Lionardo means what he says.
Let the living thing, (he tells us,) be reflected in a
mirror, then put your picture beside the reflection, and
match the one with the other. And indeed, the very
best painting is unquestionably so like the mirrored truth,

v.] Line. 125

that all the world admit its excellence. Entirely first-rate
work is so quiet and natural that there can be no dis-
pute over it ; you may not particularly admire it, but you
will find no fault with it. Second-rate painting pleases
one person much, and displeases another ; but first-rate
painting- pleases all a little, and intensely pleases those
who can recognise its unostentatious skill.

130. This, then, is what we have first got to do— to
make our drawing look as like the thing we have to
draw as we can.

Now, all objects are seen by the eye as patches of
colour of a certain shape, with gradations of colour within
them. And, unless their colours be actually luminous,
as those of the sun, or of fire, these patches of different
hues are sufficiently imitable, except so far as they are
seen stereoscopically. You will find Lionardo again and
again insisting on the stereoscopic power of the double
sight : but do not let that trouble you ; you can only
paint what you can see from one point of sight, but
that is quite enough. So seen, then, all objects appear
to the human eye simply as masses of colour of variable
depth, texture, and outline. The outline of any object
is the limit of its mass, as relieved against another
mass. Take a crocus, and put it on a green cloth.
You will see it detach itself as a mere space of yellow
from the green behind it, as it does from the grass.
Hold it up against the window — you will see it detach
itself as a dark space against the white or blue behind
it. In either case its outline is the limit of the space
of colour by which it expresses itself to your sight.
That outline is therefore infinitely subtle — not even a

126 Line. [LECT.

line, but the place of a line, and that, also, made soft by
texture. In the finest painting, it is therefore slightly
softened ; but it is necessary to be able to draw it with
absolute sharpness and precision. The art of doing this
is to be obtained by drawing it as an actual line, which
art is to be the subject of our present enquiry; but I
must first lay the divisions of the entire subject com-
pletely before you.

131. I have said that all objects detach themselves
as masses of colour. Usually, light and shade are thought
of as separate from colour ; but the fact is that all nature
is seen as a mosaic composed of gradated portions of
different colours, dark or light. There is no difference
in the quality of these colours, except as affected by
texture. You will constantly hear lights and shades
spoken of as if these were different in nature, and to be
painted in different ways. But every light is a shadow
compared to higher lights, till we reach the brightness
of the sun; and every shadow is a light compared to
lower shadows, till we reach the darkness of night.

Every colour used in painting, except pure white and
black, is therefore a light [and shade at the same time.
It is a light with reference to all below it, and a shade
with reference to all above it.

132. The solid forms of an object, that is to say, the
projections or recessions of its surface within the outline,
are, for the most part, rendered visible by variations in
the intensity or quantity of light falling on them. The
study of the relations between the quantities of this light,
irrespectively of its colour, is the second division of the
regulated science of painting.

v.] Line. 127

133. Finally, the qualities and relations of natural
colours, the means of imitating them, and the laws by
which they become separately beautiful, and in association
harmonious, are the subjects of the third and final
division of the painter's study. I shall endeavour at once
to state to you what is most immediately desirable for
you to know on each of these subjects, in this and the
two following lectures.

134. What we have to do, then, from beginning to
end, is, I repeat once more, simply to draw spaces of their
true shape, and to fill them with colours which shall
match their colours; quite a simple thing in the defi-
nition of it, not quite so easy in the doing of it.

But it is something to get this simple definition ;
and I wish you to notice that the terms of it are com-
plete, though I do not introduce the terms ' light ' or
' shadow.' Painters who have no eye for colour have
greatly confused and falsified the practice of art by the
theory that shadow is an absence of colour. Shadow is,
on the contrary, necessary to the full presence of colour;
for every colour is a diminished quantity or energy of
light ; and, practically, it follows, from what I have just
told you (that every light in painting is a shadow to
higher lights, and every shadow a light to lower shadows)
that also every colour in painting must be a shadow to
some brighter colour, and a light to some darker one — all
the while being a positive colour itself. And the great
splendour of the Venetian school arises from their having
seen and held from the beginning this great fact — that
shadow is as much colour as light, often much more.
In Titian's fullest red the lights are pale rose-colour,

128 Line. [LECT.

passing into white — the shadows warm deep crimson. In
Veronese's most splendid orange, the lights are pale, the
shadows crocus colour ; and so on. In nature, dark sides,
if seen by reflected lights, are almost always fuller or
warmer in colour than the lights; and the practice of
the Bolognese and Roman schools, in drawing their
shadows always dark and cold, is false from the begin-
ning, and renders perfect painting for ever impossible in
those schools, and all that follow them.

135. Every visible space, then, be it dark or light, is a
space of colour of some kind, or of black or white. And
you have to enclose it with a true outline, and to paint
it with its true colour.

But before considering how we are to draw this en-
closing line, I must state to you something about lines
in general, and their use by different schools. I said just
now that there was no difference between the masses of
colour of which all visible nature is composed, except in
texture.

1. Textures are principally of three kinds : —

(1) Lustrous, as of water and glass.

(2) Bloomy, or velvety, as of a rose-leaf or peach.

(3) Linear, produced by filaments or threads, as in

feathers, fur, hair, and woven or reticulated

tissues.

All the three sources of pleasure to the eye in texture
are united in the best ornamental work. A fine picture
by Pra Angelico, or a fine illuminated page of missal,
has large spaces of gold, partly burnished and lustrous,
partly dead ; — some of it chased and enriched with linear
texture, and mingled with imposed or inlaid colours, soft in

v.] Line. 129

bloom like that of the rose-leaf. But many schools of art
depend for the most part on one kind of texture only,
and a vast quantity of the art of all ages rests for great
part of its power especially on texture produced by mul-
titudinous lines. Thus, wood engraving,- line engraving
properly so called, and countless varieties of sculpture,
metal work, and textile fabric, depend for great part of
the effect of their colours, or shades, for their mystery,
softness, and clearness, on modification of the surfaces
by lines or threads; and even in advanced oil painting,
the work often depends for some part of its effect on
the texture of the canvas.

136. Again, the arts of etching and mezzotint engrav-
ing depend principally for their effect on the velvety, or
bloomy texture of their darkness, and the best of all
painting is the fresco work of great cplourists, in which
the colours are what is usually called dead ; but they
are anything but dead, they glow with the luminous
bloom of life. The frescoes of Correggio, when not re-
painted, are supreme in this quality ; and you have a
lovely example in the University Galleries, in the un-
touched portion of the female head by Eaphael, partly
restored by Lawrence.

137. While, however, in all periods of art these differ-
ent textures are thus used in various styles, and for various
purposes, you will find that there is a broad historical
division of schools, which will materially assist you in
understanding them. The earliest art in most countries
is linear, consisting of interwoven, or richly spiral and
otherwise involved arrangements of sculptured or painted
lines, on stone, wood, metal or clay. It is generally

K

130 Line. [LECT.

characteristic of savage life, and of feverish energy of
imagination. I shall examine these schools with you
hereafter, under the general head of the ' Schools of Line.'

Secondly, even in the earliest periods, among power-
ful nations, this linear decoration is more or less
filled with chequered or barred shade, and begins at
once to represent animal or floral form, first in mere
outline, and then by outlines filled with flat shadow, or
with flat colour. And here we instantly find two great
divisions of temper and thought. The Greeks look upon
all colour first as light ; they are, as compared with other
races, insensitive to hue, exquisitely sensitive to phe-
nomena of light. And their linear school passes into
one of flat masses of light and darkness, represented in
the main by four tints, — white, black, and two reds, one
brick colour, more or less vivid, the other dark purple ;
these two representing their favourite Trop^vpeos colour,
in its light and dark powers. On the other hand, many
of the Northern nations are at first entirely insensible
to light and shade, but exquisitely sensitive to colour,
and their linear decoration is filled with flat tints, infinitely
varied, having no expression of light and shade. Both
these schools have a limited but absolute perfection of
their own, and their peculiar successes can in no wise
be imitated, except by the strictest observance of the
sanie limitations.

138. You have then, Line for the earliest art, branch-
ing into —

(i.) Greek, Line with Light.
(2) Gothic, Line with Colour.

Now, as art completes itself, each of these schools retain

v.] Line. 131

their separate characters, but they cease to depend on
lines, and learn to represent masses instead, becoming-
more refined at the same time in all modes of percep-
tion and execution.

And thus there arise the two vast mediaeval schools ;
one of flat and infinitely varied colour, with exquisite
character and sentiment added, in the forms represented ;
but little perception of shadow. The other, of light and
shade, with exquisite drawing- of solid form, and little
perception of colour : sometimes as little of sentiment.
Of these, the school of flat colour is the more vital one ;
it is always natural and simple, if not great ; — and when
it is great, it is very great.

The school of light and shade associates itself with
that of engraving ; it is essentially an academical school ;
broadly dividing light from darkness, and begins by
assuming that the light side of all objects shall be re-
presented by white, and the extreme shadow by black.
On this conventional principle it reaches a limited ex-
cellence of its own, in which the best existing types
of engraving are executed, and ultimately, the most
regular expressions of organic form in painting.

Then, lastly, — the schools of colour advance steadily,
till they adopt from those of light and shade, whatever
is compatible with their own power, — and then you
have perfect art, represented centrally by that of the
great Venetians.

The schools of light and shade, on the other hand,
are partly, in their academical formulas, too haughty,
and partly, in their narrowness of imagination, too weak,
to learn much from the schools of colour ; and they pass

132 Line. [LECT.

into a decadence, consisting partly in proud endeavours
to give painting the qualities of sculpture, and partly
in the pursuit of effects of light and shade, carried at
last to extreme sensational subtlety by the Dutch school.
In their fall, they drag the schools of colour down with
them ; and the recent history of art is one of confused
effort to find lost roads, and resume allegiance to violated
principles.

139. That, briefly, is the map of the great schools,
easily remembered by this form : —

LINE.

Early schools.

LINE AND LIGHT. LINE AND COLOUE.

Greek clay. Gothic glass.

MASS AND LIGHT. MASS AND COLOUR.

(Represented by Lionardo, (Represented by Giorgione,

and his schools.) and his schools.)

MASS, LIGHT, AND COLOUK.
(Represented by Titian,
and his schools.)

I will endeavour hereafter to show you the various
relations of all these branches; at present, I am only
concerned with your own practice. My wish is that
you should with your own eyes and fingers trace, and
in your own progress follow, the method of advance
traced for you by these great schools. I wish you to
begin by getting command of line, that is to say, by
learning to draw a steady line, limiting with absolute cor-
rectness the form or space you intend it to limit ; to pro-
ceed by getting command over flat tints, so that you
may be able to fill the spaces you have enclosed, evenly,

v.] Line. 133

either with shade or colour ; according to the school you
adopt ; and finally to obtain the power of adding such fine-
ness of drawing within the masses, as shall express their
undulation, and their characters of form and texture.

140. Those who are familiar with the methods of ex-
isting schools must be aware that I thus nearly invert their
practice of teaching. Students at present learn to draw
details first, and to colour and mass them afterwards.
I shall endeavour to teach you to arrange broad masses
and colours first ; and you shall put the details into them
afterwards. I have several reasons for this audacity, of
which you may justly require me to state the principal
ones. The first is that, as I have shown you, this
method I wish you to follow, is the natural one. All
great artist nations have actually learned to work in this
way, and I believe it therefore the right, as the hitherto
successful one. Secondly, you will find it less irksome
than the reverse method, and more definite. "When a be-
ginner is set at once to draw details, and make finished
studies in light and shade, no master can correct his
innumerable errors, or rescue him out of his endless
difficulties. But in the natural method, he can correct,
if he will, his own errors. You will have positive lines
to draw, presenting no more difficulty, except in requiring
greater steadiness of hand, than the outlines of a map.
They will be generally sweeping and simple, instead of
being jagged into promontories and bays ; but assuredly,
they may be drawn rightly (with patience), and their
rightness tested with mathematical accuracy. You have
only to follow your own line with tracing paper, and
apply it to your copy. If they do not correspond, you

134 Line. [LECT.

are wrong, and you need no master to show you where.
Again ; in washing in a flat tone of colour or shade, you
can always see yourself if it is flat, and kept well within
the edges; and you can set a piece of your colour side
by side with that of the copy ; if it does not match, you
are wrong ; and, again, you need no one to tell you so,
if your eye for colour is true. It happens, indeed, more
frequently than would be supposed, that there is real want
of power in the eye to distinguish colours ; and this I
even suspect to be a condition \\ hi eh has been sometimes
attendant on high degrees of cerebral sensitiveness in other
directions : but such want of faculty would be detected in
your first two or three exercises by this simple method,
while, otherwise, you might go on for years endeavouring
to colour from nature in vain. Lastly, and this is a very
weighty collateral reason, such a method enables me to
show you many things, besides the art of drawing. Every
exercise that I prepare for you will be either a portion of
some important example of ancient art, or of some natural
object. However rudely or unsuccessfully you may draw
it (though I anticipate from you neither want of care nor
success), you will nevertheless have learned what no words
could have as forcibly or completely taught you, either
respecting early art or organic structure ; and I am thus
certain that not a moment you spend attentively will be
altogether wasted, and that, generally, you will be twice
gainers by every effort. There is, however, yet another
point in which I think a change of existing methods will
be advisable.

141. You have here in Oxford one of the finest col-
lections in Europe of drawings in pen, and chalk, by

v.] Line. 135

Michael Angelo and Raphael. Of the whole number,
you cannot but have noticed that not one is weak or
studentlike — all are evidently master's work.

You may look the galleries of Europe through, and so
far as I know, or as it is possible to make with safety any
so wide generalization, you will not find in them a childish
or feeble drawing, by these, or by any other great master.

And farther : — by the greatest men— by Titian, Velas-
quez, or Veronese — you will hardly find an authentic
drawing at all. For the fact is, that while we moderns
have always learned, or tried to learn, to paint by drawing,
the ancients learned to draw by painting— or by en-
graving, more difficult still. The brush was put into
their hands when they were children, and they were
forced to draw with that, until, if they used the pen or
crayon, they used it either with the lightness of a brush
or the decision of a graver. Michael Angelo uses his
pen like a chisel ; but all of them seem to use it only
when they are in the height of their power, and then
for rapid notation of thought or for study of models; but
never as a practice helping them to paint. Probably exer-
cises of the severest kind were gone through in minute
drawing by the apprentices of the goldsmiths, of which we
hear and know little, and which were entirely a matter of
course. To these, and to the exquisiteness of care and touch
developed in working precious metals, may probably be
attributed the final triumph of Italian sculpture. Michael
Angelo, when a boy, is said to have copied engravings
by Schongauer and others with his pen, in facsimile so
true that he could pass his drawings as the originals. But
I should only discourage you from all farther attempts

136 Lint. [LECT.

in art, if I asked you to imitate any of these accom-
plished drawings of the gem-artificers. You have, for-
tunately, a most interesting collection of them already in
your galleries, and may try your hands on them if you
will. But I desire rather that you should attempt
nothing except what can by determination be absolutely
accomplished, and be known and felt by you to be
accomplished when it is so. Now, therefore, I am
going at once to comply with that popular instinct
which, I hope, so far as you care for drawing at all,
you are still boys enough to feel, the desire to paint.
Paint you shall ; but remember, I understand by painting
what you will not find easy. Paint you shall ; but daub
or blot you shall not : and there will be even more care
required, though care of a pleasanter kind, to follow the
lines traced for you with the point of the brush than if
they had been drawn with that of a crayon. But from
the very beginning (though carrying on at the same
time an incidental practice with crayon and lead pencil),
you shall try to draw a line of absolute correctness
with the point, not of pen or crayon, but of the brush,
as Apelles did, and as all coloured lines are drawn
on Greek vases. A line of absolute correctness, observe.
I do not care how slowly you do it, or with how many
alterations, junctions, or retouchings ; the one thing I
ask of you is, that the line shall be right, and right by
measurement, to the same minuteness which you would
have to give in a Government chart to the map of
a dangerous shoal.

142. This question of measurement is, as you are
probably aware, one much vexed in art schools ; but it

v.] Line. 137

is determined indisputably by the very first words writ-
ten by Lionardo : ' II giovane deve prima imparare
prospettiva, per le misure d' ogni cosa.'

Without absolute precision of measurement, it is cer-
tainly impossible for you to learn perspective rightly; and,
as far as I can judge, impossible to learn anything else
rightly. And in my past experience of teaching, I have
found that such precision is of all things the most difficult
to enforce on the pupils. It is easy to persuade to dili-
gence, or provoke to enthusiasm; but I have found it
hitherto impossible to humiliate one student into perfect
accuracy.

It is, therefore, necessary, in beginning a system of
drawing for the University, that no opening should be
left for failure in this essential matter. I hope you will
trust the words of the most accomplished draughtsman
of Italy, and the painter of the great sacred picture
which, perhaps beyond all others, has influenced the mind
of Europe, when he tells you that your first duty is ' to
learn perspective by the measures of everything/ For
perspective, I will undertake that it shall be made, prac-
tically, quite easy to you ; but I wish first to make ap-
plication to the Trustees of the National Gallery for the
loan to Oxford of Turner's perspective diagrams, which
are at present lying useless in a folio in the National
Gallery; and therefore we will not trouble ourselves
about perspective till the autumn ; unless, in the mean-
while, you care to master the mathematical theory of it,
which I have carried as far as is necessary for you in my
treatise written in 1859, of which copies shall be placed
at your disposal in your working room. But the habit

138 Line. [LECT.

and dexterity of measurement you must acquire at once,
and that with engineer's accuracy. I hope that in our
now gradually developing system of education, elementary
architectural or military drawing will be required at all
public schools ; so that when youths come to the Uni-
versity, it may be no more necessary for them to pass
through the preliminary exercises of drawing than of
grammar: for the present, I will place in your series
examples simple and severe enough for all necessary
practice.

143. And while you are learning to measure, and
to draw, and lay flat tints, with the brush, you must
also get easy command of the pen; for that is not only
the great instrument for the finest sketching, but its
right use is the foundation of the art of illumination.
In nothing is fine art more directly connected with
service than in the close dependence of decorative illumi-
nation on good writing. Perfect illumination is only
writing made lovely ; the moment it passes into picture-
making it has lost its dignity and function. For pictures,
small or great, if beautiful, ought not to be painted on
leaves of books, to be worn with service ; and pictures, small
or great, not beautiful, should be painted nowhere. But
to make writing itself beautiful, — to make the sweep of
the pen lovely, — is the true art of illumination; and I
particularly wish you to note this, because it happens
continually that young girls who are incapable of tracing
a single curve with steadiness, much more of delineating
any ornamental or organic form with correctness, think
that the work which would be intolerable in ordinary
drawing becomes tolerable when it is employed for the

v.] Line. 139

decoration of texts; and thus they render all healthy
progress impossible, by protecting themselves in ineffi-
ciency under the shield of a good motive. Whereas the
right way of setting to work is to make themselves first
mistresses of the art of writing beautifully; and then to
apply that art in its proper degrees of development to
whatever they desire permanently to write. And it is
indeed a much more truly religious duty for girls to
acquire a habit of deliberate, legible, and lovely penman-
ship in their daily use of the pen, than to illuminate any
quantity of texts. Having done so, they may next disci-
pline their hands into the control of lines of any length,
and, finally, add the beauty of colour and form to the
flowing of these perfect lines. But it is only after years
of practice that they will be able to illuminate noble
words rightly for the eyes, as it is only after years of
practice that they can make them melodious rightly,
with the voice.

144. I shall not attempt, in this lecture, to give you
any account of the use of the pen as a drawing instrument.
That use is connected in many ways with principles both
of shading and of engraving, hereafter to be examined at
length. But I may generally state to you that its best
employment is in giving determination to the forms in
drawings washed with neutral tint ; and that, in this use
of it, Holbein is quite without a rival. I have therefore
placed many examples of his work among your copies. It
is employed for rapid study by Raphael and other masters
of delineation, who, in such cases, give with it also
partial indications of shadow; but it is not a proper
instrument for shading, when drawings are intended to

140 Line. [LECT.

be deliberate and complete, nor do the great masters ever
so employ it. Its virtue is the power of producing a
perfectly delicate, equal, and decisive line with great
rapidity ; and the temptation allied with that virtue is
to licentious haste, and chance-swept instead of strictly-
commanded curvature. In the hands of very great
painters it obtains, like the etching needle, qualities of
exquisite charm in this free use ; but all attempts at
imitation of these confused and suggestive sketches must
be absolutely denied to yourselves while students. You
may fancy you have produced something like them with
little trouble ; but, be assured, it is in reality as unlike
them as nonsense is unlike sense ; and that, if you persist
in such work, you will not only prevent your own exe-
cutive progress, but you will never understand in all your
lives what good painting means. Whenever you take a
pen in your hand, if you cannot count every line you lay
with it, and say why you make it so long and no longer,
and why you drew it in that direction and no other, your
work is bad. The only man who can put his pen to full
speed, and yet retain command over every separate line
of it, is Diirer. He has done this in the illustrations of
a missal preserved at Munich, which have been fairly
facsimiled; and of these I have placed several in your
copying series, with some of Turner's landscape etchings,
and other examples of deliberate pen work, such as will
advantage you in early study. The proper use of them
you will find explained in the catalogue.

145. And, now, but one word more to-day. Do not
impute to me the impertinence of setting before you
what is new in this system of practice as being cer-

v.] Line. 141

tainly the best method. No English artists are yet
agreed entirely on early methods; and even Reynolds
expresses with some hesitation his conviction of the
expediency of learning to draw with the brush. But
this method that I show you rests in all essential points
on his authority, on Leonardo's, or on the evident as
well as recorded practice of the most splendid Greek
and Italian draughtsmen ; and you may be assured it
will lead you, however slowly, to a great and certain skill.
To what degree of skill, must depend greatly on yourselves ;
but I know that in practice of this kind you cannot
spend an hour without definitely gaining, both in true
knowledge of art, and in useful power of hand ; and for
what may appear in it too difficult, I must shelter or
support myself, as in beginiing, so in closing, this first
lecture on practice, by the words of Reynolds : ' The im-
petuosity of youth is disgusted at the slow approaches of
a regular siege, and desires from mere impatience of labour
to take the citadel by storm. They must therefore be told
again and again that labour is the only price of solid fame,
and that, whatever their force of genius may be, there is
no easy method of becoming a good painter.'

i

LECTURE VI.

LIGHT.

LECTURE VI.

LIGHT.

146. J- HE plan of the divisions of art-schools which I
gave you in the last lecture is of course only a first germ
of classification, on which we are to found farther and
more defined statement; but for this very reason it is
necessary that every term of it should be very clear
in your minds.

And especially I must ask you to note the sense in
which I use the word ' mass/ Artists usually employ
that word to express the spaces of light and darkness,
or of colour, into which a picture is divided. But this
habit of theirs arises partly from their always speaking
of pictures in which the lights represent solid form.
If they had instead been speaking of flat tints, as, for
instance, of the gold and blue in this missal page (S. 7),
they would not have called them ' masses,' but ' spaces '
of colour. Now both for accuracy and convenience' sake,
you will find it well to observe this distinction, and
to call a simple flat tint a space of colour; and only
the representation of solid or projecting form a mass.

At all events, I mean myself always to make this
distinction ; which I think you will see the use of by

L

146 Light. [LECT.

comparing the missal page (S. 7) with a piece of finished
painting (Edu. 2). The one I call space with colour ; the
other, mass with colour : I use however the word ' line '
rather than ' space ' in our general scheme, because you
cannot limit a flat tint but by a line, or the locus of
a line : whereas a gradated tint, expressive of mass, may
be lost at its edges in another, without any fixed limit ;
and practically is so, in the works of the greatest
masters.

147. You have thus, in your hexagonal scheme, the.
expression of the universal manner of advance in painting :
Line first ; then line enclosing flat spaces coloured or
shaded ; then the lines vanish, and the solid forms are
seen within the spaces. That is the universal law of ad-
vance: — i, line; 2, flat space; 3, massed or solid space.1]
But, as you see, this advance may be made, and has
been made, by two different roads ; one advancing always
through colour, the other through light and shade.
And these two roads are taken by two entirely different
kinds of men. The way by colour is taken by men of

]f

cheerful, natiiral, and entirely sane disposition in body
and mind, much resembling, even at its strongest, the
temper of well-brought-up children : — too happy to think
deeply, yet with powers of imagination by which they
can live other lives than their actual ones; make-believe
lives, while yet they remain conscious all the while that
they are making believe — therefore entirely sane. They
are also absolutely contented ; they ask for no more light
than is immediately around them, and cannot see any-
thing like darkness, but only green and blue, in the
earth and sea.

vi.] Light. 147

148. The way by light and shade is, on the contrary,
taken by men of the highest powers of thought, and
most earnest desire for truth; they long for light, and
for knowledge of all that light can show. But seeking
for light, they perceive also darkness ; seeking for truth
and substance, they find vanity. They look for form
in the earth, — for dawn in the sky ; and seeking these,
they find formlessness in the earth, and night in the
sky.

Now remember, in these introductory lectures I am
putting before you the roots of things, which are
strange, and dark, and often, it may seem, unconnected
with the branches. You may not at present think these
metaphysical statements necessary ; but as you go on,
you will find that having hold of the clue to methods
of work through their springs in human character, you
may perceive unerringly where they lead, and what
constitutes their wrongness and rightness ; and when
we have the main principles laid down, all others will
develope themselves in due succession, and everything
will become more clearly intelligible to you in the end,
for having been apparently vague in the beginning.
You know when one is laying the foundation of a
house, it does not show directly where the rooms are
to be.

149. You have then these two great divisions of human
mind : one, content with the colours of things, whether
they are dark or light ; the other seeking light pure,
as such, and dreading darkness as such. One, also, con-
tent with the coloured aspects and visionary shapes of
things; the other seeking their form and substance.

L 2

148 Light. [LECT.

And, as I said, the school of knowledge, seeking- light,
perceives, and has to accept and deal with obscurity ;
and seeking form, it has to accept and deal with form-
lessness, or death.

Farther, the school of colour in Europe, using the
word Gothic in its broadest sense, is essentially Gothic-
Christian; and full of comfort and peace. Again, the
school of light is essentially Greek, and full of sorrow.
I cannot tell you which is right, or least wrong. I tell
you only what I know — this vital distinction between
them : the Gothic or colour school is always cheerful, the
Greek always oppressed by the shadow of death ; and the
stronger its masters are, the closer that body of death
grips them. The strongest whose work I can show you
in recent periods is Holbein ; next to him is Lionardo ;
and then Diirer : but of the three Holbein is the strongest,
and with his help I will put the two schools in their

full character before you in a moment.

.
150. Here is, first, an entirely characteristic piece of

the great colour school. It is by Cima of Conegliano,
a mountaineer, like Luini, born under the Alps of Friuli.
His Christian name was John Baptist : he is here
painting his name-Saint ; the whole picture full of peace
and intense faith and hope, and deep joy in light of
sky, and fruit and flower and weed of earth. The pic-
ture was painted for the church of Our Lady of the
Garden at Venice, La Madonna dell' Orto (properly
Madonna of the Kitchen Garden), and it is full of sim-
ple flowers, and has the wild strawberry of Cima's
native mountains gleaming through the grass.

Beside it I will put a piece of the strongest work of

vi.] Light. 149

the school of light and shade — strongest, because Holbein
was a colourist also ; but he belongs, nevertheless, essen-
tially to the chiaroscuro school. You know that his name is
connected, in ideal work, chiefly with his ' Dance of Death/
I will not show you any of the terror of that; only his
deepest thought of death, his well-known ' Dead Christ.'
It will at once show you how completely the Christian art
of this school is oppressed by its veracity, and forced
to see what is fearful, even in what it most trusts. You
may think I am showing you contrasts merely to fit my
theories. But there is Diirer's ' Knight and Death/ his
greatest plate; and if I had Leonardo's 'Medusa' here,
which he painted when only a boy, you would have seen
how he was held by the same chain. And you cannot
but wonder why, this being the melancholy temper of the
great Greek or naturalistic school, I should have called
it the school of light. I call it so because it is through
its intense love of light that the darkness becomes appa-
rent to it, and through its intense love of truth and form
that all mystery becomes attractive to it. And when,
having learned these things, it is joined to the school of
colour, you have the perfect, though always, as I will
show you, pensive, art of Titian and his followers.

151. But remember, its first development, and all its
final power, depends on Greek sorrow, and Greek re-
ligion.

The school of light is founded in the Doric worship of
Apollo and the Ionic worship of Athena, as the spirits
of life in the light, and of life in the air, opposed each
to their own contrary deity of death— Apollo to the
Python, Athena to the Gorgon — Apollo as life in light,

150 Light. [LECT.

to the earth spirit of corruption in darkness, Athena as
life by motion, to the Gorgon spirit of death by pause,
freezing-, or turning- to stone : both of the great divinities
taking- their g-lory from the evil they have conquered ;
both of them, when angry, taking to men the form
of the evil which is their opposite — Apollo slaying by
poisoned arrow, by pestilence ; Athena by cold, the black
aegis on her breast. These are the definite and direct
expressions of the Greek thoughts respecting death and
life. But underlying both these, and far more mysterious,
dreadful, and yet beautiful, there is the Greek conception
of spiritual darkness ; of the anger of fate, whether
foredoomed or avenging; the root and theme of all
Greek tragedy ; the anger of the Erinnyes, and Demeter
Erinnys, compared to which the anger either of Apollo
or Athena is temporary and partial : — and also, while
Apollo or Athena only slay, the power of Demeter and
the Eumenides is over the whole life ; so that in the
stories of Bellerophon, of Hippolytus, of Orestes, of
CEdipns, you have an incomparably deeper shadow than
any that was possible to the thought of later ages, when
the hope of the Resurrection had become definite. And
if you keep this in mind, you will find every name and
legend of the oldest history become full of meaning to
you. All the mythic accounts of Greek sculpture begin
in the legends of the family of Tantalus. The main one
is the making of the ivory shoulder of Pelops after Deme-
ter has eaten the shoulder of flesh. With that you have
Broteas, the brother of Pelops, carving the first statue of
the mother of the gods ; and you have his sister, Niobe,
weeping herself to stone under the anger of the deities

vi.] Light. 151;

of light. Then Pelops himself, the dark-faced, gives
name to the Peloponnesus, which you may therefore read
as the ' isle of darkness ; ' but its central city, Sparta, the
1 sown city/ is connected with all the ideas of the earth as
life-giving. And from her you have Helen, the repre-
sentative of light in beauty, and the Fratres Helens —
' lucida sidera ; ' and, on the other side of the hills, the
brightness of Argos, with its correlative darkness over
the Atreidse, marked to you by Helios turning away his
face from the feast of Thyestes.

152. Then join with these the Northern legends con-
nected with the air. It does not matter whether you
take Dorus as the son of Apollo or the son of Hellen ; he
equally symbolizes the power of light : while his brother,
yfiolus, through all his descendants, chiefly in Sisyphus, is
confused or associated with the real god of the winds, and
represents to you the power of the air. And then, as this
conception enters into art, you have the myths of Daeda-
lus, the flight of Icarus, and the story of Phrixus and
Helle, giving you continual associations of the physical
air and light, ending in the power of Athena over Corinth
as well as over Athens. Now, once having the clue, you can
work out the sequels for yourselves better than I can for
you ; and you will soon find even the earliest or slightest
grotesques of Greek art become full of interest to you.
For nothing is more wonderful than the depth of meaning
which nations in their first days of thought, like children,
can attach to the rudest symbols ; and what to us is gro-
tesque or ugly, like a little child's doll, can speak to them
the loveliest things. I have brought you to-day a few
more examples of early Greek vase painting, respecting

152 Light. [LECT.

which remember generally that its finest development
is for the most part sepulchral. You have, in the
first period, always energy in the figures, light in the
sky or upon the figures'1; in the second period, while the
conception of the divine power remains the same, it is
thought of as in repose, and the light is in the god, not
in the sky ; in the time of decline, the divine power is
gradually disbelieved, and all form and light are lost
together. With that period I wish you to have nothing
to do. You shall not have a single example of it set
before you, but shall rather learn to recognise afterwards
what is base by its strangeness. These, which are to
come early in the third group of your Standard series,
will enough represent to you the elements of early and
late conception in the Greek mind of the deities of
light.

153. First (S. 204), you have Apollo ascending
from the sea ; thought of as the physical sunrise : only
a circle of light for his head ; his chariot horses, seen
foreshortened, black against the day-break, their feet not
yet risen above the horizon. Underneath is the paint-
ing from the opposite side of the same vase : Athena
as the morning breeze, and Hermes as the morning
cloud, flying across the waves before the sunrise. At
the distance I now hold them from you, it is scarcely
possible for you to see that they are figures at all, so
like are they to broken fragments of flying mist; and
when you look close, you will see that as Apollo's face
is invisible in the circle of light, Mercury's is invisible

d See Note in the Catalogue on No. 201.

vi.] Light. 153

in the broken form of cloud : but I can tell you that
it is conceived as reverted, looking back to Athena ;
the grotesque appearance of feature in the front is the
outline of his hair.

These two paintings are excessively rude, and of the
archaic period; the deities being yet thought of chiefly
as physical powers in violent agency.

Underneath these two are Athena and Hermes, in
the types attained about the time of Phidias ; but, of -
course, rudely drawn on the vase, and still more rudely
in this print from Le Normant and De Witte. For it
is impossible (as you will soon find if you try for your-
self) to give on a plane surface the grace of figures
drawn on one of solid curvature, and adapted to all
its curves : and among other minor differences, Athena's
lance is in the original nearly twice as tall as herself,
and has to be cut short to come into the print at all.
Still, there is enough here to show you what I want
you to see — the repose, and entirely realized personality,
of the deities as conceived in the Phidian period. The
relation of the two deities is, I believe, the same as in
the painting above, though probably there is another
added of more definite kind. But the physical mean-
ing still remains — Athena unhelmeted, as the gentle
morning wind, commanding the cloud Hermes to slow
flight. His petasus is slung at his back, meaning that
the clouds are not yet opened or expanded in the
sky.

154. Next (S. 305), you have Athena, again un-
helmeted and crowned with leaves, walking between
two nymphs, who are crowned also with leaves ; and

1 54 Light. [LECT.

all the three hold flowers in their hands, and there is
a fawn walking- at Athena's feet.

This is still Athena as the morning- air, but upon the
earth instead of in the sky, with the nymphs of the
dew beside her ; the flowers and leaves opening as they
breathe upon them. Note the white gleam of light on
the fawn's breast ; and compare it with the next fol-
lowing examples : — (underneath this one is the contest
of Athena and Poseidon, which does not bear on our
present subject).

Next (S. 206), Artemis as the moon of morning,
walking low on the hills, and singing to her lyre ; the
fawn beside her, with the gleam of light of sunrise on
its ear and breast. Those of you who are often out
in the dawn-time know that there is no moon so glorious
as that gleaming crescent ascending before the sun,
though in its wane.

Underneath, Artemis and Apollo, of Phidian time.

Next (S. 207), Apollo walking on the earth, god
of the morning, singing to his lyre ; the fawn beside
him, again with the gleam of light on its breast. And
underneath, Apollo, crossing the sea to Delphi, of the
Phidian time.

155. Nov? you cannot but be struck in these three
examples with the similarity of action in Athena, Apollo,
and Artemis, drawn as deities of the morning ; and
with the association in every case of the fawn with
them. It has been said (I will not interrupt you with
authorities) that the fawn belongs to Apollo and Diana
because stags are sensitive to music; (are they?). But
you see the fawn is here with Athena of the dew, though

vi.] Light. 155

she has no lyre ; and I have myself no doubt that in this
particular relation to the gods of morning it always
stands as the symbol of wavering and glancing motion
on the ground, as well as of the light and shadow
through the leaves, chequering the ground as the fawn
is dappled. Similarly the spots on the nebris of Dio-
nysus, thought of sometimes as stars (diro rrjs T&V aor/xoy
TroiKiAias, Diodorus, I. u), as well as those of his pan-
thers, and the cloudings of the tortoise-shell of Hermes,
are all significant of this light of the sky broken by
cloud-shadow.

156. You observe also that in all the three examples
the fawn has light on its ears, and face, as well as
its breast. In the earliest Greek drawings of animals,
bars of white are used as one means of detaching the
figures from the ground ; ordinarily on the under side
of them, marking the lighter colour of the hair in wild
animals. But the placing of this bar of white, or the
direction of the face in deities of light, (the faces and
flesh of women being always represented as white), may
become expressive of the direction of the light, when
that direction is important. Thus we are enabled at
once to read the intention of this Greek symbol of the
course of a day (in the centre-piece of S. 208, which
gives you the types of Hermes). At the top you have
an archaic representation of Hermes stealing lo from
Argus. Argus is here the Night; his grotesque features
monstrous ; his hair overshadowing his shoulders ; Her-
mes on tiptoe, stealing upon him, and taking the cord
which is fastened to the horn of lo out of his hand
without his feeling it. Then, underneath, you have

156 Light. [LECT.

the course of an entire clay. Apollo first, on the left,
dark, entering his chariot, the sun not yet risen. In
front of him Artemis, as the moon, ascending before
him, playing on her lyre, and looking back to the
sun. In the centre, behind the horses, Hermes, as the
cumulus cloud at mid-day, wearing his petasus height-
ened to a cone, and holding a flower in his right hand ;
indicating the nourishment of the flowers by the rain
from the heat-cloud. Finally, on the right, Latona,
going down as the evening, lighted from the right by
the sun, now sunk; and with her feet reverted, signify-
ing the unwillingness of the departing day.

Finally, underneath, you have Hermes of the Phidian
period, as the floating cumulus cloud, almost shapeless
(as you see him at this distance) ; with the tortoise-shell
lyre in his hand, barred with black, and a fleece of white
cloud, not level, but oblique, under his feet. (Compare
the ' 8ta T&V nolXvv — TrAdytai,' and the relations of the
' atyi'Sos rji'Lo^os 'Aflara,1 with the clouds as the moon's
messengers, in Aristophanes ; and note of Hermes gene-
rally, that you never find him flying as a Victory flies,
but always, if moving fast at all, clambering along, as
it were, as a cloud gathers and heaps itself: the Gor-
gons stretch and stride in their flight, half kneeling, for
the same reason, running or gliding shapelessly along in
this stealthy way.)

157. And now take this last illustration, of a very dif-
ferent kind. Here is an effect of morning light by Turner
(S. 301), on the rocks of Otley-hill, near Leeds, drawn long
ago, when Apollo, and Artemis, and Athena, still sometimes
were seen, and felt, even near Leeds. The original drawing

vi.] Light. 157

is one of the great Farnley series, and entirely beautiful.
I have shown, in the last volume of ' Modern Painters/
how well Turner knew the meaning of Greek legends : —
he was not thinking of them, however, when he made
this design ; but, unintentionally, has given us the very
effect of morning light we want: the glittering of the
sunshine on dewy grass, half dark ; and the narrow
gleam of it on the sides and head of the stag and
hind.

158. These few instances will be enough to show you
how we may read in early art of the Greeks their strong
impressions of the power of light. You will find the sub-
ject entered into at somewhat greater length in my ' Queen
of the Air ;' and if you will look at the beginning of
the 7th book of Plato's ' Polity,' and read carefully the
passages in the context respecting the sun and intel-
lectual sight, you will see how intimately this physical
love of light was connected with their philosophy, in
its search, as blind and captive, for better knowledge.
I shall not attempt to define for you to-day the more
complex but much shallower forms which this love of
light, and the philosophy that accompanies it, take in
the mediaeval mind ; only remember that in future,
when I briefly speak of the Greek school of art with
reference to questions of delineation, I mean the en-
tire range of the schools, from Homer's days to our
own, which concern themselves with the representation
of light, and the effects it produces on material
form — beginning practically for us with these Greek
vase paintings, and closing practically for us with
Turner's sunset on the Temeraire ; being throughout a

158 Light. [LECT.

school of captivity and sadness, but of intense power;
and which in its technical method of shadow on
material form, as well as in its essential temper, is
centrally represented to you by Diirer's two great
engraving's of the ' Melencolia ' and the ' Knight and
Death/ On the other hand, when I briefly speak to
you of the Gothic school, with reference to delineation,
I mean the entire and much more extensive range of
schools extending from the earliest art in Central Asia
and Egypt down to our own day in India and China : —
schools which have been content to obtain beautiful
harmonies of colour without any representation of light ;
and which have, many of them, rested in such imperfect
expressions of form as could be so obtained; schools
usually in some measure childish, or restricted in intel-
lect, and similarly childish or restricted in their philo-
sophies or faiths : but contented in the restriction ; and
in the more powerful races, capable of advance to nobler
development than the Greek schools, though the con-
summate art of Europe has only been accomplished by
the union of both. How that union was effected, I
will endeavour to show you in my next lecture; to-day
I shall take note only of the points bearing on our
immediate practice.

159. A certain number of you, by faculty and natural
disposition, — and all, so far as you are interested in modern
art, — will necessarily have to put yourselves under the
discipline of the Greek or chiaroscuro school, which is
directed primarily to the attainment of the power of
representing form by pure contrast of light and shade.
I say, the « discipline ' of the Greek school, both because,

vi.] Light. 159

followed faithfully, it is indeed a severe one, and because
to follow it at all is, for persons fond of colour, often
a course of painful self-denial, from which young students
are eager to escape. And yet, when the laws of both
schools are rightly obeyed, the most perfect discipline is
that of the colourists ; for they see and draw everything,
while the chiaroscurists must leave much indeterminate
in mystery, or invisible in gloom : and there are therefore
many licentious and vulgar forms of art connected with the
chiaroscuro school, both in painting and etching, which
have no parallel among the colourists. But both schools,
rightly followed, require first of all absolute accuracy of
delineation. This you need not hope to escape. Whether
you fill your spaces with colours, or with shadows, they
must equally be of the true outline and in true gradations.
I have been thirty years telling modern students of art
this in vain. I mean to say it to you only once, for the
statement is too important to be weakened by repetition .

Without perfect delineation of form and perfect grada- ;
tion of space, neither noble colour is possible, nor noble
light.

160. It may make this more believable to you if I
put beside each other a piece of detail from each school.
I gave you the St. John of Cima da Conegliano for a
type of the colour school. Here is one of the sprays of
oak which rise against the sky of it in the distance,
enlarged to about its real size (Edu. 12). I hope to
draw it better for you at Venice ; but this will show
you with what perfect care the colourist has followed
the outline of every leaf in the sky. Beside it, I put
a chiaroscurist drawing (at least, a photograph of one),

160 Light. [LECT.

Diirer's, from nature, of the common wild wall-cabbage
(Edu. 32). It is the most perfect piece of delineation
by flat tint I have ever seen, in its mastery of the
perspective of every leaf, and its attainment almost
of the bloom of texture, merely by its exquisitely
tender and decisive laying- of the colour. These two
examples ought, I think, to satisfy you as to the precision
of outline of both schools, and the power of expression
which may be obtained by flat tints laid within such
outline.

161. Next, here are two examples of the gradated
shading expressive of the forms within the outline, by two
masters of the chiaroscuro school. The first (S. 12) shows
you Leonardo's method of work, both with chalk and the
silver point. The second (S. 302), Turner's work in mez-
zotint ; both masters doing their best. Observe that
this plate of Turner's, which he worked on so long that
it was never published, is of a subject peculiarly de-
pending on effects of mystery and concealment, the fall of
the Reuss under the Devil's Bridge on the St. Gothard ;
(the old bridge; you may still see it under the existing
one, which was built since Turner's drawing was made).
If ever outline could be dispensed with, you would think
it might be so in this confusion of cloud, foam, and
darkness. But here is Turner's own etching on the
plate, (Edu. 35 E), made under the mezzotint ; and of
all the studies of rock outline made by his hand, it is
the most decisive and quietly complete.

162. Again ; in the Lionardo sketches, many parts are
lost in obscurity, or are left intentionally uncertain and
mysterious, even in the light; and you might at first

vi.] Light, 161

imagine some permission of escape had been here given you
from the terrible law of delineation. But the slightest
attempts to copy them will show you that the terminal
lines are inimitably subtle, unaccusably true, and filled by
gradations of shade so determined and measured, that the
addition of a grain of the lead or chalk as large as the
filament of a moth's wing, would make an appreciable
difference in them.

This is grievous, you think, and hopeless, No, it is
delightful and full of hope : delightful, to see what mar-
vellous things can be done by men ; and full of hope, if
your hope is the right one, of being one day able to
rejoice more in what others are, than in what you are
yourself, and more in the strength that is for ever above
you, than in that you can ever attain.

163. But you can attain much, if you will work reve-
rently and patiently, and hope for no success through
ill-regulated effort. It is, however, most assuredly at
this point of your study that the full strain on your
patience will begin. The exercises in line-drawing and
flat laying of colour are irksome; but they are definite,
and within certain limits, sure to be successful if practised
with moderate care. But the expression of form by
shadow requires more subtle patience, and involves the
necessity of frequent and mortifying failure, not to speak
of the self-denial which I said was needful in persons fond
of colour, to draw in mere light and shade. If, indeed,
you were going to be artists, or could give any great
length of time to study, it might be possible for you to
learn wholly in the Venetian school, and to reach form
through colour. But without the most intense application

M

1 62 Light. [LECT.

this is not possible ; and practically, it will be necessary for
you, as soon as you have gained the power of outlining
accurately, and of laying flat colour, to learn to express
solid form as shown by light and shade only. And
there is this great advantage in doing so, that many
forms are more or less disguised by colour, and that we can
only represent them completely to others, or rapidly
and easily record them for ourselves, by the use of
shade alone. A single instance will show you what
I mean. Perhaps there are few flowers of which the
impression on the eye is more definitely of flat colour,
than the scarlet geranium. But you would find, if you
were to try to paint it, — first, that no pigment could
approach the beauty of its scarlet; and secondly, that
the brightness of the hue dazzled the eye, and prevented
its following the real arrangement of the cluster of flowers.
I have drawn for you here (at least this is a mezzotint
from my drawing), a single cluster of the scarlet geranium,
in mere light and shade (Edu. 32 B.), and I think you
will feel that its domed form, and the flat lying of the
petals one over the other, in the vaulted roof of it, can be
seen better thus than if they had been painted scarlet.

164. Also this study will be useful to you, in showing
how entirely effects of light depend on delineation, and
gradation of spaces, and not on methods of shading.
And this is the second great practical matter I want
you to remember to-day. All effects of light and shade
depend not on the method or execution of shadows, but
on their Tightness of place, form, and depth. There
is indeed a loveliness of execution added to the Tightness,
by the great masters, but you cannot obtain that till you

VL] Light. 163

become one. Shadow cannot be laid thoroughly well,
any more than lines can be drawn steadily, but by a long
practised hand, and the attempts to imitate the shading
of fine draughtsmen, by dotting and hatching, are just
as ridiculous as it would be to endeavour to imitate their
instantaneous lines by a series of re-touchings. You
will often indeed see in Leonardo's work, and in Michael
Angelo's, shadow wrought laboriously to an extreme
of fineness; but when you look into it, you will find
that they have always been drawing more and more
form within the space, and never finishing for the sake
of added texture, but of added fact. And all those
effects of transparency and reflected light, aimed at in
common chalk drawings, are wholly spurious. For since,
as I told you, all lights are shades compared to higher
lights, and lights only as compared to lower ones, it
follows that there can be no difference in their quality
as such; but that light is opaque when it expresses
substance, and transparent when it expresses space ;
and shade is also opaque when it expresses substance,
and transparent when it expresses spaee. But it is
not, even then, transparent in the common sense of that
word; nor is its appearance to be obtained by dotting
or cross hatching, but by touches so tender as to look
like mist. And now we find the use of having Lionardo
for our guide. He is supreme in all questions of exe-
cution, and in his a8th chapter, you will find that
shadows are to be 'dolce e sfumose,' to be tender, and
look as if they were exhaled, or breathed on the paper.
Then, look at any of Michael Angelo's finished drawings,
or of Correggio's sketches, and you will see that the true

M 2,

164 Light. [LECT.

nurse of light is in art, as in nature, the cloud ; a misty
and tender darkness, made lovely by gradation.

165. And how absolutely independent it is of ma-
terial or method of production, how absolutely dependent
on tightness of place and depth, — there are now before
you instances enough to prove. Here is Diirer's work in
flat colour, represented by the photograph in its smoky
brown ; Turner's, in washed sepia, and in mezzotint ; Lio-
nardo's, in pencil and in chalk ; on the screen in front of
you a large study in charcoal. In every one of these draw-
ings, the material of shadow is absolutely opaque. But
photograph - stain, chalk, lead, ink, or charcoal, — every
one of them, laid by the master's hand, becomes full
of light by gradation only. Here is a moonlight (Edu.
31 B.), in which you would think the moon shone through
every cloud; yet the clouds are mere single dashes of
sepia, imitated by the brown stain of a photograph ;
similarly, in these plates from the Liber Studiorum
the white paper becomes transparent or opaque, ex-
actly as the master chooses. Here, on the granite
rock of the St. Gothard (S. 302), is white paper made
opaque, every light represents solid bosses of rock, or
balls of foam. But in this study of twilight (S. 303),
the same white paper (coarse old stuff it is, too !)
is made as transparent as crystal, and every frag-
ment of it represents clear and far away light in the
sky of evening in Italy. From which the practical
conclusion for you is, that you are never to trouble
yourselves with any questions as to the means of shade
or light, but only with the right government of the
means at your disposal. And it is a most grave error

VL] Light. 165

in the system of many of our public drawing-schools,
that the students are permitted to spend weeks of labour
in giving attractive appearance, by delicacy of texture,
to chiaroscuro drawings in which every form is false,
and every relation of depth untrue. A most unhappy
form of error ; for it not only delays, and often wholly ar-
rests, their advance in their own art ; but it prevents what
ought to take place co-relatively with their executive
practice, the formation of their taste by the accurate
study of the models from which they draw. I do not
doubt but that you have more pleasure in looking at
the large drawing of the arch of Bourges, behind me
(Ref. i), than at common sketches of sculpture. The
reason you like it is, that the whole effort of the
workman has been to show you, not his own skill
in shading, but the play of the light on the surfaces of
the leaves, which is lovely, because the sculpture itself
is first-rate. And I must so far anticipate what we
shall discover when we come to the subject of sculpture,
as to tell you the two main principles of good sculpture :
first, that its masters think before all other matters of
the right placing of masses ; secondly, that they give
life by flexure of surface, not by quantity of detail ;
for sculpture is indeed only light and shade drawing
in stone.

166. Much that I have endeavoured to teach on this
subject has been gravely misunderstood, by both young
painters and sculptors, especially by the latter. Because
I am always urging them to imitate organic forms, they
think if they carve quantities of flowers and leaves, and
copy them from the life, they have done all that is needed.

1 66 Light. [LECT.

But the difficulty is not to carve quantities of leaves.
Anybody can do that. The difficulty is, never anywhere
to have an unnecessary leaf. Over the arch on the right,
you see there is a cluster of seven, with their short
stalks spring-ing1 from a thick stem. Now, you could not
turn one of those leaves a hair's-breadth out of its place,
nor thicken one of their stems, nor alter the angle at
which each slips over the next one, without spoiling
the whole, as much as you would a piece of melody by
missing a note. That is disposition of masses. Again,
in the group on the left, while the placing of every
leaf is just as skilful, they are made more interesting
yet by the lovely undulation of their surfaces, so that
not one of them is in equal light with another. And
that is so in all good sculpture, without exception. From
the Elgin marbles down to the lightest tendril that
curls round a capital in the thirteenth century, every
piece of stone that has been touched by the hand of
a master, becomes soft with under-life, not resembling
nature merely in skin-texture, nor in fibres of leaf,
or veins of flesh ; but in the broad, tender, unspeakably
subtle undulation of its organic form.

167. Returning then to the question of our own
practice, I believe that all difficulties in method will
vanish, if only you cultivate with care enough the habit
of accurate observation, and if you think only of
making your light and shade true, whether it be deli-
cate or not. But there are three divisions or degrees of
truth to be sought for, in light and shade, by three
several modes of study, which I must ask you to dis-
tinguish carefully.

vi.] Light. 167

I. When objects are lighted by the direct rays of
the sun, or by direct light entering from a window,
one side of them is of course in light, the other in
shade, and the forms in the mass are exhibited sys-
tematically by the force of the rays falling on it ;
(those having most power of illumination which strike
most vertically) ; and note that there is, therefore, to
every solid curvature of surface, a necessarily propor-
tioned gradation of light, the gradation on a parabolic
solid being different from the gradation on an elliptical
or spherical one. Now, when your purpose is to represent
and learn the anatomy, or otherwise characteristic forms,
of any object, it is best to place it in this kind of direct
light, and to draw it as it is seen when we look at it
in a direction at right angles to that of the ray. This is
the ordinary academical way of studying form. Lionardo
seldom practises any other in his real work, though he
directs many others in his treatise.

168. The great importance of anatomical knowledge
to the painters of the i6th century rendered this method
of study very frequent with them; it almost wholly
regulated their schools of engraving, and has been the
most frequent system of drawing in art-schools since (to
the very inexpedient exclusion of others). When you
study objects in this way, — and it will indeed be well to
do so often, though not exclusively, — observe always one
main principle. Divide the light from the darkness
frankly at first : all over the subject let there be no
doubt which is which. Separate them one from the
other as they are separated in the moon, or on the
world itself, in day and night. Then gradate your

1 68 Light. [LECT.

lights with the utmost subtilty possible to you; but let
your shadows alone, until near the termination of the
drawing- : then put quickly into them what farther
energy they need, thus gaining the reflected lights out
of their original flat gloom; but generally not looking
much for reflected lights. Nearly all young students
(and. too many advanced masters) exaggerate them. It
is good to see a drawing come out of its ground like
a vision of light only ; the shadows lost, or disregarded
in the vague of space. In vulgar chiaroscuro the shades
are so full of reflection that they look as if some one
had been walking round the object with a candle, and
the student, by that help, peering into its crannies.

169. II. But, in the reality of nature, very few ob-
jects are seen in this accurately lateral manner, or lighted
by unconfused direct rays. Some are all in shadow,
some all in light, some near, and vigorously defined ;
others dim and faint in aerial distance. The study of
these various effects and forces of light, which we may
call aerial chiaroscuro, is a far more subtle one than
that of the rays exhibiting organic form (which for
distinction's sake we may call ' formal' chiaroscuro),
since the degrees of light from the sun itself to the
blackness of night, are far beyond any literal imita-
tion. In order to produce a mental impression of the
facts, two distinct methods may be followed : — the first,
to shade downwards from the lights, making everything
darker in due proportion, until the scale of our power
being ended, the mass of the picture is lost in shade.
The second, to assume the points of extreme darkness
for a basis, and to light everything above these in

vi.] Light. 169

due proportion, till the mass of the picture is lost in
light.

170. Thus, in Turner's , sepia drawing 'Isis' (Edu.
31), he begins with the extreme light in the sky,
and shades down from that till he is forced to repre-
sent the near trees and pool as one mass of black-
ness. In his drawing of the Greta (S. 2), he begins
with the dark brown shadow of the bank on the left,
and illuminates up from that, till, in his distance,
trees, hills, sky, and clouds, are all lost in broad light,
so that you can hardly see the distinction between
hills and sky. The second of these methods is in
general the best for colour, though great painters unite
both in their practice, according to the character of
their subject. The first method is never pursued in
colour but by inferior painters. It is, nevertheless, of
great importance to make studies of chiaroscuro in this
first manner for some time, as a preparation for colour-
ing; and this for many reasons, which it would take
too long to state now. I shall expect you to have con-
fidence in me when I assure you of the necessity of this
study, and ask you to make good use of the examples
from the Liber Studiorum which I have placed in your
Educational series.

171. III. Whether in formal or aerial chiaroscuro,
it is optional with the student to make the local colour
of objects a part of his shadow, or to consider the high
lights of every colour as white. For instance, a chiaro-
scurist of Lionardo's school, drawing a leopard, would
take no notice whatever of the spots, but only give the
shadows which expressed the anatomy. And it is indeed

1 7° Light. [LECT.

necessary to be able to do this, and to make drawings
of the forms of things as if they were sculptured, and had
no colour. But in general, and more especially in the
practice which is to guide you to colour, it is better to
regard the local colour as part of the general dark and
light to be imitated; and, as I told you at first, to con-
sider all nature merely as a mosaic of different colours, to
be imitated one by one in simplicity. But good artists
vary their methods according to their subject and material.
In general, Diirer takes little account of local colour;
but in woodcuts of armorial bearings (one with peacock's
feathers I shall get for you some day) takes great delight
in it ; while one of the chief merits of Bewick is the ease
and vigour with which he uses his black and white for the
colours of plumes. Also, every great artist looks for, and
expresses, that character of his subject which is best to be
rendered by the instrument in his hand, and the material
he works on. Give Velasquez or Veronese a leopard to
paint, the first thing they think of will be its spots ; give
it to Diirer to engrave, and he will set himself at the
fur and whiskers ; give it a Greek to carve, and he will
only think of its jaws and limbs; each doing what is
absolutely best with the means at his disposal.

172. The details of practice in these various methods
I will endeavour to explain to you by distinct examples in
your Educational series, as we proceed in our work ; for
the present, let me, in closing, recommend to you once
more with great earnestness the patient endeavour to ren-
der the chiaroscuro of landscape in the manner of the Liber
Studiorum ; and this the rather, because you might easily
suppose that the facility of obtaining photographs which

vi.] Light. 171

render such effects, as it seems, with absolute truth
and with unapproachable subtlety, superseded the necessity
of study, and the use of sketching. Let me assure you,
once for all, that photographs supersede no single quality
nor use of fine art, and have so much in common with
Nature, that they even share her temper of parsimony,
and will themselves give you nothing valuable that you
do not work for. They supersede no good art, for the
definition of art is ' human labour regulated by human
design/ and this design, or evidence of active intellect in
choice and arrangement, is the essential part of the work ;
which, so long as you cannot perceive, you perceive no
art whatsoever ; which, when once you do perceive, you
will perceive also to be replaceable by no mechanism.
But, farther, photographs will give you nothing you do
not work for. They are invaluable for record of some
kinds of facts, and for giving transcripts of drawings by
great masters ; but neither in the photographed scene,
nor photographed drawing, will you see any true good,
more than in the things themselves, until you have given
the appointed price in your own attention and toil. And
when once you have paid this price, you will not care
for photographs of landscape. They are not true, though
they seem so. They are merely spoiled nature. If it
is not human design you are looking for, there is more
beauty in the next wayside bank than in all the sun-
blackened paper you could collect in a lifetime. Go
and look at the real landscape, and take care of it ; do
not think you can get the good of it in a black stain
portable in a folio. But if you care for human thought
and passion, then learn yourselves to watch the course

172 Light.

and fall of the light by whose influence you live, and
to share in the joy of human spirits in the heavenly
gifts of sunbeam and shade. For I tell you truly,
that to a quiet heart, and healthy brain, and industrious
hand there is more delight, and use, in the dappling of one
wood-glade with flowers and sunshine, than to the rest-
less, heartless, and idle could be brought by a panorama
of a belt of the world, photographed round the equator.

LECTURE VII,

COLOUR.

LECTURE VII.

COLOUR.

173. 1O-DAY I must try to complete our elementary
sketch of schools of art, by tracing the course of those
which were distinguished by faculty of colour, and after-
wards to deduce from the entire scheme advisable me-
thods of immediate practice.

You remember that, for the type of the early schools
of colour, I chose their work in glass ; as for that of the
early schools of chiaroscuro, I chose their work in clay.

I had two reasons for this. First, that the peculiar
skill of colourists is seen most intelligibly in their
work in glass or in enamel ; secondly, that Nature
herself produces all her loveliest colours in some kind
of solid or liquid glass or crystal. The rainbow is
painted on a shower of melted glass, and the colours
of the opal are produced in vitreous flint mixed with
water ; the green and blue, and golden or amber
brown of flowing water is in surface glassy, and in
motion, ' splendidior vitro.' And the loveliest colours ever
granted to human sight — those of morning and evening
clouds before or after rain — are produced on minute par-

176 Colour. [LECT.

tides of finely-divided water, or perhaps sometimes, ice.
But more than this. If you examine with a lens some
of the richest colours of flowers, as, for instance, those of
the gentian and dianthus, you will find their texture is
produced by a crystalline or sugary frost-work upon
them. In the lychnis of the high Alps, the red and
white have a kind of sugary bloom, as rich as it is
delicate. It is indescribable ; but if you can fancy very
powdery and crystalline snow mixed with the softest
cream, and then dashed with carmine, it may give you
some idea of the look of it. There are no colours, either
in the nacre of shells, or the plumes of birds and insects,
which are so pure as those of clouds, opal, or flowers ;
but the force of purple and blue in some butterflies, and
the methods of clouding, and strength of burnished lustre,
in plumage like the peacock's, give them more universal
interest; in some birds, also, as in our own kingfisher,
the colour nearly reaches a floral preciousness. The lustre
in most, however, is metallic rather than vitreous ; and
the vitreous always gives the purest hue. Entirely com-
mon and vulgar compared with these, yet to be noticed
as completing the crystalline or vitreous system, we have
the colours of gems. The green of the emerald is the
best of these ; but at its best is as vulgar as house-
painting beside the green of birds' plumage or of clear
water. No diamond shows colour so pure as a dewdrop;
the ruby is like the pink of an ill-dyed and half- washed-
out print, compared to the dianthus; and the carbuncle
is usually quite dead unless set with a foil, and even then
is not prettier than the seed of a pomegranate. The opal
is, however, an exception. When pure and uncut in its

vii.] Colour. 177

native rock, it presents the most lovely colours that can
be seen in the world, except those of clouds.

We have thus in nature, chiefly obtained by crystalline
conditions, a series of groups of entirely delicious hues;
and it is one of the best signs that the bodily system
is in a healthy state when we can see these clearly in
their most delicate tints, and enjoy them fully and simply,
with the kind of enjoyment that children have in eating
sweet things. I shall place a piece of rock opal on
the table in your working room : if on fine days you
will sometimes dip it in water, take it into sunshine,
and examine it with a lens of moderate power, you may
always test your progress in sensibility to colour by the
degree of pleasure it gives you.

174. Now, the course of our main colour schools is
briefly this : — First, we have, returning to our hexagonal
scheme, line; then spaces filled with pure colour; and
then masses expressed or rounded with pure colour. And
during these two stages the masters of colour delight in
the purest tints, and endeavour as far as possible to rival
those of opals and flowers. In saying 'the purest tints,'
I do not mean the simplest types of red, blue, and
yellow, but the most pure tints obtainable by their com-
binations.

175. You remember I told you, when the colourists
painted masses or projecting spaces, they, aiming always
at colour, perceived from the first and held to the last
the fact that shadows, though of course darker than
the lights with reference to which they are shadows,
are not therefore necessarily less vigorous colours, but
perhaps more vigorous. Some of the most beautiful blues

N

178 Colour. [LECT.

and purples in nature, for instance, are those of moun-
tains in shadow against amber sky; and the darkness of
the hollow in the centre of a wild rose is one glow of
orange fire, owing to the quantity of its yellow stamens.
Well, the Venetians always saw this, and all great
colourists see it, and are thus separated from the non-
colourists or schools, of mere chiaroscuro, not by difference
in style merely, but by being right while the others are
wrong. It is an absolute fact that shadows are as much
colours as lights are; and whoever represents them by
merely the subdued or darkened tint of the light, repre-
sents them falsely. I particularly want you to observe
that this is no matter of taste, but fact. If you are espe-
cially soberminded, you may indeed choose sober colours
where Venetians would have chosen gay ones; that is a
matter of taste : you may think it proper for a hero to
wear a dress without patterns on it, rather than an
embroidered one ; that is similarly a matter of taste :
but, though you may also think it would be dignified
for a hero's limbs to be all black, or brown, on the
shaded side of them, yet, if you are using colour at all,
you cannot so have him to your mind, except by false-
hood; he never, under any circumstances, could be en-
tirely black or brown on one side of him.

176. In this, then, the Venetians are separate from
other schools by Tightness, and they are so to their last
days. Venetian painting is in this matter always right.
But also, in their early days, the colourists are separated
from other schools by their contentment with tranquil
cheerfulness of light; by their never wanting to be
dazzled. None of their lights are flashing or blinding ;

vii.] Colour. 1 79

they are soft, winning, precious; lights of pearl, not of
lime : only, you know, on this condition they cannot have
sunshine : their day is the day of Paradise ; they need
no candle, neither light of the sun, in their cities; and
everything is seen clear, as through crystal, far or near.

This holds to the end of the fifteenth century. Then
they begin to see that this, beautiful as it may be, is still
a make-believe light ; that we do not live in the inside
of a pearl ; but in an atmosphere through which a burning
sun shines thwartedly, and over which a sorrowful night
must far prevail. And then the chiaroscurists succeed
in persuading them of the fact that there is mystery
in the day as in the night, and show them how constantly
to see truly, is to see dimly. And also they teach them
the brilliancy of light, and the degree in which it is raised
from the darkness ; and, instead of their sweet and pearly
peace, tempt them to look for the strength of flame and
coruscation of lightning, and flash of sunshine on armour
and on points of spears.

177. The noble painters take the lesson nobly, alike for
gloom or flame. Titian with deliberate strength, Tintoret
with stormy passion, read it, side by side. Titian deepens
the hues of his Assumption, as of his Entombment, into
a solemn twilight ; Tintoret involves his earth in coils of
volcanic cloud, and withdraws, through circle flaming
above circle, the distant light of Paradise. Both of them,
becoming naturalist and human, add the veracity of
Holbein's intense portraiture to the glow and the dignity
they had themselves inherited from the Masters of Peace :
at the same moment another, as strong as they, and in
pure felicity of art-faculty, even greater than they, but

N a

i8o Colour. [LECT.

trained in a lower school, — Velasquez, — produced the mira-
cles of colour and shadow-painting, which made Reynolds
say of him, 'What we all do with labour, he does with
ease;' and one more, Correggio, uniting the sensual
element of the Greek schools with their gloom, and
their light with their beauty, and all these with the
Lombardic colour, became, as since I think it has been
admitted without question, the captain of the painter's
art as such. Other men have nobler or more numerous
gifts, but as a painter, master of the art of laying colour
so as to be lovely, Correggio is alone.

178. I said the noble men learnt their lesson nobly.
The base men also, and necessarily, learn it basely. The
great men rise from colour to sunlight. The base ones
fall from colour to candlelight. To-day, 'non ragioniam
di lor,' but let us see what this great change which perfects
the art of painting mainly consists in, and means. For
though we are only at present speaking of technical
matters, every one of them, I can scarcely too often
repeat, is the outcome and sign of a mental character,
and you can only understand the folds of the veil, by
those of the form it veils.

179. The complete painters, we find, have brought
dimness and mystery into their method of colouring.
That means that the world all round them has resolved
to dream, or to believe, no more; but to know, and to
see. And instantly all knowledge and sight are given, no
more as in the Gothic times, through a window of glass,
brightly, but as through a telescope-glass, darkly. Your
cathedral window shut you from the true sky, and
illumined you with a vision; your telescope leads you

vii.] Colour. 1 8 1

to the sky, but darkens its light, and reveals nebula
beyond nebula, far and farther, and to no conceivable
farthest — unresolvable. That is what the mystery means.

180. Next, what does that Greek opposition of black
and white mean?

In the sweet crystalline time of colour, the painters,
whether on glass or canvas, employed intricate patterns,
in order to mingle hues beautifully with each other, and
make one perfect melody of them all. But in the great
naturalist school, they like their patterns to come in
the Greek way, dashed dark on light, — gleaming light
out of dark. That means also that the world round
them has again returned to the Greek conviction, that
all nature, especially human nature, is not entirely melo-
dious nor luminous ; but a barred and broken thing :
that saints have their foibles, sinners their forces; that
the most luminous virtue is often only a flash, and the
blackest-looking fault is sometimes only a stain : and,
without confusing in the least black with white, they
can forgive, or even take delight in things that are like
the vefipls, dappled.

181. You have then — first, mystery. Secondly, oppo-
sition of dark and light. Then, lastly, whatever truth of
form the dark and light can show.

That is to say, truth altogether, and resignation to
it, and quiet resolve to make the best of it. And therefore,
portraiture of living men, women, and children, — no more
of saints, cherubs, or demons. So here I have brought
for your standards of perfect art, a little maiden of the
Strozzi family, with her dog, by Titian; and a little
princess of the house of Savoy, by Vandyke ; and Charles

1 82 Colour. [LECT.

the Fifth, by Titian ; and a queen, by Velasquez ; and
an English girl in a brocaded gown, by Reynolds; and
an English physician in his plain coat, and wig, by
Reynolds : and if you do not like them, I cannot help
myself, for I can find nothing better for you.

182. Better? — I must pause at the word. Nothing
stronger, certainly, nor so strong. Nothing so wonderful,
so inimitable, so keen in unprejudiced and unbiassed
sight.

Yet better, perhaps, the sight that was guided by
a sacred will ; the power that could be taught to weaker
hands ; the work that was faultless, though not inimitable,
bright with felicity of heart, and consummate in a dis-
ciplined and companionable skill. You will find, when
I can place in your hands the notes on Verona, which I
read at the Royal Institution, that I have ventured to
call the sera of painting represented by John Bellini, the
time fof the Masters/ Truly they deserved the name,
who did nothing but what was lovely, and taught only
what was right. These mightier, who succeeded them,
crowned, but closed, the dynasties of art, and since their
day painting has never flourished more.

183. There were many reasons for this, without fault
of theirs. They were exponents, in the first place, of the
change in all men's minds from civil and religious
to merely domestic passion ; the love of their gods and
their country had contracted itself now into that of their
domestic circle, which was little more than the halo of
themselves. You will see the reflection of this change
in painting at once by comparing the two Madonnas
(S. 37, John Bellini's, and Raphael's, called 'della Seg-

vii.] Colour. 183

giola '). Bellini's Madonna cares for all creatures through
her child ; Raphael's, for her child only.

Again, the world round these painters had become
sad and proud, instead of happy and humble ; — its
domestic peace was darkened by irreligion, and made
restless by pride. And the Hymen, whose statue this
fair English girl of Reynolds' thought must decorate
(S. 43), is blind, and holds a coronet.

Again, in the splendid power of realization, which
these greatest of artists had reached, there was the latent
possibility of amusement by deception, and of excitement
by sensualism. And Dutch trickeries of base resem-
blance, and French and English fancies of insidious
beauty, soon occupied the eyes of the populace of Europe,
too restless and wretched now to care for the sweet earth-
berries and Madonna's ivy of Cima, and too ignoble to
perceive Titian's colour, or Correggio's shade.

184. Enough sources of evil were here, in the temper
and power of the consummate art. In its practical
methods there was another, the fatallest of all. These
great artists brought with them mystery, despondency,
domesticity, sensuality: of all these, good came, as
well as evil. One thing more they brought, of which
nothing but evil ever comes, or can come — Liberty.

By the discipline of five hundred years they had
learned and inherited such power, that whereas all
former painters could be right only by effort, they
could be right with ease ; and whereas all former paint-
ers could be right only under restraint, they could be
right, free. Tintoret's touch, Luini's, Correggio's, Rey-
nolds', and Velasquez's, are all as free as the air, and

1 84 Colour. [LECT.

yet right. ' How very fine ! ' said everybody. Unquestion-
ably, very fine. Next, said everybody, 'What a grand
discovery ! Here is the finest work ever done, and it is
quite free. Let us all be free then, and what fine
things shall we not do also ! ' With what results we too
well know.

Nevertheless, remember you are to delight in the free-
dom won by these mighty men through obedience, though
you are not to covet it. Obey, and you also shall be free
in time ; but in these minor things, as well as in great,
it is only right service which is perfect freedom.

185. This, broadly, is the history of the early and
late colour-schools. The first of these I shall call gene-
rally, henceforward, the school of crystal; the other that
of clay : potter's clay, or human, are too sorrowfully the
same, as far as art is concerned. Now remember, in
practice, you cannot follow both these schools; you must
distinctly adopt the principles of one or the other. I will
put the means of following either within your reach ; and
according to your dispositions you will choose one or the
other : all I have to guard you against is the mistake
of thinking you can unite the two. If you want to
paint (even in the most distant and feeble way) in the
Greek school, the school of Lionardo, Correggio, and
Turner, you cannot design coloured windows, nor An-
gelican paradises. If, on the other hand, you choose to
live in the peace of paradise, you cannot share in the
gloomy triumphs of the earth.

186. And, incidentally note, as a practical matter of
immediate importance, that painted windows have nothing
to do with chiaroscuro. The virtue of glass is to be

vii.] Colour. 185

transparent everywhere. If you care to build a palace
of jewels, painted glass is richer than all the treasures
of Aladdin's lamp ; but if you like pictures better than
jewels, you must come into broad daylight to paint
them. A picture in coloured glass is one of the most
vulgar of barbarisms, and only fit to be ranked with
the gauze transparencies and chemical illuminations of
the sensational stage. Also, put out of your minds at
once all question about difficulty of getting colour ; in
glass we have all the colours that are wanted, only we
do not know either how to choose, or how to connect
them ; and we are always trying to get them bright,
when their real virtue is to be deep, and tender, and
subdued. We will have a thorough study of painted
glass soon : meanwhile I merely give you a type of its
perfect style, in two windows from Chalons sur Marue
(S. 141).

187. You will have then to choose between these two
modes of thought : for my own part, with what poor gift
and skill is in me, I belong wholly to the chiaroscurist
school; and shall teach you therefore chiefly that which
I am best able to teach : and the rather, that it is only
in this school that you can follow out the study either
of natural history or landscape. The form of a wild
animal, or the wrath of a mountain torrent, would both
be revolting (or in a certain sense invisible) to the calm
fantasy of a painter in the schools of crystal. He must
lay his lion asleep in St. Jerome's study beside his tame
partridge and spare slippers; lead the appeased river
by alternate azure promontories, and restrain its courtly
little streamlets with margins of marble. But, on the

1 86 Colour. [LECT.

other hand, your studies of mythology and literature
may best be connected with these schools of purest and
calmest imagination; and their discipline will be useful
to you in yet another direction, and that a very important
one. It will teach you to take delight in little things,
and develope in you the joy which all men should feel
in purity and order, not only in pictures but in reality.
For, indeed, the best art of this school of fantasy may
at last be in reality, and the chiaroscurists, true in ideal,
may be less helpful in act. We cannot arrest sunsets
nor carve mountains, but we may turn every English
homestead, if we choose, into a picture by Cima or John
Bellini, which shall be ' no counterfeit, but the true and
perfect image of life indeed/

188. For the present, however, and yet for some little
time during your progress, you will not have to choose
your school. For both, as we have seen, begin in de-
lineation, and both proceed by filling flat spaces with an
even tint. And therefore this will be the course of work
for you, founded on all that we have seen.

Having learned to measure, and draw a pen line with
some steadiness (the geometrical exercises for this purpose
being properly school, not University work), you shall
have a series of studies from the plants which are of chief
importance in the history of art; first from their real
forms, and then from the conventional and heraldic ex-
pressions of them; then we will take examples of the
filling of ornamental forms with flat colour in Egyptian,
Greek, and Gothic design; and then we will advance to
animal forms treated in the same severe way, and so to
the patterns and colour designs on animals themselves.

vii.] Colour. 187

And when we are sure of our firmness of hand and
accuracy of eye, we will go on into light and shade.

189. In process of time, this series of exercises will,
I hope, be sufficiently complete and systematic to show
its purpose at a glance. But during the present year,
I shall content myself with placing a few examples of
these different kinds of practice in your rooms for work,
explaining in the catalogue the position they will ulti-
mately occupy, and the technical points of process into
which it is of no use to enter in a general lecture. After
a little time spent in copying these, your own predilec-
tions must determine your future course of study; only
remember, whatever school you follow, it must be only to
learn method, not to imitate result, and to acquaint your-
self with the minds of other men, but not to adopt them
as your own. Be assured that no good can come of your
work but as it arises simply out of your own true natures
and the necessities of the time around you, though in
many respects an evil one. You live in an age of base
conceit and baser servility — an age whose intellect is
chiefly formed by pillage, and occupied in desecration;
one day mimicking, the next destroying, the works of all
the noble persons who made its intellectual or art life
possible to it : — an age without honest confidence enough
in itself to carve a cherry-stone with an original fancy,
but with insolence enough to abolish the solar system, if
it were allowed to meddle with it. In the midst of all
this, you have to become lowly and strong ; to recognise
the powers of others and to fulfil your own. I shall try
to bring before you every form of ancient art, that you
may read and profit by it, not imitate it. You shall

1 88 Colour. [LECT.

draw Egyptian kings dressed in colours like the rainbow,
and Doric gods, and Runic monsters, and Gothic monks —
not that you may draw like Egyptians or Norsemen, nor
yield yourselves passively to be bound by the devotion
or infected with the delirium of the past, but that you
may know truly what other men have felt during their
poor span of life ; and open your own hearts to what the
heavens and earth may have to tell you in yours.

Do not be surprised, therefore, nor provoked, if I give
you at first strange things, and rude, to draw. As soon
as you try them, you will find they are difficult enough,
yet, with care, entirely possible. As you go on drawing
them they will become interesting, and, as soon as you
understand them, you will be on the way to understand
yourselves also.

190. In closing this first course of lectures, I have one
word more to say respecting the possible consequence of the
introduction of art among the studies of the University.
What art may do for scholarship, I' have no right to
conjecture ; but what scholarship may do for art, I may
in all modesty tell you. Hitherto, great artists, though
always gentlemen, have yet been too exclusively crafts-
men. Art has been less thoughtful than we suppose; it
has taught much, but much, also, falsely. Many of the
greatest pictures are enigmas ; others, beautiful toys ; others,
harmful and corrupting toys. In the loveliest there is
something weak ; in the greatest there is something guilty.
And this, gentlemen, if you will, is the new thing that
may come to pass, — that the scholars of England may
resolve to teach also with the silent power of the arts;
and that some among you may so learn and use them, that

vii.] Colour. 189

pictures may be painted which shall not be enigmas any
more, but open teachings of what can no otherwise be
so well shown ; which shall not be fevered or broken
visions any more, but shall be filled with the indwelling
light of self-possessed imagination; which shall not be
stained or enfeebled any more by evil passion, but glorious
with the strength and chastity of noble human love; and
which shall no more degrade or disguise the work of God
in heaven, but testify of Him as here dwelling with
men, and walking with them, not angry, in the garden
of the earth.

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Catalogue of Early English Poetry and other Works illustrating
the British Drama, collected by Edmond Malone, Esq. 1835. fol. 45.

Catalogue of the Printed Books and Manuscripts bequeathed to
the Bodleian Library by Francis Douce, Esq. 1840. fol. 155.

Catalogue of a Collection of Early Newspapers and Essayists pre-
sented to the Bodleian Library by the late Rev. F. W. Hope. 1865.
8vo. 7«. 6d.

Catalogue of the Manuscripts bequeathed to the University of
Oxford by El ias Ashmole. ByW. H. Black. 1845. 4to. I/. 10s.

Index to the above, by W. D. Macray, M.A. 1867. 4to.

IOS.

Catalogus Codd. MSS. qui in Collegiis Aulisque Oxoniensibus
hodie adservantur. Confecit H. O. Coxe, A.M. Tomi II. 1852. 410.
a/.

Catalogus Codd. MSS. in Bibl. Aed. Christi ap. Oxon. Curavit
G. W. Kitchin, A.M. 1867. 4to. 6s. 6d.

Clarendon Press, Oxford.

Clarendon Press Books. 21

Clarcntam

The Delegates of the Clarendon Press having undertaken
the publication of a series of works, chiefly educational, and
entitled the Clarntiron press JStrus, have published, or have
in preparation, the following.

Those to which prices are attached are already published ; the others are in
preparation.

I. GREEK AND LATIN CLASSICS, &c.

An Elementary Latin Grammar. By John B. Allen, M.A.,
formerly Scholar of New College, Oxford. Nearly ready.

A Greek Primer in English for the use of beginners.
By the Right Rev. Charles Wordsworth, D.C.L., Bishop of St. Andrews.
Fourth Edition. Extra fcap. 8vo. cloth, is. 6d.

Greek Verbs, Irregular and Defective; their forms, mean-
ing, and quantity ; embracing all the Tenses used by Greek writers,
with reference to the passages in which they are found. By W. Veitch.
New Edition. Crown 8vo. cloth, IDS. 6d.

The Elements of Greek Accentuation (for Schools) : abridged
from his larger work by H. W. Chandler, M.A., Waynflete Professor of
Moral and Metaphysical Philosophy, Oxford. Ext. fcap. 8vo. cloth, 2s. 6d.

The Orations of Demosthenes and Aeschines on the Crown.

With Introductory Essays and Notes. By G. A. Simcox, M.A., and
W. H. Simcox, M.A., Fellows of Queen's College, Oxford. 8vo. cloth,

125.

Aristotle's Politics. By W. L. Newman, M.A., Fellow of
Balliol College, Oxford.

Arrian. Selections (for Schools). With Notes. By J. S. Phill-
potts, B.C.L., Assistant Master in Rugby School ; formerly Scholar of
Balliol College, Oxford.

The Golden Treasury of Ancient Greek Poetry ; being a Col-
lection of the finest passages in the Greek Classic Poets, with Introduc-
tory Notices and Notes. By R. S. Wright, M.A., Fellow of Oriel
College, Oxford. Ext. fcap. 8vo. cloth, 8s. 6d.

A Golden Treasury of Greek Prose, being a collection of the
finest passages in the principal Greek Prose Writers, with Introductory
Notices and Notes. By R. S. Wright, M.A., Fellow of Oriel College,
Oxford; and J. E. L. Shadwell, M.A., Senior Student of Christ Church.
Ext. fcap. 8vo. cloth, 45. 6d.

Clarendon Press, Oxford

22 Clarendon Press Books.

Homer. Odyssey, Books T— XII (for Schools). By W. W.
Merry, M.A., Fellow and Lecturer of Lincoln College, Oxford. Fourth
Edition. Extra fcap. 8vo. cloth, 43. 6d.

Homer. Odyssey, Books I -XII. ByW.W. Merry, M. A., Fellow

and Lecturer of Lincoln College, Oxford; and the late James Riddell.
M.A., Fellow of Balliol College, Oxford.

Homer. Odyssey, Books XIII-XXIV. By Robinson Ellis,
M.A., Fellow of Trinity College, Oxford.

Homer. Iliad. By D. B. Monro, M.A., Fellow and Tutor of
Oriel College, Oxford.

Also a small edition for Schools.

Plato. Selections (for Schools). With Notes. By B. Jowett,
M.A., Regius Professor of Greek; and J. Purves, M.A., Fellow and
Lecturer of Balliol College, Oxford.

Sophocles. The Plays and Fragments. With English Notes
and Introductions. By Lewis Campbell, M.A., Professor of Greek, St.
Andrews, formerly Fellow of Queen's College, Oxford. 2 vols.

Vol. I. Oedipus Tyrannus. Oedipus Coloneus. Antigone. 8vo.
cloth, 145.

Sophocles. The Text of the Seven Plays. For the use of

Students in the University of Oxford. By the same Editor. Ext. fcap.
8vo. cloth, 45. 6d.

Sophocles. In Single Plays, with English Notes, &c. By Lewis
Campbell, M.A., Professor of Greek, St. Andrews, and Evelyn Abbott,
M.A., of Balliol College, Oxford.

Oedipus Rex. Ext. fcap. 8vo. limp, is. gd.
Oedipus Coloneus. Ext. fcap. 8vo. limp, is. gd.
Antigone. In the Press.

The others to follow at intervals of six months.

Sophocles. Oedipus Rex : Dindorf's Text, with Notes by the
Ven. Archdeacon Basil Jones, M. A., formerly Fellow of University
College, Oxford. Second Edition. Ext. fcap. 8vo. limp, Is. 6d.

Theocritus (for Schools). With Notes. By H. Snow, M.A.,
Assistant Master at Eton College, formerly Fellow of St. John's College,
Cambridge. Second Edition. Extra fcap. 8vo. cloth, 45. 6d.

Xenophon. Selections (for Schools). With Notes and Maps.
By J. S. Phillpotts, B.C.L., Assistant Master in Rugby School, formerly
Fellow of New College, Oxford. Part I. Ext. fcap. 8vo. cloth, 3$. 6d.

Part II. By the same Editor. Preparing.

Clarendon Press, Oxford.

Clarendon Press Books. 23

Caesar. The Commentaries (for Schools). Part I. The Gallic
War. With Notes and Maps. By Charles E. Moberly, M.A., Assistant
Master in Rugby School ; formerly Scholar of Balliol College,
Oxford. Ext. fcap. 8vo. cloth, 45. 6d.

Part II. The Civil War, Book I. By the same Editor.
Extra fcap. 8vo. clotb, as.

Cicero's Philippic Orations. With Notes. ByJ. R. King, M.A.,

formerly Fellow and Tutor of Merton College, Oxford. Demy 8vo.
clotb, lew. 6d.

Cicero pro Cluentio. With Introduction and Notes. By W.
Ramsay, M.A. Edited by G. G. Ramsay, M.A., Professor of Humanity,
Glasgow. Extra fcap. 8vo. clotb, 35. 6d.

Cicero. Selection of interesting and descriptive passages. With
Notes. By Henry Walford, M.A., Wadham College, Oxford, Assistant
Master at Haileybury College. In three Parts. Second Edition. Extra
fcap. 8vo. clotb, 45. 6d.

Eacb Part separately, limp, is. 6d.

Part I. Anecdotes from Grecian and Roman History.
Part II. Omens and Dreams : Beauties of Nature.
Part III. Rome's Rule of her Provinces.

Cicero. Select Letters. With English Introductions, Notes,
and Appendices. By Albert Watson, M.A., Fellow and Tutor of Brase-
nose College, Oxford. Demy 8vo. clotb, i8s.

Cicero. Selected Letters (for Schools). With Notes. By the
late C. E. Prichard, M.A., formerly Fellow of Balliol College, Oxford,
and E. R. Bernard, M.A., Fellow of Magdalen College, Oxford. Extra
fcap. 8vo. clotb, 35.

Cicero de Oratore. With Introduction and Notes. By
A.S. Wilkins, M.A., Professor of Latin, Owens College, Manchester.

Cornelius Nepos. With Notes. By Oscar Browning, M.A.,
Fellow of King's College, Cambridge, and Assistant Master at Eton
College. Extra fcap. 8vo. clotb, 2s. 6d.

Horace. With a Commentary. Volume I. The Odes, Carmen
Seculare, and Epodes. By Edward C. Wickham, M.A., Head Master
of Wellington College. 8vo. cloth, izs.

Also a small edition for Schools.

Livy, Books I-X. By J. R. Seeley, M.A., Fellow of Christ's
College, and Regius Professor of Modern History, Cambridge. Book I.
8vo. clotb, 6s.

Also a small edition for Schools.

Clarendon Press, Oxford.

24 Clarendon Press Books.

Livy. Selections (for Schools). With Notes and Maps. By
H. Lee-Warner, M.A., Assistant Master in Rugby School. In Parts.
Part I. The Caudine Disaster. Extra fcap. 8vo. cloth, is. 6d.
Part II. Hannibal's Campaign in Italy. Extra fcap. 8vo. cloth,
is. 6d.

To be followed by others.

Ovid. Selections for the use of Schools. With Introductions
and Notes, and an Appendix on the Roman Calendar. By W. Ramsay.
M.A. Edited by G. G. Ramsay, M.A., Professor of Humanity, Glas-
gow. Second Edition. Ext. fcap. 8vo. cloth, 55. 6d.

Persius. The Satires. With a Translation and Commentary.

By John Conington, M.A., late Corpus Professor of Latin in the Univer-
sity of Oxford. Edited by Henry Nettleship, M.A. 8vo. cloth, 7s. 6d.

Pliny. Selected Letters (for Schools). With Notes. By
the late C. E. Prichard, M.A., formerly Fellow of Balliol College,
Oxford, and E.R.Bernard, M.A., Fellow of Magdalen College, Oxford.
Extra fcap. 8vo. clotb, 35.

Selections from the less known Latin Poets. By North
Pinder, M.A., formerly Fellow of Trinity College, Oxford. Demy 8vo.
clotb, 155.

Fragments and Specimens of Early Latin. With Intro-
duction, Notes, and Illustrations. By John Wordsworth, M.A., Fellow
of Brasenose College, Oxford. In the Press.

Passages for Translation into Latin. For the use of Pass-
men and others. Selected by J. Y. Sargent, M.A., Tutor and Fellow of
Magdalen College, Oxford. Third Edition. Ext. fcap. 8vo. clotb, 2s. 6d.

II. MENTAL AND MORAL PHILOSOPHY.

The Elements of Deductive Logic, designed mainly for the
use of Junior Students in the Universities. By T. Fowler, M.A.,
Professor of Logic, Oxford. Fifth Edition, with a Collection of Ex-
amples. Extra fcap. 8vo. cloth, 35. 6d.

The Elements of Inductive Logic, designed mainly for the
use of Students in the Universities. By the same Author. Second
Edition. Extra fcap. 8vo. cloth, 6s.

The Principles of Morals. By J. M. Wilson, B.D., President

of Corpus Christi College, Oxford, and T. Fowler, M.A., Professor of
Logic, Oxford. Preparing.

A Manual of Political Economy, for the use of Schools. By
J. E. Thorold Rogers, M.A., formerly Professor of Political Economy,
Oxford. Second Edition. Extra fcap. 8vo. cloth, 45. 6d.

Clarendon Press, Oxford.

Clarendon Press Books. 25

III. MATHEMATICS, &c.

Figures Made Easy : a first Arithmetic Book. (Introductory

to ' The Scholar's Arithmetic.') By Lewis Hensley, M.A., formerly
Fellow and Assistant Tutor of Trinity College, Cambridge. Crown 8vo.
cloth, 6d.

Answers to the Examples in Figures made Easy, together
with two thousand additional Examples formed from the Tables in the
same, with Answers. By the same Author. Crown 8vo. cloth, is.

The Scholar's Arithmetic; with Answers to the Examples.
By the same Author. Crown 8vo. cloth, 45. 6d.

Book-keeping. By R. G. C. Hamilton, Accountant to the
Board of Trade, and John Ball (of the Firm of Messrs. Quilter,
Ball, & Co.), Examiners in Book-keeping for the Society of Arts'
Examination. Second edition. Extra fcap. 8vo. limp cloth, Is. 6d.

A Course of Lectures on Pure Geometry. By Henry J.

Stephen Smith, M.A., F.R.S., Fellow of Corpus Christi College, and
Savilian Professor of Geometry in the University of Oxford.

An Elementary Treatise on Quaternions. By P. G. Tait,

M.A., Professor of Natural Philosophy in the University of Edinburgh ;
formerly Fellow of St. Peter's College, Cambridge. Second Edition.
Demy 8vo. cloth, 145.

Acoustics. By W. F. Donkin, M.A., F.R.S., Savilian Professor
of Astronomy, Oxford. Crown 8vo. cloth, Js. 6d.

A Treatise on Electricity and Magnetism. By J. Clerk

Maxwell, M.A., F.R.S., Professor of Experimental Physics in the Uni-
versity of Cambridge. 2 vols. 8vo. cloth, il. us. 6d.

An Elementary Treatise on the same subject. By the same

Author. Preparing.

A Series of Elementary Works is being arranged, and ivill shortly be announced.

IV. HISTORY.

Select Charters and other Illustrations of English Con-
stitutional History, from the Earliest Times to the Reign of Edward I.
Arranged and Edited by W. Stubbs, M.A., Regius Professor of Modern
History in the University of Oxford. Second Edition. Crown 8vo.
cloth, 8s. 6d.

A Constitutional History of England, in its Origin and
Development. By W. Stubbs, M.A., Regius Professor of Modern
History in the University of Oxford. Vol. I. Crown 8vo. cloth, 12s.

A History of England; being a translation of Leopold Von
Ranke's Englische Gesckichte. Translated by Resident Members of
the University of Oxford, under the superintendence of G. W. Kitchin,
M.A., and C. W. Boase, M.A. In the Press.

Clarendon Press, Oxford.

26 Clarendon Press Books.

Genealogical Tables illustrative of Modern History. By

H. B. George, M.A., Fellow of New College. Small 410. cloth, I2s.

A History of France, down to the year 1453. With numerous
Maps, Plans, and Tables. By G. W. Kitchin, M.A. Crown 8vo.
cloth, IDS. 6d.

A Manual of Ancient History. By George Rawlinson, M.A.,
Camden Professor of Ancient History, formerly Fellow of Exeter
College, Oxford. Demy 8vo. cloth, 145.

A History of Germany and of the Empire, down to the close
of the Middle Ages. By J. Bryce, B.C.L., Fellow of Oriel Coll., Oxford.

A History of Germany, from the Reformation. By Adolphus
W. Ward, M.A., Fellow of St. Peter's College, Cambridge, Professor of
History, Owens College, Manchester.

A History of British India. By S. J. Owen, M.A., Reader in

History, Christ Church, and Teacher of Indian Law and History in
the University of Oxford.

A History of Greece. By E. A. Freeman, M.A., formerly
Fellow of Trinity College, Oxford.

V. LAW.

Elements of Law considered with reference to Principles of
General Jurisprudence. By William Markby, M.A., Judge of the High
Court of Judicature, Calcutta. Crown 8vo. cloth, 6s. 6d.

Gaii Institutionum Juris Civilis Commentarii Quatuor ;

or, Elements of Roman Law by Gaius. With a Translation and Com-
mentary by Edward Poste, M.A., Barrister-at-Law, and Fellow of Oriel
College, Oxford. 8vo. cloth, l6s.

The Elements of Jurisprudence. By Thomas Erskine
Holland, B.C.L., Vinerian Reader in Law, and formerly Fellow of Exeter
College, Oxford. Preparing.

The Institutes of Justinian, edited as a recension of the
Institutes of Gaius. By the same Editor. Extra fcap. 8vo. cloth, 55.

Select Titles from the Digest of Justinian. By T. E.
Holland, B.C.L., Vinerian Reader in Law, and formerly Fellow of
Exeter College, Oxford, and C. L. Shadwell, B.C.L., Fellow of Oriel
College, Oxford. In Parts.

Part I. Introductory Titles. 8vo. sewed, 2s. 6d.
Part II. Family Law. 8vo. seived, is.

Authorities Illustrative of the History of the English
Law of Real Property. By Kenelm E. Digby, M.A., formerly Fellow
of Corpus Christi College, Oxford. In the Press.

Clarendon Press, Oxford.

Clarendon Press Books. 27

VI. PHYSICAL SCIENCE.

Natural Philosophy. In four volumes. By Sir W. Thomson,
LL.D., D.C.L., F.R.S., Professor of Natural Philosophy, Glasgow; and
P. G. Tait, M.A., Professor of Natural Philosophy, Edinburgh ; formerly
Fellows of St. Peter's College, Cambridge. Vol. I. New Edition. In
the Press.

Elements of Natural Philosophy. By the same Authors.
Part I. 8vo. clotb, 95.

Descriptive Astronomy. A Handbook for the General Reader,
and also for practical Observatory work. With 224 illustrations and
numerous tables. By G. F. Chambers, F.R.A.S., Barrister-at-Law.
Demy 8vo. 856 pp., clotb, il. is.

Chemistry for Students. By A. W. Williamson, Phil. Doc.,
F.R.S., Professor of Chemistry, University College, London. A new
Edition, with Solutions. Extra fcap. 8vo. clotb, 85. 6d.

A Treatise on Heat, with numerous Woodcuts and Diagrams.
By Balfour Stewart, LL.D., F.R.S., Professor of Natural Philosophy in
Owens College, Manchester. Second Edition. Extra fcap. 8vo. clotb,
7s. 6d.

Forms of Animal Life. By G. Rolleston, M.D., F.R.S.,

Linacre Professor of Physiology, Oxford. Illustrated by Descriptions
and Drawings of Dissections. Demy 8vo. clotb, i6s.

Exercises in Practical Chemistry (Laboratory Practice).
By A. G. Vernon Harcourt, M.A., F.R.S., Senior Student of Christ
Church, and Lee's Reader in Chemistry; and H. G. Madan, M.A., Fellow
of Queen's College, Oxford.

Series I. Qualitative Exercises. Second Edition. Crown 8vo. clotb,
7s. 6d.

Series II. Quantitative Exercises.

Geology of Oxford and the Valley of the Thames. By John
Phillips, M.A., F.R.S., Professor of Geology, Oxford. 8vo. clotb, 2 is.

Electricity. By W. Esson, M.A., F.R.S., Fellow and Mathe-
matical Lecturer of Merton College, Oxford.

Crystallography. By M. H. N. Story-Maskelyne, M.A., Pro-
fessor of Mineralogy, Oxford ; and Deputy Keeper in the Department of
Minerals, British Museum.

Mineralogy. By the same Author.

Physiological Physics. By G. Griffith, M.A., Jesus College,
Oxford, Assistant Secretary to the British Association, and Natural
Science Master at Harrow School.

Clarendon Press, Oxford.

28 Clarendon Press Books.

VII. ENGLISH LANGUAGE AND LITERATURE.

A First Reading Book. By Marie Eichens of Berlin ; and
edited by Anne J. dough. Extra fcap. 8vo. stiff covers, ^d.

Oxford Reading Book, Part I. For Little Children. Extra
fcap. 8vo. stiff covers, 6d.

Oxford Reading Book, Part II. For Junior Classes. Extra
fcap. 8vo. stiff covers, 6d.

On the Principles of Grammar. By E. Thring, M.A., Head
Master of Uppingham School. Extra fcap. 8vo. cloth, 45. 6d.

Grammatical Analysis, designed to serve as an Exercise and
Composition Book in trie English Language. By E. Thring, M.A.,
Head Master of Uppingham School. Extra fcap. 8vo. clotb, 35. 6d.

An English Grammar and Reading Book, for Lower Forms
in Classical Schools. By O. W. Tancock, M.A., Assistant Master in
Sherborne School. Extra fcap. 8vo. cloth, 35. 6d.

The Philology of the English Tongue. By J. Earle, M.A.,
formerly Fellow of Oriel College, and sometime Professor of Anglo-Saxon,
Oxford. Second Edition. Extra fcap. 8vo. clotb, 7$. 6d.

Milton. The Areopagitica. With Notes. By J. W. Hales,
M.A., late Fellow of Christ's College, Cambridge. Nearly ready.

Specimens of Early English. A New and Revised Edition.
With Introduction, Notes, and Glossarial Index. By R. Morris, LL.D.,
and W. W. Skeat, M.A.

Part I. In (be Press.

Part II. From Robert of Gloucester to Gower (A.D. 1 298 to A.D. 1393).
Second Edition. Extra fcap. 8vo. clotb, 7$. 6d.

Specimens of English Literature, from the ' Ploughmans
Crede' to the 'Shepheardes Calender' (A.D. 1394 to A.D. 1579). With
Introduction, Notes, and Glossarial Index. By W. W. Skeat, M.A.
Extra fcap. 8vo. clotb, fs. 6d.

The Vision of William concerning Piers the Plowman,

by William Langland. Edited, with Notes, by W. W. Skeat, M.A., for-
merly Fellow of Christ's College, Cambridge. Extra fcap. 8 vo. clotb, 4$. 6d .

Clarendon Press, Oxford.

Clarendon Press Books. 29

Typical Selections from the best English Authors from the
Sixteenth to the Nineteenth Century, (to serve as a higher Reading
Book,) with Introductory Notices and Notes, being a Contribution
towards a History of English Literature. Extra fcap. 8vo. clotb, 4$. 6 d.

Specimens of Lowland Scotch and Northern English. By
J. A. H. Murray. Preparing.

See also XIII. below for other English Classics.

VIII. FRENCH LANGUAGE AND LITERATURE.

An Etymological Dictionary of the French Language, with
a Preface on the Principles of French Etymology. By A. Brachet.
Translated into English by G. W. Kitchin, M.A., formerly Censor of
Christ Church. Crown 8vo. cloth, los. 6d.

Brachet's Historical Grammar of the French Language.
Translated into English by G. W. Kitchin, M.A., formerly Censor of
Christ Church. Second Edition, with a new Index. Extra fcap. 8vo.
clotb, 35. 6d.

Corneille's Cinna, and Moliere's Les Femmes Savantes. Edited,
with Introduction and Notes, by Gustave Masson. Extra fcap. 8vo.

clotb, 2s. 6d.

Racine's Andromaque, and Corneille's Le Menteur. With
Louis Racine's Life of his Father. By the same Editor. Extra fcap.
8vo. clotb, 2s. 6d.

Moliere's Les Fourberies de Scapin, and Racine's Athalie.
With Voltaire's Life of Molifere. By the same Editor. Extra fcap. 8vo.
clotb, 2s. 6d.

Selections from the Correspondence of Madame de S6vign6
and her chief Contemporaries. Intended more especially for Girls'
Schools. By the same Editor. Extra fcap. 8vo. clotb, 3$.

Voyage autour de ma Chambre, by Xavier de Maietre ; Ourika,
by Madame de Duras ; La Dot de Suzette, by Fieve'e ; Les Jumeaux
de 1'Hotel Corneille, by Edmond About ; Mesaventures d'un Ecolier,
by Rodolphe Tdpffer. By the same Editor. Extra fcap. 8vo. clotb,

25. 6d.

IX. ITALIAN LANGUAGE AND LITERATURE.

Dante. Selections from the Inferno. With Introduction and
Notes. By H. B. Cotterill, B.A., Assistant Master in Haileybury
College. In the Press.

Clarendon Press, Oxford.

Clarendon Press Books.

X. GERMAN LANGUAGE AND LITERATURE.

Goethe's Egmont. With a Life of Goethe, &c. By Dr. Buch-

heim, Professor of the German Language and Literature in King's
College, London ; and Examiner in German to the University of
London. Extra fcap. 8vo. cloth, 35.

Schiller's Wilhelm Tell. With a Life of Schiller ; an historical
and critical Introduction, Arguments, and a complete Commentary. By
the same Editor. Extra fcap. 8vo. cloth, 35. 6d.

Lessing's Minna von Barnhelm. A Comedy. With a Life of
Lessing, Critical Commentary, &c. By the same Editor. Extra fcap.
8vo. clotb, 3s. 6d.

XI. ART, &c.

A Handbook of Pictorial Art. By R. St. J. Tyrwhitt, M.A.,
formerly Student and Tutor of Christ Church, Oxford. With coloured
Illustrations, Photographs, and a chapter on Perspective by A. Mac-
donald. 8vo. half morocco, i8s.

A Music Primer for Schools. By J. Troutbeck, M.A., Minor
Canon of Westminster and Music Master in Westminster School, and
R. F. Dale, M.A., B. Mus., Assistant Master in Westminster School.
Crown 8vo. cloth, 2s. 6d.

A Treatise on Harmony. By Sir F. A. Gore Ouseley, Bart.,
M.A., Mus. Doc., Professor of Music in the University of Oxford. 410.
cloth, I os.

A Treatise on Counterpoint, Canon, and Fugue, based upon
that of Cherubini. By the same Author. 410. cloth, i6s.

A Treatise on Form in Music and General Composition.

By the same Author. Preparing.

The Cultivation of the Speaking Voice. By John Hullah.
Crown 8vo. cloth, 3$. 6d.

XII. MISCELLANEOUS.

A Treatise on the use of the Tenses in Hebrew. By S. R.

Driver, M.A., Fellow of New College. Extra fcap. 8vo. cloth, 6s. 6d.
Just Published.

Outlines of Textual Criticism applied to the New Testament.
By C. E. Hammond, M A., Fellow and Tutor of Exeter College, Oxford.
Extra fcap. 8vo. cloth, 35. 6d.

A System of Physical Education : Theoretical and Practical.
By Archibald Maclaren, The Gymnasium, Oxford. Extra fcap. 8vo.
cloth, 7*. 6d.

The Modern Greek Language in its relation to Ancient Greek.
By E. M. Geldart, B.A., formerly Scholar of Balliol College, Oxford.
Extra fcap. 8vo. cloth, 4$. 6d.

Clarendon Press, Oxford.

Clarendon Press Books. 31

XIII. A SERIES OP ENGLISH CLASSICS.

Designed to meet the 'wants of Students in English Literature,
under the superintendence of the Rev. J. S. BREWER, M.A., in
Queen's College, Oxford, and Professor of English Literature in
King's College, London.

It is also especially hoped that this Series may prove useful to
Ladies' Schools and Middle Class Schools ; in <wbich English Litera-
ture must always be a leading subject of instruction.

A General Introduction to the Series. By Professor Brewer,

M.A.

1. Chaucer. The Prologue to the Canterbury Tales; The

Knightes Tale; The Nonne Prestes Tale. Edited by R. Morris,
Editor of Specimens of Early English, &c., &c. Third Edition. Extra
fcap. 8vo. clotb, 2s. 6d.

2. Spenser's Faery Queene. Books I and II. Designed chiefly

for the use of Schools. With Introduction, Notes, and Glossary. By
G. W. Kitchin, M.A., formerly Censor of Christ Church.

Book I. Fifth Edition. Extra fcap. 8vo. clotb, 2s. 6d.
Book II. Third Edition. Extra fcap. 8vo. clotb, 2s. 6d.

3. Hooker Ecclesiastical Polity, Book I. Edited by R. W.

Church, M.A., Dean of St. Paul's ; formerly Fellow of Oriel College,
Oxford. Second Edition. Extra fcap. 8vo. clotb, 2s.

4. Shakespeare. Select Plays. Edited by W. G. Clark, M.A.,

Fellow of Trinity College, Cambridge ; and W. Aldis Wright, M.A.,
Trinity College, Cambridge.

I. The Merchant of Venice. Extra fcap. 8vo. stiff' covers, Is.
II. Richard the Second. Extra fcap. 8vo. stiff covers, Is. 6d.

III. Macbeth. Extra fcap. 8vo. stiff covers, is. 6d.

IV. Hamlet. Extra fcap. 8vo. stiff covers, 2s.

V. The Tempest. By W. Aldis Wright, M.A. In the Press.

5. Bacon. Advancement of Learning. Edited by W. Aldis

Wright, M.A. Second Edition. Extra fcap. 8vo, clotb, 45. 6d.

6. Milton. Poems. Edited by R. C. Browne, M.A., and

Associate of King's College, London. 2 vols. Second Edition. Extra
fcap. 8vo. clotb, 6s. 6d.

Sold separately, Vol. I. 4$.; Vol. II. 35.

Clarendon Press, Oxford.

32 Clarendon Press Books*

7. Dryden. Select Poems. Stanzas on the Death of Oliver
Cromwell ; straea Redux ; Annus Mirabilis ; Absalom and Achitophel ;
Religio Laid'; The Hind and the Panther. Edited by W. D. Christie,
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