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 UNIVEi^ITY 
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 The eagle's nest 
 
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THE EAGLE'S NEST. 
 
 TEN LECTURES 
 
 ON THE BELATION OF 
 
 NATURAL SCIENCE TO ART. 
 
 GIVEN BEFORE THE UNIVERSITY OP OXFORD 
 In Lent Tekm, 1872. 
 
 JOHN'EDSKIN, 
 
 MONO&ABY STUDENT OF CHBISTCRUBCH, AND BLADE PROFESSOR OF FINE *Ht- 
 
 NEW YORK: 
 JOHN WILEY & SONS, 
 
 15 ASTOR PLACE, »>-, f' >< 
 
 1883. ^ 
 
 
CORNELL 
 
 UNIVERSITY 
 
 LIBRARY 
 
 V 
 
CONTENTS. 
 
 LECTTJKE I. 
 
 February 8, 1872. fiem 
 
 The function in Art of the faculty called by tiie 
 
 Greeks ao^la 1 
 
 LECTTJKE II. 
 February 10, 1872. 
 The function in Science of the faculty called by the 
 
 Greeks -e^/a 20 
 
 LECTURE III. 
 
 February 15, 1872. 
 The relation of Wise Art to Wise Science 36 
 
 LECTURE IV. 
 
 February 17, 1872. 
 The function in Art and Science of the virtue called 
 
 by TnE Greeks auqpoaimi 58 
 
 LECTURE V. 
 
 February 22, 1872. 
 /he function in Art and Science of the virtue called 
 
 BY THE GREEKS amapnua TO 
 
IV CONTENTS. 
 
 LECTURE VI. 
 February 24, 1872. tM , 
 
 The relation to Art of the Science op Light 89 
 
 LECTURE VII. 
 
 February 29, 1872. 
 The relation to Art op the Sciences of Inorganic Form 108 
 
 LECTURE VIII. 
 
 March 2, 1872. 
 The relation to Art op the Science op Organic Form.. 126 
 
 LECTURE IX. 
 
 March 7, 1872. 
 Introduction to Elementary Exercises in Physiologic 
 
 Art. The Story op the Halcyon 147 
 
 LECTURE X. 
 
 March 9, 1872. 
 Introduction Td Elementary Exercises in Historic Art. 
 
 The Heraldic Ordinaries 170 
 
PREFACE. 
 
 jlhb. following Lectures have been written, not with less 
 care but with less pains, than any in former courses, 
 because no labour could have rendered them exhaustive 
 statements of their subjects, and I wished, therefore, to 
 take from them every appearance of pretending to be so : 
 but the assertions I have made are entirely deliberate, 
 though their terms are unstudied ; and the one which to 
 the general reader will appear most startling, that the 
 Btudy of anatomy is destructive to art, is instantly neces- 
 sary in explanation of the system adopted for the direc- 
 tion of my Oxford schools. 
 
 At the period when engraving might have become to 
 art what printing became to literature, the four greatest 
 point-draughtsmen hitherto known, Mantegna, Sandro 
 Botticelli, Dnrer, and Holbein, occupied themselves in 
 the new industry. All these four men were as high in 
 intellect and moral sentiment as in art-power; and if they 
 had engraved as Giotto painted, with popular and 
 unscientific simplicity, would have left an inexhaustible 
 series of prints, delightful to the most innocent minds, and 
 strengthening to the most noble. 
 
VI rKEFACE. 
 
 But two of them, Mantegna and Durer, were so pol- 
 luted and paralyzed by the study of anatomy that the 
 former's best works (the magnificent mythology of the 
 Vices in the Louvre, for instance) are entirely revolting to 
 all women and children ; while Durer never could draw 
 one beautiful female form or face ; and, of his important 
 plates, only four, the Melencholia, St. Jerome in his study, 
 St. Hubert, and Knight and Death, are of any use for 
 popular instruction, because in these only, the figures 
 being fully draped or armed, he was enabled to think and 
 feel rightly, being delivered from the ghastly toil of bone- 
 delineation. 
 
 Botticelli and Holbein studied the face first, and the 
 limbs secondarily ; and the works they have left are there- 
 fore without exception precious; yet saddened and cor- 
 rupted by the influence which the contemporary masters 
 of body-drawing exercised on them ; and at last eclipsed bj 
 their false fame. I purpose, therefore, in my next course 
 of lectures, to explain the relation of these two draughts- 
 men to other masters of design, and of engraving. 
 
 Brantwood, Sept. 2nd, 1872. 
 
THE EAGLE'S NEST. 
 
 LECTUEE I. 
 
 OF WISDOM AND FOLLY IN AKT.* 
 
 8tA February, 1872. 
 
 1. The Lectures I have given hitherto, though, in the 
 matter of them conscientiously addressed to my under- 
 graduate pupils, yet were greatly modified in method by 
 my feeling that this undergraduate class, to which I 
 wished to speak, was indeed a somewhat imaginary one ; 
 and that, in truth, I was addressing a mixed audience, in 
 greater part composed of the masters of the University, 
 before whom it was my duty to lay down the principles 
 on which I hoped to conduct, or prepare the way for the 
 conduct of, these schools, rather than to enter on the im- 
 mediate work of elementary teaching. But to-day, and 
 henceforward most frequently, we are to be engaged in 
 
 * The proper titles of these lectures, too long for page-headings, are 
 given in th 3 Contents. 
 1 
 
2 THE EAGLE'S NEST. 
 
 definite, and, I trust, continuous studies ; and from this 
 time forward, I address myself wholly to my undergradu- 
 ate pupils ; and wish only that my Lectures may be ser- 
 viceable to them, and, as far as the subject may admit of 
 it, interesting. 
 
 2. And, farther still, I must ask even my younger 
 hearers to pardon me if I treat that subject in a some- 
 what narrow, and simple way. They have a great deal 
 of hard work to do in other schools : in these, they must 
 not think that I underrate their powers, if I endeavour to 
 make everything as easy to them as possible. No study 
 that is worth pursuing seriously can be pursued without 
 effort ; but we need never make the effort painful merely 
 for the sake of preserving our dignity. Also, I shall 
 make my Lectures shorter than heretofore. What I tell 
 you, 1 wish you to remember ; and I do not think it pos- 
 sible for you to remember well much more than I can 
 easily tell you in half-an-hour. I will promise that, at all 
 events, you shall always be released so well within the 
 hour, that you can keep any appointment accurately for 
 the next. You will not think me indolent in doing this ; 
 for, in the first place, I can assure you, it sometimes,takes 
 me a week to think over what it does not take a minute 
 to say: and, secondly, believe me, the least part of the 
 work of any sound art-teacher must be his talking. Nay, 
 most deeply also, it is to be wished that, with respect to' 
 the study which I have to bring bef ore you to-day, in its 
 relation to art, namely, natural philosophy, the teachers of 
 
THE EAGLE'S NEST. 3 
 
 it, up to this present century, had done less work in talk 
 ing, and more in observing : and it would be well even 
 for the men of this century, pre-eminent and accomplished 
 as they are in accuracy of observation, if they had com- 
 pletely conquered the old habit of considering, with re- 
 spect to any matter, rather what is to be said, than what 
 is to be known. 
 
 3. Tou will, perhaps, readily admit this with respect to 
 science; and beUeve my assertion of it with respect to 
 art. You will feel the probable mischief, in both these 
 domains of intellect, which must follow on the desire 
 rather to talk than to know, and rather to talk than to do. 
 But the third domain, into the midst of which, here, in 
 Oxford, science and art seem to have thrust themselves 
 hotly, like intrusive rocks, not without grim disturbance 
 of the anciently fruitful plain;— your Kingdom or 
 Princedom of Literature ? Can we carry our statement 
 into a third parallelism, for that ? It is ill for Science, 
 we say, when men desire to talk rather than to know ; ill 
 for Art, when they desire to talk rather than to do. Ill 
 for Literature when they desire to talk, — is it ? and rather 
 than — what else? Perhaps you think that literature 
 means nothing else than talking? that the triple powers 
 of science, art, and scholarship, mean simply the powers 
 of knowing, doing, and saying. But that is not so in any 
 wise. The faculty of saying or writing anything well, is 
 an .art, just as much as any other; and founded on a 
 science as definite as any other. Professor Max Muller 
 
THE EAGLE'S NEST.. 
 
 teaches you the science of language ; and there are people 
 who will tell you that the only art I can teach yon myself, 
 is the art of it. But try your triple parallelism once 
 more, briefly, and see if another idea will not occur to 
 you. In science, you must not talk before you know. In 
 art, you must not talk before you do. In literature, you 
 must not talk before you — think. 
 
 That is your third Province. The Kingdom of 
 Thought, or Conception. 
 
 And it is entirely desirable that you should define 
 to yourselves the three great occupations of men in these 
 following terms : — 
 
 Science The knowledge of things, whether Ideal 
 
 or Substantial. 
 Art The modification of Substantial things by 
 
 our Substantial Power. 
 Literature .... The modification of Ideal things by our 
 
 Ideal Power. 
 
 4. Put now observe. If this division be a just one, we 
 ought to have a word for literature, with the ' Letter ' left 
 out of it. It is true that, for the most part, the modifica- 
 tion of ideal things by our ideal power is not complete till 
 it is expressed ; nor even to ourselves delightful, till it is 
 communicated. To letter it and label it — to inscribe and 
 to word it rightly, — this is a great task, and it is the part 
 of literature which can be most distinctly taught. But it 
 
THE EAGLE'S NEST. 
 
 is only the formation of its body. And the soul of it can 
 exist without the body ; but not at all the body without 
 the soul ; for that is true no less of literature than of all 
 else in us or of us — " litera occidit, spiritus autem vivi- 
 ficat." 
 
 Nevertheless, I must be content to-day with our old 
 word. We cannot say 'spiriture' nor 'animature,' in 
 stead of literature ; but you must not be content with the 
 vulgar interpretation of the word. Remember always 
 that you come to this University, — or, at least, your 
 fathers came, — not to learn how to say things, but how to 
 think them. 
 
 5. " How to think them ! but that is only the art of 
 logic," you perhaps would answer. No, again, not at all : 
 logic is a method, not a power; and we have defined liter- 
 ature- to be the modification of ideal things by ideal 
 power, not by mechanical method. And yon come to the 
 University to get that power, or develope it; not to be 
 taught the mere method of using it. 
 
 I say you come to the University for this ; and perhaps 
 some of you are much surprised to hear it ! You did not 
 know that you came to the University for any such pur- 
 pose. Nay, perhaps you did not know that you had come 
 to a University at all % You do not at this instant, some 
 of you, I am well assured, know T\hat a University means. 
 Does it mean, for instance— can you answer me in a mo- 
 ment, whether it means— a place where everybody comes 
 to learn something ; or a place where somebody 'comes to 
 
6 THE EAGLE'S NEST. 
 
 learn everything ? It means— or you are trying to make it 
 mean — practically and at present, the first ; but it means 
 theoretically, and always, the last; a place where only 
 certain persons come, to learn everything / that is to say, 
 where those who wish to be able to think, come to learn to 
 think : not to think of mathematics only, nor of morals, 
 nor of surgery, nor chemistry, but of everything, rightly. 
 6. I say you do not all know this ; and yet, whether you 
 know-it or not, — whether you desire it or not, — to some 
 extent the everlasting fitness of the matter makes the facts 
 conform to it. For we have, at present, observe, schools 
 of three kinds, in operation over the whole of England. 
 We have — I name it first, though, I am sorry to say, it is 
 last in influence — the body consisting of the Eoyal 
 Academy, with the Institute of Architects, and the schools 
 at Kensington, and their branches ; teaching various styles 
 of fine or mechanical art. We have, in the second place, 
 the Koyal Society, as a central body ; and, as its satellites, 
 separate companies of men devoted to each several sci- 
 ence: investigating, classing, and describing facts with 
 unwearied industry. And, lastly and chiefly, we have the 
 great Universities, with all their subordinate public 
 schools, distinctively occupied in regulating, — as I think 
 you will at once admit, — not the language merely, nor 
 even the language principally, but the modes of philo- 
 sophical and imaginative thought in which we desire that 
 youth should be disciplined, and age informed and majes- 
 tic. The methods of language, and its range ; the possi- 
 
THE EAGLE'S NEST. 7 
 
 bilities of its beauty, and the necessities for its precision, 
 are all dependent upon the range and dignity of the 
 unspoken conceptions which it is the function of these 
 great schools of literature to awaken, and to guide. 
 
 7. The range and dignity of conceptions ! Let us pause 
 a minute or two at these words, and be sure we accept 
 them. 
 
 First, what is a conception? What is this separate ob- 
 ject of our work, as scholars, distinguished from artists,, 
 and from men of science ? 
 
 "We shall discover this better by taking a simple in- 
 stance of the three agencies. 
 
 Suppose that you were actually on' the plain of 
 Psestum, watching the drift of storm-cloud which Turner 
 has here engraved.* If you had occupied yourself chiefly 
 in schools of science, you would think of the mode in 
 which the electricity was collected ; of the influence it had 
 on the shape and motion of the cloud ; of the force and 
 duration of its flashes, and of other such material phe- 
 nomena. If you were an artist, you would be considering 
 how it might be possible, with the means at your disposal, 
 to obtain the brilliancy of the light, or the depth of the 
 gloom. Finally, if you were a scholar, as distinguished 
 from either of these, you would be occupied with the 
 imagination of the state of the temple in former times ; 
 and as you watched the thunder-clouds drift past its 
 columns, and the power of the God of the heavens put 
 * Educational Series, No. 8, E. 
 
THE EAGLE'S NEST. 
 
 forth, as it seemed, in scorn of the departed power of the 
 god who was thought by the heathen to shake the earth — 
 the utterance of your mind would become, whether 
 in actual words or not, such as that of the Psalmist : — 
 " Clouds and darkness are round about Him — righteous- 
 ness and judgment are the habitation of His throne." 
 Your thoughts would take that shape, of their own accord, 
 and if they fell also into the language, still your essential 
 scholarship would consist, not in your remembering the 
 verse, still less in your knowing that "judgment" was a 
 Latin word, and "throne" a Greek one; but in your 
 having power enough of conception, and elevation enough 
 of character, to' understand the nature of justice, and be 
 appalled before the majesty of dominion. 
 
 8. You come, therefore, to this University, I repeat 
 once again, that you may learn how to form conceptions 
 of proper range or grasp, and proper dignity, or worthi- 
 ness. Keeping then the ideas of a separate school of art, 
 and separate school of science, what have you to learn in 
 these ? You would learn in the school of art, the due 
 range and dignity of deeds; or doings — (I prefer the word 
 to " makings," as more general) ; and in the school of 
 science, you would have to learn the range and dignity 
 of knowledges. 
 
 Now be quite clear about this : be sure whether yon 
 really agree with mo or not. 
 
 You come to the School of Literature, I say, to learn 
 the range and dignity of conceptions. 
 
THE EAGLE'S NEST. 9 
 
 To the School of Art, to learn the range and dignity of 
 Deeds. 
 
 To the School of Science to learn the range and dignity 
 of Knowledges. 
 
 Do yon agree to that, or not ? I will assume that you 
 admit my triple division ; but do you think, in opposition 
 to me, that a school of science is still a school of science, 
 whatever sort of knowledge it teaches ; and a school of 
 art still a school of art, whatever sort of deed it teaches ; 
 and a school of literature still a school of literature, what- 
 ever sort of notion it teaches ? 
 
 Do you think that ? for observe, my statement denies 
 that. My statement is, that a school of literature teaches 
 you to have one sort of conception, not another sort ; a 
 school of art to do a particular sort of deed, not another 
 sort ; a school of science to possess a particular sort of 
 knowledge, not another sort. 
 
 9. I assume that you differ with me on this point ;— 
 some of you certainly will. Well then, let me gc 
 back a step. You will all go thus far with me, that 
 —now taking the Greek words — the school of literature 
 teaches you to have vow, or conception of things, 
 instead of avow, — no conception of things; that the 
 school of art teaches you tkyyn of things, instead of 
 inexvia ; and the school of science, e'7no-7-»?>?7, instead of 
 wpioia or ' ignorantia.' But, you recollect, Aristotle 
 names two other faculties with these three, — ^povrjo-K, 
 namely, and o-o(j>ia. He has altogether five, Tex"V- 
 
10 THE EAGLE'S NEST. 
 
 iirurrtfiii), <f>p6vr)o-i<;, aofyla, vovi ; that is to say, m sim 
 plest English,— art, science, sense, wisdom, and wit. "We 
 have got our art, science, and wit, set over their three 
 domains ; and we old people send you young ones to 
 those three schools, that you may not remain artless, 
 scienceless, nor witless. But how of the sense, and the 
 wisdom ? What domains belong to these ? Do you think 
 our trefoil division should become cinquefoil, and that we 
 ought to have two additional schools ; one of Philosophia, 
 and one of Philophronesia ? If Aristotle's division were 
 right it would be so. But his division is wrong, and he 
 presently shows it is ; for he tells you in the next page, 
 (in the sentence I have so often quoted to you,) that " the 
 virtue of art is the wisdom which consists in the wit of 
 what is honourable." Now that is perfectly true ; but it 
 of course vitiates his division altogether. He divides his 
 entire subject into A, B, O, D, and E ; and then he tells 
 you that the virtue of A is the B which consists in G. 
 Now you will continually find, in this way, that Aris- 
 totle's assertions are right, -but his divisions illogical. It 
 is quite true that the virtue of art is the wisdom which 
 consists in the wit of what is honourable ; but also the 
 virtue of science is the wit of what is honourable, and in 
 the same sense, the virtue of vow, or wit itself, cdnsists in 
 its being the wit or conception of what is honourable. 
 Zo<f>[a, therefore, is not only the apery Te^w/?, but, in 
 exactly the same sense, the apery iiria-ry/My;, and in the 
 same sense, it is the apery voov. And if not governed b) 
 
THE EAGLE'S NEST. 11 
 
 troipia, each school will teach the vicious condition of ite 
 own special faculty. As ao<f>£a is the apery of all three, 
 so /jLcopia will be the Kaicta of all three. 
 
 10. Now in this, whether you agree with me or not, let 
 ine be at least sure you understand me. 2o<p{a, I say, i? 
 the virtue, fimpla is the vice, of all the three faculties of 
 art, science, and literature. There is for each of them a 
 negative and a positive side, as well as a zero. There is 
 nescience for zero in science — with wise science on one 
 side, foolish science on the other: hteyyla for zero in 
 art, with wise art on one side, foolish art on the other ; 
 and avoia for zero in vovi, with wise vovi on one side, 
 foolish voi"; on the other. 
 
 11. You will smile at that last expression, 'foolish 
 vow.' Yet it is, of all foolish things, the commonest 
 and deadliest. We continually complain of men, 
 much more of women, for reasoning ill. But it does 
 not matter how they reason, if they don't conceive 
 basely. Not one person in a hundred is capable of 
 seriously reasoning; the difference between man and 
 man is in the quickness and quality, the accipitrine inten- 
 sity, the olfactory choice, of his vow. Does he hawk at 
 game or carrion ? "What you choose to grasp with your 
 mind is the question ; — not how you handle it afterwards. 
 What does it matter how you build, if you have bad 
 bricks to build with ; or how you reason, if every idea 
 with which you begin is foul or false. And in general all 
 fatal false reasoning proceeds from people's having some 
 
12 THE EAGLE'S NEST. 
 
 one false notion in their hearts, with which they are 
 resolved that their reasoning shall comply. 
 
 But, for better illustration, I will now take my own 
 special subject out of the three; — Te%yj). I have said 
 that we have, for its zero, axeyyla, or artlessness — in 
 Latin, ' inertia,' opposed to ' ars.' Well, then, we have, 
 from that zero, wise art on the one side, foolish art on, 
 the other ; and the finer the art, the more it is capable 
 of this living increase, or deadly defect. I will take, for 
 example, first, a very simple art, then -a finer one ; but 
 both of them arts with which most of you are thoroughly 
 acquainted. 
 
 12. One of the simplest pieces of perfect art, which 
 you are yourselves in the habit of practising, is the stroke 
 of an oar given in true time. We have defined art to be 
 the wise modification of matter by the body (substantial 
 things by substantial power, § 3). With a good oar- 
 stroke you displace a certain quantity of water in a wise 
 way. Supposing you missed your stroke, and caught a 
 crab, you would displace a certain quantity of water in 
 a foolish way, not only ineffectually, but in a way the 
 reverse of what you intended. The perfectness of the 
 stroke implies not only absolutely accurate knowledge 
 or science of the mode in which water resists the blade 
 of an oar, but the having in past time met that resistance 
 repeatedly with greater and greater Tightness of adap- 
 tation to the end proposed. That end being perfectly 
 simple,— the advance of the boat as far as possible with a 
 
13 
 
 given expenditure of strength, you at once recognize the 
 degree in which the art falls short of, or the artlessness 
 negatives your purpose. But your being 'a-o<£o'?,' as an 
 oarsman, implies much more than this mere art founded 
 on pure science. The fact of your being able to row in 
 a beautiful manner depends on other things than the 
 knowledge of the force of water, or the repeated practice 
 of certain actions in resistance to it. It implies the 
 practice of those actions under a resolved discipline of 
 the body, involving regulation of the passions. It sig- 
 nifies submission to the authority, and amicable con- 
 currence with the humours of other persons; and so 
 far as it is beautifully done at last, absolutely signifies 
 therefore a moral and intellectual lightness, to the 
 necessary extent influencing the character honourably 
 and graciously. This is the sophia, or wit, of what is 
 most honourable, which is concerned in rowing, without 
 which it must become no rowing, or the reverse of 
 rowing. 
 
 13. Let us next take example in an art which perhaps 
 you will think (though I hope not) much inferior to row- 
 ing, but which is in reality a much higher art — dancing. 
 I have just told you (§ 11) how to test the rank of arts— 
 namely, by their corruptibility, as you judge of the 
 fineness of organic substance. The moria,* or folly, of 
 
 * If the English reader will pronounce the o in this word as in fold, 
 and in sophia as in sop, but accenting the o, not the i, I need not any 
 more disturb my pages with Greek types. 
 
14 THE EAGLE'S UEST. 
 
 rowing, is only ridiculous, but the moria, or folly, of 
 dancing, is much worse than ridiculous ; and, therefore 
 you may know that its sophia, or wisdom, will be much 
 more beautiful than the wisdom of rowing. Suppose, for 
 instance, a minuet danced by two lovers, both highly 
 bred, both of noble character, and very much in love with 
 each other. You would see, in that, an art of the most 
 highly-finished kind, under the government of a sophia 
 which dealt with the strongest passions, and most exquisite 
 perceptions of beauty, possible to humanity. 
 
 14. For example of the contrary of these, in the same 
 art, I cannot give you one more definite than that which 
 I saw at, I think, the Gaiety Theatre — but it might have 
 been at any London theatre now, — two years ago. 
 
 The supposed scene of the dance was Hell, which was 
 painted in the background with its flames. The dancers 
 were supposed to be demons, and wore black masks, with 
 red tinsel for fiery eyes ; the same red light was repre- 
 sented as coming out of their ears also. They began their 
 dance by ascending through the stage on spring trap- 
 doors, which threw them at once ten feet into the air ; and 
 its performance consisted in the expression of every kind 
 of evil passion, in frantic excess. 
 
 15. You will not, I imagine, be at a loss to understand 
 the sense in which the words sophia and moria are to be 
 rightly used of these two methods of the same art. But 
 those of you who are in the habit of accurate thinking 
 will at once perceive that I have introduced a new 
 
THE EAGLE'S NEST. 15 
 
 element into my subject by taking an instance in a highei 
 art. The folly of rowing consisted mainly in not being 
 able to row ; but this folly of dancing does not consist in 
 not being able to dance, but in dancing well with evil 
 purpose; and the better the dancing, the worse the 
 result. 
 
 And now I am afraid I must tease yon by asking your 
 attention to what you may at first think a vain nicety in 
 analysis, but the nicety is here essential, and I hope 
 throughout this course of Lectures, not to be so trouble- 
 some to you again. 
 
 16. The mere negation of the power of art — the zero of 
 it — you say, in rowing, is ridiculous. It is, of course, not 
 less ridiculous in dancing. But what do you mean by 
 ridiculous? Tou mean contemptible, so as to provoke 
 laughter. The contempt, in either case, is slight, in 
 ordinary society; because, though a man may neither 
 know how to row, or dance, he may know many other 
 things. But suppose he lived where he could not know 
 many other things ? By a stormy sea-coast, where there 
 could be no fresco-painting, in a poor country, where 
 could be none of the fine arts connected with wealth, and 
 in a simple, and primitive society, not yet reached by 
 refinements of literature ; but where good rowing was 
 necessary for the support of life, and good dancing, one 
 of the most vivid aids to domestic pleasure. You would 
 then say that inability to row, or to dance, was far worse 
 than ridiculous; that it marked a man for a good-for 
 
16 THE EAGLE'S NEST. 
 
 nothing fellow, to be regarded with indignation, as wel! 
 as contempt. 
 
 Now, remember, the inertia or zero of art always in- 
 volves this kind of crime, or at least, pitiableness. The 
 want of opportunity of learning takes away the moral 
 guilt of artlessness ; but the want of opportunity of learn- 
 ing such arts as are becoming in given circumstances, 
 may indeed be no crime in an individual, but cannot be 
 alleged in its defence by a nation. National ignorance of 
 decent art is always criminal, unless in earliest conditions 
 of society ; and then it is brutal. 
 
 17. To that extent, therefore, culpably or otherwise, a 
 kind of moria, or folly, is always indicated by the zero of 
 art-power. But the true folly, or assuredly culpable folly, 
 is in the exertion of our art-power in an evil direction. 
 And here we need the finesse of distinction, which I am 
 afraid will be provoking to you. Observe, first, and 
 simply, that the possession of any art-power at all implies 
 a sophia of some kind. These demon dancers, of whom I 
 have just spoken, were earning their bread by severe and 
 honest labour. The skill they possessed could not have 
 been acquired but by great patience and resolute self- 
 denial ; and the very power with which they were able tc 
 express, with precision, states of evil passion, indicated 
 that they had been brought up in a society which, in some 
 measure, knew evil from good, and which had, therefore, 
 some measure of good in the midst of it. Nay, the 
 farther probability is, that if you inquired into the life of 
 
THE EAGLE'S NEST. 17 
 
 these men, you would find that this demon dance had 
 been invented by some one of them with a great imagin- 
 ative power, and was performed by them not at all in 
 preference of evil, but to meet the demand of a public 
 whose admiration was capable of being excited only by 
 violence of gesture, and vice of emotion. 
 
 18. In all cases, therefore, observe, where the oppor- 
 tunity of learning has been given ; the existence of the 
 art-power indicates sophia, and its absence indicates 
 moria. That great fact I endeavoured to express to you, 
 two years since, in my third introductory Lecture. In 
 the present course I have to show you the action of the 
 final, or higher sophia which directs the skill of art to the 
 best purposes; and of the final, or lower moria which 
 misdirects them to the worst. And the two points I shall 
 endeavour to bring before you throughout will be 
 these : —First, that the object of University teaching is 
 to form your conceptions; — not to acquaint you with 
 arts, nor sciences. It is to give you a notion of what is 
 meant by smith's work ; for instance — but not to make 
 you blacksmiths. It is to give you a notion of what 
 is meant by medicine, but not to make you physicians. 
 The proper academy for blacksmiths is a blacksmith's 
 forge ; the proper academy for physicians is an hospital. 
 Here you are to be taken away from the forge, out of 
 the hospital, out of all special and limited labour and 
 thought, into the ' Universitas ' of labour and thought, 
 that you may in peace in leisure, in calm of disinterested 
 
18 THE EAGLE'S NEST. 
 
 contemplation be enabled to conceive rightly the laws of 
 nature, and the destinies of Man. 
 
 19. Then the second thing I have to show you is that 
 over these three kingdoms of imagination, art, and 
 science, there reigns a virtue or faculty, which from 
 all time, and by all great people, has been recognized as 
 the appointed ruler and guide of every method of labour, 
 or passion of soul; and the most glorious recompense 
 of the toil, and crown of the ambition of man. " She is 
 more precious than rubies, and all the things thou canst 
 desire are not to be compared unto her. Lay fast hold 
 upon her ; let her not go ; keep her, for she is thy life." 
 
 Are not these, and the innumerable words like to these, 
 which you remember as I read them, strange words if 
 Aristotle's statement respecting wisdom be true; that 
 it never contemplates anything that can make men 
 happy, "17 p.hi yap aofyla ovhkv Oempei i!- d>v earab evSat/mv 
 av0pa)'7^o<s. ,, 
 
 When we next meet, therefore, I purpose to examine 
 what it is which wisdom, by preference, contemplates; 
 what choice she makes among the thoughts and sciences 
 open to her, and to what purpose she employs -whatever 
 science she may possess. 
 
 And I will briefly tell you, beforehand, that the result 
 of the inquiry will be, that instead of regarding none of 
 the sources of happiness, she regards nothing else ; that 
 she measures all worthiness by pure felicity ; that we are 
 permitted to conceive her as the cause even of gladness tc 
 
19 
 
 God — " I was daily His delight, rejoicing always before 
 Him," — and that we are commanded to know her as queen 
 of the populous world, " rejoicing in the habitable parts 
 of the Earth, and whose delights are with the sons of 
 Men." 
 
20 THE EAGLE'S NEOT. 
 
 LECTUKE II. 
 
 OF WISDOM AND FOLLY IN SCIENCE. 
 10$ February, 1872 
 
 20. In my last lecture I asserted the positive and negative 
 powers of literature, art, and science; and endeavoured 
 to show you some of the relations of wise art to foolish 
 art. To-day we are to examine the nature of these posi- 
 tive and negative powers in science; it being the object of 
 every true school to teach the positive or constructive 
 power, and by all means to discourage, reprove, and 
 extinguish the negative power. 
 
 It is very possible that you may not often have thought 
 of, or clearly denned to yourselves, this destructive or 
 deadly character of some elements of science. You may 
 indeed have recognized with Pope that a little knowledge 
 was dangerous, and you have therefore striven to drink 
 deep ; you may have recognized with Bacon, that know- 
 ledge might partially become venomous ; and you may 
 have ' sought, in modesty and sincerity, antidote to the 
 inflating poison. But that there is a ruling spirit oi 
 <ro<f>ia, under whose authority you are placed, to determino 
 for you, first the choice, and then the use of all knowledge 
 
21 
 
 whatsoever ; and that if you do not appeal to that ruler, 
 much more if you disobey her, all science becomes to you 
 ruinous in proportion to its accumulation, and as a net tc 
 your soul, fatal in proportion to the fineness of its thread, 
 — this, I imagine, few of you, in the zeal of learning, have 
 suspected, and fewer still have pressed their suspicion so 
 far as to recognize or believe. 
 
 21. You must have nearly all heard of, many must 
 have seen, the singular paintings ; some also may have 
 read the poems, of William Blake. The impression that 
 his drawings once made is fast, and justly, fading away, 
 though they are not without noble merit. But his poems 
 have much more than merit; they are written with 
 absolute sincerity, with infinite tenderness, and, though 
 in the manner of them diseased and wild, are in verity 
 the words of a great and wise mind, disturbed, but not 
 deceived, by its sickness ; nay, partly exalted by it, and 
 sometimes giving forth in fiery aphorism some of the 
 most precious words of existing literature. One of these 
 passages I will ask you to remember ; it will often be ser- 
 viceable to you — 
 
 " Doth the Eagle know what is in the pit, 
 Or wilt thou go ask the Mole ? " 
 
 It woxild be impossible to express to you in briefer terma 
 the great truth that there is a different kind of knowledge 
 good for every different creature, and that the glory of the 
 hi°her creatures is in ignorance of what is known to the 
 lower. 
 
22 
 
 22. And, above all, this is true of man ; for everyothe* 
 creature is compelled by its instinct to learn its own ap- 
 pointed lesson, and must centralize its perception in its 
 own being. But man has the choice of stooping in science 
 beneath himself, and striving in science beyond lnmself ; 
 and the " Know thyself " is, for him, not a law to which 
 he must in peace submit ; but a precept which of all 
 others is the most painful to understand, and the most 
 difficult to fulfil. Most painful to understand, and hu- 
 miliating ; and this alike, whether it be held to refer to 
 the knowledge beneath us, or above. For, singularly 
 enough, men are always most conceited of the meanest 
 science : — 
 
 " Doth the Eagle know what is in the pit, 
 Or wilt thou go ask the Mole ? " 
 
 It it just those who grope with the mole and cling with 
 the bat, who are vainest of their sio-ht and of their wings. 
 
 23. " Know thyself,' " but can it indeed be sophia, — can 
 it be the noble wisdom, which thus speaks to science ? Is 
 not this rather, you will ask, the voice of the lower virtue 
 of prudence, concerning itself with right conduct, whether 
 for the interests of this world or of the future ? Does not 
 sophia regard all that is above and greater than man ; and 
 by so much as we are forbidden to bury ourselves in the 
 mole's earth-heap, by so much also, are we not urged to 
 raise ourselves towards the stars ? 
 
 Indeed, it would at first seem so ; nay, in the passage of 
 the Ethics, which I proposed to you to-day for question, you 
 
23 
 
 are distinctly told so. There are, it is said, many different 
 kinds of phronesis, by which every animal recognizes 
 what is for its own good : and man, like any other crea- 
 tnre, has his own separate phronesis telling him what he 
 is to seek, and to do, for the preservation of his life : but 
 above all these forms of prudence, the Greek sage tells 
 you, is the sophia of which the objects are unchangeable 
 and eternal, the methods consistent, and the conclusions 
 universal : and this wisdom has no regard whatever to the 
 things in which the happiness of man consists, but ac 
 quaints itself only with the things that are most honour- 
 able ; so that " we call Anaxagoras and Thales, and such 
 others, wise indeed, but not prudent, in that they know 
 nothing of what is for their own advantage, but know 
 surpassing tilings, marvellous things, difficult things, and 
 divine things." 
 
 24. Now here is a question which evidently touches us 
 closely. We profess at this day to be an especially pru- 
 dent nation ; — to regard only tlie things which are for our 
 own advantage ; to leave to other races the knowledge of 
 surpassing things, marvellous things, divine things, or 
 beautiful things ; and in our exceding prudence we are at 
 this moment, refusing the purchase of, perhaps, the most 
 interesting picture by Kaphael in the world, and, cer- 
 tainly, one of the most beautiful works ever produced by 
 the art-wisdom of man, for five-and-twenty thousand 
 pounds, while we are debating whether we shall not pay 
 three hundred millions to the Americans, as a fine for 
 
24 THE EAGLE'S NEST. 
 
 selling a small frigate to Captain Semmes. Let me 
 reduce these sums from thousands of pounds, to single 
 pounds ; you will then see the facts more clearly ; (there 
 is not one person in a million who knows what a " mil- 
 lion " means ; and that is one reason the nation is always 
 ready to let its ministers spend a million or two in can- 
 non, if they can show they have saved twopence-half- 
 penny in tape). These are the facts then, stating pounds 
 for thousands of pounds ; you are offered a Nativity, by 
 Raphael, for five-and-twenty pounds, and cannot affoid 
 it ; but it is thought you may be bullied into paying three 
 hundred thousand pounds, for having sold a ship to Cap- 
 tain Semmes. I do not say you will pay it. Still your 
 present position is one of deprecation and humility, and 
 that is the kind of result which you bring about by acting 
 with what you call " practical common sense," instead of 
 Divine wisdom. 
 
 25. Perhaps you think I am losing Aristotle's notion 
 of common sense, by confusing it with our vulgar Eng- 
 lish one ; and that selling ships or ammunition to people 
 whom we have not courage to fight either for or against, 
 would not by Aristotle have been held a phrenetic, or 
 prudent proceeding. Be it so ; let ns be certain then, if 
 we can, what Aristotle does mean. Take the instance I 
 gave you in the last lecture, of the various modes of feel- 
 ing in which a master of literature, of science, and of art, 
 would severally regard the storm round the temples of 
 Psestum. 
 
the eagle's nest. 25 
 
 The man of seience, we said, thought of the origin of 
 the electricity; the artist of its light in the clouds, and the 
 scholar, of its relation to the power of Zeus and Poseidon. 
 There you have Episteme; Techne, and Nous; well, now 
 what does Phronesis do ? 
 
 Phronesis puts up his umbrella, and goes home as fast 
 as he can. Aristotle's Phronesis at least does ; having no 
 regard for marvellous things. But are you sure that 
 Aristotle's Phronesis is indeed the right sort of Phronesis 1 
 May there not be a commonsense, as well as an art, and a 
 science, under the command of sophia ? Let us take an 
 instance of a more subtle kind. 
 
 26. Suppose that two young ladies, (I assume in my 
 present lectures, that none are present, and that we may 
 say among ourselves what we like ; and we do like, do 
 we not, to suppose that young ladies excel us only in pru- 
 dence, and not in wisdom ?) let us suppose that two young 
 ladies go to the observatory on a. winter night, and that 
 one is so anxious to look at the stars that she does not care 
 whether she gives herself cold, or not; but the other is 
 prudent, and takes care, and looks at the stars only as 
 long as she can without catching cold. In Aristotle's 
 mind the fir&t young lady would properly deserve the 
 name of Sophia and the other that of Prudence. But in 
 order to judge them fairly, we must assume that they are 
 acting under exactly the same conditions. Assume that 
 they both equally desire to look at the stars ; then, the 
 fact that one of them stops when it would be dangerous 
 2 
 
26 THE EAGLE'S NEST. 
 
 to look longer, does, not show that she is less wise, — less in- 
 terested, that is to say, in surpassing and marvellous 
 things; — but it shows that she has more self-command, 
 and is able therefore to remember what the other does not 
 think of. She is equally wise, and more sensible. But 
 suppose that the two girls are originally different in dis- 
 position; and that the one, having much more imagination 
 than the other, is more interested in these surpassing and 
 marvellous things; so that the self-command, which is 
 enough to stop the other, who cares little for the stars, is 
 not enough to stop her, who cares much for them ; — you 
 would say, then, that, both the girls being equally sensible, 
 the one that caught cold was the wisest. 
 
 27. Let us make a farther supposition. Returning to 
 our first condition, that both the girls desire equally to 
 look at the stars ; let us put it now that both have equal 
 self-command, and would therefore, supposing no other 
 motives were in their minds, together go on star-gazing, 
 or together stop star-gazing ; but that one of them has 
 greater consideration for her friends than the other, and 
 though she would not mind catching cold for her own 
 part, would mind it much for fear of giving her mother 
 trouble. She will leave the stars first, therefore; but 
 should we be right now in saying that she was only 
 more sensible than her companion, and not more wise ? 
 This respect for the feelings of others, this understand- 
 ing Df her duty towards others, is a much higher thing 
 than the love of stars. It is an imaginative knowledge, 
 
27 
 
 not of balls of fire or differences of space; but of the 
 feelings of living creatures, and of the forces of duty 
 by which they justly move. This is a knowledge, or per- 
 ception, therefore, of a thing more surpassing and marvel- 
 lous than the stars themselves, and the grasp of it is 
 reached by a higher sophia. 
 
 28. Will you have patience with me for one supposi- 
 tion more ? We may assume the attraction of the specta - 
 cle of the heavens to be equal in degree, and yet, in the 
 minds of the two girls, it may be entirely different in 
 kind. Supposing the one versed somewhat in abstract 
 Science, and more or less acquainted with the laws by 
 which what she now sees may be explained; she will 
 probably take interest chiefly in questions of distance and 
 magnitude, in varieties of orbit, and proportions of light. 
 Supposing the other not versed in any science of this 
 kind, but acquainted with the traditions attached by the 
 religion of dead nations to the figures they discerned in 
 the sky : she will care little for arithmetical or geometri- 
 cal matters, but will probably receive a much deeper 
 emotion, from witnessing in clearness what has been the 
 amazement of so many eyes long closed ; and recognizing 
 the same lights, through the same darkness, with innocent 
 shepherds and husbandmen, who knew only the risings 
 and settings of the immeasurable vault, as its lights 
 shone on their own fields or mountains ; yet saw true 
 miracle in them, thankful that none but the Supreme 
 Ruler could bind the sweet influences of Pleiades, or 
 
28 
 
 loose the bands of Orion. I need not surely tell you, thai 
 in this exertion of the intellect and the heart, there would 
 be a far nobler sophia than any concerned with the analy- 
 sis of matter, or the measurement of space. 
 
 29. I will not weary you longer with questions, but 
 simply tell you, what you will find ultimately to be true, 
 that sophia is the form of thought, which makes common 
 sense unselfish, — knowledge unselfish, — art unselfish,— 
 and wit and imagination unselfish. Of all these, by 
 themselves, it is true that they are partly venomous ; that, 
 as knowledge puffeth up, so does prudence — so does art — 
 so does wit ; but, added to all these, wisdom, or (you may 
 read it as an equivalent word), added to all these — 
 charity, edifieth. 
 
 30. Note the word; builds forward, or builds up, and 
 builds securely because on modest and measured founda- 
 tion, wide, though low, and in the natural and living 
 rock. 
 
 Sophia is the faculty which recognizes in all things 
 their bearing upon life, in the entire sum of life that we 
 know, bestial and human ; but which, understanding the 
 appointed objects of that life, concentrates its interest and 
 its power on Humanity, as opposed on the one side to the 
 Animalism which it must rule, and distinguished on the 
 other side from the Divinity which rules it, and which it 
 cannot imagine. 
 
 It is as little the part of a wise man to reflect much on 
 the nature of beings above him, as of beings beneath him. 
 
29 
 
 It is immodest to suppose that lie can conceive the one, 
 and degrading to suppose that he should be busied with 
 the other. To recognize his everlasting inferiority, and 
 his everlasting greatness ; to know himself, and his place ; 
 to be content to submit to God without understanding 
 Him ; and to rule the lower creation with sympathy and 
 kindness,, yet neither sharing the passion of the wild 
 beast, nor imitating the science of the Insect ; — this you 
 will find is to be modest towards God, gentle to His 
 creatures, and wise for himself. 
 
 31. I think you will now be able to fasten in your 
 minds, first the idea of unselfishness, and secondly, that of 
 modesty, as component elements of sophia ; and having 
 obtained thus much, we will at once make- use of our 
 gain, by rendering more^clear one or two points respect- 
 ing its action on art, that we may then see more surely its 
 obscurer function in science. 
 
 It is absolutely unselfish, we say, not in the sense of 
 being without desire, or effort to gratify that desire ; on 
 the contrary, it longs intensely to see, or know the things 
 it is rightly interested in. But it is not interested speci- 
 ally in itself. In the degree of his wisdom, an artist is 
 unconcerned about his work as his own ;— concerned 
 about it only in the degree in which he would be, if it 
 were another man's — recognizing its precise value, or no 
 value, from that outer stand-point. I do not think, unless 
 you examine your minds very attentively, that you can 
 have any conception of the difficulty of doing this. 
 
30 THE EAGLE'S NEST. 
 
 Absolutely to do it is impossible, for we are all intended 
 by nature to be a little unwise, and to derive more 
 pleasure, therefore, from our own success than that of 
 others. But the intense degree of the difference is usu- 
 ally unmeasured by us. In preparing the drawings for 
 you to use as copies in these schools, my assistant and I 
 are often sitting beside each other ; and he is at work, 
 usually, on the more important drawing of the two. I so 
 far recognize that greater importance, when it exists, that 
 if I had the power of determining which of us should 
 succeed, and which fail, I should be wise enough to 
 choose his success rather than my own. But the actual 
 effect on my own mind, and comfort, is very different in 
 the two cases. If he fails, I am sorry, but not morti- 
 fied; — on the contrary, perhap*. a little pleased. I tell 
 him, indulgently, ' he will do better another time,' and 
 go down with great contentment to my lunch. But, if i" 
 fail, though I would rather, for the sake of the two draw- 
 ings, have had it so, the effect on my temper is very 
 different. I say, philosophically, that it was better so — 
 but I can't eat any lunch. 
 
 32. Now, just imagine what this inherently selfish pas- 
 sion — unconquerable as you will find it by the most 
 deliberate and maintained efforts — fancy what it becomes, 
 when, instead of striving to subdue, we take every means 
 in our power to increase and encourage it ; and when all 
 the circumstances around us concur in the deadly cultiva- 
 tion. In all base schools of Art, the craftsman i^ dependi: 
 
31 
 
 ent for his bread on originality ; that is to say, on find- 
 ing in himself some fragment of isolated faculty, by which 
 his work may be recognized as distinct from that of other 
 men. We are ready enough to take delight in our little 
 doings, without any such stimulus ; — what must be the 
 effect of the popular applause which continually suggests 
 that the little thing we can separately do is as excellent as 
 it is singular ! and what the effect of the bribe, held out 
 to us through the whole of life, to produce, — it being also 
 at our "peril not to produce — something different from the 
 work of our neighbors ? In all great schools of art 
 these conditions are exactly reversed. An artist is praised 
 in these, not for what is different in him from others, nor 
 for solitary performance of singular work ; but only for 
 doing most strongly what all are endeavoring ; and for 
 contributing, in the measure of his strength, to some great 
 achievement, to be completed by the unity of multitudes, 
 and the sequence of ages. 
 
 33. And now, passing from art to science, the unselfish- 
 ness of sophia is shown by the value it therein attaches to 
 every part of knowledge, new or old, in proportion to its 
 real utility to mankind, or largeness of range in creation. 
 The selfishness which renders sophia impossible, and en- 
 larges the elastic and vaporous kingdom of folly, is shown 
 by our caring for knowledge only so far as we have been 
 concerned in its discovery, or are ourselves skilled and 
 admired in its communication. If there is an art which 
 "puffeth up," even when we are surrounded by magnifi- 
 
32 the eagle's nest 
 
 cence of achievement of past ages, confessedly not by us 
 to be rivalled, how much more must there be a science 
 which puffeth up, when, by the very condition of science, 
 it must be an advance on the attainments of former time, 
 and however slight, or however slow, is still always as the 
 leaf of a pleasant spring compared to the dried branches 
 of years gone by ? And, for the double calamity of the 
 age' in which we live, it has chanced that the demand of 
 the vulgar and the dull for originality in Art, is associated 
 with the demand of a sensual economy for originality in 
 science ; and the praise w ich is too readily given always 
 to discoveries that are new, is enhanced by the reward 
 which rapidity of communication now ensures to dis- 
 coveries that are profitable. What marvel if future time 
 shall reproach us with having destroyed the labours, and 
 betrayed the knowledge of the greatest nations and the 
 wisest men, while we amused ourselves with fantasy in 
 art, and with theory in science : happy, if the one was 
 idle without being vicious, and the other mistaken with- 
 out being mischievous. Nay, truth, and success, are often 
 to us more deadly than error. Perhaps no progress more 
 triumphant has been made in any science than that of 
 Chemistry ; but the practical fact which will remain for 
 the contemplation of the future, is that we have lost the 
 art of painting on glass, and invented gun-cotton and 
 nitro-glycerine. " Can you imagine," the future will say, 
 " those English fools of the nineteenth century, who went 
 about putting up memorials of themselves in glass which 
 
38 
 
 they could not paint, and blowing their women and chil- 
 dren to pieces with cartridges they would not fight with?" 
 
 34. You may well think, gentlemen, that I am unjust 
 and prejudiced in such sayings j — you may imagine that 
 when all our mischievous inventions have done their 
 worst, and the wars they provoked by cowardice have 
 been forgotten in dishonour, our great investigators will 
 be remembered, as men who laid first the foundations of 
 fruitful knowledge, and vindicated the majesty of invio- 
 lable law. No, gentlemen ; it will not be so. In a little 
 while, the discoveries of which we are now so proud will 
 be familiar to all. The marvel of the future will not be 
 that we should have discerned them, but that our pre- 
 decessors were blind to them. We may be envied, but 
 shall not be praised, for having been allowed first to per- 
 ceive and proclaim what could be concealed no longer. 
 But the misuse we made of our discoveries will be 
 remembered against us, in eternal history ; our ingenuity 
 in the vindication, or the denial, of species, will be disre- 
 garded in the face of the fact that we destroyed, in 
 civilized Europe, every rare bird and secluded flower ; 
 onr chemistry of agriculture will be taunted with the 
 memories of irremediable famine ; and our mechanical con- 
 trivance will only make the age of the mitrailleuse more 
 abhorred than that of the guillotine. 
 
 35. Tes, believe me, in spite of our political liberality, 
 
 and poetical philanthropy ; in spite of our almshouses, 
 
 hospitals, and Sunday-schools; in spite of our missionary 
 2* 
 
24 THE EAGLE S NEST. 
 
 endeavours to preach abroad what we cannot get believed 
 at home ; and in spite of our wars against slavery, indem- 
 nified by the presentation of ingenious bills, — we shall be 
 remembered in history as the most cruel, and therefore 
 the most unwise, generation of men that ever yet troubled 
 the earth : — the most cruel in proportion to their sensibili- 
 ty, — the most unwise in proportion to their science. No 
 people, imderstanding pain, ever inflicted so much : no 
 people, understanding facts, ever acted on them so little. 
 You execrate the name of Eccelin of Padua, because lie 
 slew two thousand innocent persons to maintain his power ; 
 arid Dante cries out against Pisa that she should be sunk 
 in the sea, because, in revenge for treachery, she put to 
 death, by the slow pangs of starvation, not the traitor only, 
 but his children. But we men of London, we of the 
 modern Pisa, slew, a little while since, five hundred, thou- 
 sand men instead of two thousand— (I speak in official 
 terms, and know my numbers) — these we slew, all guilt- 
 less ; and these we slew, not for defence, nor for revenge, 
 but most literally in cold blood; and these we slew, 
 fathers and children together, by slow starvation — simply 
 because, while we contentedly kill our own children in 
 competition for places in the Civil Service, we never ask. 
 when once they have got the places, whether the Civil 
 Service is done. 
 
 36. That was our missionary work in Orissa, some three 
 or four years ago; — our Christian miracle of the five 
 loaves, assisted as we are in its performance, by steam- 
 
the eagle's nest. 35 
 
 engines for the threshing of the corn, and hy railroads foi 
 carrying it, and by proposals from English noblemen to 
 cut down all the trees in England, for better growing it. 
 That, I repeat, is what we did, a year or two ago ; what 
 are we doing now ? Have any of you chanced to hear of 
 the famine in Persia ? Here, with due science, we arrange 
 the roses in our botanic garden, thoughtless of the country 
 of the rose. "With due art of horticulture, we prepare for 
 our harvest of peaches; — it might perhaps seriously alarm 
 us to hear, next autumn, of a coming famine of peaches. 
 But the famine of all things, in the country of the peach 
 — do you know of it, care for it : — quaint famine that it 
 is, in the fruitfullest, fairest, richest of the estates of 
 earth; from which the Magi brought their treasures to 
 the feet of Christ? 
 
 How much of your time, scientific faculty, popular 
 literature, have been given, since this year began, to ascer- 
 tain what England can do for the great countries under 
 her command, or for the nations that look to her for help ; 
 and how much to discuss the chances of a single impostor's 
 getting a few thousands a year ? 
 
 Gentlemen, if your literature, popular and other; or 
 your art, popular and other ; or your science, popular and 
 other, is to be eagle-eyed, remember that question I to-day 
 solemnly put to you — will you hawk at game t>r carrion ? 
 Shall it be only said of the thoughts of the heart of Eng- 
 land — "Wheresoever the carcase is, thither shall the 
 eagles be gathered together ? " 
 
36 THE EAGLE'S NEST. 
 
 LECTURE III. 
 
 THE RELATION OF WISE AST TO WISE SCIENCE. 
 
 " The morrow after St. Valentine's," 1872. 
 
 37. Oue task to-day is to examine the relation between 
 art and science, each governed by sophia, and becoming 
 capable, therefore, of consistent and definable relation to 
 each other. Between foolish art and foolish science, there 
 may indeed be all manner of reciprocal mischievous 
 influence ; but between wise art and wise science there is 
 essential relation, for each other's help and dignity. 
 
 You observe, I hope, that I always use the term 
 'science,' merely as the equivalent of 'knowledge.' I 
 take the Latin word, rather than the English, to mark that 
 it is knowledge of constant things, not merely of passing 
 events : but you had better lose even that distinction, and 
 receive the word " scientia" as merely the equivalent of 
 our English "knowledge," than fall into the opposite 
 error of supposing that science means systematization or 
 discovery. ' It is not the arrangement of new systems, nor 
 the discovery of new facts, which constitute a man of 
 science ; but the submission to an eternal system ; and the 
 proper grasp of facts already known. 
 
the eagle's west. 37 
 
 38. And, at first, to-day, I use the wcrd " art " only 
 of that in which it is my special office to instruct you ; 
 graphic imitation ; or, as it is commonly called, Fine art. 
 Of course, the arts of construction, — building, carpen- 
 tering, and the like, are directly dependent on many 
 sciences, but in a manner which needs no discussion, so 
 that we may put that part of the business out of our way. 
 I mean by art, to-day, only imitative art ; and by science, 
 to-day, not the knowledge of general laws, but of existent 
 facts. I do not mean by science, for instance, the knowl- 
 edge that triangles with equal bases and between paral- 
 lels, are equal, but the knowledge that the stars in Cas- 
 siopeia are in the form of a "W. 
 
 Now, accepting the terms 'science' and 'art' under 
 these limitations, wise art is only the, reflex or shadow of 
 wise science. Whatever it is really desirable and honour- 
 able to know, it is also desirable and honourable to know 
 as completely and as long as possible; therefore, to 
 present, or re-present, in the most constant manner ; and 
 to bring again and again, not only within the thoughts, 
 but before the eyes ; describing it, not with vague words, 
 but distinct lines, and true colours, so as to approach 
 always as nearly as may be to the likeness of the thing 
 itself. 
 
 39. Can anything be more simple, more evidently or 
 indisputably natural and right, than such connection of 
 the two powers ? That you should desire to know what 
 you ought; what is worthy of your nature, and help- 
 
38 the eagle's nest. 
 
 ful to your life: to know that; — nothing less, — nothing 
 more; and to keep record and definition of such 
 knowledge near yon, in the most vivid and explanatory 
 form 1 
 
 Nothing, surely, can be more simple than this; yet the 
 sum of art judgment and of art practice is in this. You 
 are to recognize, or know, beautiful and noble things — 
 notable, notabilia, or nob ilia; and then yoa are to give 
 the best possible account of them you earn, dither for the 
 sake of others, or for the sake of your smi fesgetful or 
 apathetic self, in the future. 
 
 Now as I gave you and asked yoa'to remember without 
 failing, an aphorism which embraced the law of wise 
 knowledge, so, to-day, I will ask you to remember, with- 
 out fail, one, which absolutely defines the relation of wise 
 art to it. I have, already, quoted our to-day's aphorism to 
 you, at the end of my 4th lecture on sculpture. Eead the 
 few sentences at the end of that lecture now, down to 
 
 " TnE BEST, IN THIS KIND, ABE BUT SHADOWS." 
 
 That is Shakspeare's judgment of his own art. And by 
 strange coincidence, he has put the words into the mouth 
 of the hero whose shadow or semblance in marble, is 
 admittedly the most ideal and heroic we possess, of man ; 
 yet, I need not ask you, whether of the two, if it were 
 granted you to see the statue by Phidias, or the hero 
 Theseus himself, you would, choose rather to see the 
 
the eagle's nest. 39 
 
 carved stone, or the living King. Do you recollect how 
 Shakspeare's Theseus concludes his sentence, spoken of 
 the poor tradesmen's kindly offered art, in the Midsum- 
 mer Night's Dream ? 
 
 " The best in this kind are but shadows ; and the worst 
 are no worse, if imagination amend them." 
 
 It will not burden your memories painfully, 1 hope, 
 though it may not advance yon materially in the class list, . 
 if you will learn this entire sentence by heart, being, as it 
 is, a faultless and complete epitome of the laws of mi- 
 metic art. 
 
 40. " But Shadows ! " Make them as beautiful as you 
 can ; use them only to enable you to remember and love 
 what they are cast by. If ever you prefer the skill of 
 them to the simplicity of the truth, or the pleasure of 
 them to the power of the truth, you have fallen into that 
 vice of folly, (whether you call her icaicia or peopia,) which 
 concludes the subtle description of her given by Prodicns, 
 that she might be seen continually ei'9 ttjv eavTrj? aiciav 
 atropketreiv — to look with love, and exclusive wonder, at 
 her own shadow. 
 
 41. There is nothing that I tell you with more eager 
 desire that you should .believe — nothing with wider 
 ground in my experience for requiring you to believe, 
 than this, that you never will love art well, till you love 
 what she mirrors better. 
 
 It is the widest, as the clearest experience I have tc 
 give you ; for the beginning of all my own right art work 
 
40 THE EAGLE'S NEST. 
 
 in life, (and it may not be unprofitable that I should tell 
 you this), depended, . not on my love of art, but of 
 mountains and sea. All boys with any good in them are 
 fond of boats, and of course I liked the mountains best 
 when they had lakes at the bottom; and I used to walk 
 always in the middle of the loosest gravel I could find in 
 the roads of the midland counties, that I might hear, as I 
 trod on it, something like the sound of the pebbles on sea- 
 beach. No chance occurred for some time to developc 
 what gift of drawing I had ; but I would pass entire day* 
 in rambling on the Cumberland hill-sides, or staring at 
 the lines of surf on a low sand; and when I was taken 
 annually to the "Water-colour Exhibition, I used to get 
 hold of a catalogue before-hand, mark all the Robsons; 
 which I knew would be of purple mountains, and all the 
 Copley Fieldings, which I knew would be of lakes or sea; 
 and then go deliberately round the room to these, for the 
 sake, observe, not of the pictures, in any wise, but only of 
 the things painted. 
 
 And through the whole of following life, whatever 
 power of judgment I have obtained, in art, which I am 
 now confident and happy in using, or communicating, has 
 depended on my steady habit of always looking for the 
 subject principally, and for the art, only as the means of 
 expressing it. 
 
 42. At first, as in youth one is almost sure to be, I was 
 led too far by my certainty of the Tightness of this prin- 
 ciple : and provoked into its exclusive assertion by the 
 
41 
 
 x pertinacity with which other writers denied it : so that, in 
 Ji\e first volume of Modern Painters, several passages 
 occurred setting the subject or motive of the picture so 
 much above the mode of its expression, that some of my 
 more feebly gifted disciples supposed they were fulfilling 
 my wishes by choosing exactly the subjects for painting 
 which they were least able to paint. But the principle 
 itself, I maintain, now in advanced life, with more 
 reverence and firmness than in earliest youth : and though 
 I believe that among the teachers who have opposed its 
 assertion, there are few who enjoy the mere artifices of 
 composition or dexterities of handling so much as I, the 
 time which I have given to the investigation of these has 
 only farther assured me that the pictures were noblest 
 which compelled me to forget them. 
 
 43. Now, therefore, yon see that on this simple theory, 
 you have only to ask what will be the subjects of wise 
 science ; these also, will be, so far as they can be imita- 
 tively or suggestively represented, the subjects of wise 
 art : and the wisdom of both the science and art will be 
 recognized by their being lofty in their scope, but simple 
 in their language ; clear in fancy, but clearer in interpre- 
 tation ; severe in discernment, but delightful in display. 
 
 44. For example's sake, since we have just been listen- 
 ing to Shakspeare as a teacher of science and art, we will 
 now examine him as a subject of science and art. 
 
 Suppose we have the existence and essence of Shak- 
 speare to investigate, and give permanent account of ; we 
 
4:2 the eagle's nest. 
 
 6hall see that, as the scope and bearing of the science 
 become nobler, art becomes more helpful to it; and at 
 last, in its highest range, even necessary to it ; but still 
 only as its minister. 
 
 We examine Shakspeare, first, with the science of 
 chemistry, which informs us that Shakspeare consists of 
 about seventy-five parts in the hundred of water, some 
 twelve or fifteen of nitrogen, and the rest, lime, phospho- 
 rus, and essential earthy salts. 
 
 "We next examine him by the science of anatomy, which 
 tells us (with other such matters,) that Shakspeare has 
 seven cervical, twelve dorsal, and five lumbar vertebrae; 
 that his forearm has a wide sphere of rotation ; and that 
 he differs from other animals of the ape species by being 
 more delicately prehensile in the fingers, and less per- 
 fectly prehensile in the toes. 
 
 We next approach Shakspeare with the science of 
 natural history, which tells us the colour of his eyes and 
 hair, his habits of life, his temper, and his predilection for 
 poaching. 
 
 There ends, as far as this subject is concerned, our pos- 
 sible science of substantial things. Then we take up our 
 science of ideal things : first of passion, then of imaging 
 tion ; and we are told by these that Shakspeare is capable* 
 of certain emotions, and of mastering or commanding them, 
 in certain modes. Finally, we take up our science of the- 
 ology, and ascertain that he is in relation, or in supposed 
 relation, with such and such a Being, greater than himself 
 
43 
 
 45. Now, in all these successive stages of scientific 
 description, we find art become powerful as an aid or 
 record, in proportion to the importance of the inquiry. 
 For chemistry, she can do scarcely anything : merely keep 
 note of a colour, or of the form of a crystal. For anat- 
 omy, she can do somewhat more ; and for natural history, 
 almost all things : while in recording passion," and affec- 
 tionate intellect, she walks hand in hand with the highest 
 science ; and to theology, can give nobler aid even than 
 the verbal expression of literature. 
 
 46. And in considering this power of her's, remember 
 that the theology of art has only of late been thought 
 deserving of attention : Lord Lindsay, some thirty years 
 ago, was the first to recognize its importance ; and when I 
 entered upon the study of the schools of Tuscany in 1845, 
 his " Christian mythology " was the only guide I could 
 trust. Even as late as 1860, I had to vindicate the true 
 position, in Christian science, of Luini, the despised pupil 
 of Leonardo. But only assuming, what with general 
 assent I might assume, that Raphael's dispute of the 
 Sacrament — (or by its less frequently given, but" true 
 name — Raphael's Theologia,) is the most perfect effort yet 
 made by art to illustrate divine science, I am prepared 
 hereafter to show you that the most finished efforts of 
 tlieologic literature, as compared with that piece of pic- 
 torial interpretation, have expressed less fully the condi- 
 tion of wise religious thought; and have been warped 
 more dangerously into unwise religious speculation. 
 
44 the eagle's nest. 
 
 47. Upon these higher fields of inquiry we are not yet 
 to enter. I shall endeavour for some time only to show 
 you the function of modest art, as the handmaid of natural 
 science ; and the exponent, first of the beauty of the crea- 
 tures subject to your own human life ; and then of the 
 history of that life in past time; of which one chief 
 source of illustration is to be found in the most brilliant, 
 and in its power on character, hitherto the most practi- 
 cally effective of the arts — Heraldry. 
 
 In natural history, I at first intended to begin with the 
 lower types of life ; but as the enlarged schools now give 
 me the means of extending the use of our examples, we 
 will at once, for the sake of more general service, take up 
 ornithology, of the uses of which, in general culture, I 
 have one or two grave words to say. 
 
 48. Perhaps you thought that in the beginning of my 
 lecture to-day I too summarily dismissed the arts of con- 
 struction and action. But it was not in disrespect to 
 them ; and I must indeed ask you carefully to note one or 
 two points respecting the arts of which an example is set 
 us by birds ; — building, and singing. 
 
 The other day, as I was calling on the ornithologist 
 whose collection of birds is, I suppose, altogether unri- 
 valled in Europe, — (at once a monument of unwearied 
 love of science, and an example, in its treatment, of the 
 most delicate and patient art) —Mr. Gould — he showed me 
 the nest of a common English bird ; a nest which, not- 
 withstanding his knowledge of the dexterous building of 
 
the eagle's nest. 45 
 
 birds in all the world, was not without interest even to 
 him, and was altogether amazing and delightful to me. 
 It was a bullfinch's nest, which had been set in the fork 
 of a sapling tree, where it needed an extended founda- 
 tion. And the bird had built this first story of her nest 
 with withered stalks of clematis blossom; and with 
 nothing else. These twigs it had interwoven lightly, 
 leaving .the branched heads all at the outside, producing 
 an intricate Gothic boss of extreme grace and quaintness, 
 apparently arranged both with triumphant pleasure in the 
 art of basket-making, and with definite purpose of obtain- 
 ing ornamental form. 
 
 49. I fear there is no occasion to tell you that the bird - 
 had no purpose of the kind. I say. that I fear this, be- 
 cause I would much rather have to undeceive you in at- 
 tributing too much intellect to the lower animals, than too 
 little. But I suppose the only error which, in the present 
 condition of natural history, you are likely to fall into, is 
 that of supposing that a bullfinch is merely a mechanical 
 arrangement of nervous fibre, covered with feathers by a 
 chronic cutaneous eruption ; and impelled by a galvanic 
 stimulus to the collection of clematis. 
 
 50. "You would be in much greater, as well as in a more 
 shameful, error, in supposing this, than if you attributed to 
 the bullfinch the most deliberate rivalship with Mr. Street's 
 prettiest Gothic designs. The bird has exactly the degree 
 of emotion, the extent of science, and the command of art, 
 which are necessarv for its happiness ; it had felt the cle 
 
46 the eagle's nest. 
 
 tuatis twigs to be lighter and tougher than anyothera 
 within its reach, and probably found the forked branches 
 of them convenient for reticulation. In had naturally 
 placed these outside, because it wanted a smooth surface 
 for the bottom of its nest ; and the beauty of the result 
 was much more dependent on the blossoms' than the bird. 
 
 51. ^Nevertheless, I am sure that if you had seen the 
 nest, — much more, if you had stood beside the architect 
 at work upon it, — you would have greatly desired to ex- 
 press your admiration to her ; and that if Wordsworth, or 
 any other simple and kindly person, could even wish, for 
 a little flower's sake, 
 
 '• That to this mountain daisy's self were known, 
 The beauty of its star-shaped shadow, thrown 
 On the smooth surface of this naked stone," 
 
 much more you would have yearned to inform the bright 
 little nest-builder of your sympathy; and to explain to 
 her, on art principles, what a pretty thing she was 
 making. 
 
 52. Does it never occur to you, then, that to some of 
 the best and wisest artists among ourselves, it may not be 
 always possible to explain what pretty things they are 
 making ; and that, perhaps, the very perfection of their 
 art is in their knowing so little about it ? 
 
 Whether it has occurred to you or not, I assure you 
 that it is so. The greatest artists, indeed, will conde- 
 scend, occasionally, to be scientific; — will labour, some- 
 what systematically, about what they are doing, as vulgar 
 
the eagle's nest. 47 
 
 persons do'; and are privileged, also, to enjoy what they 
 have made more than birds do ; yet seldom, observe you, 
 as being beautiful, but very much in the sort of feeling 
 which we may fancy the bullfinch had also,— that the 
 thing, whether pretty or ugly, could not have been better 
 done ; that they could not have made it otherwise, and 
 are thankful it is no worse. And, assuredly, they have 
 nothing like the delight in their own work which it gives 
 to other people. 
 
 53. But putting the special simplicities of good artists 
 out of question, let me ask you, in the second place, 
 whether it is not possible that the same sort of simplicity 
 might be desirable in the whole race of mankind ; and 
 that we ought all to be doing human work which would 
 appear better done to creatures much above us, than it 
 does to ourselves. Why should not our nests be as inter- 
 esting things to angels, as bullfinches' are to us ? 
 
 Tou will, probably, both smile at, and shrink from, 
 such a supposition, as an insolent one. But to my 
 thought, it seems, on the contrary, the only modest one. 
 That we should be able to admire the work of angels 
 seems to me the impertinent idea ; not, at all, that they 
 should be able to admire ours. 
 
 54. Under existing circumstances, I confess the diffi- 
 culty. It cannot be imagined that either the back streets 
 of our manufacturing towns, or the designs of our subur- 
 ban villas, are things which the angels desire to look into: 
 but it seems to me an inevitably logical conclusion that 
 
48 THE EAGLE S NEST. 
 
 if we are, indeed, the highest of the brute creation, we 
 .should, at least, possess as much unconscious art as the 
 lower brutes; and build nests which shall be, for our- 
 selves, entirely convenient ; and may, perhaps, in the eyes 
 of superior beings, appear more beautiful than to our own. 
 
 55. "Which shall be for ourselves, entirely conve- 
 nient." Note the word; — becoming, decorous, harmo- 
 nious, satisfying. We may not be able to build any- 
 thing sublime ; but, at all events, we should, like other 
 flesh-invested creatures, be able to contrive what was de- 
 cent, and it should be an human privilege to think that 
 we may be admired in heaven for our contrivance. « 
 
 I have some difficulty in proceeding with what I want 
 to say, because I know you must partly think I am jest- 
 ing with you. I feel indeed some disposition to smile, 
 myself; not because I jest, but in the sense of contrast 
 between what, logically, it seems, ought to be ; and what 
 we must confess, not jestingly, to be the facts. How 
 great also, — -how quaint, the confusion of sentiment in 
 our minds, as to this matter! We continually talk of 
 honouring God with our buildings ; and yet, we dare, not 
 say, boldly, that, in His sight, we in the least expect to 
 honour ourselves by them ! And admitting, though I by 
 no means feel disposed to admit, that here and there we 
 may, at present, be honouring Him by work that is 
 worthy of the nature He gave us, in how many places, 
 think you, are we offending Him by work that is 
 disgraceful to it ? 
 
49 
 
 56. Let me return, yet for an instant, to my bird and 
 her nest. If not actually complacent and exultant in her 
 architecture, we may at least imagine that she, and her 
 mate, and the choir they join with, cannot but be com- 
 placent and exultant in their song. I gave you, in a 
 former lecture, the skylark as a type of mastership in 
 music; and remembering — some of you, I suppose, are 
 not likely soon to forget, — the saint to whom yesterday 
 was dedicated, let me read to you to-day some of the 
 prettiest Euglish words in which our natural feeling 
 about such song is expressed. 
 
 " And anone, as I the day espide, 
 No lenger would I in my bed abide, 
 But unto a wood that was fast by, 
 I went forth alone boldely, 
 And held the way downe by a brook side, 
 
 Till I came to a laund of white and green, 
 
 So f aire one had I never in been, 
 
 The ground was green, ypoudred with daisie, 
 
 The floures and the greves like hie, 
 
 All greene and white, was nothing els seene. 
 
 There sat I downe among the f aire flours, 
 And saw the birds trip out of hir bours, 
 There as they rested hem all the night, 
 They were so joyfull of the dayes light, 
 They began of May for to done honours. 
 
 They coud that service all by rote, 
 There was many a lovely note, 
 Some sang loud, as they had plained, 
 And some in other manner voice yfained, 
 And some all out with the full throte. 
 
 a 
 
50 THE EAGLE'S NEST. 
 
 They proyned hem and made hem right gay, 
 And daunceden and lepten on the spray, 
 And evermore two and two in fere, 
 Right so as they had chosen hem to yere 
 In Feverere, upon saint Valentines day." 
 
 You recollect, perhaps, the dispute that follows be tween 
 the cuckoo and the nightingale, and the promise which 
 the sweet singer makes to Chaucer for rescuing her. 
 
 " And then came the Nightingale to me 
 And said Friend, forsooth I thanke thee 
 That thou hast liked me to rescue, 
 And one avow to Love make I now 
 That all this May, I will thy singer be. 
 
 I thanked her, and was right well apaied, 
 Yea, quoth she, and be not thou dismaied, 
 Tho' thou have heard the cuckoo erst than me ; 
 For, if I live, it shall amended be, 
 The next May, if I be not affraied." 
 
 "If I fee not affraied." Would she not put the "if" 
 more timidly now, in making the same promise to any 
 of you, or in asking for the judgment between her and 
 her enemy, which was to be past, do you remember, on 
 this very day of the year, so many years ago, and within 
 eight miles of this very spot ? 
 
 '' And this shall be without any Nay 
 On the morrow after St. Valentine's day, 
 Under a maple that is faire and green 
 Before the chamber window of the Queen 
 At Woodstoke, upon the greene lawn. 
 
 She thanked them, and then her leave took 
 And into an hawthome by that broke. 
 
THE EAGLE'S NEST. 5] 
 
 And there she sate, and sang upon that tree 
 ' Terme of life love hath withheld me ' 
 So loud, that I with that song awoke." 
 
 57. "Terme of life love hath withheld me!" Alaa 
 how have we men reversed this song of the nightingale 
 so that our words must be " Terme of life, hatred hatl 
 withheld me." 
 
 This, then, was the old English science of the song o: 
 birds ; and perhaps you are indignant with me for bring 
 ing any word of it back to you ? You have, I doubt not 
 your new science of song, as of nest-building : and I an 
 happy to think you could all explain to me, or at leasi 
 you will be able to do so before you pass your natura' 
 science examination, how, by the accurate connectior 
 of a larynx with a bill, and by the action of heat, origi- 
 nally derived from the sun, upon the muscular fibre, ai; 
 undulatory motion is produced in the larynx, and an open 
 ing and shotting one in the bill, which is accompanied, 
 necessarily, by a piping sound. 
 
 58. I will not dispute your statement ; still less do ] 
 wish to answer for the absolute truth of Chaucer's. You 
 will find that the complete truth embraces great part ol 
 both ; and that you may study, at your choice, in any sing- 
 ing bird, the action of universal heat on a marvellous 
 mechanism, or of individual life, on a frame capable oi 
 exquisite passion. But the point I wish you to considei 
 is the relation, to this lower creature's power, of your own 
 human agencies in the production of sound, where yov 
 can best unite in its harmony. 
 
52 THE EAGLES NEST. 
 
 59. I had occasion only the. other day to wait for half 
 an hour at the bottom of Ludgate Hill. Standing as 
 much out of the way as I could, under the shadow of the 
 railroad bridge, I watched the faces, all eager, many anx- 
 ious, and some intensely gloomy, of the hurried passers 
 by ; and listened to the ceaseless crashing, whistling, and 
 thundering sounds which mingled with the murmur of 
 their steps and voices. And in the midst of the continu- 
 ous roar, which differed only from that of the wildest sea 
 in storm by its complexity and its discordance, I was won- 
 dering, if the sum of what all these people were doing, or 
 trying to do, in the course. of the day, could be made man- 
 ifest, what it would come to. 
 
 60. The sum of it would be, I suppose, that they had 
 all contrived to live through the day in that exceedingly 
 unpleasant manner, and that nothing serious had occurred 
 to prevent them from passing the following day like- 
 wise. Nay, I knew also that what appeared in their way 
 of life painful to me, might be agreeable to them ; and it 
 chanced, indeed, a little while afterwards, that an active 
 and prosperous man of business, speaking to one of my 
 friends of the disappointment he had felt in a visit to 
 Italy, remarked, especially, that he was not able to endure 
 more than three days at Venice, because there was no 
 noise there. 
 
 61. But, granting the contentment of the inhabitants of 
 London in consistently producing these sounds, how shall 
 we say this vocal and instrumental art of theirs may com- 
 
the eagle's nest. 53 
 
 pare, in the scheme of Nature, with the vocal art of lower 
 animals ? We may indeed rank the danger-whistle of the 
 engines on the bridge as an excruciating human improve- 
 ment on that of the marmot ; and the trampling of feet 
 and grinding of wheels, as the human accentuation of the 
 sounds produced by insects, by the friction of their wings 
 or thighs against their sides : but, even in this comparison, 
 it may cause us some humiliation to note that the cicada 
 and the cricket, when pleased to sing in their vibratory 
 manner, have leisure to rest in their delight ; and that the 
 flight of the firefly is silent. But how will the sounds we 
 produce compare with the song of birds? This London 
 is the principal nest of men in the world; and I was 
 standing in the centre of it. In the shops of Fleet Street 
 and Ludgate Hill, on each side of me, I do not doubt I 
 could have bought any quantity of books for children, 
 which by way of giving them religious, as opposed to 
 secular, instruction, informed them that birds praised God 
 in their songs. Now, though on the one hand, you may be 
 very certain that birds are not machines, on the other hand 
 it is just as certain that they have not the smallest inten- 
 tion of praising God in their songs ; and that we cannot pre- 
 vent the religious education of our children more utterly 
 than by beginning it in lies. But it might be expected of 
 ourselves that we should do so, in the songs we send up 
 from our principal nest ! And although, under the dome 
 at the top of Ludgate Hill, some attempt of the kind 
 may be made every seventh day, by a limited number of 
 
54 the eagle's nest. 
 
 persons, we may again reflect, with humiliation, that this 
 birds, for better or worse, sing all, and every day ; and 1 
 coxild not but ask myself, with momentarily increasing 
 curiosity, as I endeavoured to trace the emotions and occu- 
 pations of the persons who passed by me, in the expres- 
 sion of their faces — what would be the effect on them, if 
 any creatures of higher order were suddenly to appear in 
 the midst of them with any such message of peace, and 
 invitation to rejoicing, as they had all been professing to 
 commemorate at Christmas. 
 
 62. Perhaps you recollect, in the lectures given on 
 landscape during the spring of this year, my directing your 
 attention to a picture of Mantegna's, in the loan exhibi- 
 tion, representing a flight of twelve angels in blue sky, 
 singing that Christinas song. J ought to tell you, how- 
 ever, that one of our English artists of good position dis 
 sented from my opinion about the picture ; and remarked 
 that in England " we wanted good art, and not funny 
 art." "Whereas, to me, it is this vocal and architectural 
 art of Ludgate Hill which appears funny art; and not 
 Mantegna's. But I am compelled to admit that could 
 Mantegna's picture have been realized, the result would, 
 in the eyes of most men, have been funnier still. For 
 suppose that over Ludgate Hill the sky had indeed sud- 
 denly become blue instead of black ; and that a flight of 
 twelve angels, " covered with silver wings, and their 
 feathers with gold," had alighted on the cornice of the 
 railroad bridge, as the doves alight on the cornices of St. 
 
the eagle's nest. 55 
 
 Mark's at Venice ; and had invited the eager men of 
 business below, in the centre of a city confessedly the 
 most prosperous in the world, to join them for five minutes 
 in singing the first five verses of such a psalm as the 103rd 
 — "Bless the Lord, oh my soul, and all that is within 
 me," (the opportunity now being given for the expression 
 of their most hidden feelings) " all that is within me, 
 bless His holy name, and forget not all his benefits." Do 
 you not even thus, in mere suggestion, feel shocked at the 
 thought, and as if my now reading the words were pro- 
 fane? And cannot you fancy that the sensation of the 
 crowd at so violent and strange an interruption of traffic, 
 might be somewhat akin to that which I had occasion in 
 my first lecture on sculpture to remind you of, — the feel- 
 ing attributed by Goethe to Mephistopheles at the song 
 of the angels: "Discord I hear, and intolerable jing- 
 ling?" 
 
 63. Nay, farther, if indeed none of the benefits bestowed 
 on, or accomplished by, the great city, were to be for- 
 gotten, and if search were made, throughout its confines, 
 into the results of its wealth, might not the literal discord 
 in the words themselves be greater than the felt discord in 
 the sound of them ? 
 
 I have here in my hand a cutting from a newspaper, 
 which I took with me three years ago, to a meeting in the 
 interest of social science, held in the rooms of the Society 
 of Arts, and under the presidency of the Prime Minister 
 of England. Under the (so called) 'classical' paintings 
 
56 the eagle's nest. 
 
 of Barry, representing the philosophy and poetry of the 
 ancients, Mr. Gladstone was in the chair : and in his pres- 
 ence a member of the society for the promotion of Social 
 Science propounded and supported the statement, not 
 irrelevant to our present inquiry, that the essential nature 
 of man was that of a beast of prey. Though, at the time, 
 (suddenly called upon by the author of Tom Brown at 
 Oxford), I feebly endeavoured to contradict that Socially 
 Scientific person, I do not at present desire to do so. I 
 have given you a creature of prey for comparison of 
 knowledge. " Doth the eagle know what is in the pit ? " 
 and in this great nest of ours in London, it would be well 
 if to all our children the virtue of the creature of prey 
 were fulfilled, and that, indeed, the stir and tumult of the 
 city were " as the eagle stirreth up her nest, and ftuttereth 
 over her young." But the slip of paper I had then, and 
 have now, in my hand,* contains information about the 
 state of the nest, inconsistent with such similitude. I am 
 not answerable for the juxtaposition of paragraphs in it. 
 The first is a proposal for the building of a new church in 
 Oxford, at the cost of twenty thousand pounds ; the 
 second is the account of the inquest on a woman and her 
 child who were starved to death in the Isle of Dogs. 
 The bodies were found lying, without covering, on a bed 
 made of heaped rags ; and there was no furniture in tho 
 room but a wooden stool, on which lay a tract entitled 
 " The Goodness of God." The husband, who had been 
 * Pall Mall Gazette. January 29th, 1869. 
 
the eagle's nest. 57 
 
 out of work foi six months, went mad two days after- 
 wards ; and being refused entrance at the workhouse be- 
 cause it was " full of mad people," was carried off, the 
 Pall Mall. Gazette says not where. 
 
 64. Now, gentlemen, the question I wish to leave 
 with you to-day is whether the Wisdom, which rejoices 
 in the habitable parts of the earth, and whose delights 
 are with the sons of men, can be supposed, undei 
 circumstances such as these, to delight herself in that 
 most closely and increasingly inhabited portion of the 
 globe which we ourselves now dwell on ; and whether, 
 if she cannot grant us to surpass the art of the swallow 
 or the eagle, she may not require of us at least, to 
 reach the level of their happiness. Or do you seriously 
 think that, either in the life of Ludgate Hill, or death 
 of the Isle of Dogs ; in the art of Ludgate Hill, or 
 idleness of the Isle of Dogs ; and in the science and 
 sanity of Ludgate Hill, or nescience and insanity of 
 the Isle of Dogs, we have, as matters stand now, any 
 clear encouragement to repeat, in that 103rd psalm, 
 the three verses following the five I named ; and to believe 
 in our hearts, as we say with our lips, that we have 
 yet, dwelling among us, unoffended, a God " who for- 
 giveth all our iniquities, who healeth all our diseases ; 
 who redeemeth our life from destruction, who crowneth 
 us with loving kindness and tender mercies, and who 
 satisfieth owr mouth with good things, so that our youth 
 
 is EENEWED LIKE THE EAGLE'S 1 '" 
 3* 
 
58 THE eagle's nest. 
 
 LEOTUEE IV. 
 
 THE POWER OF MODESTY IN SCIENCE AND AKT. 
 
 17C/4 February, 1872. 
 
 65. I believe, gentlemen, that some of you must have 
 been surprised. — and, if I succeeded in making my 
 last lecture clearly intelligible, many ought to have 
 been surprised, — at the limitations I asked you to admit 
 with respect to the idea of science, and the position 
 which I asked you to assign to it. We are so much, 
 by the chances of our time, accustomed, to think of 
 science as a process of discovery, that I am sure some 
 of you must have been gravely disconcerted by - my 
 requesting, and will to-day be more disconcerted by my 
 firmly recommending, you to use the word, and reserve 
 the thought, of science, for the acquaintance with things 
 long since discovered, and established as true. We have 
 the misfortune to live in an epoch of transition from; 
 irrational dulnes3 to irrational excitement; and while 
 once it was the highest courage of science to question 
 anything, it is now an agony to her to leave anything 
 unquestioned. So that, unawares, we come to measure 
 the dignity of a scientific person by the newness of his 
 
the eagle's nest. 59 
 
 assertions, and the dexterity of his methods in debate ; 
 entirely forgetting that science cannot become perfect, 
 as an occupation of intellect, while anything remains 
 to be discovered ; nor wholesome as an instrument of 
 education, while anything is permitted to be debated. 
 
 66. It appears, doubtless, a vain idea to yon that an 
 end should ever be put to discovery ; but remember, 
 such impossibility merely signifies that mortal science 
 must remain imperfect. Nevertheless, in many direc- 
 tions, the limit to practically useful discovery is rapidly 
 being approached; and you, as students, would do well 
 to suppose that it has been already attained. To take 
 the science of ornithology, for instance : I suppose you 
 would have very little hope of shooting a .bird in Eng- 
 land, which should be strange to any master of the 
 science, or of shooting one anywhere, which would not 
 fall under some species already described. And al- 
 though at the risk of life, and by the devotion of many 
 years to observation, some of you- might hope to bring 
 home to our museum a titmouse with a spot on its tail 
 which had never before been seen, I strongly advise you 
 not to allow your studies to be disturbed by so dazzling 
 a hope, nor your life exclusively devoted even to so 
 important an object. In astronomy, the fields of the 
 sky have not yet, indeed, been ransacked by the most 
 costly instruments ; and it may be in store for some of 
 you to announce the existence, or even to analyze the 
 materials, of some luminous point which may be seen 
 
60 THE EAGLE'S NEST. 
 
 two ir three times in the course of a century, by any one 
 who will journey to India for the purpose; and, when 
 there, is favoured by the weather. But, for all practical 
 purposes, the stars already named and numbered are as 
 many as we require to hear of; and if you thoroughly 
 know the visible motions, and clearly conceive the known 
 relations, even of those which can be seen by the naked 
 eye, you will have as much astronomy as is necessary, 
 either for the occupation of thought, or the direction of 
 navigation. 
 
 67. But, if you were discontented with the limit 1 
 proposed for your sciences, much more, I imagine, you 
 were doubtful of the ranks I assigned to them. It 
 is not, I know, in your modern system, the general 
 practice to put chemistry, the science of atoms, lowesti 
 and theology, the science of Deity, highest : nay, many 
 of us have ceased to think of theology as a science at 
 all, but rather as a speculative pursuit, in subject, 
 separate from scien«e ; and in temper, opposed to 
 her. 
 
 Yet it can scarcely be necessary for me to point out to 
 you, in so many terms, that what we call theology, if true, 
 is a science ; and if false, is not theology ; or that the 
 distinction even between natural science and theology is 
 illogical ; for you might distinguish indeed between natu- 
 ral and unnatural science, but not between natural and 
 spiritual, unless you had determined first that a spirit had 
 no nature. You will find the facts to be, that entirely 
 
THE EAGLE'S NEST. 61 
 
 true knowledge .is both possible and necessary— first of 
 facts relating to matter, and then of the forces and pas- 
 sions that act on or in matter ; — that, of all these forces, 
 the noblest we can know is the energy which either 
 imagines, or perceives, the existence of a living power 
 greater than its own ; and that the study of the relations 
 which exist between this energy, and the resultant action 
 of men, are as much subjects of pure science as the curve 
 of a projectile. The effect, for instance, upon your tem- 
 per, intellect, and conduct during the day, of your going 
 to chapel with or without belief in the efficacy of prayer, 
 is just as much a subject of definite science, as the effect 
 of your breakfast on the coats of your stomach. Which 
 is the higher knowledge, I have, with confidence, told 
 you ; and am not afraid of any test to which you may 
 submit my assertion. 
 
 68. Assuming such limitation, then, and such rank, for 
 our knowledge ; assuming, also, what I have now, perhaps 
 to your weariness, told you, that graphic art is the shadow, 
 or image, of knowledge, — I wish to point out to you to- 
 day the function, with respect to both, of the virtue called 
 by the Greeks ' o-axppoavvr),' 1 ' saf eness of mind,' corre- 
 sponding to the ' salus ' or ' sanitas ' mentis, of the Latins ; 
 ' health of heart ' is, perhaps, the best English ; if we 
 receive the words ' mens,' ' fiTJvis,' or ' ^p^v,' as expressing 
 the passionate soul of the human being, distinguished 
 from the intellectual ; the ' mens sana ' being possible to 
 all of us, though the contemplative range of the higher 
 
62 the eagle's nest. 
 
 wisdom may be above our capacities ; so that to each ol 
 us Heaven only permits the ambition of being o-ofyos, but 
 commands the resolution to be o-(o<j>pmv. 
 
 69. And, -without discussing the use of the word by 
 different writers, I will tell you that the clearest •and 
 safest idea of the mental state itself is to be gained from 
 the representations of it by the words of ancient Christian 
 religion, and even from what you may think its supersti- 
 tions. Without any discussion also as to the personal 
 existence or traditional character of evil spirits, you will 
 find it a practical fact, that external temptations and 
 inevitable trials of temper, have power against you which 
 yoxir health and virtue depend on your resisting ; that, if 
 not resisted, the evil energy of them will pass into your 
 own heart, (pptfv, or /t^w? ; and that the ordinary and vul- 
 garized phrase " the Devil, or betraying Spirit, is in him" 
 is the most scientifically accurate which you can apply to 
 any person so influenced. Tou will find also that, in the 
 compass of literature, the casting out of, or cleansing 
 from, such a state is best symbolized for you by the image 
 of one who had been wandering wild and naked among 
 tombs, sitting still, clothed, and in his right mind, and 
 that in whatever literal or figurative sense you receive 
 the Biblical statement of what followed, this is absolutely 
 certain, that the herd of swine hastening to their destruc- 
 tion, in perfect sympathy with each other's fury, is the 
 most accurate symbol ever given, in literature, of consum- 
 mate human a<j>po<rvvr). 
 
 * * * * 
 
THE EAGLE'S NEST. GE 
 
 (The conditions of insanity,* delighting in scenes of 
 death, which affect at the present time the arts of revolu- 
 tionary Europe, were illustrated in the sequel of this 
 lecture : but I neither choose to take any permanent 
 notice of the examples I referred to, nor to publish any 
 part of what I said, until I can enter more perfectly into 
 the analysis of the elements of evil passion which always 
 distorted and polluted even the highest arts of Greek and 
 Cliristian loyal religion ; and now occupy in deadly en- 
 tireness, the chambers of imagination, devastated, and left 
 desolate of joy, by impiety, and disobedience. 
 
 In relation to the gloom of gray colour characteristic 
 especially of the modern French revolutionary school, I 
 entered into some examination of the conditions of real 
 temperance and reserve in colour, showing that it con- 
 sisted not in refusing colour, but in governing it; and 
 that the most pure and bright colours might be thus per- 
 fectly governed, while the most dull were probably also 
 the most violent and intemperate. But it would be use- 
 less to print this part of the lecture without the colour- 
 illustrations used. 
 
 Passing to the consideration of intemperance and im- 
 modesty in the choice even of landscape subjects, I 
 referred thus, for contrast, to the quietude of Turner's 
 " Greta and Tees.") 
 
 70. If you wish to feel the reserve of this drawing, 
 
 * I use this word always meaning it to be understood literally, ana 
 in its full force. 
 
64 the eagle's nest. 
 
 look, first, into the shops, at their display of common 
 chromo-lithotints ; see how they are 'made up of Matter- 
 horns, Monte Eosas, blue glaciers, green lakes, white 
 towers, magnificent banditti, romantic peasantry, or al- 
 ways-successful sportsmen or fishermen in Highland cos- 
 tume ; and then see what Turner is content with. Kb 
 Matterhorns are needful, or even particularly pleasing to 
 him. A bank, some eight or ten feet high, of Yorkshire 
 shale is enough. He would not thank you for giving him 
 all the giant forests of California; — would not be so much 
 interested in them, nor half so happy among them, as he 
 is here with a switch of oak sapling, which the Greta has 
 pulled down among the stones, and teased awhile, and 
 which, now that the water is lower, tries to get up again, 
 out of its way. 
 
 He does not want any towers or towns. Here you are 
 to be contented with three square windows of a country 
 gentleman's house. He does not want resplendent ban- 
 ditti. Behold ! here is a brown cow and a white one : 
 what would you have more ? And this scarcely-falling 
 rapid of the Tees — here pausing to circle round a pool, 
 and there laughing as it trips over a ledge of rock, six 
 or - seven inches high, is more to him — infinitely more — 
 than would be the whole colossal drainage of Lake 
 Erie into Lake Ontario, which Carlyle has justly taken 
 for a type of the Niagara of our national precipitous 
 a<f>po<rvvr]. 
 
 71. I need not point out to you the true temperance of 
 
65 
 
 colour in this drawing — how slightly green the trees are, 
 how softly blue the sky. 
 
 Now I put a chromo-lithotint beside it. 
 
 Well, why is that good, this bad ? Simply because if 
 you think, and work, and discipline yourselves nobly, you 
 will come to like the Greta and Tees ; if not, you will 
 come to like this. The one is what a strong man likes ; 
 the other what a weak one likes : that is modest, full of 
 true aiSox;, noble restraint, noble reverence ; — this has no 
 aiSa>i, no fear, no measure : — not even purpose, except, by 
 accumulation of whatever it can see or snatch, to move 
 the vile apathy of the public a<f>poavvrj into sensation. 
 
 72. The apathy of afypaavvi} — -note the expression ! 
 You might think that it was o-axfrpoa-vvr), which was 
 apathetic, and that intemperance was full of passion. 
 No ; the exact contrary is the fact. It is death in our- 
 selves which seeks the exaggerated external stimulus. I 
 must return for a moment to the art of modern France. 
 
 The most complete rest and refreshment I can get, 
 when I am overworked, in London (for if I try to rest in 
 the fields, I find them turned into villas in the course of 
 the week before), is in seeing a French play. But the 
 French act so perfectly that I am obliged to make sure 
 beforehand that all is to end well, or it is as bad as being 
 helplessly present at some real misery. 
 
 I was beguiled the other day, by seeing it announced a? 
 a " Comedie," into going to see " Frou-Frou? Most of 
 you probably know that the three first of its five acts are 
 
66 the eagle's nest. 
 
 comedy, or at least playful drama, and that it plunges 
 down, in the two last, to the sorrowfullest catastrophe' of 
 all conceivable — though too frequent in daily life — in 
 which irretrievable grief is brought about by the passion 
 of a moment, and the ruin of alb that she loves, caused by 
 the heroic error of an entirely good and unselfish person. 
 The sight of it made me thoroughly ill, and I was not 
 myself again for a week. 
 
 But, some time afterwards, I was speaking of it to a 
 lady who knew French character well ; and asked her 
 how it was possible for a people so quick in feeling to 
 endure the action before them of a sorrow so poignant. 
 She said, " It is because they have not sympathy enough : 
 they are interested only by the external scene, and are, 
 in truth, at present, dull, not quick in feeling. My own 
 French maid went the other evening to see that very play: 
 when she came home, and 1 asked her what she thought 
 of it, she said ' it was charming, and she had amused her- 
 self immensely.' ' Amused ! but is not the story veiy 
 sad % ' ' Oh, yes, mademoiselle, it is bieu triste, but it is 
 charming ; and then, how pretty Frou-Frou looks in 
 her silk dress ! ' " 
 
 73. Gentlemen, the French maid's mode of regarding 
 the tragedy is, if you think of it, a most true image of 
 the way in which fashionable society regards the world- 
 suffering, in the midst of which, so long as it can amuse 
 itself, all seems to it well. If the ball-room is bright, and 
 the dresses pretty, what matter how much horror is bo- 
 
the eagle's nest. 67 
 
 ■neath or around? Nay, this apathy checks us in our 
 highest spheres of thought, and chills our most solemn 
 purposes. You know that I never join in the common 
 outcries against Eitualism; yet it is too painfully manifest 
 to me that the English Church itself has withdrawn her eyes, 
 from the tragedy of all churches, to perk herself up anew 
 with casement and vestment, and say of herself, com- 
 placently, in her sacred troiKiXia, " How pretty Frou-Frou 
 is, in her silk dress ! " 
 
 74. We recognize, however, without difficulty, the peril 
 of insatiableness and immodesty in the pleasures of Art. 
 Less recognized, but therefore more perilous, the insati- 
 ableness and immodesty of Science tempt us through our 
 very virtues. The fatallest furies of scientific iKppoa-vvrj 
 are consistent with the most noble powers of self-restraint 
 and self-sacrifice. It is not the lower passions, but the 
 loftier hopes and most honourable desires which become 
 deadliest when the charm of them is exalted by the vanity 
 of science. The patience of the wisest of Greek heroes 
 never fails, when the trial is by danger or pain ; but do 
 you recollect that before his trial by the song of the 
 Sirens, the sea becomes calm ? And in the few words 
 which Homer has told you of their song, you have not 
 perhaps yet with enough care observed that the form of 
 temptation is precisely that to which a man victorious 
 orer every fleshly trial would be likely to yield. The 
 promise is not that his body shall be gratified, but that 
 his soul shall rise into rapture; he is not urged, as by the 
 
'68 THE EAGLE'S NEST. 
 
 subtlety of Comus, to disdain the precepts of wisdom, but , 
 invited, on the contrary, to learn, — as you are all now in- 
 vited by the afypoavvt] of your age, — better wisdom from 
 the wise. 
 
 "For we knoAV all" (they say) "that was done in Troy 
 according to the will of the gods, and we know every- 
 thing that is upon the all-nourishing earth." 
 
 All heavenly and earthly knowledge, you see. I will 
 read you Pope's expansion of the verses ; for Pope never 
 alters idly, but always illustrates when he expands. 
 
 " Oh stay, oh pride of Greece I 
 
 (You hear, they begin by flattery). 
 
 Ulysses, stay, 
 Oh cease thy course, and listen to our lay, 
 Blest is the man ordained our voice to hear, 
 The song instructs the soul, and charms the ear, 
 Approach 1 Thy soul shall into raptures rise ; 
 Approach ! and learn new wisdom from the wise. 
 We know whate'er the kings of mighty name 
 Achieved at Ilion in the field of Fame, 
 Whate'er beneath the Sun's bright journey lies, 
 Oh, stay, and learn new wisdom from the wise." 
 
 Is it not singular that so long ago the danger of this 
 novelty of wisdom should have been completely discerned? 
 Is it not stranger still that three thousand years have 
 passed by, and we have not yet been able to learn the 
 lesson, but are still eager to add to our knowledge, rather 
 than to use it ; and everv day more passionate in discover- 
 
TEE EAGLE'S NEST. C9 
 
 ing, — more violent in competition, — are every day morn 
 cold in admiration, and more dull in reverence.. 
 
 75. But, gentlemen, Homer's Ulysses, bound to the mast, 
 survives. Dante's Ulysses is bound to the mast in another 
 fashion. He, notwithstanding the protection of Athena, 
 and after all his victories over fate, is still restless under 
 the temptation to seek new wisdom. He goes forth past 
 the pillars of Hercules, cheers his crew amidst the uncom- 
 passed solitudes of the Atlantic, and perishes in sudden 
 Charybdis of the infinite sea. In hell, the restless flame 
 ic which he is wrapt continually, among the advisers of 
 evil, is seen, from the rocks above, like the firefly's flitting 
 to and fro ; and the waving garment of torture, which 
 quivers as he speaks, and aspires as he moves, condemns 
 him to be led in eternal temptation, and to be delivered 
 from e^il never more. 
 
70 THE EAGLE'S NEST. 
 
 LECTDKE V. 
 
 THE POWEK OF CONTENTMENT IN SCIENCE AND ART. 
 
 22nd February, 1872. 
 
 76. I must ask you, in order to make these lectures of 
 any permanent use, to be careful in keeping note of the 
 main conclusion at which we arrive in the course of each, 
 and of the sequence of such results. In the first, I tried 
 to show you that Art was only wise, when unselfish in her 
 labour ; in the second, that Science was only wise when 
 unselfish in her statement ; in the third, that wise Art was 
 the shadow, or visible reflection, of wise Science ; and in 
 the fourth, that all these conditions of good must be pur- 
 sued temperately and peacefully. I have now farther to 
 tell you that they must be pursued independently. 
 
 77. You have not often heard me use that word " inde- 
 pendence." And, in the sense in which of late it has 
 been accepted, you have never heard me use it but with 
 contempt. For the true strength of every human soul ia 
 to be dependent on as many nobler as it can discern, and 
 to be depended upon, by as many inferior as it can 
 reach. 
 
THE EAGLE'S NEST. 71 
 
 But to-day I use the word in a widely different sense. 
 I think you must have felt, in what amplification I was 
 able to give you of the idea of "Wisdom as an unselfish in- 
 fluence in Art and Science, how the highest skill and 
 knowledge were founded in human tenderness, and that 
 the kindly Art-wisdom which rejoices in the habitable 
 parts of the earth, is only another form of the lofty 
 Scientific charity, which ' rejoices in the truth.' And as 
 the first order of Wisdom is to know thyself — though the 
 least creature that can be known — so the first order of 
 Charity is to be sufficient for thyself, though the least 
 creature that can be sufficed; and thus contented and 
 appeased, to be girded and strong for the ministry to 
 others. If sufficient to thy day is the evil thereof, how 
 much more should be the good ! 
 
 78. 1 have asked you to recollect one aphorism respect- 
 ing Science, one respecting Art ; let me — and I will ask 
 no more at this time of asking — press you to learn, 
 farther, by heart, those lines of the Song of the Sirens : 
 six lines of Homer, I trust, will not be a weariness to 
 you:— 
 
 ov yap 7T& tiq TySe irapfjTiaae vrfi ^ie\aiv% 
 
 npiv y' tffieav fiMyrtpw airb OTo/mTorv mr* dicoiaai • 
 
 aXK bye Tepipa/ievog veirai, Kai vXelova eldag. 
 
 l&fizv yap toi 7ca,v&\ b(f evl Tpoii) evpeiij , 
 
 'Apyeldi Tpaig re. defi/v Urrfri fibyrjcav • 
 
 td/iev (T, oaaa yivtirai km x$ovl •KovtoifioTtlpi). 
 
 "No one ever rowed past this way in his black ship, 
 
72 the eagle's nest. 
 
 before he had listened to the honey-sweet singing of our 
 lips. But he stays pleased, though he may know much. 
 For we know all things which the Greeks and Trojana 
 did in the wide Trojan plain, by the will of the gods, and 
 we know what things take place in the much nourishing 
 earth." And this, remember, is absolutely true. No 
 man ever went past in the black ship ; obeying the grave 
 and sad law of life by which it is appointed for mortals to 
 be victors on the ocean, but he was tempted, as he drew 
 near that deadly island, wise as he might be, (ical ifKekva 
 ei8a>?), — by the voices of those who told him that they 
 knew everything which had been done by the will of 
 God, and everything which took place in earth for the 
 service of man. 
 
 79. Now observe those two great temptations. You are 
 to know everything that has been done by the will of 
 God : and to know everything that is vital in the earth. 
 And try to realize to yourselves, for a little while, the 
 way in which these two siren promises have hitherto 
 troubled the paths of men. Think of the books that have 
 been written in false explanation of Divine Providence '. 
 think of the efforts that have been made to show that the 
 particular conduct which we approve in others, or wish 
 ourselves to follow, is according to the will of God, 
 Think what ghastly convulsions in thought, and vilenesses 
 in action, have been fallen into by the sects which thought 
 they had adopted, for their patronage, the perfect pur- 
 poses of Heaven. Think of the 'am research, the wasted 
 
the ejgle's nest. 73 
 
 centuries of those who have tried to penetrate the secrets 
 of life, or of its support. The elixir vitae, the philoso- 
 pher's stone, the germ-cells in meteoric iron, ' iirt ^flow 
 ^J^ovXv/3oTeipr}. , Bat at this day, when we have loosed the 
 last band from the masts of the black ship, and when, 
 instead of plying every oar to escape, as the crew of 
 Ilcmer's Ulysses, we row like the crew of Dante's 
 Ulysses, and of our oars make wings for our foolish 
 flight, 
 
 E , volta nostra poppe nel mattino 
 De' remi f acemmo ale al folle volo — 
 
 the song of the sirens becomes fatal as never yet it has 
 been in time. We think ourselves privileged, first among 
 'men, to know the secrets of Heaven, and fulfil the 
 economy of earth ; and the result is, that of all the races 
 that yet have been put to shame by their false wisdom or 
 false art, — which have given their labour for that which 
 is not bread, and their strength for that which satisfieth 
 not, — we have most madly abandoned the charity which 
 is for itself sufficing, and for others serviceable, and have 
 become of all creatures the most insufficient to ourselves, 
 and the most malignant to our neighbours. Granted a 
 given degree of knowledge — granted the ' ical TfXeiova 
 et'Sta?' in science, in art, and in literature, — and the 
 present relations of feeling between France and Ger- 
 many, between England and America, are the most hor- 
 rible at once in their stupidity and malignity, that have 
 
74 THE EAGLE'S NEST. 
 
 ever taken place on the globe we inhabit, even though all 
 of its great histories are of sin, and all its great songs, 
 of death. 
 
 80. Gentlemen, I pray you very solemnly to put that 
 idea of knowing all things in Heaven and Earth out of 
 your hearts and heads. It is very little that we cau ever 
 know, either of the ways of Providence, or the laws of 
 existence. But that little is enough, and exactly enough: 
 to strive for more than that little is evil for us ; and be 
 assured that beyond the need of our - narrow being,— be- 
 yond the range of the kingdom over which it is ordained 
 for each of us to rule in serene airdpiceia and self-posses- 
 sion, he that inereaseth toil, increaseth folly ; and he that 
 increaseth knowledge, increaseth sorrow. 
 
 81. My endeavour, therefore, to-day will be to point out 
 to you how in the best wisdom, that there may be happy 
 advance, there must first be happy contentment; that,' in 
 one sense, we must always be entering its kingdom as a 
 little child, and pleased yet for a time not to put away 
 childish things. And while 1 hitherto have endeavoured 
 only to show how modesty and gentleness of disposition 
 purified Art and Science, by permitting ns to recognize 
 the superiority of the work of others to our own — to-day, 
 on the contrary, I wish to indicate for yon the uses of 
 infantile self-satisfaction ; and to show you that it is by 
 no error or excess in our nature, by no corruption or dis- 
 tortion of our being, that we are disposed to- take delight 
 in the little things that we can do ourselves, more than in 
 
THE EAGLE'S NEST. '75 
 
 the great tilings done by other people. So only that we 
 recognize the littleness and the greatness, it is as much a 
 part of true Temperance to be pleased with the little that 
 we know, and the little that we can do, as with the little 
 that we have. On the one side Indolence, on the other 
 Covetousness, are as much to be blamed, with respect to 
 our Arts, as our possessions-; and every man is intended 
 to find an exquisite personal happiness in his own small 
 skill, just as he is intended to find happiness in his own 
 small house or garden, while he respects, without covet- 
 ing, the grandeur of larger domains. 
 
 82. Nay, more than this : by the wisdom of Nature, it 
 has been appointed that more pleasure may be taken in 
 small things than in great, and more in rude Art than in 
 the finest. "Were it otherwise, we might be disposed to 
 complain of the narrow limits which have been set to the 
 perfection of human skill. 
 
 I pointed out to you, in a former lecture, that the ex- 
 cellence of sculpture had been confined in past time to 
 the Athenian and Etrurian vales. The absolute excel- 
 lence of painting has been reached only by the inhabitants 
 of a single city in the whole world ; and the f autless man- 
 ner of religious architecture holds only for a period of 
 .fifty years out of six thousand. We are at present tor- 
 menting ourselves with the vain effort to teach men every- 
 where to rival Venice and Athens, — with the practical 
 result of having lost the enjoyment of Art altogether ; — 
 instead of being content to amuse ourselves still with the 
 
76 the eagle's nest. 
 
 painting and carving which were possible once, and would 
 be pleasant always, in Paris, and London, at Strasbourg, 
 and at York. 
 
 I do not doubt that you are greatly startled at my say- 
 ing that greater pleasure is to be received from inferior 
 Art than from the finest. But what do you suppose 
 makes all men look back to the time of childhood with 
 so much regret, (if their childhood has been, in any 
 moderate degree, healthy or peaceful) ? That rich charm, 
 which the least possession had for us, was in consequence 
 of the poorness of our treasures. That miraculous aspect 
 of the nature around us, was because we had seen little, 
 and knew less. Every increased possession loads us with 
 a new weariness ; every piece of new knowledge dimin- 
 ishes the faculty of admiration ; and Death is at last ap- 
 . pointed to take us from a scene in which, if we were 
 to stay longer, no gift could satisfy us, and no miracle 
 surprise. 
 
 83. Little as I myself know, or can do, as compared 
 with any man of essential power, my life has chanced to 
 be one of gradual progress in the things which I began in 
 childish choice ; so that I can measure with almost mathe- 
 matical exactitude the degree of feeling with which less 
 and greater degrees of wealth or skill affect my mind. 
 
 I well remember the delight with which, when I was 
 beginning mineralogy, I received from a friend, who had 
 made a voyage to Peru, a little bit of limestone about the 
 size of a hazel nut, with a small film of native silver ad- 
 
77 
 
 hering to its surface. I was never weary of contemplat- 
 ing my treasure, and could not have felt myself richer 
 had I been master of the mines ef Oopiapo. 
 
 I am now about to use as models for your rock draw- 
 ing stones which my year's income, when I was a boy, 
 would not have bought. But I have long ceased to take 
 any pleasure in their possession ; and am only thinking, 
 now, to whom else they can be of use, since they can be 
 of no more to me. 
 
 84. But the loss of pleasure to me caused by advance 
 in knowledge of drawing has been far greater than that 
 induced by my riches in minerals. 
 
 I have placed, in your reference series, one or two 
 drawings of architecture, made when I was a youth of 
 twenty, with perfect ease to myself, and some pleasure tc 
 other people. A day spent in sketching then brought 
 with it no weariuess, and infinite complacency. I know 
 better- now what drawing should be ; the effort to do my 
 work rightly fatigues me in an hour, and I never care 
 to look at it again from that day forward. 
 
 85. It is true that men of great and real power do the 
 best things with comparative ease; but you will never 
 hear them express the complacency which simple persons 
 feel in partial success. There is nothing to be regretted 
 in this ; it is appointed for all men to enjoy, but for few 
 to achieve. ^ 
 
 And do not think that I am wasting your time in dwell- 
 ing on these simple moralities. From the facts I have 
 
78 the eagle's nest. 
 
 been stating we must derive this great principle foi all 
 effort. That we must endeavour to do, not what is abso- 
 lutely best, but what is easily within our power, and 
 adapted to our temper and condition. 
 
 86. In your educational series is a lithographic draw- 
 ing, by Prout, of an old house in Strasbourg. The 
 carvings of its woodwork are in a style altogether pro- 
 vincial, yet of which the origin is very distant. The 
 delicate Renaissance architecture of Italy was affected, 
 even in its finest periods, by a tendency to throw out 
 convex masses at the bases of its pillars ; the wood-carvers 
 of the 16th century adopted this bulged form as their first 
 element of ornamentation, and these windows of Stras- 
 bourg are only imitations by the German peasantry of 
 what, in its finest type, you must seek as far away as the 
 Duomo of Bergamo. 
 
 But the burgher, or peasant, of Alsace enjoyed his rude 
 imitation, adapted, as it was, boldly and frankly to the 
 size of his house and the grain of the larch logs of which 
 he built it, infinitely more than the refined Italian enjoyed 
 the floral luxuriance of his marble : and all the treasurea 
 of a great exhibition coiild not have given him the tenth 
 part of the exultation with which he saw the gable of hia 
 roof completed over its jutting fret-work; and wrote 
 among the rude intricacies of its sculpture, in flourished 
 black letter, that " He and his wife had built their house 
 with God's help, and prayed Him to let them live long in 
 it, — they, and their children." 
 
79 
 
 87. But it is not only the rustic method of architecture 
 which I wish you to note in this plate ; it is the rustic 
 method of drawing also. The manner in which these 
 blunt timber carvings are drawn by Prout is just as pro- 
 vincial as the carvings themselves. Born in a far-away 
 district of England, and learning to. draw, unhelped, with 
 fishing-boats for his models ; making his way instinctively 
 until he had command of his pencil enough to secure a 
 small income by lithographic drawing ; and finding pic- 
 turesque character in buildings from which all the finest 
 lines of their carving had been effaced by time ; — possess- 
 ing also an instinct in the expression of such subjects so 
 peculiar as to win for him a satisfying popularity, and, far 
 better, to enable him to derive perpetual pleasure in . the 
 seclusion of country hamlets, and the quiet streets of 
 deserted cities, — Prout had never any motive to acquaint 
 himself with the refinements, or contend with the difficul- 
 ties, of a more accomplished art. So far from this, his 
 manner of work was, by its very imperfection, in the most 
 perfect sympathy with the subjects he enjoyed. The 
 broad chalk touches in which he has represented to us this 
 house at Strasbourg are entirely sufficient to give true 
 idea of its effect. To have drawn its ornaments with the 
 subtlety of Leonardesque delineation would only have ex- 
 posed their faults, and mocked their rusticity. The draw- 
 iug would have become painful to yon from the sense of 
 the time which it had taken to represent what was 
 not worth the labour, and to direct your attention to what 
 
80 THE EAGLE S NEST. 
 
 could only, if closely examined, be matter of offence. 
 But here you Lave a simple and provincial draughtsman 
 happily and adequately expressing a simple and pro- 
 vincial architecture ; nor could either builder or painter 
 have become wiser, but to their loss. 
 
 88. Is it then, you will ask me, seriously to be recom- 
 mended, and, however recommendable, is it possible, that 
 men should remain contented with attainments which they 
 know to be imperfect ? and that now, as in former times, 
 large districts of country, and generations of men, should 
 be enriched or amused by the products of a clumsy igno- 
 rance ? I do not know how far it is possible, but J know 
 that wherever you desire to have true art, it is necessary. 
 Ignorance, which is contented and clumsy, will produce 
 what is imperfect, but not offensive. But ignorance dis- 
 contented, and dexterous, learning what it cannot under- 
 stand, and imitating what it cannot enjoy, produces the 
 most loathsome forms of manufacture that can disgrace 
 or mislead humanity. Some years since, as I was looking 
 through the modern gallery at the quiet provincial Ger 
 man School of Diisseldorf, I was fain to leave all then 
 epic and religious designs, that I might stay long before 
 a little painting of a shepherd boy carving his dog out of 
 a bit of deal. The dog was sitting by, with the satisfied 
 and dignified air of a personage about for the first time ir, 
 his life to be worthily represented in sculpture ; and his 
 master was evidently succeeding to his mind in express- 
 ing the features of his friend. The little scene was one 
 
THE EAGLE'S NEST. 81 
 
 which, as you know, must take place continually among 
 the cottage artists who supply the toys of Nuremberg and 
 Berne. Happy, these! so long as, undisturbed by ambi- 
 tion, they spend their leisure time in work pretending 
 only to amuse, yet capable, in its own way, of showing 
 accomplished dexterity, and vivid perception of nature. 
 We, in the hope of doing great things, have surrounded 
 our workmen with Italian models, and tempted them with 
 prizes into competitive mimicry of all that is best, or that 
 we imagine to be best, in the work of every people under 
 the sun. And the result of our instruction is only that 
 we are able to produee, : — I am now quoting the statement 
 I made last May, "the most perfectly and roundly ill- 
 done things" that ever came from human hands. I 
 should thankfully put upon my chimney-piece the wooden 
 dog cut by the shepherd boy : but I should be willing to 
 forfeit a large sum, rather than keep in my room the 
 number 1 of the Kensington Museum — thus described in 
 its catalogue — " Statue in black and white marble, of a 
 Newfoundland dog standing on a serpent, which rests on 
 a marble cushion ; — the pedestal ornamented with Pietra 
 Dura fruits in relief." 
 
 89. Ton will, however, I fear, imagine me indulging 
 in my usual paradox, when I assure you that all the efforts 
 we have been making to surround ourselves with hetero- 
 geneous means of instruction, will have the exactly reverse 
 effect from that which we intend; — and that, whereas 
 
 formerly we were able only to do a little well, we are 
 4* 
 
82 
 
 qualifying ourselves now to do everything ill. Nor is the 
 result confined to our workmen only. The introduction 
 of French dexterity and of German erudition has been 
 harmful chiefly to our most accomplished artists — and in 
 the last Exhibition of our Royal Academy there was, I 
 think, no exception to the manifest fact that every painter 
 of reputation painted worse than he did ten years ago. 
 
 90. Admitting, however, (not that I suppose you will at 
 once admit, but for the sake of argument, supposing,) that 
 this is true ? what, we have farther to ask, can be done to 
 discourage ourselves from calamitous emulation, and with? 
 draw our workmen from the sight of what . is too good to 
 be of use to them. 
 
 But this question is not one which can be determined 
 by the needs, or limited to the circumstances of Art. To 
 live generally more modest and contented lives ; to win 
 the greatest possible pleasure from the smallest things ; to 
 do what is likely to be serviceable to our immediate 
 neighbours, whether it seem to them admirable or not; to 
 make no pretence of admiring what has really no hold 
 upon our hearts ; and to be resolute in refusing all addi- 
 tions to our learning, until we have perfectly arranged 
 and secured what learning we have got ; — these are con- 
 ditions, and laws, of unquestionable ao^ia and amj>poaivr), 
 which will indeed lead us up to fine art if we are resolved 
 to have it fine; but will also do what is much better, 
 make rude art precious. 
 
 91. It is not, however, by any means necessary that 
 
the eagle's nest. 83 
 
 provincial art should be rude, though it 'may be singular. 
 Often it is no less delicate than quaint, and no less refined 
 in grace than original .in character. This is likely always 
 to take place when a people of naturally fine artistic tem- 
 per work with the respect which, as I endeavoured to 
 show yon in a former lecture, ought always to be paid to 
 local material and circumstance. 
 
 I have placed in yonr educational series the photograph 
 of the door of a wooden house in Abbeville, and of the 
 winding stair above ; both so exquisitely sculptured that 
 the real vine-leaves which had wreathed themselves about 
 their pillars, cannot, in the photograph, be at once dis- 
 cerned from the carved^ foliage. The latter, quite as 
 graceful, can only be known for art by its quaint setting. 
 
 Yet this school of sculpture is altogether provincial. It 
 could only have risen in a richly-wooded chalk country, 
 where the sapling trees beside the brooks gave example to 
 the workmen of the most intricate tracery, and the Avhite 
 cliffs above the meadows furnished docile material to his 
 hand. 
 
 92. I have now, to my sorrow, learned to despise the 
 elaborate intricacy, and the playful realizations, of the 
 Norman designers ; and can only be satisfied by the re- 
 served and proud imagination of the master schools. But 
 the utmost pleasure I now take in these is almost as noth- 
 ing, compared to the joy I used to have, when I knew no 
 better, in the fretted pinnacles of Roxien, and white lace, 
 rather than stone- work, of the chapels of lieu and Amboise: 
 
S4 THE EAGLE'S NEST. 
 
 Yet observe that the first condition of this realty 
 precious provincial work is its being the best that can be 
 done under the given circumstances ; and the second is, 
 that though provincial, it is not in the least frivolous or 
 ephemeral, but as definitely civic, or public, in design, 
 and as permanent in the manner of it, as the work of the 
 most learned academies : while its execution brought out 
 the energies of each little state, not necessarily in rival- 
 ship, but severally in the perfecting of styles which 
 Nature had rendered it impossible for their neighbours 
 to imitate. 
 
 93. This civic unity, and the feeling of the workman 
 that he is performing his part in a great scene which is to 
 endure for centuries, while yet, within the walls of his 
 city, it is to be a part of his own peculiar life, and to be 
 separate from all the world besides, developes, together, 
 whatever duty he acknowledges as a patriot, and whatever 
 complacency he feels as an artist. 
 
 We now build, in our villages, by the rules of the 
 Academy of London; and if there be a little original 
 vivacity or genius in any provincial workman, he is 
 almost sure to spend it in making a ridiculous toy. 
 Nothing is to me much more pathetic than the way that 
 our neglected workmen thus throw their lives away. ' As 
 I was walking the other day through the Crystal Palace, 
 I came upon a toy which had taken the leisure of five 
 years to make ; you dropped a penny into the chink of it, 
 and immediatelv a little brass steatn-eneine in the middle 
 
THE EAGLES NEST. 85 
 
 tarted into nervously hurried action ; some bell-ringera 
 mlled strings at the bottom of a church steeple which 
 lad no top ; two regiments of cavalry marched out from 
 he sides, and manoeuvred in the middle ; and two well- 
 Iressed persons in a kind of opera-box expressed their 
 atisfaction by approving gestures. 
 
 In old Ghent, or Bruges, or York, such a man as the 
 me who made this toy, with companions similarly minded, 
 vould have been taught how to employ himself, not to 
 heir less amusement, but to better purpose ; and in their 
 ive years of leisure hours they would have carved a flam- 
 >oyant crown for the belfry-tower, and would have put 
 himes into it that would have told the time miles away, 
 pith a pleasant tune for the hour, and a variation for the 
 [iiarters, and cost the passers-by in all the city and plain 
 tot so much as the dropping of a penny into a chink. 
 
 94. Do not doubt that I feel, as strongly as any of you 
 :an feel, the utter impossibility at present of restoring 
 •rovineial simplicity to our country towns. 
 
 My despondency respecting this, and nearly all other 
 aatters which I know to be necessary, is at least as great, 
 —it is certainly more painful to me, in the decline of life, 
 -than that which any of my younger hearers can feel. 
 3ut what I have to tell you of the unchanging principles 
 f nature, and of art, must not be affected by either hope 
 >r fear. And if I succeed in convincing you what these 
 >rinciples are, there are many practical consequences 
 diich you may deduce from them, if ever you find your- 
 
86 the eagle's nest. 
 
 selves, as young Englishmen are often likely to find them- 
 selves, in authority over foreign tribes of peculiar or 
 limited capacities. 
 
 Be assured that you can no more drag or compress men 
 into perfection than you can drag or compress plants. If 
 ever you find yourselves set in positions of authority, and 
 are entrusted to determine modes of education, ascertain 
 first what the people you would teach have been in the 
 habit of doing, and encourage them to do that better. 
 Set no other excellence before their eyes ; disturb none of 
 their reverence for the past; do not think yourselves 
 bound to dispel their ignorance, or to contradict their 
 superstitions; teach them only gentleness and truth;, 
 redeem them by example from habits which you know to 
 be unhealthy or degrading ; but cherish, above all things, 
 local associations, and hereditary skill. 
 
 It is the curse of so-called civilization to pretend to 
 originality by the wilful invention of new methods of 
 error, while it quenches wherever it has power, the noble 
 originality of nations, rising out of the purity of their 
 race, and the love of their native land. 
 
 95. I could say much more, but I think I have said 
 enough to justify for the present what you might other- 
 wise have thought singular in the methods I shall adopt 
 for your exercise in the drawing schools. I shall indeed 
 endeavour to write down for you the laws of the art 
 which is centrally best ; and to exhibit to you a certain 
 number of its unquestionable standards : but your own 
 
the eagle's nest. 87 
 
 actual practice shall be limited to objects which will 
 explain to you the meaning, and awaken you to the 
 beauty, of the art of your own country. 
 
 The first series of my lectures on sculpture must have 
 proved to you that I do not despise either the workman- 
 ship or the mythology of Greece ; but I must assert with 
 more distinctness than even in my earliest works, the 
 absolute unfitness of all its results to be made the guides 
 of English students or artists. 
 
 Every nation can, represent, with prudence, or success, 
 only the realities in which it delights. "What you have 
 with you, and before you, daily, dearest to your sight and 
 heart, that, by the magic of your hand, or of your lips, 
 you can gloriously express to others ; and what you ought 
 to have in your sight and heart, — what, if you have not, 
 nothing else can be truly seen or loved, — is the human 
 life of your own people, understood in its history, and 
 admired in its presence. 
 
 And unless that be first made beautiful, idealism must- 
 be false, and imagination monstrous. 
 
 It is your influence on the existing world which, in your 
 studies here, you ought . finally to consider ; and although 
 it is not, in that influence, my function to direct you, I 
 hope you will not be discontented to know that I shall ask 
 no effort from your art-genius, beyond the rational sugges- 
 tion of what we may one day hope to see actually realized 
 in England, in the sweetness of her landscape, and the 
 dignity of her people. 
 
88 THE EAGtE S NEST. 
 
 In connection with the subject of this lecture, I may 
 mention to you that I have received an interesting letter, 
 requesting me to assist in promoting some improvements 
 designed in the city of Oxford. 
 
 Bat as the entire charm and educational power of the 
 city of Oxford, so far as that educational power depended 
 on reverent associations, or on visible solemnities and 
 serenities of architecture, have been already destroyed; 
 and, as far as our own lives extend, destroyed, I may say, 
 for ever, by the manufacturing suburb which heaps its 
 ashes on one side, and the cheap-lodging suburb which 
 heaps its brick-bats on the other ; I am myself, either as 
 antiquary or artist, absolutely indifferent to what happens 
 next ; except on grounds respecting the possible health, 
 cleanliness, and decency which may yet be obtained for 
 the increasing population. 
 
 How far cleanliness and decency bear on art and 
 science, or on the changed functions of the university to 
 its crowd of modern students, I have partly to consider in 
 connection with the subject of my next lecture, and I will 
 reserve therefore any definite notice of these proposed 
 improvements in the city, until the next opoogi on f meet- 
 ing you 
 
the eagle's nest. 89 
 
 LECTUEE VI. 
 
 THE RELATION TO ART OF THE SCIENCE OF LIGHT. 
 2ith February, 1872. 
 
 96. I have now, perhaps to the exhaustion of your 
 patience, but you will find, not without real necessity, 
 defined the manner in which the mental tempers, ascer- 
 tained by philosophy to be evil or good, retard and 
 advance the parallel studies of science and art. 
 
 In this and the two next following lectures I shall 
 endeavour to state to you the literal modes in which the 
 virtues of art are connected with the principles of exact 
 science ; but now, remember, I am speaking, not of the 
 consummate science of which art is the image ; but only 
 of what science we have actually attained, which is often 
 little more than terminology (and even that uncertain), 
 with only a gleam of true science here and there. 
 
 I will not delay you by any defence of the arrangement 
 of sciences I have chosen. Of course we may at once dis- 
 miss chemistry and pure mathematics from our consider- 
 ation. Chemistry can do nothing for art but mix her 
 colours, and tell her what stones will stand weather ; (I 
 
90 THE EAGLE'S NEST 
 
 wish, at this day, she did as much ;) and with pure mathe 
 matics we have nothing whatever to do ; nor can that 
 abstract 'form of high mathesis stoop to comprehend the 
 simplicity of art. To a first wrangler at Cambridge, 
 tinder the present conditions of his trial, statues will 
 necessarily be stone dolls, and imaginative work unintel- 
 ligible. We have, then, in true fellowship with art, only 
 the sciences of light and form, (optics and geometry). If 
 you will take the first syllable of the word ' geometry ' to 
 mean earth in the form of flesh, as well as of clay, the two 
 words sum every science that regards graphic art, or of 
 which graphic, art can represent the conclusions. 
 
 97. To-clay we are to speak of optics, the science of 
 seeing ;— of that power, whatever it may be, which (by 
 Plato's definition), " through the eyes, manifests colour to 
 us." 
 
 Hold that definition always, and remember that ' light ' 
 means accurately the power that affects the eyes of ani- 
 mals with the sensation proper to them. The study of 
 the effect of light on nitrate of silver is chemistry, not 
 optics; and what is light to us may indeed shine on a 
 stone; but is not light to the stone. The "fiat lux "of 
 creation is, therefore, in the deep sense of it, "fiat 
 anima." 
 
 We cannot say that it is merely " fiat ocnlus," for the 
 effect of light on living organism, even when sightless,' 
 cannot bo separated from its influence on sight. A plant 
 consists essentially of two parts, root and leaf: the leaf hy 
 
THE EAGLE'S NEST. 91 
 
 nature seeks light, the root by nature seeks darkness : it is 
 not warmth or cold, but essentially light and shade, which 
 are to them, as to lis, the appointed conditions of existence. 
 
 98. And you are to remember still more distinctly that 
 the words " fiat lux " mean indeed " fiat anima," because 
 even the power of the eye itself, as such, is m its anima- 
 tion. You do not see with the lens of the eye. You see 
 through that, and by means of that, but you see with the 
 soul of the eye. 
 
 99. A great physiologist said to me the other day — it 
 was in the rashness of controversy, and ought not to be 
 remembered as a deliberate assertion, therefore I do not 
 give his name — still he did say — that sight was " altogether 
 mechanical." The words simply meant, if they meant 
 anything, that all his physiology had never taught him the 
 difference between eyes and telescopes. Sight is an abso- 
 lutely spiritual phenomenon ; accurately, and only, to be 
 so defined : and the " Let there be light," is as much, when 
 you understand it, the ordering of intelligence, as the 
 ordering of vision. It is the appointment of change of 
 what had been else only a mechanical effluence from 
 things unseen to things unseeing, — from stars that did not 
 shine to earth that could not perceive ; — the change, I say, 
 of that blind vibration into the glory of the sun and moon 
 for human eyes ; so rendering possible also the communi- 
 cation out of the unfathomable truth, of that portion of 
 truth which is good for us, and animating to us, and is set 
 to rule over the day and night of our joy and sorrow. 
 
92 the eagle's nest. 
 
 100. The sun was set thus ' to rule the day.' And of 
 late you have learned that he was set to rule everything 
 else that we know of. You have been taught that, by the 
 Syrens, as a piece of entirely new knowledge, much to be 
 exulted over. "We painters, indeed, have been for some 
 time acquainted with the general look of the sun, and long 
 before there were painters there were wise men, — Zoroas- 
 trian and other, — who had suspected that there was power 
 in the sun ; but the Sirens of yesterday have somewhat 
 new, it seems, to tell you of his authority, iirl ■xQovl 
 7rov\v/3oTeipy. I take a passage, almost at random, from a 
 recent' scientific work. 
 
 " Just as the phenomena of water-formed rocks all owe 
 their existence directly or indirectly chiefly to the sunk 
 energy, so also do the phenomena interwoven with life. 
 This has long been recognized by various eminent British 
 
 and foreign physicists ; and in 1854 Professor , in his 
 
 memoir on the method of palaeontology, asserted that 
 organisms were but ?na?iifestations of applied ^physics and . 
 applied chemistry. Professor puts the generaliza- 
 tions of physicists in a few words: when speaking of the 
 sun, it is remarked — ' He rears the whole vegetable world, 
 and through it the animal ; the lilies of the field are lib 
 workmanship, the verdure of the meadows, and the cattle 
 upon a thousand hills. He forms the muscle, he urges 
 the blood, he builds the brain. His fleetness is in the 
 lion's foot ; he springs in the panther, he soars in the 
 eagle, he slides in the snake. He builds the forest and 
 
the eagle's nest. 93 
 
 hews it down, the power which raised the tree and that 
 which wields the axe being one and the same.' " 
 
 All this is exceedingly true ; and it is new in one 
 respect, namely, in the ascertainment that the quantity of 
 solar force necessary to produce motive power is measur- 
 able, and, in its sum, unalterable. Foy the rest, it was 
 perfectly well known in Homer's time, as now, that 
 animals could not move till they were warm ; and the fact 
 that the warmth which enables them to do so is finally 
 traceable to the sun, would have appeared to a Greek 
 physiologist, no more interesting than, to a Greek poet, 
 would have been the no less certain fact, that "Tout ce 
 qui se peut dire de beau est dans les dictionnaires ; il n'y 
 a que les mots qui sont transposees " — Everything fine, 
 that can be said, is in the dictionaries ; it is only that the 
 words are transposed. 
 
 Yes, indeed ; but to the 77-04171-^9 the gist of the matter 
 is in the transposition. The sun does, as the delighted 
 physicist tells you, unquestionably " slide in the snake ; " 
 but how comes he to adopt that manner, we artists ask, of 
 (literally) transposition ? 
 
 101. The summer before last, as I was walking in the 
 woods near the Giesbach, on the Lake of Brientz, and 
 moving very quietly, I came suddenly on a small steel- 
 grey serpent, lying in the middle of the path ; and it was 
 greatly surprised to see me. Serpents, however, always 
 have complete command of their feelings, and it looked at 
 me for a quarter cf a minute without the slightest change 
 
94 
 
 of posture : then, with an almost imperceptible motion, it 
 began to withdraw itself beneath a cluster of leaves. 
 Without in the least hastening its action, it gradually con- 
 cealed the whole of its body. I was about to raise one of 
 the leaves, when I saw what I thought was the glance of 
 another serpent, in the thicket at the path side ; but it was 
 the same one, which, having once withdrawn itself from 
 observation beneath the leaves, used its utmost agility to 
 spring into the wood ; and with so instantaneous a flash of 
 motion, that I never saw it leave the covert, and only 
 caught the gleam of light as it glided away into the copse. 
 
 102. Now, it was to me a matter of supreme indiffer- 
 ence whether the force which the creature used in this 
 action was derived from the sun, the moon, or the gas- 
 works at Berne. "What was, indeed, a matter of interest 
 to me, was just that which would have struck a peasant, 
 or a child; — namely, the calculating wisdom of the 
 creature's device ; and the exquisite grace, strength, and 
 precision of the action by which it was accomplished. 
 
 103. I was interested then, I say, more in the device of 
 the creature, than in its source of motion. Nevertheless, I 
 am pleased to hear, from men of science, how necessarily 
 that motion proceeds from the sun. But where did its 
 device come from ? There is no wisdom, no device in the 
 dust, any more than there is warmth in the dust. The 
 springing of the serpent is from the sun : — the wisdom 
 of the serpent, — whence that ? 
 
 104. From the sun also, is the only answer, I suppose, 
 
the eagle's nest. 95 
 
 possible to physical science. It is not a false answer : 
 quite true, like the other, up to a certain point. To-day, 
 in the strength of your youth, you may know what it is to 
 have the power of the sun taken out of your arms and 
 legs. But when you are old, you will know what, it is to 
 have the power of the sun taken out of your minds also. 
 Such a thing may happen to you, sometimes, even now ; 
 but it will continually happen to you when jon are my 
 age. You will no more, then, think over a matter to any 
 good purpose after twelve o'clock in the day. It may be 
 possible to think over, and, much more, to talk over, 
 matters, to little, or to bad, purpose after twelve o'clock 
 in the day. The members of your national legislature do 
 their work, we know, by gaslight ; but you don't suppose 
 the power of the sun is in any of their devices ? Quite 
 seriously, all the vital functions, — and, like the rest and 
 with the rest, the pure and wholesome faculties of the 
 brain, — rise and set with the sun : your digestion and in- 
 tellect are alike dependent on its beams ; your thoughts, 
 like your blood, flow from the force of it, in all scientific 
 accuracy and necessity. Sol illuminatio nostra est ; Sol 
 salus nostra ; Sol sapientia nostra. 
 
 And it is the final act and outcome of lowest national 
 atheism, since it cannot deny the sun, at least to strive to 
 do without it ; to blast the day in heaven with smoke, 
 and prolong the dance, and the council, by. night, with 
 tapers, until at last, rejoicing — Dixit insipiens m corde 
 suo, non est Sol. 
 
96 the eagle's nest. 
 
 105. Well, the sliding of the serpent, and the device of 
 the serpent, we admit, come from the sun. The flight of 
 the dove, and its harmlessness, — do they also ? 
 
 The flight, — yes, assuredly. The Innocence ? — It is a 
 new question. How of that? Between movement and 
 non-movement — nay, between sense and non-sense — the 
 difference rests, we say, in the power of Apollo ; but be- 
 tween malice and innocence, where shall we find the root 
 of that distinction 2 
 
 106. Have you ever considered how much literal truth 
 there is in the words — " The light of the body is the eye. 
 If, therefore, thine eye be evil" — and the rest? How 
 can the eye be evil ? How, if evil, can it fill the whole 
 body with darkness ? 
 
 What is the meaning of having one's body full of dark- 
 ness ? It cannot mean merely being blind. Blind, you 
 may fall in the ditch if yon move ; but you may be well, 
 if at rest. But to be evil-eyed, is not that worse than to 
 have no eyes ? and instead of being only in darkness, to 
 have darkness in us, portable, perfect, and eternal ? 
 
 107. "Well, in order to get at the meaning we may, 
 indeed, now appeal to physical science, and ask her to 
 help us. How many manner of eyes are there? You 
 physical-science students should be able to tell us painters 
 that. We only know, in a vague way, the external aspect 
 and expression of eyes. We see, as we try to draw the 
 endlessly-grotesque creatures about ns, what infinite 
 variety of instruments they have ; but yon know, far bet- 
 
the eagle's nest. 97 
 
 ter than we do, how those instruments are constructed and 
 directed You know how some play in their sockets with 
 independent revolution, — project into near-sightedness on 
 pyramids of bone, — are brandished at the points of horns, 
 — studded over backs and shoulders, — thrust at the ends 
 of antennae to pioneer for the head, or pinched up into 
 tubercles at the corners of the lips. But how do the 
 creatures see out of all these eyes ? 
 
 108. No business of ours, you may think ? Pardon me. 
 This is no Siren's question — this is altogether business of 
 ours, lest, perchance, any of us should see partly in the 
 same manner. Comparative sight is a far more important 
 question than comparative" anatomy. It is no matter, 
 though we sometimes walk — and it may often be desira- 
 ble to climb — like apes ; but suppose we should only see 
 like apes, or like lower creatures? I can tell you, the 
 science of optics is an essential one to us ; for, exactly 
 according to these infinitely grotesque directions and mul- 
 tiplications of instrument, you have correspondent, not 
 only intellectual but moral, faculty in the soul of the 
 creatures. Literally, if the eye be pure, the body is pure ; 
 but, if the light of the body be but darkness, liow great is 
 that darkness ! 
 
 109. Have ypu ever looked attentively at the study I 
 gave you of the head of the rattlesnake? The serpent 
 will keep its eyes fixed on you for an hour together, a 
 vertical slit in each admitting such image of you as is pos- 
 sible to the rattlesnake retina, and to the rattlesnake 
 
98 the eagle's nest. 
 
 mind. How much of you do you think it sees ? I ask 
 that, first, as a pure physical question. I do not know : it 
 is not my business to know. You, from your schools of 
 physical science, should bring me answer. How much of 
 a man can a snake see? "What sort of image of him is 
 received through that deadly vertical cleft in the iris ; — 
 through the glazed blue of the ghastly lens ? Make me a 
 picture of the appearance of a man, as far as you can 
 judge it can take place on the snake's retina. Then ask 
 yourselves, farther, how much of speculation is possible to 
 the snake, touching this human aspect ? 
 
 110. Or, if that seem too far beneath possible inquiry, 
 how say you of a tiger's eye, or a cat's ? A cat may look 
 at a king ; — yes ; but can it see a king when it looks at 
 him ? The beasts of prey never seem to me to look, in 
 our sense, at all. Their eyes are fascinated by the motion 
 of anything, as a kitten's by a ball ; — they fasten, as if 
 drawn by an inevitable attraction, on their food. But 
 when a cat caresses you, it never looks at you. Its heart 
 seems to be in its back and paws, not its eyes. It will 
 rub itself against you, or pat you with velvet tufts instead 
 of talons ; but you may talk to it an hour together, yet 
 not rightly catch its eye. Ascend higher in the races of 
 being — to the fawn, the dog, the horse ; you will find that, 
 according to the clearness of sight, is indeed the kindness 
 of sight, and that at least the noble eyes of humanity 
 look through humanity, from heart into heart, and with 
 no mechanical vision. And the Light of the body is 
 
99 
 
 the eye— 'yes, and in happy life, the light of the heart 
 also. 
 
 111. But now note farther: there is a mathematica 1 
 power in the eye which may far transcend its moral 
 power. When the moral power is feeble, the faculty of 
 measurement, or of distinct delineation, may be supreme ; 
 and of comprehension none. But here, again, I want the 
 help of the physical science schools. I believe the eagle 
 has no scent, and hunts by sight, yet flies higher than any 
 other bird. Now, I want to know what the appearance is 
 to an eagle, two thousand feet up, of a sparrow in a hedge, 
 or of a partridge in a stubble-field. What kind of defini- 
 tion on the retina do these brown spots take to manifest 
 themselves as signs of a thing eatable ; and if an eagle 
 sees a partridge so, does it see everything else so ? And 
 then tell me, farther, does it see only a square yard at a 
 time, and yet, as it flies, take summary of the square yards 
 beneath it? When next you are travelling by express 
 sixty miles an hour, past a grass bank, try to see a grass- 
 hopper, and you will get some idea of an eagle's optical 
 business, if it takes only the line of ground underneath it. 
 Does it take more ? 
 
 112. Then, besides this faculty of clear vision, you have 
 to consider the faculty of metric vision. Neither an 
 eagle, nor a kingfisher, nor any other darting bird, can see 
 things with both their eyes at the same time as completely 
 as you and I can ; but think of their faculty of measure- 
 ment as compared with ours ! You will find that it takes 
 
100 THE EAGLE S NEST. 
 
 you months of labour before you can acquire accurate 
 power, even of deliberate estimate of distances with the 
 eye ; it is one of the points to which, most of all, I have 
 to direct y< >ur work. And the curious thing is that, given 
 the degree of practice, you will measure ill or well with 
 the eye in proportion to the quantity of life in you. No 
 one can measure with a glance, when they are tired. 
 Only the other day I got half an inch out on a foot, in 
 drawing merely a coat of arms, because I was tired. But 
 fancy what would happen to a swallow, if it was half an 
 inch out in a foot, in flying round a corner! 
 
 113. Well, that is the first branch of the questions 
 which we want answered by optical science ; — the actual 
 distortion, contraction, and other modification, of the sight 
 of different animals, as far as it can be known from the 
 forms of their eyes. Then, secondly, we ourselves need 
 to bo taught the connection of the sense of colour with 
 health ; the difference in the physical conditions which 
 lead us to seek for gloom, or brightness of hue ; and the 
 nature of purity in colour, first in the object seen, and 
 then in the eye which prefers it. 
 
 (The portion of lecture here omitted referred to illustra- 
 tions of vulgarity and delicacy in colour, showing that the 
 vulgar colours, even when they seemed most glaring, were 
 in reality impure and dull ; and destroyed each othei by 
 contention ; while noble colour, intensely bright and pure, 
 
101 
 
 was nevertheless entirely governed and calm, so that 
 every colour bettered and aided all the rest.) 
 
 114. You recollect how I urged you in my opening 
 course of lectures rather to work in the school of crystal- 
 line colour than in that of shade. 
 
 Since I gave that first course of lectures, my sense of 
 the necessity of this study of brightness primarily, and of 
 purety and gaiety beyond all other qualities, has deeply 
 been confirmed by the influence which the unclean horror 
 and impious melancholy of the modern French school — 
 most literally the school of death — has gained over the 
 popular mind. I will not dwell upon the evil phrenzy to- 
 day. But it is in order at once to do the best I can, in 
 counteraction of its deadly influence, though not without 
 other and constant reasons, that I give you heraldry, with 
 all its splendour and its pride, its brightness of colour, 
 and honourableness of meaning, for your main elementary 
 practice. 
 
 115. To-day I have only time left to press on your 
 thoughts the deeper law of this due joy in colour and 
 light. 
 
 On any morning of the year, how many pious suppli- 
 cations, do you suppose, are uttered throughout educated 
 Europe for " light?" How many lips at least pronounce 
 the word, and, perhaps, in the plurality of instances, with 
 some distinct idea attached to it ? It is true the speakers 
 employ it only as a metaphor. But why is their language 
 thus metaphorical? If they mean merely to ask foi 
 
102 THE EAGLE'S NEST. 
 
 spiritual knowledge or guidance, why not say so plainly 
 instead of using this jaded figure of speech? No boy 
 goes to his father when he wants to be taught, or helped, 
 and asks his father to give him L light.' He asks what he 
 wants, advice or protection. Why are not we also con- 
 tent to ask our Father for what we want, in plain Eng- 
 lish? 
 
 The metaphor, you will answer, is put into our mouths, 
 and felt to be a beautiful and necessary one. 
 
 I admit it. In your educational series, first of all ex- 
 amples of modern art, is the best engraving I could find 
 of the picture which, founded on that idea of Christ's 
 being the Giver of Light, contains, I believe, the most 
 true and useful piece of religious vision which realistic art 
 has yet embodied. But why is the metaphor so necessary, 
 or, rather, how far is it a metaphor at all ? Do you think 
 the words ' Light of the World ' mean only ' Teacher or 
 Guide of the World?' When the Sun of Justice is said 
 to rise with health in its wings, do you suppose the image 
 only means the correction of error? Or does it even 
 mean so much ? The Light of Heaven is needed to dc 
 that perfectly. But what we are to pray for is the Light 
 of the World ; nay, the Light " that lighteth emery man 
 that cometh into the world." 
 
 116. You will find that it is no metaphor— nor has it 
 it ever been so. 
 
 To the Persian, the Greek, and the Christian, the sense 
 of the power of the God of Light, has been one and 
 
THE EAGLE'S NEST. 103 
 
 the same. That power is not merely in teaching or pro- 
 tecting, but in the enforcement of purity of body, and 
 of equity or justice in the heart ; and this, observe, not 
 heavenly purity, nor final justice; but, now, and here, 
 actual purity in the midst of the world's foulness, — 
 practical justice in the midst of the world's iniquity. And 
 the physical strength of the organ of sight, — the physical 
 purity of the flesh, the actual love of sweet light and 
 stainless colour, — are the necessary signs, real, inevitable, 
 and visible, of the prevailing presence, with any nation, or 
 in any house, of the " Light that lighteth every man that 
 cometh into the world." 
 
 117. Physical purity ; — actual love of sweet light, and 
 of fair colour. This is one palpable sign, and an entirely 
 needful one, that we have got what we pretend to pray 
 for every morning. That, yon will find, is the meaning 
 of Apollo's war with the Python— of your own St. 
 George's war with the dragon. You have got that battle 
 stamped again on every sovereign in your pockets, but do 
 you think the sovereigns are helping, at this instant, St. 
 George in his battle ? Once, on your gold of the Henrys' 
 times, you had St. Michael and the dragon, and called 
 your coins ' angels.' How much they have done lately, of 
 angelic work, think you, in purifying the earth ? 
 
 118. Purifying, literally, purging and cleansing. That 
 is the first " sacred art " all men have to learn. And the 
 words I deferred to the close of this lecture, about the 
 proposed improvements in Oxford, are very few. Oxford 
 
104 
 
 is, indeed, capable of much improvement, but only by 
 undoing the greater part of what has been done to it 
 within the last twenty years ; and, at present, the one 
 thing that I would say to well-meaning persons is, ' For 
 Heaven's sake — literally for Heaven's sake — let the place 
 alone, and clean it.' I walked last week to Iffley — not 
 having been there for thirty years. I did not know the 
 church inside ; I found it pitch-dark with painted glass of 
 barbarous manufacture, and the old woman who showed 
 it infinitely proud of letting me in at the front door 
 instead of the side one. But close by it, not fifty yards 
 down the hill, there was a little well — a holy well it 
 should have been ; beautiful in the recess of it, and the 
 lovely ivy and weeds above it, had it but been cared for 
 in a human way ; but so full of frogs that you could not 
 have dipped a cup in it without catching one. 
 
 What is the use of pretty painted glass in your 
 churches when you have the plagues of Egypt outside of 
 them? 
 
 119. I walked back from Iffley to Oxford by what waa 
 once the most beautiful approach to an academical city 
 of any in Europe. Now it is a wilderness of obscure and 
 base buildings. You think it a fine thing to go into Iffley 
 church by the front door ; — and you build cheap lodging- 
 houses over all the approach to the chief university of 
 English literature! That, forsooth, is your luminous 
 cloister, and porch of Polygnotus to your temple of 
 Apollo. And in the centre of that temple, at the very 
 
THE EAGLE'S NEST. 105 
 
 : oot of the dome of the Radclyffe, between two principal 
 alleges, the lane by which I walked from my own col- 
 ege half an hour ago, to this place,— Brasen-nose Lane, — 
 s left in a state as loathsome as a back-alley in the East 
 snd of London. 
 
 120. These, I suppose are the signs of extending liber- 
 ility, and "disseminated advantages of education. 
 
 Gentlemen, if, as was lately said by a leading member 
 )f your Government, the function of a university be only 
 o examine, it may indeed examine the whole mob of 
 England in the midst of a dunghill ; but it cannot teach 
 he gentlemen of England in the midst of a dunghill ; no, 
 lor even the people of England. How many of her peo- 
 )le it ought to teach is a question. We think, now-a-days, 
 >ur philosophy is to light every man that cometh into the 
 vorld, and to light every man equally. Well, when indeed 
 'ou give up all other commerce in this island, and, as in 
 3acon's New Atlantis, only buy and sell to get God's first 
 sreature, which was light, there may be some equality of 
 ;ain for us in that possession. But until then, — and we 
 ire very far from such a time,- — the light cannot be given 
 o all men equally. Nay, it is becoming questionable 
 whether, instead of being equally distributed to all, it may 
 lot be equally withdrawn from us all : whether the ideas 
 f purity and justice, — of loveliness which is to sanctify 
 nr peace, — and of justice which is to sanctify our battle, 
 re not vanishing from the purpose of our policy, and 
 ven from the conception of our education. 
 5* 
 
106 THE EAGLE'S NEST. 
 
 The uses, and the desire, of seclusion, of meditation, of 
 restraint, and of correction — are they not passing from us 
 in the collision of worldly interests, and restless contests 
 of mean hope, and meaner fear? What light, what 
 health, what peace, or what security, — youths of England- 
 do you come here now to seek ? In what sense do you 
 receive — with what sincerity do you adopt for yourselves — 
 the ancient legend of yoiir schools, " Dominus illuminatio 
 mea, et salus mea ; quern timebo ? " 
 
 121. Remember that the ancient theory on which this 
 university was founded, — not the theory of any one found- 
 er, observe, nor even the concluded or expressed issue of 
 the wisdom of many ; but the tacit feeling by which the 
 work and hope of all were united and completed — was, 
 that England should gather from among her children a 
 certain number of purest and best, whom she might train 
 to become, each in their day of strength, her teachers and 
 patterns in religion, her declarers and doers of justice in 
 law, and her leaders in battle. Bred, it might be, by 
 their parents, in the fond poverty of learning, or amidst 
 the traditions and discipline of illustrious houses, — in 
 either manner separate, from their youth up, to their glo 
 rious offices — they came here to be kindled into the lights 
 that were to be set on the hills of England, brightest of 
 the pious, the loyal, and the brave. Whatever corruption 
 blighted, whatever worldliness buried, whatever sin pol 
 luted their endeavour, this conception of its meaning 
 remained ; and was indeed so fulfilled in faithfulness, that 
 
107 
 
 to the men whose passions were tempered, aad whose 
 hearts confirmed, in the calm of these holy places, you, 
 now living, owe all that is left to you of hope in heaven, 
 and all of safety or honour that you have to trust and de- 
 fend on earth. 
 
 Their children have forfeited, some by guilt, and many 
 in folly, the leadership they inherited ; and every man in 
 England now is to do and to learn what is right in his own 
 eyes. How much need, therefore, that we should learn 
 first of all what eyes are ; and what vision they ought to 
 possess — science of sight granted only to clearness of soul ; 
 but granted in its fulness even to mortal eyes : for though, 
 after the skin, worms may destroy their body, happy the 
 pure in heart, for they, yet in their flesh, shall see the 
 Light of Heaven, and know the will of God. 
 
108 THE EAGLE'S NEST. 
 
 LECTURE VII. 
 
 THE RELATION TO AKT OF THE 6CIENCES OF INOEGANIO 
 FORM. 
 
 February 29$, 1872. 
 
 122. I did not wish in my last lecture, after I had di- 
 rected your attention to the special bearing of some of the 
 principles I pleaded for, to enforce upon you any farther 
 general conclusions. But it is necessary now to collect 
 the gist of what I endeavoured to show you respecting the 
 organs of sight ; namely, that in proportion to the physi- 
 cal perfectness or clearness of them is the degree in which 
 they are raised from the perception of prey to the percep- 
 tion of beauty and of affection. The imperfect and brutal 
 instrument of the eye may be vivid with malignity, or 
 wild with hunger, or manifoldly detective with micro- 
 scopic exaggeration, assisting the ingenuity of insects 
 with a multiplied and permanent monstrosity of all things 
 round them ; but the noble human sight, careless of prey, 
 disdainful of minuteness, and reluctant to anger, become 5 , 
 clear in gentleness, proud in reverence, and joyful in love. 
 And finally, the physical splendour of light and colour, so 
 far from being the perception of a mechanical force by a 
 mechanical instrument, is an entirely spiritual conscious- 
 
109 
 
 ness, accurately and absolutely proportioned to the parity 
 of the moral nature, and to the force of its natural and 
 wise affections. 
 
 123. That was the sum of what I wished to show you 
 in my last lecture ; and observe, that what remains to me 
 doubtful in these things, — and it is much — I do not 
 trouble you with. Only what I know that on experiment 
 you can ascertain for yourselves, I tell you, and illustrate, 
 for the time, as well as I can. Experiments in art are 
 difficult, and take years to try ; you may at first fail in 
 them, as you might in a chemical analysis ; but in all the 
 "matters which in this place I shall urge on your attention 
 I can assure you of the final results. 
 
 That, then, being the sum of what I could tell you 
 with certainty respecting the methods of sight, I have 
 next to assure yon that this faculty of sight, disciplined 
 and pure, is the only proper faculty which the graphic 
 artist is to use in his inquiries into nature. His office is 
 to show her appearances ; his duty is to know them. It 
 is not his duty, though it may be sometimes for his conve- 
 nience, while it is always at his peril, that he knows more ; 
 —knows the causes of appearances, or the essence of the 
 things that produce them. 
 
 1 24. Once again, therefore, I must limit my applica- 
 tion of the word science with respect to art. I told you 
 that I did not mean by ' science' such knowledge as that 
 triangles on equal bases and between parallels are equal, 
 but such knowledge as that the stars in Cassiopeia are in 
 
110 
 
 the form of a W. But, farther still, it is not to be con- 
 sidered as science, for an artist, that they are stars at all. 
 What he has to know is that they are luminous points 
 which twinkle in a certain manner, and are pale yellow, 
 or deep yellow, and may be quite deceptively imitated 
 at a certain distance by brass-headed nails. This he 
 ought to know, and to remember accurately, and his art 
 knowledge — the science, that is to say — of which his art 
 is to be the reflection, is the sum of knowledges of 
 this sort ; his memory of the look of the sun and moon at 
 such and such times, through such and such clouds ; his 
 memory of the look of mountains, — of the look of sea— of 
 the look of human faces. 
 
 125. Perhaps you would not call that 'science' at all. It 
 is no matter what either you or I call it. It is science of 
 a certain order of facts. Two summers ago, looking from 
 Verona at sunset, I saw the mountains beyond the Lago 
 di Garda of a strange blue, vivid and rich like the bloom 
 of a damson. I never saw a mountain-blue of that par- 
 ticular quality before or since. My science as an artist 
 consists in my knowing that sort of blue from every other 
 sort, and in my perfect recollection that this particular 
 blue had such and such a green associated with it in the 
 near fields. I have nothing whatever to do with the 
 atmospheric causes of the colour : that knowledge would 
 merely occupy my brains wastef ully, and warp my artistic 
 attention and energy from their point. Or to take a 
 simpler instance yet : Turner, in his early life, was some- 
 
Ill 
 
 times good-natured, and wo^ld show people what he was 
 about. He was one day making a drawing of Plymouth 
 harbour, with some ships at the distance of a mile or two, 
 seen against the light. Having shown this drawing"to a 
 naval officer, the naval officer observed with surprise, 
 and objected with very justifiable indignation, that the 
 ships of the line had no port-holes. "No," said 
 Turner, "certainly not. If you will walk up to Mount 
 Edgeeumbe, and look at the ships against the sunset, you 
 will find you can't see the port-holes." " "Well, but," said 
 the naval officer, still indignant, " you know the port-holes 
 are there." "Yes," said Turner, "I know that well 
 enough ; but my business is to draw what I see, and not 
 what I know is there." 
 
 126. Now, that is the law of all fine artistic work what- 
 soever ; and, more than that, it is, on the whole, perilous 
 to you, and undesirable, that you should know what is 
 there. If, indeed , you have so perfectly disciplined youi 
 sight that it cannot be influenced by prejudice ; — if you 
 are sure that none of your knowledge of what is there 
 will be allowed .to assert itself ; and that you can reflect 
 the ship as simply as the sea beneath it does, though you 
 may know it with the intelligence of a sailor, — then, 
 indeed, you may allow yourself the pleasure, and what 
 will sometimes be the safeguard from error, of learning 
 what ships, or stars, or mountains, are in reality ; but the 
 ordinary powers of human perception are almost certain 
 to be disturbed by the knowledge of the real nature of 
 
112 THE EAGLE'S NEST. 
 
 what they draw : and, until you are quite fearless of your 
 faithfulness to the appearances of things, the less you 
 know of their reality the better. 
 
 127. And it is precisely in this passive and naive sim- 
 plicity that art becomes, not only greatest in herself, but 
 most useful to science. If she knew anything of what she 
 was representing, she would exhibit that partial knowl- 
 edge with complacency ; and miss the points beside it, 
 and beyond it. Two painters draw the same mountain ; 
 the one has got unluckily into his head some curiosity 
 about glacier marking ; and the other has a theory of 
 cleavage. The one will scratch his mountain all over ; 
 — the other split it to pieces ; and both drawings will be 
 equally useless for the purposes of honest science. 
 
 128. Any of you who chance to know my books cannot 
 but be surprised at my saying these things; for, of all 
 writers on art, I suppose there is no one who appeals so 
 often as I do to physical science. But observe, I appeal 
 as a critic of art, never as a master of it. Turner made 
 drawings of mountains and clouds which the public said 
 were absurd. I said, on the contrary, they were the only 
 true drawings of mountains and clouds ever made yet : 
 and I proved this to be so, as only it could be proved, by 
 steady test of physical science : but Turner had drawn 
 his mountains rightly, long before their structure was 
 known to any geologist in Europe ; and has painted per- 
 fectly truths of anatomy in clouds which I challenge any 
 meteorologist in Europe to explain at this day. 
 
113 
 
 129. And indeed I was obliged to leave Modem Paint- 
 ers incomplete, or, rather, as a mere sketch, of intention, 
 in analysis of the forms of cloud and wave, because I had 
 not scientific data enough to appeal to. Just reflect foi 
 an instant how absolutely whatever has been done in arf 
 to represent these most familiar, yet most spectral forms 
 of cloud — utterly inorganic, yet, by spiritual ordinance, 
 in their kindness fair, and in their anger frightful, — how 
 all that has yet been done to represent them, from the un- 
 dulating bands of blue and white which give to heraldry 
 its nebule bearing, to the finished and deceptive skies of 
 Turner, has been done without one syllable of help from 
 the lips of science.* 
 
 130. The rain which flooded our fields the Sunday be- 
 fore last, was followed, as you will remember, by bright 
 days, of which Tuesday the 20th was, in London, notable 
 for the splendour, towards the afternoon, of its white 
 cumulus clouds. There has been so much black east wind 
 lately, and so much fog and artificial gloom, besides, that 
 1 find it is actually some two years since I last saw a 
 noble cumulus cloud under full light. I chanced to be 
 standing under the Victoria Tower at Westminster, when 
 
 * Rubens' rainbow, in the Loan Exhibition this year, was of dull blue, 
 darker than the sky, in a scene lighted from the side of the rainbow. 
 Rubens is not to be blamed for ignorance of optics, but for never having 
 so much as looked at a rainbow carefully : and I do not believe that my 
 friend Mr. Alfred Hunt, whose study of rainbow, in the rooms of the 
 Water Colour Society last year, was unrivalled, for vividness and truth, 
 by any I know,' learned how to paint it by studying optics. 
 
114 THE EAGLE'S NESTj 
 
 the largest mass of them floated past, that day, from tho 
 north-west ; and I was more impressed than ever yet hy 
 the awfulness of the cloud-form, and its nnaccountable- 
 ness, in the present state of our knowledge. The Victoria 
 Tower, seen against it, had no magnitude : it • was like 
 looking at Mont Blanc over a lamp-post. The domes of 
 cloud-snow were heaped as definitely ; their broken flanks 
 were as grey and firm as rocks, and the whole mountain, 
 of a compass and height in heaven which only became 
 more and more inconceivable as the eye strove to ascend 
 it, was passing behind the tower with a steady marchj 
 whose swiftness must in reality have been that of a 
 tempest : yet, along all the ravines of vapour, precipice 
 kept pace with precipice, and not one thrust another. 
 
 131. What is it that hews them out ? Why is the blue 
 sky pure there, — cloud solid here; and edged like marble: 
 and why does the state of the blue sky pass into the state 
 of cloud, in that calm advance ? 
 
 It is true that you can more or less imitate the forms of 
 cloud with explosive vapour or steam; but the steam 
 melts instantly, and the explosive vapour dissipates itself. 
 The cloud, of perfect form, proceeds unchanged. It is 
 not an explosion, but an enduring and advancing presence. 
 The more you think of it, the less explicable it will 
 become to you. 
 
 132. That this should yet be unexplained in the king- 
 dom of the air is, however, no marvel, since aspects of 
 a simpler kind are unexplained in the earth, which we 
 
THE EAGLE'S NEST. 115 
 
 tread, and in the water which we drink and wash with. 
 You seldom pass a day without receiving some pleasure 
 from the cloudings in marble ; can you explain how the 
 stone, was clouded ? You certainly do not pass a day with- 
 out washing your hands. Can you explain the frame of 
 a soap-bubble ? 
 
 1 33. I have allowed myself, by way of showing at once 
 what I wanted to come to, to overlook the proper arrange- 
 ment of my subject, and I must draw back a little. 
 
 For all his own purposes, merely graphic, we say, if an 
 artist's eye is fine and faithful, the fewer points of science 
 he has in his head, the better. But for purposes more 
 than graphic, in order that he may feel towards things as' 
 he should, and choose them as we should, he ought to 
 know something about them ; and if he is quite sure that 
 he can receive the science of them without letting himself 
 become uncandid and narrow in observation, it is very 
 desirable that he should be acquainted with a little of the 
 alphabet of structure, — just as much as may quicken and 
 certify his observation, without prejudicing it. Cau- 
 tiously, therefore, and receiving it as a perilous indul- 
 gence, he may venture to learn, perhaps, as much astron- 
 omy as may prevent his carelessly putting the new moon 
 wrong side upwards ; and as much botany as will prevent 
 Lim from confusing, which I am sorry to say Turner did, 
 too often, Scotch firs with stone pines. lie may concede 
 so much to geology as to choose, of two equally pictu- 
 resque views, one that illustrates rather than conceals the 
 
116 THE EAGLE'S NEST. 
 
 structure of a crag: and perhaps, once or twice in hia 
 life, a portrait painter might advantageously observe how 
 unlike a skull is to a face. And for you, who are to use 
 your drawing as one element in general education, it is 
 desirable that physical science should assist in the attain- 
 ment of truth which a real painter seizes by practice of 
 eye. 
 
 134. For this purpose I shall appeal to your masters 
 in science to furnish us, as they have leisure, with some 
 simple and readable accounts of the structure, of things 
 which we have to draw continually. Such scientific ac- 
 counts will not usually much help us to draw them, but 
 will make the drawing, when done, far more valuable 
 to us. 
 
 I have told you, for instance, that nobody — at least, 
 no painter— can at present explain the structure of a 
 bubble. To know that structure will not help you to 
 draw sea-foam, but it will make you look at sea-foam with 
 greater interest. 
 
 I am not able now to watch the course of modern sci- 
 ence, and may perhaps be in error in thinking that the 
 frame of a bubble is still unexplained. But I have not 
 yet met by any chance, with an account of the forces 
 which, under concussion, arrange the particles of a fluid 
 into a globular film ; though, from what I know of cohe- 
 sion, gravity, and the nature of the atmosphere, I can 
 make some shift to guess at the kind of action that takes 
 place in forming a single bubble. But how one bubble 
 
THE EAGLE'S NEST. 117 
 
 absorbs another without breaking it; or what exact 
 methods of tension prepare for the change of form, and 
 establish it in an instant, I am utterly at a loss to conceive. 
 Here, I think, then, is one familiar matter which, up to 
 the possible point, science might condescendingly inter- 
 pret for us. The exhaustion of the film in preparation for 
 its change; the determination of the smaller bubble to 
 yield itself up to the larger ; the instantaneous flash into 
 the new shape, and the swift adjustment of the rectangu- 
 lar lines of intersection in the marvellous vaulting — all 
 this I want to be explained' to us, so that, if we cannot 
 understand it altogether, we may at least know exactly 
 how far we do, and how far we do not. 
 
 135. And, next to the laws of the formation of a bub- 
 ble, I want to see, in simple statement, those of the forma- 
 tion of a bottle. Namely, the laws of its resistance to 
 fracture, from without and within, by concussion or ex- 
 plosion; and the due relations of form to thickness of 
 material ; so that, putting the problem in a constant form, 
 we may know, out of a given quantity of material, how to 
 make the strongest bottle under given limitations as to 
 shape. For instance, — you have so much glass given 
 you : your bottle is to hold two pints, to be flat-bottomed, 
 and so narrow and long in the neck that you can grasp it 
 with your hand. "What will be its best ultimate form ? 
 
 136. Probably, if you thought it courteous, you would 
 laugh at me just now ; and, at any rate, are thinking to 
 yourselves that this art problem at least needs no scien- 
 
118 THE EAGLE'S NKbi. 
 
 tific investigation, having been practically solved, long 
 ago, by the imperative human instinct for the preservation 
 of bottled stout. But you are only feeling now, gentle- 
 men, and recognizing in one instance, what I tell you of 
 all. Every scientific investigation is, in the same sense as 
 this would be, useless to the trained master of any art. 
 To the soap-bubble blower, and glass-blower, — to the pot- 
 maker and bottle- maker, — if dexterous craftsmen, your 
 science is of no account ;. and the imp of their art may be 
 imagined as always looking triumphantly and contemptu- 
 ously, out of its successfully-produced bottle, on tbe vain 
 analysis of centrifugal impulse and inflating breath. 
 
 137. Nevertheless, in the present confusion of instinct 
 and opinion as to beautiful form,- it is desirable to have 
 these two questions more accurately dealt with. For 
 observe what they branch into. The coloured segments of 
 globe out of which form is constituted, are portions of 
 spherical vaults constructed of fluent particles. You can- 
 not have the principles of spherical vaulting put in more 
 abstract terms. 
 
 Then considering the arch as the section of a vault, the 
 greater number of Gothic arches may be regarded as the 
 intersections of two spherical vaults. 
 
 Simple Gothic foliation is merely the triple, quadruple, 
 or variously multiple repetition of such intersection. 
 
 And the beauty— (observe this carefully) — the beauty 
 of Gothic arches, and of their foliation, always involves 
 reference to (he strength of their structure; but only to 
 
THE EAGLE'S NEST. 119 
 
 their structure as self-sustaining/ not as sustaining super- 
 incumbent weight. In the most literal of senses, "the 
 earth hath hubbies as the water hath; and these are of 
 them." 
 
 138. What do you think made Michael Angelo look 
 back to the dome of Santa Maria del More, saying, " Like 
 thee I will not build one, better than thee I cannot ? " 
 To you or to me there is nothing in that dome different 
 from hundreds of others. Which of you, who have been 
 at Florence, can tell me honestly he saw anything won- 
 derful in it? But Michael Angelo knew the exact pro- 
 portion of thickness to weight and curvature which ena- 
 bled it to stand as securely as a mountain of adamant, 
 though it was only a film of clay, as frail, in proportion 
 to its bulk, as a sea-shell. Over the massy war towers of 
 the city it floated ; fragile, yet without fear. " Better than 
 thee I cannot." 
 
 139. Then think what the investigation of the bottle 
 branches into, joined with that of its, necessary- compan- 
 ion, the cup. There is a sketch for you of the cup of 
 cups, the pure Greek Kavdapos, which is always in the 
 hand of Dionusos, as the thunderbolt is in that of Zeus. 
 Learn but to draw that thoroughly, and you won't have 
 much more to leam of abstract form ; for the investiga- 
 tion of the kinds of line that limit this will lead you into 
 all the practical geometry of Jiature ; the ellipses of her 
 sea-bays in perspective ; the parabolas of her waterfalls 
 and fountains in profile ; the catenary curves of their fall- 
 
120 THE EAGLE'S NEST. 
 
 ing festoons in front ; the infinite variety of accelerated 
 or retarded curvature in every condition of mountain 
 debris. But do you think mere science can measure foi 
 you any of these things ? That book on the table is one 
 of the four volumes of Sir William Hamilton's Greek 
 Vases. He has measured every important vase vertically 
 and horizontally, with precision altogether admirable, and 
 which may, I hope, induce you to have patience with me 
 in the much less complex, though even more scrupulous, 
 measurements which I shall require on my own examples. 
 Yet English pottery remains precisely where it was, in 
 spite of all this investigation. Do you fancy a Greek 
 workman ever made a vase by measurement ? He dashed 
 it from his hand on the wheelj and it was beautiful : and 
 a Venetian glass-blower swept you a curve of crystal from 
 the end of his pipe ; and Reynolds or Tintoret swept a 
 curve of colour from their pencils, as a musician the 
 cadence of a note, unerring, and to be measured, if you 
 please, afterwards, with the exactitude of Divine law. 
 
 140. But, if the truth and beauty of art are thus beyond 
 attainment by help of science^ how much more its inven- 
 tion? I must defer what I have chiefly to say on this 
 head till next lecture ; but to-day I can illustrate, simply, 
 the position of invention with respect to science in one 
 very important group of inorganic forms — those of 
 drapery. 
 
 141. If you throw at random over a rod, a piece of 
 drapery of any material which will fall into graceful 
 
THE kagle's neet. 121 
 
 folds, you will get a series of sinuous folds in catenary 
 curves : and any given disposition of these will be nearly 
 as agreeable as any other ; though, if you throw the stuff 
 on the rod a thousand times, it will not fall twice alike. 
 
 142. But suppose, instead of a straight rod, you take a 
 beautiful nude statue, and throw the piece of linen over 
 that. You may encumber and conceal its form altogether ; 
 you may entirely conceal portions of the limbs, and show 
 others ; or you may leave indications, under the thin veil, 
 of the contours which are hidden; but in ninety-nine 
 cases out of a hundred you will wish the drapery taken 
 off again ; you will feel that the folds are in some sort 
 discrepant and harmful, and eagerly snatch them away. 
 However passive the material, however softly accommo- 
 dated to the limbs, the wrinklings will always look foreign 
 to the form, like the drip of a heavy shower of rain fall- 
 ing off it, and will load themselves in the hollows uncom 
 fortably. You will have to pull them about ; to stretch 
 them one way, loosen them in another, and. supply the 
 quantity of government which a living person would have 
 given to the dress, before it becomes at all pleasing to 
 you. 
 
 143. Doing your best, you will still not succeed to your 
 mind, provided you have, indeed, a mind worth pleasing. 
 No adjustment that you can make, on the quiet figure, 
 will give any approximation to the look of drapery which 
 has previously accommodated itself to the action which 
 brought the figure into the position in which it stays. Ob 
 
122 the eagle's nest. 
 
 a really living person, gracefully dressed,, and who has 
 paused from graceful motion, you will get, again and 
 again, arrangements of fold which yon can admire : but 
 they will not remain to be copied, the first following 
 movement alters all. If you had your photographic plate 
 ready and could photograph — I don't know if it has been 
 tried — girls, like waves, p» they move, you would get 
 what was indeed lovely; and yet, when you compared 
 even such results with fine sculpture, you would see that 
 there was something wanting ; — that, in the deepest sense, 
 all was yet wanting. 
 
 144. Yet this is the most that the plurality of artists 
 can do, or think of doing. They draw the nude figure 
 with careful anatomy ; they put their model or their lay 
 figure into the required position ; they arrange draperies 
 on it to their mind, and paint them from the reality. All 
 such work is absolutely valueless, — worse than valueless 
 in the end of it, blinding lis to the qualities of fine work. 
 
 In true design it is in this matter of drapery as in all 
 else. There is not a fold too much, and all that are given 
 aid the expression, whether of movement or character. 
 Here is a bit of Greek sculpture, with many folds ; here 
 is a bit of Christian sculpture with few. From the 
 many, not one could be removed without harm, and to 
 the few, not one could be added. This alone is art, and 
 no science will ever enable you to do this, but the poetic 
 and fabric instincts only. 
 
 145. Nevertheless, however far above science, your 
 
the eagle's nest. 123 
 
 work must comply with all the requirements of science. 
 The first thing yon have to ask is, Is it scientifically right? 
 That is still nothing, but it is essential. In modern imita- 
 tions of Gothic work the artists think it religious to be 
 wrong, and that Heaven will b i propitious only to saints 
 whose stoles or petticoats stand or fall into incredible 
 angles. 
 
 All that nonsense I will soon get well out of your heads 
 by enabling you to make accurate studies from real dra- 
 pery, so that you may be able to detect in a moment 
 whether the folds in any design are natural and true to 
 the form, or artificial and ridiculous. 
 
 146. But this, which is the science of drapery, will 
 never do more than guard you in your first attempts in 
 the art of it. Nay, when once you have mastered the 
 elements of such science, the most sickening of all work to 
 you will be that in which the draperies are all right,— 
 and nothing else is. In the present state of our schools 
 one of the chief mean merits against which I shall have 
 to warn you is the imitation of what milliners admire : 
 nay, in many a piece of the best art I shall have to show 
 you that the draperies are, to some extent, intentionallv 
 ill-done, lest you should look at them. Yet, through every 
 complexity of desirableness, and counter-peril, hold to the 
 constant and simple law I have always given you — that 
 the best work must be right in ijhe beginning, and lovely 
 in the end. 
 
 147. Finally, observe that what is true respecting these 
 
124 the eagle's nest. 
 
 simple forms of drapery is true of all other inorganic 
 form. It must become organic under the artist's han^ by 
 his invention. As there must not be a fold in a vestment 
 too few or too many, there must not, in noble landscape, 
 be a fold in a mountain, too few or too many. As you 
 will never get from real linen cloth, by copying it ever so 
 faithfully, the drapery of a noble statue, so you will never 
 get from real mountains, copy them never so faithfully, 
 the forms of noble landscape. Anything more beautiful 
 than the photographs of the Valley of Chamouni, now in 
 your print-sellers' windows, cannot be conceived. For 
 geographical and geological purposes they are worth any- 
 thing ; for art purposes, worth — a good deal less than 
 zero. You may learn much from them, and will mislearn 
 more. But in Turner's " Valley of Chamouni " the moun- 
 tains Lave not a fold too much, nor too little. There are 
 no such mountains at Chamouni : they are the ghosts of 
 eternal mountains, such as have been, and shall be, for 
 evermore. 
 
 148. So now in sum, for I may have confused you by 
 illustration, — 
 
 I. You are, in drawing, to try only to represent the 
 appearances of things, never what you know the things to 
 be. 
 
 II. Those appearances you are to test by the appliance 
 of the scientific laws relating to aspect ; and to learn^ by 
 
12b 
 
 accurate measurement, and the most fixed attention, to 
 represent with absolute fidelity. 
 
 III. Having learned to represent actual appearances 
 faithfully, if you have any human faculty of your own, 
 visionary appearances will take place to you which will 
 be nobler and more true than any actual or material 
 appearances; and the realization of these is the func- 
 tion of every fine art, which is founded absolutely, there- 
 fore, in truth, and consists absolutely in imagination. 
 And once more we may conclude with, - but now using 
 them in a deeper sense, the words of our master — " The 
 best in this kind are but shadows." 
 
 It is to be our task, gentlemen, to endeavour that they 
 may be at leas'; so much. 
 
126 THE EAGLE S NEST. 
 
 LEUTUEE VIII. 
 
 THE RELATION TO AET OF THE SCIENCES OF ORGANIC FOKM. 
 
 Marti 2nd, 1872. 
 
 149. I have next in order to speak of the relation of 
 art to science, in dealing with its own principal subject — 
 organic form, as the expression of life. And, as in my 
 former lecture, I will tell you at once what I wish chiefly 
 to enforce upon you. 
 
 First, — but this I shall have no time to dwell upon, — 
 That the true power of art must be founded on a general 
 knowledge of organic nature, not of the human frame 
 only. 
 
 Secondly. — That in representing this organic nature, 
 quite as much as in representing inanimate things, Art 
 has nothing to do with structures, causes, or absolute 
 facts ; but only with appearances. 
 
 Thirdly. — That in representing these appearances, she 
 is more hindered than helped by the knowledge of things 
 which do not externally appear ; and therefore, that the 
 study of anatomy generally, whether of plants, animals, 
 or man, is an impediment to graphic art. 
 
 Fourthly. — That especially in the treatment and con- 
 ception of the human form, the habit of contemplating 
 
127 
 
 its anatomica. structure is not only a hindrance, but a 
 degradation ; and farther yet, that even the study of the 
 external form of the human body, more exposed than it 
 may be healthily and decently . in daily life, has been 
 essentially destructive to every school of art in which it 
 has been practised. 
 
 150. These four statements I undertake, in the course 
 of our future study, gradually to confirm to you. In a 
 single lecture I, of course, have time to do little more 
 than clearly state and explain them. 
 
 First, I tell you that art should take cognizance of all 
 living things, and know them, so as to be able to name, 
 that is to say, in the truest distinctive way, to describe 
 them. The Creator daily brings, before the noblest of 
 His creatures, every lower creature, that whatsoever Man 
 calls it, may be the name thereof. 
 
 Secondly. — In representing, nay, in thinking of, and 
 caring for, these beasts, man has to think of them essen- 
 tially with their skins on them, and with their souls in 
 them. He is to know how they are spotted, wrinkled, 
 furred, and feathered ; and what the look of them is, in 
 the eyes ; and what grasp, or cling, or trot, or pat, in 
 their paws and claws.- He is to take every sort of view 
 of them, in fact, except one, — the Butcher's view. He is 
 never to think of them as bones and meat. 
 
 Thirdly. — In the representation of their appearance, 
 the knowledge of bones and meat, of joint and muscle, is 
 more a hindrance than a help. 
 
128 the eagle's nest. 
 
 Lastly— With regard to the human form, such knowl- 
 edge is a degradation as well as a hindrance ; and even 
 the study of the nude is injurious, heyond the limits of 
 honour and decency in daily life. 
 
 Those are my four positions. I will not detain you by 
 dwelling on the first two— that we should know every 
 sort of beast, and know it with its skin on it, and its soul 
 within it. "What you feel to be a paradox — perhaps you 
 think an incredible and insolent paradox — is my telling 
 you that you will be hindered from doing this by the 
 study of anatomy. I address myself, therefore, only to 
 the last two points. 
 
 151. Among your standard engravings, I have put that 
 of the picture by Titian, in the Strozzi Palace, of a 
 little . Strozzi maiden feeding her dog. I am going to 
 put in the Rudimentary Series, where you can always get 
 at it (It. 125), this much more delightful, though not 
 in all points standard, picture by Eeynolds, of an 
 infant daughter of George the Third's, with her Skye 
 terrier. 
 
 I have no doubt these dogs are the authentic pets, given 
 in as true portraiture as their mistresses ; and that the 
 little Princess of Florence and Princess of England were 
 both shown in the company which, at that age, they best 
 liked ; — the eldeiv feeding her favourite, and the baby 
 with her arms about the neck of hers. 
 
 .But the custom of putting either the dog, or some 
 inferior animal, to be either in contrast, or modest 
 
the eagle's nest. 129 
 
 companionship, with the nobleness of human form and 
 thought, is a piece of what may be called mental com 
 parative anatomy, which has its beginning very far back 
 in art indeed. One of quite the most interesting Greek 
 vases in the British Museum is that of which the painting 
 long went under the title of "Anacreon and his Dog." 
 It is a Greek lyric poet, singing with lifted head, in the 
 action given to Orpheus and Philammon in their moments 
 of highest inspiration ; while, entirely unaffected by, and 
 superior to the music, there walks beside him a sharp- 
 nosed and curly-tailed dog, painted in what the exclusive 
 admirers of Greek art would, I suppose, call an ideal 
 manner ; that is to say, his tail is more like a display of 
 fireworks than a tail ; but the ideal evidently founded on 
 the material existence of a charming, though supercilious 
 animal, not unlike the one which is at present the chief 
 solace of my labours in Oxford, Dr. Acland's dog Bustle. 
 I might go much farther back than this ; but at all events, 
 from the time of the golden dog of Pandareos, the fawn 
 of Diana, and the eagle, owl and peacock of the great 
 Greek gods, you find a succession of animal types — 
 centralized in the Middle Ages, of course, by the hound 
 and the falcon— used in art either to symbolize, or 
 contrast with, dignity in human persons. In modern por- 
 traiture, the custom has become vulgarized by the anxiety 
 of everybody who sends their picture, or their children's, 
 to the Royal Academy, to have it demonstrated to the 
 public by the exhibition of a pony, and a dog with a whip 
 
130 THE EAGLE'S NEST. 
 
 m its mouth, that they live, at the proper season, in a 
 country house. But by the greater masters the thing is 
 done always with a deep sense of the mystery of the com- 
 parative existences of living creatures, and of the methods 
 of vice and virtue exhibited by them. Albert Diirer 
 scarcely ever draws a scene in the life of the Virgin, with- 
 out putting into the foreground some idle cherubs at play 
 with rabbits or kittens ; and sometimes lets his love of 
 the grotesque get entirely the better of him, as in the 
 engraving of the Madonna with the monkey. Veronese 
 disturbs the interview of the queen of Sheba with 
 Solomon, by the petulance of the queen of Sheba's 
 Blenheim spaniel, whom Solomon has not treated with 
 sufficient respect ; and when Veronese is introduced him- 
 self, with all his family,to the Madonna, I am sorry to say 
 that his own pet dog turns its back to the Madonna, and 
 walks out of tlie room. 
 
 152. But among all these symbolic playfulnesses of the 
 higher masters, there is not one more perfect than this 
 3tudy by Reynolds of the infant English Princess with 
 her wire-haired terrier. He has put out his whole strength 
 to show the infinite differences, yet the blessed harmonies, 
 between the human and the lower nature. First, having 
 a blue-eyed,* soft baby to paint, he gives its full face, as 
 round as may be, and roimds its eyes to complete open- 
 ness, because somebody is coming whom it does not know. 
 
 * I have not seen the picture : in the eagraving the tint of the eyes 
 would properly represent grey or blue. 
 
131 
 
 But it opens its eyes in quiet wonder, and is not dis- 
 turbed, but behaves as a princess should. Beside this 
 soft, serenely-minded baby, Reynolds has put the roughest 
 and roughest-minded dog he could think of. Instead of 
 the full round eyes, you have only the dark places in the 
 hair where you know the terrier's eyes must be — sharp 
 enough, if you could see them— and very certainly seeing 
 you, but not at all wondering at you, like the baby's. 
 For the terrier has instantly made up his mind about 
 you ; and above all, that you have no business there ; and 
 is growling and snarling in his fiercest manner, though 
 without moving from his mistress's side, or from under 
 her arm. You have thus the full contrast between the 
 grace and true charm of the child, who "thinketh no 
 evil" of you, and the uncharitable narrowness of nature 
 in the grown-up dog of the world, who thinks nothing but 
 evil of you. But the dog's virtue and faithfulness are- not 
 told less clearly; the baby evidently uses the creature 
 just as much for a pillow as a playmate ; — buries its arm 
 in the rough hair of it with a loving confidence, half 
 already converting itself to protection : and baby will take 
 care of dog, and dog of baby, through all chances of time 
 and fortune. 
 
 153. Now the exquisiteness with which the painter has 
 applied all his skill in composition, all his dexterity in 
 touch of pencil, and all his experience of the sources of 
 expression, to complete the rendering of his comparison 
 cannot, in any of the finest subtleties of it, be explained ; 
 
132 
 
 but the first steps of its science may be easily traced ; ana 
 with little pains you may see how a simple and large 
 mass of white is opposed to a rugged one of grey ; how 
 the child's face is put in front light, that no shadow may 
 detract from the brightness which makes her, as in Arab- 
 ian legends, " a princess like to the full moon " — how, in 
 this halo, the lips and eyes are brought out in deep and 
 rich colour, while scarcely a gleam of reflection is allowed 
 to disturb the quietness of the eyes ; — (the terrier's, you 
 feel, would glitter enough, if you could see them, and 
 flash back in shallow fire; but the princess's eyes are 
 thinking, and do not flash;)— how the quaint cap sur- 
 rounds, with its not wholly painless formalism, the courtly 
 and patient face, opposed to the rugged and undressed 
 wild one; and how the easy grace of soft limb and 
 rounded neck are cast, in repose, against the uneasily 
 gathered up crouching of the short legs, and petulant 
 shrug of the eager shoulders, in the ignobler creature. 
 
 154. Now, in his doing of all this, Sir Joshua was think- 
 ing of, and seeing, whatever was best in the creatures, 
 within and without. "Whatever was most perfectly doggish 
 — perfectly childish — in soul and body. The absolute truth 
 of outer aspect, and of inner mind, he seizes infallibly ; but 
 there is one part of the creatures which he never, for an in- 
 stant, thinks of, or cares for, — their bones. Do you suppose 
 that, from first to last, in painting such a picture, it would 
 ever enter Sir Joshua's mind to think what a dog's skull 
 would look like, beside a baby's ? The quite essential facte 
 
1S3 
 
 to him are those of which the skull gives no information — 
 that the baby has a flattish pink nose, and the dog a boss} 
 black one. You might dissect all the dead dogs in the 
 water supply of London without finding out what, as a 
 painter, it is here your only business precisely to know,— 
 what sort of shininess there is on the end of a terrier's 
 nose ; and for the position and action of the creatures, all 
 the four doctors together, who set Bustle's leg for him the 
 other day, when he jumped out a two-pair-of-stairs window 
 to bark at the volunteers, could not have told Sir Joshua 
 how to make his crouching terrier look ready to snap, nor 
 how to throw the child's arm over its neck in complete, 
 yet not languid, rest. 
 
 155. Sir Joshua, then, does not think of, or' care for, 
 anatomy, in this picture ; but, if he had, would it have 
 done him harm? You may easily see that the child's 
 limbs are not drawn with the precision that Mantegna, 
 Dtirer, or Michael Angelo would have given them. Would 
 Borne of their science not have bettered the picture ? 
 
 I can show you exactly the sort of influence their 
 science would have had. 
 
 In your Rudimentary Series, I have placed in sequence 
 two of Dtirer's most celebrated plates, (R. 65, R. 66,) the 
 coat of arms with the skull, and the Madonna crowned 
 by angels ; and that you may see precisely what qualities 
 are, and are not, in this last, I have enlarged the head by 
 photography, and placed it in your Reference Series 
 (117). You will find the skull is perfectly understood, 
 
134 THE EAGLES NEST. 
 
 and exquisitely engraved, but the face, imperfectly un- 
 derstood and coarsely engraved. No man who had 
 studied the skull as carefully as Diirer did, ever, could 
 engrave a face beautifully, for the perception of the 
 bones continually thrusts itself upon him in wrong 
 places, and in trying to conquer or modify it, he distorts 
 the flesh. Where the features are marked, and full of 
 character, he can quit himself of the impression ; but 
 in the rounded contour of women's faces he is always 
 forced to think of the skull ; and even in his ordinary 
 work often draws more of bones and hair, than face. 
 
 156. I could easily give you more definite, but very 
 disagreeable, proofs of the evil of knowing the anatomy 
 of the human face too intimately : but will rather give 
 you further evidence by examining the skull and face of 
 the creature who has taught us so much already, — the 
 eagle. 
 
 Here is a slight sketch of the sktill of the golden eagle. 
 It may be interesting to you sometimes to make such 
 drawings roughly, for the sake of the points of me» 
 chanical arrangement — as here in the circular bones of 
 the eye-socket ; but don't suppose that drawing these a 
 million of times over will ever hely you in the least to 
 draw an eagle itself. On the contrary, it would almost to 
 a certainty hinder you from noticing the essential point in 
 an eagle's head— the projection of the brow. All the 
 main work of the eagle's eye is, as We saw, in looking 
 down. To keep the sunshine above from teasing it, the 
 
the eagle's nest. 135 
 
 eye is put under a triangular penthouse, which is pre 
 cisely the most characteristic thing in the bird's whole 
 aspect. Its hooked beak does not materially distinguish 
 it from a cockatoo, but its hooded eye does. But that 
 projection is not accounted for in the skull; and, so 
 little does the anatomist care about it, that you may 
 hunt through the best modern works on ornithology ; 
 and you will find eagles drawn with all manner of dis- 
 sections of skulls, claws, clavicles, sternums, and gizzards ; 
 but you won't find so much as one poor falcon drawn 
 with a falcon's eye. 
 
 157. But there is another quite essential point in an 
 eagle's head, in comprehending which, again, the skull 
 will not help us. The skull in the human creature fails 
 in three essential points. It is eyeless, noseless, and lip- 
 less. It fails only in an eagle in the two points of eye 
 and lip ; for an eagle has no nose worth mentioning ; his 
 beak is only a prolongation of his jaws. But he has lips 
 very much worth mentioning, and of which his skull gives 
 no account. One misses them much from a human skull : 
 — " Here hung those lips that I have kissed, I know not 
 how oft," — but from an eagle's yon miss them more, for 
 he is distinct from other birds in having with his own 
 eagle's eye, a dog's lips, or very nearly such ; an entirely 
 fleshy and ringent mouth, bluish pink, with a perpetual 
 grin upon it. 
 
 So that if you look, not at his skull, but at him, atten- 
 tively enough, you will precisely get ^Eschylus's notion of 
 
136 THE EAGLE S NEST. 
 
 him, essential in the Greek mind — irri}vb<i kvwv hafoivbi 
 ate™? — and then, if you want to see the use of his beak 
 or bill, as distinguished from a dog's teeth, take a drawing 
 from the falconry of the middle ages, and you will see 
 how a piece of flesh becomes a rag to him, a thing to tear 
 up, — SiapTa/j.ijo'et, <rd>fia,TO<; fiiya pdicos. There you have it 
 precisely, in a falcon I got out of Mr. Coxe's favourite 
 fourteenth century missal. 
 
 Now look through your natural history books from end 
 to end ; see if you can find one drawing, with all then 
 anatomy, which shows you either the eagle's eye, his lips, 
 or this essential use of^ his beak, so as to enable you 
 thoroughly to understand those two lines of ^Eschylus: 
 then, look at this Greek eagle on a coin of Elis, R. 50, 
 and this Pisan one, in marble, Edu. 131, and you will not 
 doubt any more that it is better to look at the living 
 birds, than to cut them to pieces. 
 
 158. Anatomy, then, — I will assume that you grant, for 
 the moment, as I will assuredly prove to you eventually, 
 — will not help us to draw the true appearances of things. 
 But may it not add to our intelligent conception of their 
 nature ? 
 
 So far from doing this, the anatomical study which has, 
 to our much degradation and misfortune, usurped the 
 place, and taken the name, at once of art and of natural 
 history, has produced the most singularly mischievous 
 effect on the faculty of delineation with respect to dif- 
 ferent races of animals- In all recent books on natura. 
 
the eagle's nest. 137 
 
 history, you will find the ridiculous and ugly creatures 
 done well, the noble and beautiful creatures done, I do 
 not say merely ill, but in no wise. You will find the 
 law hold universally that apes, pigs, rats, weasels, foxes, 
 and the like, — but especially apes, — are drawn admira- 
 bly ; but not a stag, not a lamb, not a horse, not a lion ; — 
 the nobler the creature, the more stupidly it is always 
 drawn, not from feebleness of art power, but a far dead- 
 lier fault than that — a total want of sympathy with the 
 noble qualities of any creature, and a loathsome delight 
 in their disgusting qualities. And this law is so 
 thoroughly carried out that the great French historian of 
 the mammalia, St. Hilaire, chooses, as his single example 
 of the highest of the race, the most nearly bestial type he 
 can find, human, in the world. Let no girl ever look at 
 the book, nor any youth who is willing to take my word ; 
 let those who doubt me, look at the example he has given 
 of womankind. 
 
 159. But admit that this is only French anatomy, or ill- 
 studied anatomy j and that, rightly studied, as Dr. Acland, 
 for instance, would teach it ns, it might do us some kind 
 of good. 
 
 I must reserve for my lectures on the school of Flor- 
 ence any analysis of the effect of anatomical study on 
 European art and character ; you will find some notice 
 of it in my lecture on Michael Angelo ; and in the course 
 of that analysis, it will be necessary for me to withdraw the 
 statement made in the Stones of Venice, that anatomical 
 
138 the eagle's nest. 
 
 science was helpful to great, men, though harmful to mean 
 ones. I am now certain that the greater the intellect, the 
 more fatal are the forms of degradation to which it be- 
 comes liable in the course of anatomical study : and that 
 to Michael Angelo, of all men, the mischief was greatest, 
 in destroying his religious passion and imagination, and 
 leading him to make every spiritual conception subordi- 
 nate to the display of his knowledge of the body. To-day, 
 however, I only wish to give you my reasons f or withdraw- 
 ing anatomy from your course of study in these schools. 
 
 160. I do so, first, simply with reference to our time, 
 convenience, and systematic method. It has become a 
 habit with drawing-masters to confuse this particular 
 science of anatomy with their own art of drawing, though 
 they confuse no other science with that art. Admit that, 
 in order to draw a tree, you should have a knowledge of 
 botany : Do you expect me to teach you botany here ? 
 Whatever I want you to know of it I shall send you to 
 your Professor of Botany, and to the Botanic Gardens, to 
 learn. I may, perhaps, give you a rough sketch of the 
 lines of timber in a bough, but nothing more. 
 
 So again, admit that, to draw a stone, yon need a 
 knowledge of geology. I have told you that you do not, 
 but admit it. Do you expect me to teach you, here, the 
 relations between quartz and oxide of iron ; or between 
 the Silurian and Permian systems? If you care about 
 them, go to Professor Phillips, and come back to me 
 when you know them. 
 
the eagle's nest. 139 
 
 And, in like manner, admit that, to draw a man, you 
 want the knowledge of his bones : — you do not ; but 
 admit that you do. Why should you expect me, here, tc 
 teach you the most difficult of all the sciences ? If you 
 want to know it, go to an hospital, and cut dead bodies to 
 pieces till you are satisfied ; then come to me, and I'll 
 make a shift to teach you to draw, even then — though 
 your eyes and memory will be full of horrible things 
 which Heaven never meant you so much as a glance at. 
 But don't expect me to help you in that ghastly work; any 
 more than among the furnaces and retorts in Professor 
 Maskelyne's laboratory. 
 
 161. Let us take one more step in the logical sequence. 
 You do not, I have told you, need either chemistry, botany, 
 geology, 'or anatomy, to enable you to understand art, or 
 produce it. . But there is one science which you must be 
 acquainted with. You must very intensely and thorough- 
 ly know — how to behave. You cannot so much as feel 
 the difference between two casts of drapery, between 
 two tendencies of line, — how much less between dignity 
 and baseness of gesture, — but by your own dignity of 
 character. But, though this is an essential science, and 
 although I cannot teach you to lay one line beside another 
 rightly, unless you have this science, you don't expect me 
 in these schools to teach you how to behave, if you hap- 
 pen not to know it before ! 
 
 162. "Well, here is one reason, and a sufficiently logical 
 one, as you will find it on. consideration, for the exclusion 
 
140 THE EAGLE'S NEST. 
 
 of anatomical study 'from all drawing schools. But there 
 is a more cogent reason than this for its exclusion, especi- 
 ally from elementary drawing-schools. It may be some- 
 times desirable that a student should see, as I said, how 
 very unlike a face a skull is ; and at a leisure moment ho 
 may, without much harm, observe the equivocation between 
 knees and ankles by which it is contrived that his legs, 
 if properly made at the joints, will only bend backwards, 
 but a crane's forwards. But that a young boy, or girl, 
 brought up fresh to the schools of art from the country, 
 should be set to stare, against every particle of wholesome 
 grain in thfcir natures, at the Elgin marbles, and to draw 
 them with dismal application, until they imagine they 
 like them, makes the whole youthful temper rotten with 
 affectation, and sickly with strained and ambitious fancy. 
 It is still worse for young persons to be compelled to en- 
 dure the horror of the dissecting-room^ or to be made 
 familiar with the conditions of actual bodily form, in a 
 climate where the restraints of dress must forever prevent 
 the body from being perfect in contour, or regarded with 
 entirely simple feeling. 
 
 163. I have now, perhaps too often for your patience, 
 told you that you must always draw for the sake of your 
 subject— never for the sake of your picture. What you 
 wish to see in reality, that you should make an effort to 
 show, in pictures and statues ; what you do not wish to 
 see in reality, you should not try to draw. 
 
 But there is, I suppose, a verv general impression on 
 
THE EAGLE'S NEST. 141 
 
 the mind of persons interested in the arts, that because 
 nations living in cold climates are necessarily unfamiliar 
 with the sight of the naked body, therefore, art should 
 take it upon herself to show it them ; and that they will 
 be elevated in thought, and made more simple and grave 
 in temper, by seeing, at least in colour and marble, what 
 the people of the south saw in its verity. 
 
 164. I have neither time nor inclination to enter at 
 present into discussion of the various effects, on the 
 morality of nations, of more or less frank showing of the 
 nude form. There is no question that if shown at all, it 
 should be shown fearlessly, and seen constantly ; but I do 
 not care, at present, to debate the question : neither will I 
 delay you by any expression of my reasons for the rule T 
 am about to give. Trust me, I have many ; — and I can 
 assert to you as a positive and perpetual law, that so much 
 of the nude body as in the daily life of the nation may be 
 shown with modesty, and seen with reverence and delight, 
 — so much, and no more, ought to be shown by the 
 national arts, either of painting or sculpture. What, 
 more than this, either art exhibits, will, assuredly, pervert 
 taste, and, in all_rjrobability, morals. 
 
 165. It will, assuredly, pervert taste, in this essential 
 point, that the polite ranks of the nation will come to 
 think the living creature and its dress exempt from the 
 highest laws of taste ; and that while a man or woman 
 must, indeed, be seen dressed or undressed with dignity, 
 in marble, they may be dressed or undressed, if not with 
 
142 the eagle's nest. 
 
 indignity, at least, with less than dignity, in the ball-roam, 
 and the street. Now the law of all living art is that the 
 living man and woman must be more beautiful than their 
 pictures, and their pictures as decorous as the living man 
 or woman ; and that real dress, and gesture, and be- 
 haviour, should be more graceful than any marble or 
 colour can effect similitude of. 
 
 166. Thus the idea of a different dress in art and reality, 
 of which that of art is to be the ideal one, perverts taste 
 in dress ; and the study of the nude which is rarely seen, 
 as much perverts taste in art. 
 
 Of all pieces of art that I know, skilful in execution, 
 and not criminal ' in intention ; — without any exception, 
 quite the most vulgar, and in the solemn sense of the word, 
 most abominable, are the life studies which are said to be 
 the best made in modern times, — those of Mulready, ex- 
 hibited as models in the Kensington Museum. 
 
 167. How far the study of the seldom-seen nude leads 
 to perversion of morals, I will not, to-day, inquire ; but 
 I beg you to observe that even among the people where it 
 was most frank and pure, it unquestionably led to evil far 
 greater than any good which demonstrably can be traced 
 to it. Scarcely any of the moral power of Greece de- 
 pended on her admiration of beauty, or strength in the 
 body. Tbe power of Greece depended on practice in 
 military exercise, involving severe and continual ascetic 
 discipline of the senses; on a perfect code of military 
 heroism and patriotic honour ; on the desire to live by the 
 
the eagle's nest. 143 
 
 laws of an admittedly divine justice; and on the vivid 
 conception of the presence of spiritual beings. The mere 
 admiration of physical beauty in the body, and the arts 
 which sought its expression, not only conduced greatly to 
 the fall of Greece, but were the cause of errors and crimes 
 in her greatest time, which must for ever sadden our happi- 
 est thoughts of her, and have rendered her example almost 
 useless to the future. 
 
 168. I have named four causes of her power : discipline 
 of senses ; romantic ideal of heroic honour ; respect for 
 justice ; and belief' in God. There was a fifth — the most 
 precious of all — the belief in the purity and force of life 
 in man ; and that true reverence for domestic affection, . 
 which, in the strangest way, being the essential strength 
 of every nation under the sun, has yet been lost sight of 
 as the chief element of Greek virtue, though the Iliad 
 itself is nothing but the story of the punishment of the 
 rape of Helen ; and though every Greek hero called him- 
 self chiefly by his parental name, — Tydides, rather than 
 Diomed ; — Pelides, rather than Achilles. 
 
 Among the new knowledges which the modern sirens 
 tempt you to pursue, the basest and darkest is the endea- 
 vour to trace the origin of life, otherwise than in Love. 
 Pardon me, therefore, if I give you a piece of theology 
 to-day: it is a science much closer to your art than 
 anatomy. 
 
 169. All of you who have ever read your Gospels care- 
 fully must have wondered, sometimes, what could be the 
 
144- the eagle's nest. 
 
 meaning of those words, — " If any speak against the Sod 
 of Man it shall be forgiven ; but if against the Holy Spirit, 
 it shall not be forgiven, neither in this world nor in the 
 next." 
 
 The passage may have many meanings which I do not 
 know ; but one meaning I know positively, and I tell you 
 so just as frankly as I wonld that I knew the meaning of 
 a verse in Homer. 
 
 Those of you who still go to chapel say every day your 
 creed ; and, I suppose, too often, less and less every day 
 believiDg it. Now, you may cease to believe two articles 
 of it, and, — admitting Christianity to be true, — still be for- 
 given. But I can tell you — you must not cease to believe 
 the third ! 
 
 You begin by saying that you believe in an Almighty 
 Father. Well, you may entirely lose the sense of that 
 Fatherhood, and yet be forgiven. 
 
 You go on to say that you believe m a Saviour Son. 
 You may entirely lose the sense of that Sonship, and yet 
 be forgiven. 
 
 But the third article — disbelieve if you dare ! 
 
 " I believe in the Holy Ghost, The Lord and Giver of 
 Life- 
 
 Disbelieve that ! and your own being is degraded into 
 the state of dust driven by the wind ; and the elements of 
 dissolution have entered your very heart and soul. 
 
 All Nature, with one voice — with one glory, is set to 
 teach you reverence for the life communicated to yon 
 
145 
 
 from the Father of Spirits. The song of birds, and their 
 plumage ; the scent of flowers, their colour, their very ex- 
 istence, are in direct connection with the mystery of that 
 communicated life : and all the strength, and all the arts 
 of men, are measured by, and founded upon, their rever- 
 ence for the passion, and their guardianship of the purity, 
 of Love. 
 
 170. Gentlemen, — the word by which I at this moment 
 address you— by which it is the first of all your duties 
 through life, to permit all men to address you with truth — 
 that epithet of 'gentle,' as you well know, indicates the 
 intense respect for race and fatherhood, — for family dig- 
 nity and chastity, — which was visibly the strength of 
 Elome, as it had been, more disguisedly, the strength of 
 Greece. But have you enough noticed that your Saxon 
 word ' kindness ' has exactly the same relation to ' kin,' and 
 to the Chaucerian ' kinde,' that ' gentle ' has to ' gentilis ' \ 
 
 Think out that matter a little, and you will find that — 
 much as it looks like it — neither chemistry, nor anatomy, 
 nor republicanism, are going to have it all their own way 
 — in the making of either beasts, or gentlemen. They 
 look sometimes, indeed, as if they had got as far as two of 
 the Mosaic plagues, and manufactured frogs in the ditches, 
 and lice on the land ; but their highest boasters will not 
 claim, yet, so much even as that poor victory. 
 
 171. My friends, let me very strongly recommend you 
 to give up that hope of finding the principle of life in 
 dead bodies ; but to take all pains to keep the life pure and 
 
146 the eagle's nest. 
 
 holy in the living bodies you have got ; and, farther, not to 
 seek your national amusement in the destruction of animals, 
 nor your national safety in the destruction of men ; but to 
 look for all your joy to kindness, and for. all your strength 
 to domestic faith, and law of ancestral honour. Perhaps 
 you will not now any more think it strange that in begin- 
 ning your natural history studies in this place, I mean to 
 teach you heraldry, but not anatomy. For, as you learn 
 to read the shields, and remember the stories, of the great 
 houses of England, and find how all the arts that glorified 
 them were founded on the passions that inspired, you will 
 learn assuredly, that the utmost secret of national power 
 is in living with honour, and the utmost secrets of human 
 art are in gentleness and truth. 
 
the eagle's nest. 147 
 
 LECTUKE IX. 
 
 THE STOEY OF THE HALCYON. 
 March 7t7i, 1872. 
 
 172. I must to-day briefly recapitulate the purport of the 
 preceding lectures, as we are about now to enter on a new 
 branch of our subject. 
 
 I stated, in the first two, that the wisdom of art 
 and the wisdom of science consisted in their beinw 
 each devoted unselfishly to the service of men: in 
 the third, that art was only the shadow of our lcnowl 
 edge of facts; and that the reality was always to be 
 acknowledged as more beautiful than the shadow. In the 
 fourth lecture I endeavoured to show that the wise mod- 
 esty of art and science lay in attaching due value to the 
 power and knowledge of other people, when greater than 
 our own ; and in the fifth, that the wise self-sufficiency 
 of art and science lay in a proper enjoyment of our own 
 knowledge and power, after it was thus modestly es- 
 teemed. The sixth lecture stated that sight was a dis- 
 tinctly spiritual power, and that its kindness or tenderness 
 was proportioned to its clearness. Lastly, in the seventh 
 and eighth lectures, I asserted that this spiritual sight, 
 concerned with external aspects of things, was the source 
 
148 the earle's nest. 
 
 of all necessary knowledge in art ; and that the artist has 
 no concern with invisible structures, organic or inor- 
 ganic. 
 
 173. No concern with invisible structures. But much 
 with invisible things; with passion, and with historical 
 association. And in these two closing lectures, I hope 
 partly to justify myself for pressing on your attention some 
 matters as little hitherto thought of in drawing-schools, 
 as the exact sciences have been highly, and, I bBlieve, 
 unjustly, esteemed ; — mythology, namely, and heraldry. 
 
 I can but in part justify myself now. Your experience 
 of the interest which may be found in these two despised 
 sciences will be my best justification. But to-day (as we 
 are about to begin our exercises in bird-drawing) I think 
 it may interest you to review some of the fables connected 
 with the natural history of a single bird, and to consider 
 what effect the knowledge of such tradition is likely to 
 have on our mode of regarding the animated creation in 
 general. 
 
 174. Let us first take an instance of the feeling towards 
 birds which is especially characteristic of the English 
 temper at this day, in its entire freedom from super- 
 stition. 
 
 You will find in your Rudimentary Series (225), Mr. 
 Gould's plate of the lesser Egret,— the most beautiful, 1 
 suppose, of all birds that visit, or, at least, once visited, 
 our English shores. Perfectly delicate in form, snow- 
 white in plumage, the feathers like frost-work of dead 
 
THE EAGLE'S NEST. 149 
 
 silver, exquisitely slender, separating in the wind like the 
 streams of a fountain, the creature looks a living cloud 
 rather than a bird. 
 
 It may be seen often enough in South France and Italy. 
 The last (or last but one ?) known of in England came 
 thirty years ago, and this was its reception, as related by 
 the present happy possessor of its feathers and bones : — 
 
 " The little Egret in my possession is a most beautiful 
 specimen; it was killed by a labourer with a stick, in 
 Ake Carr, near Beverly, about 1840, and was brought tc 
 me, tied up in a pocket-handkerchief, covered with black 
 wet mud and blood, in which state it was sent to Mr. 
 Reed, of Doncaster, and restored by him in a most mar- 
 vellous manner." 
 
 175. Now, you will feel at once that, while the peasant 
 was beating this bird into a piece of bloody flesh with 
 his stick, he could not, in any true sense, see the bird; 
 that he had no pleasure either in the sight of that, or of 
 anything near it. 
 
 You feel that he would become capable of seeing it in 
 exact proportion to his desire not to kill it ; but to watch 
 it in its life. 
 
 Well, that is a quite general law : in the degree in 
 which you delight in the life of any creature, you can see 
 it ; no otherwise. 
 
 And you would feel, would you not, that if you coidd 
 enable the peasant rightly to see the bird, you had in 
 great part educated him ? 
 
150 
 
 176. You would certainly have gone, at least, the third 
 of the way towards educating him. Then the next thing 
 to be contrived would be that he should be able to see 
 a man rightly, as well as a bird ; to understand and 
 love what was good in a man, so that, supposing his 
 master was a good man, the sight of his master should 
 be a joy to him. Tou would say that he was therein 
 better educated than if he wanted to put a gun thrcmgh a 
 hedge and shoot his master. 
 
 Then the last part of education will be — whatever is 
 meant by that beatitude of the pure in heart — seeing God 
 rightly, of which I shall not speak to-day. 
 
 177. And in all these phases of education, the main 
 point, you observe, is that it should, be a beatitude : and 
 that a man should learn " yaCpeiv opdux; : " and this re- 
 joicing is above all things to be in actual sight; you 
 have the truth exactly in the saying of Dante when he is 
 brought before Beatrice, in heaven, that his eyes "satisfied 
 themselves for their ten years' thirst." 
 
 This, then, I repeat, is the sum of education. All 
 literature, art, and science are vain, and worse, if they do 
 not enable you to be glad ; and glad justly. 
 
 And I feel it distinctly my duty, though with solemn 
 and true deference to the masters of education in this 
 university, to say that I believe our modern methods 
 of teaching, and especially the institution of severe and 
 frequent examination, to be absolutely opposed to this 
 great end ; and that the result of competitive labour in 
 
THE EAGLE'S NEST. 151 
 
 youth is infallibly to make men know all they learn 
 wrongly, and hate the habit of learning ; so that in- 
 stead of coining to Oxford to rejoice in their work, men 
 look forward to the years they are to pass under her 
 teaching as a deadly agony, from which they are fain 
 to escape, and sometimes for .their life, must escape, into 
 any method of sanitary frivolity. 
 
 178. I go back to my peasant and his egret. You all 
 think with some horror of this man, beating the bird to 
 death, as a brutal person. He is so ; but how far are we 
 English gentlemen, as a body, raised above him? We 
 are more delicately nurtured, and shrink from the 
 notion of bruising the creature and spoiling its feathers. 
 That is so far right, and well. But in all probability 
 this countryman, rude and cruel though he might be, 
 had some other object in the rest of his day than the 
 killing of birds. And very earnestly I- ask you, have 
 English gentlemen, as a class, any other real object in 
 their whole existence than killing birds % If they discern 
 a duty, they will indeed do it to the death ; but have the 
 English aristocracy at this moment any clear notion of 
 their duty ? I believe solemnly, and without jest, their 
 idea of their caste is that its life should be, distinctively 
 from inferior human lives, spent in shooting. 
 
 And that is not an idea of caste with which England, 
 at this epoch, can any longer be governed. 
 
 179. I have no time to-day to push my argument 
 farther ; but I have said enough, I think, to induce you 
 
152 the eagle's nest. 
 
 to bear with me in the statement of my main theorem— 
 that reading and writing are in no sense education, unless 
 they contribute to this end of making us feel kindly 
 towards all creatures ; but that drawing, and especially 
 physiologic drawing, is vital education of a most precious 
 kind. Farther, that more good would be done by any 
 English nobleman who would keep his estate lovely in its 
 native wildness ; and let every animal live upon it in 
 peace that chose to come there, than will be done, as 
 matters are going now, by the talk of all the Lords in 
 Parliament, as long as we live to listen to them ; and, I will 
 even venture to tell yon my hope, though I shall be dead 
 long before its possible fulfilment, that one day the 
 English people will, indeed, so far recognize what 
 education means as to surround this university with the 
 loveliest park in England, twenty miles square ; that they 
 vrill forbid, in that environment, every unclean, me- 
 chanical, and vulgar trade and manufacture, as any man 
 would forbid them in his own garden ; — that they will 
 abolish every base and ugly building, and nest of vice 
 and misery, as they would cast out a devil ; — that the 
 streams of the Isis and Cherwell will be kept pure aud 
 quiet among their fields and trees ; and that, within this 
 park, every English wild flower that can bloom in 
 lowland will be suffered to grow in luxuriance, and every 
 living creature that haunts wood and stream know that it 
 has happy refuge. 
 
 And now to our immediate work. 
 
THE EAGLES NEST. 153 
 
 180. The natural history of anything, or of any 
 creature, divides itself properly into three branches. 
 
 We have first to collect and examine the traditions 
 respecting the thing, so that we may know what the effect 
 of its existence has hitherto been on the minds of men, 
 and may have at our command what data exist to help us 
 in our own inquiries about it, or to guide us in our own 
 thoughts of it. 
 
 We have secondly to examine and describe the thiiig, 
 or creature, in its actual state, with utmost attainable ve- 
 racity of observation. 
 
 Lastly, we have to examine nnder what laws of chemis- 
 try and physic the matters of which the thing is made 
 has been collected and constructed. 
 
 Thus we have first to know the poetry of it — i. e., what 
 it has been to man, or what man has made of it. 
 
 Secondly, the actual facts of its existence. 
 
 Thirdly, the physical causes of these facts, if we. can 
 discover them. 
 
 181. Now, it is customary, and may be generally advis- 
 able, to confine the term ' natural history ' to the last two 
 branches of knowledge only. I do not care what we call 
 the first branch ; but, in the accounts of animals that I 
 prepare for my schools at Oxford, the main point with me 
 will be the mythology of them ; the second, their actual 
 state and aspect, (second, this, because almost always 
 hitherto only half known) ; and the anatomy and chemis 
 
 try of their bodies, I shall very rarely, and partially, as I 
 7* 
 
154 the ejgle's nest. 
 
 told you, examine at all : but I shall take the greatest 
 pains to get at the creature's habits of life ; and know all 
 its ingenuities, humours, delights, and intellectual powers. 
 That is to say, what art it has, and what affection ;. and 
 how these are prepared for in its external form. 
 
 182. I say, deliberately and energetically, 'prepared 
 for,' in opposition to the idea, too prevalent in modern 
 philosophy, of the form's being fortuitously developed by 
 repetition of impulse. It is of course true that the as- 
 pects aud characters of stones, flowers, birds, beasts, and 
 men, are inseparably connected with the conditions under 
 which they are appointed to have existence ; but the 
 method of this connection is infinitely varied ; so far 
 from fortuitous, it appears grotesquely, often terrifically, 
 arbitrary ; and neither stone, flower, beast, nor man can 
 understand any single reason of the arbitrament, or com- 
 prehend why its Creator made it thus. 
 
 183. To take the simplest of instances, — which happens 
 also to be one of the most important to you as artists, — it 
 is appointed that vertebrated animals shall have no more 
 than four legs, and that, if they require to fly, the two 
 legs in front must become wings, it being against law that 
 they should have more than these four members in ramifi 
 cation from the spine. 
 
 Can any law be conceived more arbitrary, or more ap 
 parently causeless ? "What strongly planted three-legged 
 animals there migb*; have been ! what symmetrically ra- 
 diant five legged ones ! what volatile six-whiffed ones! 
 
155 
 
 what circumspect seven-headed ones! Had Darwinism 
 been true, we should long ago have split our heads in two 
 with foolish thinking, or thrust out, from above our covet- 
 ous hearts, a hundred desirous arms and clutching hands ; 
 and changed ourselves into Briarean Cephalopoda. But 
 the law is around us, and within ; unconquerable ; grant- 
 ing, up to a certain limit, power over our bodies to cir- 
 cumstance and will : beyond that limit, inviolable, inscrut- 
 able, and, so far as we know, eternal. 
 
 184. For every lower animal, similar laws are estab- 
 lished ; under the grasp of these it is capable of change, 
 invisibly permitted oscillation between certain points ; 
 beyond which, according to present experience, it cannot 
 pass. The adaptation of the instruments it possesses in its 
 members to the conditions of its life is always direct, and 
 occasionally beautiful ; but in the plurality of instances, 
 partial, and involving painful supplementary effort. 
 Some animals have to dig with their noses, some to build 
 with their tails, some to spin with their stomachs : their 
 dexterities are usually few — their awkwardnesses number- 
 less ; — a lion is continually puzzled how to hold a bone ; 
 and an eagle can scarcely pull the meat off one, without 
 upsetting himself. 
 
 185. Respecting the origin of these variously awkward, 
 imperfectly, or grotesquely developed phases of form and 
 power, you need not at present inquire : in all probability 
 the race of man is appointed to live in wonder, and in 
 acknowledgment of ignorance ; but if ever he is to know 
 
156 the eagle's nest. 
 
 any of the secrets of his own or of brutal existence, it wil 
 assuredly be through discipline of virtue, not through 
 inquisitiveness of science. I have just used the ex- 
 pression, "had Darwinism been true," implying its fallacy 
 more positively than is justifiable in the present state of 
 our knowledge ; but very positively I can say to you that 
 I have never heard yet one logical argument in its favour, 
 and I have heard, and read, many that were beneath con- 
 tempt. For instance, by the time you have copied one or 
 two of your exercises on the feather of the halcyon, you 
 will be more interested in the construction and disposition 
 of plume-filaments than heretofore ; and you may, per- 
 haps, refer, in hope of help, to Mr. Darwin's account 
 of the peacock's feather. I went to it myself, hoping to 
 learn some of the existing laws of life which regulate the 
 local disposition of the colour. But none of these appear 
 to be known ; and I am informed only that peacocks have 
 grown to be peacocks out of brown pheasants, because the 
 young feminine brown pheasants like fine feathers. 
 Whereupon I say to myself, " Then either there was a 
 distinct species of brown pheasants originally born with a 
 taste for fine feathers ; and therefore with remarkable 
 eyes in their heads,— which would be a much more 
 wonderful distinction of species than being born witli 
 remarkable eyes in their tails, — or else all pheasants would 
 have been peacocks by this time! " And I trouble myself 
 no more about the Darwinian theory. 
 
 When you have drawn some of the actual patterns oi 
 
157 
 
 plume and scale with attention, I believe you will see 
 reason to think that spectra of organic species may be at 
 least as distinct as those of metals or gases ; but learn at 
 all events what they are now, and never mind what they 
 have been. 
 
 186. Nor need you care for methods of classification 
 any more than for the origin of classes. Leave the physi- 
 ologists to invent names, and dispute over them; your 
 business is to know the creature, not the name of it mo- 
 mentarily fashionable in scientific circles. What practical 
 service you can get from the order at present adopted, 
 take, without contention ; and as far as possible, use Eng- 
 lish words, or be sure you understand the Latin ones. 
 
 187. For instance, the order at present adopted in 
 arranging the species of birds is, as you know, founded 
 only on their ways of using their feet. 
 
 Some catch or snatch their prey, and are called " Snatch- 
 ers " — EAPTOBES. 
 
 Some perch on branches, and are called " In-sitters," or 
 TJpon-sitters — insessobes. 
 
 Some climb and cling on branches, and are called Climb- 
 ers — SCANSOEES. 
 
 Some scratch the ground, and are called " Scratchers" 
 
 — EASOEES. 
 
 Some stand or wade in shallow water, and, having long 
 legs, are called " Stilt-walkers " — geallatoees. 
 
 Some float, and make oars of their feet, and are called 
 "' Swimmers " — natatobes. 
 
158 the eagle's nest. 
 
 188. This classification is unscholarly, because there are 
 many snatchers ana scratchers who perch as well as the 
 sitters ; and many of the swimmers sit, when ashore, more 
 neatly than the sitters themselves; and are most grave 
 incessors, in long rows, on rock or sand: also, 'ineessor' 
 does not mean properly a sitter, but a besieger ; and it is 
 awkward to call a bird a ' Easor.' Still, the use of the 
 feet is on the whole characteristic, and convenient for first 
 rough arrangement ; only, in general reference, it will be 
 better to use plain English words than those stiff Latin 
 ones, or their ugly translations. Linnaeus, for all his classes 
 except the stilt-walkers, used the name of the particular 
 birds which were the best types of their class ; he called 
 the snatchers "hawks" (Accipitres), the swimmers, geese, 
 (Anseres), the scratchers, fowls, (Gallinae), and the perch- 
 ers, sparrows, (Passeres). He has no class of climbers ; 
 but he has one since omitted by Cuvier, "pies," which, for 
 certain mj'thological reasons presently to be noted, I will 
 ask you to keep. This will give you seven orders, alto- 
 gether, to be remembered ; and for each of these we will 
 take the name of its most representative bird. The hawk 
 has best right undoubtedly to stand for the snatchers ; we 
 will have his adversary, the heron, for the stilt-walkers ; 
 you will find this very advisable, no less than convenient ; 
 because some of the beaks of the stilt-walkers turn down, 
 and some turn up ; but the heron's is straight, and so he 
 Btands well as a pure middle type. Then, certainly, gulls 
 will better represent the swimmers than geese ; and phea- 
 
the eagle's nest. 159 
 
 sants are a prettier kind of scratchers than fowls. "We 
 will take parrots for the climbers, magpies for the pies, 
 and sparrows for the perchers. Then take them in this 
 order: Hawks, parrots, pies, sparrows, pheasants, gulls, 
 herons; and yon can then easily remember them. For 
 you have the hawks at one end, the herons at the other, 
 and sparrows in the middle, with pies on one side and 
 pheasants opposite, for which arrangement you will find 
 there is good reason ; then the parrots necessarily go be- 
 side the hawks, and the gulls beside the herons. 
 
 189. The bird whose mythic history I am about to read 
 to you belongs essentially and characteristically to that 
 order of pies, picae, or painted birds, which the Greeks 
 continually opposed in their thoughts and traditions to the 
 singing birds, representing the one by the magpie, and 
 the other by the nightingale. The myth of Autolycus 
 and Philammon, and Pindar's exquisite story of the infi- 
 delity of Coronis, are the centres of almost countless tra 
 ditions, all full of meaning, dependent on the various 
 •n-oiKiXia, to eye and ear, of these opposed races of birds. 
 The Greek idea of the Halcyon united both these sources 
 of delight. I will read you what notices of it I find most 
 interesting, not in order of date, but of brevity ; the sim- 
 plest first. 
 
 190. " And the King of Trachis, the child of the Morn- 
 ing Star, married Alcyone. And they perished, both of 
 them, through their pride ; for the king called his wife, 
 Hera ; and she her husband, Zeus : but Zeus made birds 
 
160 THE EAGLE'S NEST. 
 
 of them (avToix; cnrtopveaa-e), and he made the one a Hal- 
 cyon, and the other a Sea-mew."— Ajpollodorus, i. 7, 4. 
 
 " When the King of Trachis, the son of Hesperus, or of 
 Lucifer, and Philonis, perished in shipwreck, his wife 
 Alcyone, the daughter of ^Eolus-and ^Egiale, for love of. 
 him, threw herself into the sea ; — who both, by the mercy 
 of the gods, were turned into the birds called Halcyons. 
 These birds, in the winter-time, build their nests, and lay 
 their eggs, and -hatch their young on the sea ; and the sea 
 is quiet in those days, which the sailors call the Hal- 
 cyonia." — Ityginus, Fab. LXV. 
 
 191. " JSTow the King of Trachis, the son of Lucifer, 
 had to wife Halcyone. And he, wishing to consult the 
 oracle of Apollo concerning the state of his kingdom, was . 
 forbidden to go, by Halcyone, nevertheless he went ; and 
 perished by shipwreck. And when his body was brought 
 to his wife Halcyone, she threw herself into the sea. 
 Afterwards, by the mercy of Thetis and Lucifer, they 
 were both turned into the sea-birds called Halcyons. 
 And you ought to know that Halcyone is the woman's 
 name, and is always a feminine noun; but the bird's 
 name is Halcyon, masculine and feminine, and so also its 
 plural, Halcyones. Also those birds make their nests in 
 the sea, in the middle of winter ; in which days the calm 
 is so deep that hardly anything in the sea can be moved. 
 Thence, also, the days themselves are called Halcyonia.'-' 
 —Servius, in Virg. Oeorg. i. 399. 
 
 192. "And the pairing of birds, as I said, is for the 
 
161 
 
 most part in spring time, and early summer ; except the 
 halcyon's. For the halcyon has its young about the turn 
 of days in winter, wherefore, when those days are fine, 
 they are called 'Halcyonine' (aKicvoveioi) ; seven, indeed, 
 before the turn, and seven after it, as Simonides poetized, 
 
 ' As, when in the wintry month 
 Zeus gives the wisdom of calm to fourteen days, 
 Then the people of the land call it 
 The hour of wind-hiding, the sacred 
 Nurse of the spotted Halcyon.' 
 
 -■" And in the first seven days the halcyon is said to lay 
 her eggs, and in the latter seven to bring forth and nour- 
 ish her young. Here, indeed, in the seas of Greece, it 
 does not always chance that the Halcyonid days are at the 
 solstice ; but in the Sicilian sea, almost always. But the 
 aethuia and the laros bring forth their young, (two, or 
 three) among the rocks by the sea-shore ; but the laros in 
 summer, the aethuia in first spring, just after the turn of 
 days ; and they sit on them as other birds do. And none 
 of these birds lie torpid in holes during the winter ; but 
 the halcyon is, of all, seen the seldomest, for it is seen 
 scarcely at all, except just at the setting and turn of Pleias, 
 und then it will but show itself once and away ; flying, 
 perhaps, once round a ship at anchor, and then it is goi.e 
 instantly " — Aristotle, Hist. Av., v. 8, 9. 
 193. " Now we are ready enough to extol the bee for a 
 
162 the eagle's nest. 
 
 wise creature, and to consent to the laws by which it cares 
 for the yellow honey, because we adore the pleasantness 
 and tickling to our palates that is in the sweetness of that; 
 but we take no notice of the wisdom and art of other 
 creatures in bringing up their young, as for instance, the 
 halcyon, who as soon as she has conceived, makes her nest 
 by gathering the thorns of the sea-needle-fish ; and, weav- 
 ing these in and out, and joining them together at the 
 ends, she finishes her nest ; round in the plan of it, and 
 long, in the proportion of a fisherman's net; and then she 
 puts it where it will be beaten by the waves, until the 
 rough surface is all fastened together and made close. 
 And it becomes so hard that a blow with iron or stone 
 will not easily divide it; but, what is more wonderful 
 still, is that the oi)ening of the nest is made so exactly tc 
 the size and measure of the halcyon that nothing larger 
 can get into it, and nothing smaller ! — so they say ; — " no, 
 not even the sea itself, even the least drop of it." — Plu- 
 tarch : De Amove Prolis. 
 
 I have kept to the last Lucian's dialogue, "the Hal- 
 cyon," to show you how the tone of Christian thought, 
 and tradition of Christ's walking on the sea, begau to 
 steal into heathen literature. 
 
 SoOEATES ChAEEEPHON. 
 
 194. " C/iaercpAon. What cry is that, Socrates, which 
 came to us from the beach; how sweet it was; what 
 can it be ? the things that live in the pea are all mute 
 
THE EAGLE'S NEST. 163 
 
 " Socrates. Yet it is a sea-creature, Chaerephon ; the 
 bird called Halcyon, concerning which the old fable 
 runs that she was the daughter of ^Eolus, and, mourning 
 in her youth for her lost husband, was winged, by divine 
 power, and now flies over the sea, seeking him whom 
 she could not find, sought throughout the earth. 
 
 " Chaerephon. And is that indeed the Halcyon's cry ? 
 I never heard it yet; and in truth it is Tery pitiful. 
 How large is the bird, Socrates ? 
 
 "Socrates. Not great; but it has received great 
 honour from the Gods, because of its lovingness; for 
 while it is making its nest, all the world has the happy 
 days which it calls halcyenidse, excelling all others in 
 their calmness, though in the midst of storm ; of which 
 you see this very day is one, if ever there was. Look 
 how clear the sky is, and the sea waveless and calm, like 
 a mirror ! 
 
 " Chaerephon. You say truly, and yesterday was just 
 such another. But in the name of the Gods, Socrates, 
 . low is one to believe those old sayings, that birds were 
 ever changed into women, or women into birds, for 
 nothing could seem more impossible ? 
 
 195. " Socrates. Ah, dear Chaerephon, it is likely that 
 we are poor and blunt judges of what is possible and 
 uot: for we judge by comparing to human power a 
 power unknown to us, unimaginable, and. unseen. Many 
 things, therefore, that are easy, seem to us difficult; 
 and many things unattainable that may be attained ; 
 
1C4 THE EAGLE'S NEST. 
 
 being thus thought of, some through the inexperience, and 
 some through the infantine folly, of our minds. Foi 
 in very deed every man may be thought of as a child — 
 even the oldest of us, — since the full time of life is 
 little, and as a baby's, compared to universal time. And 
 what should we have to say, my good friend, who know 
 nothing of the power of gods or of the spirits of Nature, 
 whether any of such things are possible or not? Tou 
 saw, Chaerephon, what a storm there was, the day before 
 yesterday ; it makes one tremble even to think of it 
 again ;— that lightning, and thunder, and sudden tempest, 
 so great that one would have thought all the earth 
 falling to ruin ; and yet, in a little while, came the 
 wonderful establishing of calm, which has remained even 
 till now. "Whether, then, do you think it the greater 
 work to bring such a calm out of that tormenting whirl- 
 wind, and reduce the universe to peace, or to change 
 the form of a woman into that of a bird ? For indeed we 
 see how very little children, who know how to knead 
 clay, do something like this also ; often out of one lump 
 they will make form after form, of different natures: 
 and surely to the spirit-powers of Nature, being in vast 
 and inconjecturable excess beyond ours, all such things 
 must be in their hands easy. Or how much do you think 
 heaven greater than thyself — can you say, perchance ? 
 
 " Chaerephon. Who of men, O Socrates, could imagine 
 or name any of these things ? 
 
 196. "Socrates. Nay; do we not see also, in compar- 
 
THE EAGLE S NEST. 105 
 
 ing man with man, strange differences in their powers and 
 imbecilities : for complete manhood, compared with utter 
 infancy, as of a child five or ten days old, has difference 
 in power, which we may well call miraculous : and when 
 we see man excel man so far, what shall we say that the 
 strength of the whole heaven must appear, against ours, 
 to those who can see them together, so as to compare 
 them ? Also, to you and me, and to many like us, sundry 
 things are impossible that are easy to other people ; as 
 singing to those ignorant of music, and reading or writing 
 to those ignorant of letters; — more impossible than to 
 make women birds, or birds of women. For Nature, as 
 with chance throw, and rough parable, making the form 
 of a footless and wingless beast in changeable matter; 
 then putting on feet and wings, and making it glitter all 
 over with fair variegation and manifold colour, at last 
 brings out, for instance, the wise bee, maker of the divine 
 honey; and out of the voiceless and spiritless egg she 
 brings many kinds of flying and foot-going and swimming 
 creatures, using besides (as runs the old Logos), the sacred 
 art of the great Aether.* "We then, being altogether 
 mortal and mean, and neither able to see clearly great 
 things nor small, and, for the most part being unable to 
 help ourselves even in our own calamities, — what can we 
 have to say about the powers of the immortals, either over 
 halcyons or nightingales? But the fame of fable such 
 as our fathers gave it to us, this, to my children, O thou 
 * Note this sentence respecting the power of the creatine Athena. 
 
166 the eagle's nest. 
 
 bird singing of sorrow, I will deliver concerning thy 
 hymns : and I myself will sing often of this religious and 
 human love of thine, and of the honour thou hast for ii 
 from the Gods. Wilt not thou do likewise, O Chaere- 
 phon? 
 
 " Chaer&phon. It is rightly due indeed, O Socrates, for 
 there is two-fold comfort in this, both for men and women, 
 in their relations with each other. 
 
 "Socrates. Shall we not then salute the halcyon, and 
 so go back to the city by the sands, for it is time. 
 
 " Chaer&phon. Indeed let us do so." 
 
 197. The note of the scholiast on this dialogue is the. 
 only passage in which I can find any approximately clear 
 description of the Greek halcyon. It is about as large, 
 he says, as a small sparrow : (the question how large a 
 Greek sparrow was we must for the present allow to re- 
 main open ; ) and it is mixed of green and blue, with 
 gleaming of purple above, and it has a slender and long 
 beak : the beak is said to be " chloros," which I venture 
 to translate " green," when it is used of the feathers, but 
 it may mean anything, used of the beak. Then follows 
 the same account as other people's, of the nest-building, 
 except that the nest is compared in shape to a medicinal 
 gourd. And then the writer goes on to say that there are 
 two species of halcyons — one larger than the other, and 
 silent, but the smaller, fond of singing (wSiicrj) ; and that 
 the females of these are bo true to their mates that, when 
 the latter grow old, the female bird flies underneath them, 
 
THE EAGLE'S NEST. 16? 
 
 and carries them wherever they would like to go ; and 
 after they die will not eat nor drink anything, and so dies 
 too. "And there is a certain kind of them, of which, if 
 any one hear the voice, it is an altogether true sign to 
 him that he will die in a short time." 
 
 198. You will, I think, forgive me, if, after reading to 
 you these lonely fables, I do not distract you, or detain, 
 with the difficult investigation of the degree in which they 
 are founded on the not yet sufficiently known facts of the 
 Kingfisher's life. 
 
 I would much rather that you should remain impressed 
 with the effect which the lovely colour and fitful appear- 
 ance of the bird have had on the imagination of men. I 
 may satisfy you by the assurance that the halcyon of Eng- 
 land is also the commonest halcyon of Greece and of 
 Palestine ; and I may at once prove to you the real gain 
 of being acquainted with the traditions of it, by reading 
 to you two stanzas, certainly among the most familiar to 
 your ears in the whole range of English poetry ; yet which, 
 I am well assured, will sound, after what we have been . 
 reflecting upon to-day, almost as if they were new to you. 
 Note especially how Milton's knowledge that' Halcyone 
 was the daughter of the Winds, and Ceyx the son of the 
 Morning Star, affects the course of his thought in the 
 successive stanzas — 
 
 1 But peaceful was the night, 
 Wherein the Prince of light 
 His reign of peace upon the earth began : 
 
168 the eagle's nest. 
 
 The winds with wonder whist, 
 Smoothly the waters kist, 
 
 Whispering new joys to the mild ocean, 
 Who now hath quite forgot to rave, 
 While birds of calm sit brooding on the charmed wave. 
 
 " The stars, with deep amaze, 
 Stand fix'd in steadfast gaze, 
 
 Bending one way their precious influence ; 
 And will not take their flight, 
 For all the morning light 
 
 Of Lucifer, that often warn'd them thence ; 
 But in their glimmering orbs did glow, 
 Until their Lord himself bespake, and bid them go.'' 
 
 199. I should also only weary you if I attempted to 
 give you any interpretation of the much-entangled web of 
 Greek fables connected with the story of Halcyone. You 
 observe that in all these passages I have said " King of 
 Trachis " instead of Ceyx. That is partly because I don't 
 know how to pronounce Ceyx, either in Greek or English : 
 but it is chiefly to make you observe that this story of the 
 sea-mew and Halcyon, now known through all the world 
 like the sea-mew's cry, has its origin in the " Rough coun- 
 try," or crag-country, under Mount (Eta, made sacred to 
 the Greek mind by the death of Heracles ; and observe 
 what strange connection that death has with the Hal- 
 cyon's story. Heracles goes to this "Rough country" 
 to seek for rest ; all the waves and billows of his life hav- 
 ing — as he thinks now — gone over him. But he finds 
 death. 
 
 As far as I can form any idea of this " rough, or torn, 
 country " from the descriptions of Colonel Leake or any 
 
169 
 
 other traveller, it must resemble closely the limestone cliffs 
 just above Altorf, which break down' to the valley from 
 the ridge of the "Windgelle, and give source at their foot, 
 to faultlessly clear streams,— green-blue among the grass. 
 
 You will find Pausanias noting the springs of Ther- 
 mopylae as of the bluest water he ever saw; and if you 
 fancy the Lake Lucerne to be the sea bay running inland 
 from Artemisium, you will have a clear and useful, nor in 
 any serious way, inaccurate, image of the scene where 
 the Greeks thought their best hero should die. You may 
 remember also, with advantage, that Morgarten — the 
 Thermopylae of Switzerland — lies by the little lake of 
 Egeri, not ten miles from this bay of Altorf ; and that 
 the Heracles of Switzerland is born under those Tra- 
 chinian crags. 
 
 If, f artlier, you remember that the Halcyon would actu- 
 ally be seen flitting above the blue water of the springs, 
 like one of their waves caught up and lighted by the sun ; 
 and the sea-mews haunting the cliffs, you will see how 
 physical circumstances modify the under-tone of the 
 words of every mytliic tradition. 
 
 I cannot express to you how strange — how more and 
 more strange every day — it seems to me, that I can- 
 not find a single drawing, nor definite account, of scenes 
 so memorable as this, to point you to ; but must guess and 
 piece their image together for you as best I can from 
 their Swis.3 similitudes. No English gentleman can pass 
 through public school-life without knowing his Trachiniae ; 
 
170 THE EAGLE'S NEST. 
 
 yet, I believe, literally, we could give better account of 
 the forms of the mountains in the moon, than we could of 
 CEta. And what has art done to help us ? How many 
 Skiddaws or Benvenues, for one (Eta, — if one! And 
 when the English gentleman becomes an art-patron, he 
 employs his painter-servant only to paint himself and his 
 house ; and when Turner was striving, in his youth, to 
 enforce the mythology, and picture these very scenes in 
 Greece, and putting his whole strength into the endeavour 
 to conceive them, the noble pictures remained in his gal- 
 lery ; — and for bread, he had to paint Hall, the seat 
 
 of , Esquire, with the carriage drive, the summer- 
 house, and the squire going out hunting. 
 
 If, indeed, the squire would make his seat worth paint- 
 ing, and would stay there, and would make the seats, or, 
 shall we call them, forms, of his peasantry, worth painting 
 too, he would be interpreting the fable of the Halcyon to 
 purpose. 
 
 But you must, at once, and without any interpreter, feel 
 for yourselves how much is implied in those wonderful 
 words of Simonides— written six hundred years before 
 Christ ; — " when in the wild winter months, Zeus gives the 
 wisdom of calm; " and how much teaching there is for us 
 in this imagination of past days, — this dream-picture of 
 what is true in days that are, and are to come, — that per- 
 fect domestic love not only makes its nest upon the waves, 
 but that the waves will be calm that it may. 
 
 200. True, I repeat, for all ages, and all people, that, 
 
THE EAGLE'S NEST. 171 
 
 indeed, are desirous of peace, and loving in trouble! 
 But what fable shall we invent, what creature on earth or 
 sea shall we find, to symbolize this state of ours in modern 
 England ? To what sorrowful birds shall we be likened, 
 who make the principal object of our lives dispeace, and 
 unrest ; and turn our wives and daughters out of their 
 nests, to work for themselves ? 
 
 Nay, strictly speaking, we have not even got so much 
 as nests to turn them out of. I was infinitely struck, only 
 the other day, by the saying of a large landed proprietor 
 (a good man, who was doing all he could for his tenantry, 
 and building new cottages for them), that the best he 
 could do for them, under present conditions of wages, and 
 the like, was, to give them good drainage and bare walls. 
 
 " I am obliged," he said to me, " to give up all thought 
 of anything artistic, and* even then, I must lose a consider- 
 able sum on every cottage I build." 
 
 201. Now, there is no end to the confused states of 
 wrong and misery which that landlord's experience signi- 
 fies. In the first place, no landlord has any business with 
 building cottages for his people. Every peasant should 
 be able to build his own cottage, — to build it to nis mind ; 
 and to have a mind to build it to. In the second place, 
 note the unhappy notion which has grown up in the mod- 
 ern English mind, that wholesome and necessary delight 
 in what is pleasant to the eye, is artistic affectation. You 
 have the exponent of it all in the central and mighty affec- 
 tation of the Houses of Parliament. A number of Erig- 
 
172- THE EAGLES NEST. 
 
 lish gentlemen get together to talk: they have no delight 
 whatever in any kind of beauty ; but they have a vague 
 notion that the appointed place for their conversation 
 should be dignified and ornamental ; and they build over 
 their combined heads the absurdest and emptiest piece of 
 filigree, — and, as it were, eternal foolscap in freestone, — 
 which ever human beings disgraced- their posterity by. 
 Well, all that is done, partly, and greatly, in mere job- 
 bery ; but essentially also in a servile imitation of the 
 H6tel-de-Ville builders of old time ; but the English gen 
 tleman has not the remotest idea that when H6tel-de 
 Villes were built, the ville enjoyed its hotel ; — the town had 
 a real pride in its town hall, and place of council, and the 
 sculptures of it had precious meaning for all the populace. 
 202. And in like manner, if cottages are ever to be 
 wisely built again, the peasant must enjoy his cottage, and 
 be himself its artist, as a bird is. Shall cock-robins and 
 yellowhammers have wit enough to make themselves com- 
 fortable, and bullfinches peck a Gothic tracery out of dead 
 clematis, — and your English yeoman be fitted by his land- 
 lord with four dead walls and a drain-pipe ? That is the 
 result of your spending 300,000^. a year at Kensington in 
 science and art, then? You have made beautiful ma- 
 chines, too, wherewith you save the peasant the trouble of 
 ploughing and reaping, and threshing ; and, after being 
 saved all that time and toil, and getting, one w,ould think, 
 leisure enough for his education, you have to lodge him 
 also, as you drop a puppet into a deal box, and you lose 
 
THE EAGLE'S NEST. 173 
 
 money in doing it! and, two hundred years ago, without 
 steam, without electricity, almost without books, and alto- 
 gether without help from CasseWs Educator or the morn- 
 ing newspapers, the Swiss shepherd could build himself 
 a chalet, daintily carved, and with flourished inscriptions, 
 and with red and blue and white iroiKtXia ; and the bur- 
 gess of Strasburg could build himself a house like this I 
 showed you, and a spire such as all men know ; and keep 
 a precious book or two in his public library, and praise 
 God for all : while we, — what are we good for, but to 
 damage the spire, knock down half the houses, and burn 
 the library, — and declare there is no God but Chemistry ? 
 
 203. What are we good for? Are even our machines 
 of destruction useful to us ? Do they give us real power ? 
 Once, indeed, not like halcyons, but like sea-eagles, we 
 had our homes upon the sea; fearless alike of storm or 
 enemy, winged like the wave petrel ; and as Arabs of an 
 indeed pathless desert, we dwelt in the presence of all 
 our brethren. Our pride is fallen ; no reed shaken with 
 the wind, near the little singing halcyon's nest, is more 
 tremulous than we are now ; though we have built iron 
 nests on the sea, with walls impregnable. "We have lost 
 our pride — but have we gained peace ? Do we even care 
 to seek it, how much less strive to make it ? 
 
 204. Have you ever thought seriously of the meaning 
 of that blessing given to the peacemakers? People are 
 always expecting to get peace in heaven ; but you know 
 whatever peace they get there will be ready-made. 
 
174 the eagle's nest. 
 
 Whatever making of peace they can be blest for, muut b6 
 on the eai-th here : not the taking of arms against, but the 
 building of nests amidst, its " sea of troubles." Difficult 
 enough, you think ? Perhaps so, but I do not see that 
 any of us try. We complain of the want of many 
 thino-s — we want votes, we want liberty, we want amuse- 
 ment, we want money. Which of us feels, or knows, 
 that he wants peace ? 
 
 205. There are two ways of getting it, if you do want 
 it. The first is wholly in your own power; to make 
 yourselves nests of pleasant thoughts. Those are nests 
 on the sea indeed, but safe beyond all others; only they 
 need much art in the building. None of us yet know, 
 for none of us have yet been taught in early youth, what 
 fairy palaces we may build of beautiful thought — proof 
 against all adversity. Bright fancies, satisfied memories, 
 noble histories, faithful sayings, treasure-houses of precious 
 and restful thoughts, which care cannot disturb, nor pain 
 make gloomy, nor poverty take away from us — houses 
 built without hands, for our souls to live in. 
 
 206. And in actual life, let me assure you, in con^ 
 elusion, the first ' wisdom of calm,' is to plan, and resolve 
 to labour for, the comfort and beauty of a home such as, 
 if we could obtain it, we would quit no more. Not a 
 compartment of a model lodging-house, not the number 
 so-and-so of Paradise Row ; but a cottage all of our own, 
 with its little garden, its pleasant view, its surrounding 
 fields, its neighbouring stream, its healthy air, and clean 
 
175 
 
 kitchen, parlours, and bedrooms. . Less than this, no man 
 should be content with for his nest ; more than this few 
 should seek : but if it seem to you impossible, or wildly 
 imaginary, that such houses should ever be obtained for 
 the greater part of the English people, again believe me, 
 the obstacles which are in the way of our obtaining them 
 are the things which it must be the main object now of 
 all true science, true art, and true literature to overcome. 
 Science does its duty, not in telling us the causes of spots' 
 in the sun ; but in explaining to us the laws of our own 
 life, and the consequences of their violation. Art does 
 its duty, not in filling monster galleries with frivolous, 
 or dreadful, or indecent pictures ; but in completing the 
 comforts and refining the pleasures of daily occurrence, 
 and familiar service : and literature does its duty, not in 
 wasting our hours in political discussion, or in idle fic- 
 tion ; but in raising our fancy to the height of what may 
 be noble, honest, and felicitous in actual life ; —in giving 
 us, though we may ourselves be poor and unknown, the' 
 companionship of the wisest fellow-spirits of every age 
 and country, — and in aiding the communication of clear 
 thoughts and faithful purposes, among distant nations, 
 which will at last breathe calm upon the sea of lawless 
 passion, and change into such halcyon days the winter of 
 the world, that the birds of the air may have their nestf 
 in peace, and the Son of Man, where to lay his head. 
 
176 the eagle's nest. 
 
 LEOTUEE X 
 
 THE HERALDIC OKDINABIES. 
 
 March 9ft, 1872. 
 
 207. In my last lecture, I endeavoured to illustrate you 
 the use of art to the science of physiology. I am to-dayl 
 to introduce to you its elementary forms as an exponent of 
 the sea ence__of ..history. "Which, speaking with perfect 
 accuracy, we ought to call, also, " physiology,"_QE..?l^'^'^ 
 history of man ; for it ought to be in truth the history of 
 his Nature ; and not merely of the accidents which have 
 befallen him. Do we not too much confuse the important 
 part of the science with the unimportant ? 
 
 In giving the natural history of the lion, you do not 
 care materially where such and such a lion was trapped, 
 or how many sheep it had eaten. You want to know 
 what sort of a minded and shaped, creature it is, or ought 
 to be. But in all our books of human history we only 
 care to tell what has happened to men, and how many of 
 each other they have, in a manner, eaten, when they are, 
 what Homer calls Sr/fiofiopoi, people-eaters ; and we 
 scarcely understand, even to this day, how they are truly 
 minded. Nay, I am not sure that even this art of 
 heraldry, which has for its main object the telling and 
 
THE EAGLE 6 NEST. 177 
 
 proclamation of our chief minds and characters to each 
 other, and keeping record of our descent by race, as far as 
 it is possible, (or, under the present aspect of Darwinism, 
 pleasant,) to trace it j— I am not sure that even heraldry 
 has always understood clearly what it had to tell. But I 
 am very sure it has not been understood in the telling. 
 
 208. Some of you have, I hope, looked at this book* of 
 Arthur Helps, on ' War and Culture,' about which I can-' 
 not now say what I would, because he has done me the 
 grace of dedicating it to me ; but you will find in it, 
 directly bearing on our present subject, this story about 
 heraldry : 
 
 " A friend of mine, a physician, became entangled in 
 the crowd at Kennington on that memorable evening 
 when a great Chartist row was expected, and when Louis 
 Napoleon armed himself with a constable's staff to support 
 the cause of order. My friend observed a young man of 
 pleasant appearance, who was very busy in the crowd, and 
 appeared to be a leader amongst them. Gradually, by 
 the pressure of the crowd, the two were brought near 
 together, and the good doctor had some talk with this 
 fiery partisan. They exchanged confidences ; and to his 
 astonishment, the doctor found that this furious young 
 Chartist gained his livelihood, and a very good livelihood 
 too, by heraldic painting — by painting the coats-of-arms 
 upon carriages. Now, if you can imagine this young 
 man's darling enterprise to have been successful, if 
 
 * Conversations on War and General Culture 
 8* 
 
178 THE EAGLE'S NEST. 
 
 Chartism had prevailed, what would have become of the 
 painting of arms upon carriage-panels? I believe that 
 my good doctor insinuated this suggestion to the young 
 man, and that it was received with disdain. I must own, 
 therefore, that the utile, even when brought home to a 
 man's self, has much less to do with people's political 
 opinions and desires, than might at first be supposed. In- 
 deed, I would venture to maintain, that no great change 
 has ever been produced in the world by motives of self- 
 interest. Sentiment, that thing which many wise people 
 affect to despise, is the commanding thing as regards 
 popular impulses and popular action." 
 
 209. This last sentence would have been wholly true, 
 had Mr. Helps written 'no great living change.' The 
 changes of Dissolution are continually produced by self- 
 interest, — for instance, a great number of the changes 
 in your methods of life in England just now, and many 
 of those in your moral temper, are produced by the 
 percentage on the sale of iron. And I should have 
 otherwise interpreted the heroism of the young Chartist, 
 and said that he was moved on the 10th of April, by 
 a deep under-current of self-interest ; that by overthrow- 
 ing Lordship, he expected to get much more for himself 
 than his salary as an heraldic painter; and that he had 
 not, in painting his carriage-panels, sentiment enough, or 
 even sentiment at all. 
 
 " Paint me my arms, — " said Giotto, as the youth 
 threw him his white shield, with that order, — *< he speaks 
 
179 
 
 as if he were oi.e of the Bardi!" Our English panel- 
 painter had lost the consciousness that there yet remained 
 above him, so much as one, of the Bardi. 
 
 May not that be somewhat the Bardi's fault? in 
 that they have not taught their Giottos, lately, the func- 
 tion of heraldry, or of any other higher historical paint- 
 ing. 
 
 "We have, especially, to-day, to consider what that 
 function is. 
 
 210. I said that the function of historical painting, 
 in representing animals, is to discern and record what 
 is best and most beautiful in their ways of life, and their 
 forms ; so also, in representing man, it is to record of 
 man what has been best in his acts and way of life, 
 and fairest in his form. 
 
 But this Way of the life of man has been a long one. 
 It is difficult to know it — more difficult to judge; to do 
 either with complete equity is impossible ; but it is always 
 possible to do it with the charity which does not rejoice 
 in iniquity. 
 
 211. Among the many mistakes we have lately fallen 
 into, touching that same charity, one of the worst is our 
 careless habit of always thinking of her as pitiful, and to 
 be concerned only with miserable and wretched persons ; 
 whereas her chief joy is in being reverent, and concerned 
 mainly with noble and venerable persons. Her poor- 
 est function is the giving of pity ; her highest is the giving 
 of praise. For there are many men, who, however f alien,, 
 
180 THE EAGLE'S NEST. 
 
 do not like to be pitied ; but all men, however far risen, 
 like to be praised. 
 
 212. I had occasion in my last lecture to express my 
 regret that the method of education in this country has 
 become so distinctly competitive. It is necessary, how- 
 ever, to distinguish carefully between the competition 
 winch is for the means of existence, and that which is for 
 the praise of learning. For my own part, so far as they 
 affect our studies here, I equally regret both : but compe- 
 tition for money I regret absolutely; competition for 
 praise, only when it sets the reward for too short and nar- 
 row a race. I want you to compete, not for the praise of 
 what you know, but for the praise of what you become ; 
 and to compete only in that great school, where death ia 
 the examiner, and God the judge. For you will find, if 
 you look into your own hearts, that the two great delights, 
 in loving and praising, and the two great thirsts, to be 
 loved and praised, are the roots of all that is strong in the 
 deeds of men, and happy in their repose. We yet, thank 
 Heaven, are not ashamed to acknowledge the power of 
 love; but we confusedly and donbtfully allege that of 
 honour ; and though we cannot but instinctively triumph 
 still, over a won boat-race, I suppose the best of us would 
 shrink somewhat from declaring that the love of praise 
 was to be one of the chief motives of their future lives. 
 
 213. But I believe you will find it, if you think, not 
 only one of the chief, but absolutely the chief, motive of 
 human action ; nay, that love itself is, in its highest state, 
 
THE EAGLE'S NEST. 181 
 
 the rendering of an exquisite praise to body and soul ; 
 and our English tongue is very sacred- in this; for its 
 Saxon word, love, is connected, through the old French 
 verb, loer, (whence louange), with the Latin, ' laus,' not 
 ' amor.' 
 
 And you may sum the duty of your life in the giving 
 of praise worthily, and being yourselves worthy of it. 
 
 214. Therefore in the reading of all history, your first 
 purpose must be to seekwhatjsto be jiraisgd; and disdain 
 the rest : and in doing so, remember always that the most 
 important part of the history of man is that of his imagina- 
 tion. What he actually does, is always in great part acci- 
 dental ; it is at best a partial fulfilment of his purpose; 
 and what we call history is often, as I said, merely a record 
 of the external accidents which befall men getting together 
 in large crowds. The real history of mankind is that of 
 the slow advance of resolved deed following laboriously 
 just thought ; and all the greatest men live in theif pur- 
 pose and effort more than it is possible for them to live in 
 reality. If you would praise them worthily, it is for what 
 they conceived and felt ; not merely for what they have 
 done. 
 
 215. It is therefore a true historian's work diligently to 
 separate the deed from the imagination ; and when these 
 become inconsistent, to remember that the imagination, if 
 precious at all, is indeed the most precious. It is nc 
 matter how much, or how little of the two first books of 
 Livy may be literally true. The history of the Romans is 
 
182 
 
 the history of the nation which could conceive the battle 
 of the Lake Regillus. I have rowed in rough weather on 
 the Lake of the four cantons often enough to know that 
 the legend of Tell is, in literal detail, absurd: but the 
 history of Switzerland is that of the people who expressed 
 their imagination of resistance to injustice by that legend, 
 so as to animate their character vitally to this day. 
 
 216. But in no part of history does the ideal separate 
 itself. so far from the reality; and in no part of it is the 
 ideal so necessary and noble, as in your own inherited his- 
 tory—that of Christian Chivalry. 
 
 For all English gentlemen, this is the part of the tale 
 of the race of man which it is most essential for them to 
 know. They may be proud that it is also the greatest 
 part. All that hitherto has been achieved at best, — all that 
 has been in noble preparation instituted, — is begun in the 
 period, and rooted in the conception, of Chivalry. 
 
 Ytfu must always carefully distinguish that conception 
 from the base strength of the resultless passions which 
 distort and confuse it. Infinitely weaker, the idea is eter-> 
 nal and creative ; the clamorous rages pass away, — ruin- 
 ous it may be, prosperous it may be, for their time ;— but 
 insignificant for ever. You find kings and priests alike, 
 always inventing expedients to get money ; you find kings 
 and priests alike, always inventing pretexts to gain power. 
 If you want to write a practical history of the Middle 
 Ages, and to trace the real reasons of the things that actu- 
 ally happened, investigate first the history of the money ; 
 
183 
 
 and then of the quarrels for office and territory. But the 
 things that actually happened were of. small consequence 
 ■ — the thoughts that were developed are of infinite conse- 
 quence. 
 
 217. As 1 was walking back from Hincksey last even- 
 ing, somewhat discomforted by the look of bad weather, 
 and more in myself, as I thought over this closing lecture, 
 wondering how far you thought I had been talking idly 
 to you, instead of teaching you to draw, through this 
 term, I stopped before Messrs. Wyatt's window ; caught — 
 as it was intended every one should be, — by its display 
 of wonderful things. And I was very unhappy as I 
 looked, for it seemed to me you could not but think the 
 little I could show you how to do quite valueless ; while 
 here were produced, by mysteries of craft which you 
 might expect me at once to explain, brilliant water- 
 colours in purple and gold, and photographs of sea- 
 waves, and chromolithotints of beautiful young ladies, 
 and exquisitely finished engravings of all sorts of in- 
 teresting scenes, and sublime personages ; patriots, saints, 
 martyrs, penitents, and who not! and what not! all 
 depicted with a dexterity which it has cost the workmen 
 their life's best energy to learn, and requires great clever- 
 ness thus to apply. While, in your room for study, there 
 are only ugly photographs of Diirers and Holbeins, and 
 my rude' outlines from leaves, and you scarcely ever hear 
 me say anything in praise of that delightful and elabor- 
 ate modern art at all. 
 
184 
 
 218. So I bought this Madonna,* which was the pret- 
 tiest thing I saw : and it will enable me to tell you why 
 this modem art is, indeed, so little to be studied, even at 
 its best. I think you will all like the plate, arid you 
 ought to like it; bxit observe in what its beauty consists. 
 First, in very exquisite line engraving: against that I 
 have nothing to say, feeling the greatest respect for the 
 industry and skill it requires. Next, in a grace and 
 severity of action which we all are ready to praise ; but 
 this is not the painter's own bestowing; the trick of it is 
 learned from Memling and Van Eyck, and other men of 
 the northern religious school. The covering of the robe 
 with jewels is pleasing to you ; but that is learned from 
 Angelico and John Bellini ; and if you will compare the 
 jewel-painting in the John Bellini (Standard No. 5), you 
 will find this false and formal in comparison. Then the 
 face is much dignified by having a crown set on it — 
 which is copied from the ordinary thirteenth century 
 form, and ill done. The face itself is studied from a 
 young German mother's, and is only by the painter's 
 want of skill made conventional in expression, and 
 formal in feature. It would have been wiser and more 
 difficult to have painted her as Raphael or Reynolds 
 would, with true personal resemblance, perfected iu 
 Expression. 
 
 219. Nevertheless, in its derivative way, this is very 
 ovely. But I wish you to observe that it is derivative 
 
 * Now, Ref. 104 
 
the eagle's nest. 185 
 
 in all things. The dress is derivative; the action, 
 derivative: above all, the conception is derivative air 
 together, from that great age of Christian chivalry, which, 
 in art and thought 'alike, surpassed the Greek chivalry, 
 because it added to their enthusiasm of patriotism the 
 enthusiasm of imaginative love, sanctified by this ruling 
 vision of the Madonna, as at once perfect maid and 
 perfect mother. 
 
 And your study of the art of the middle ages must 
 begin in your understanding how the men of them 
 looked on Love as the .source of all honour, as of life ; 
 and how, from the least thing to the greatest, the honour- 
 ing of father and mother, the noble esteem of children, 
 and the sincere respect for race, and for the courtesies 
 and prides that graced and crowned its purity, were the 
 sources of all their virtue, and all their joy. 
 
 220. From the least things, I say, to the greatest. I 
 am to speak to-day of one of apparently the least things ; 
 which is, indeed, one of the greatest. How much of the 
 dignity of this Madonna, do you suppose, depends on 
 the manner she bears her dress, her crown, her jewels, 
 and her sceptre ? 
 
 In peasant and prince alike, you will find that 
 ultimately, character is truly heralded in dress; and 
 that splendour in dress is as necessary to man as colour 
 to birds and flowers, but splendour with more meaning. 
 Splendour, observe, however, in the true Latin sense of 
 the word ; brightness of colour ; not gaudiness : what I 
 
186 the eagle's nest. 
 
 have been telling you of colour in pictures will apply 
 equally to colour in dress : vulgarity consists in the in- 
 solence and discord of it, not in brightness. 
 
 221. For peasant and prince alike, in healthy national 
 order, brightness of dress and beautif nl arrangement of it 
 are needful. No indication of moral decline is more sure 
 than the squalor of dress among the lower orders, and 
 the fear or shame of the higher classes to bear their 
 proper insignia. 
 
 Such fear and shame are singularly expressed, here in 
 Oxford, at this hour. The nobleman ceases to wear the 
 golden tassel in his cap, so accepting, and publicly 
 heralding his acceptance of, the popular opinion of him 
 that he has ceased to he a nobleman, or noteworthy 
 person.* And the members of the University, generally, 
 shrink from wearing their academical dress, so accept- 
 ing, and publicly heralding their acceptance of, the 
 popular opinion that everybody else may be as good 
 scholars as they. On the other hand, I see continually in 
 the streets young men in bright costumes of blue and 
 white ; in such evidently proud heraldry proclaiming 
 their conviction that the chief object of residence in 
 
 * " Another stride that has been taken appears in the perishing of 
 heraldry. Whilst the privileges of nobility are passing to the middle 
 class, the badge is discredited, and the titles of lordship are getting 
 musty and cumbersome. I wonder that sensible men have not been 
 already impatient of them. They belong, with wigs, pcwder, and 
 scarlet coats, to an earlier age, and may be advantageously consigned, 
 with paint and tattoo, to the dignitaries of Australia and Polynesia."— 
 R. W. Emerson (English Traits.) - 
 
the eagle's nest. 187 
 
 Oxford is learning to row ; the rowing itself being, I 
 imagine, not for real boat service, but for purposes of 
 display. 
 
 222. All dress is tbus heraldic ; a soldier's dress only 
 more definitely so, in proclaiming the thing he means to 
 die as well as to live for; but all is heraldic, from the 
 beggar's rag to the king's diadem ; it may be involun- 
 tarily, it may be, insolently ; but when the characters of 
 men are determined, and wise, their dress becomes heral- 
 dic reverently, and in order. . " Togam e tugurio prof erre 
 uxorem Raciliam jubet ; " and Edie Ochiltree's blue gown 
 is as honourably heraldie as a knight's ermine. 
 
 223. The beginning of heraldry, and of ' all beautiful 
 dress, is, however, simply in the wearing of the skins of 
 slain animals. Tou may discredit, as much as you choose, 
 the literal meaning of that earliest statement^ "Unto Adam 
 also, and to his wife, did the Lord God make coats of 
 skins, and clothed them ;" but the figurative meaning of 
 it only becomes the stronger. For if you think of the 
 skins of animals as giving the four great materials of 
 dress — leather, fur, wool, and down, you will see in this 
 verse the summary of what has ever since taken place in 
 the method of the providence of the Maker of Man and 
 beast, for the clothing of the naked creature who was to 
 rule over the rest. 
 
 224. The first practical and savage use of such dress 
 was that the skin of the head of the beast became a cover- 
 ing for the head of its slayer : the skin of its body his 
 
188 the eagle's nest. 
 
 coat ; the skin of the fore legs was knotted in front, and 
 the skin of the hind legs and tail became tassels, the 
 jags of the cut edges forming a kind of fringe here and 
 there. 
 
 You have thus the first conception of a helmet, with 
 the mane of the animal for its crest or plume, and the 
 first conception of a cuirass, variously fringed, striped, or 
 spotted : in complete accoutrement for war, you have to 
 add spear, (or arrow), and shield. The spear is properly 
 a beam of wood, iron pointed ; the shield a disk of leather, 
 iron fronted. 
 
 And armed strength for conduct is symbolized for all 
 future time' by the Greeks, under the two types of Hera- 
 cles and Athena ; the one with the low lion's crest and the 
 arrow, the other with the high horse's crest, and the spear; , 
 one with the lion-skin, the other with the goat-skin; — 
 both with the round shield.' 
 
 225. The nebris of Dionusos, and leopard-skin of the 
 priests of Egypt relate to astronomy, not war ; and the 
 interest in their spots and bars, as variously symbolic, to- 
 gether with real pleasure in their grotesqueness, greatly 
 modified the entire system of Egyptian colour-decoration. 
 On the earliest Greek vases, also, the spots and bars of the 
 animals are carried out in spots or chequers upon the 
 ground, (sometimes representing flowers), and the delight 
 in " divers colours of needlework," and in fantasy of em- 
 oroidery, gradually refine and illumine the design of 
 Eastern dress. But only the patterns derived from the 
 
189 
 
 colours of animals become classical in heraldry under the 
 general name of " furres," one of them " vaire " or " ver- 
 rey " (" the variegated fur,") rudety figuring the material 
 composed of the skins of small animals sewn together, 
 alternately head to tail ; the other, ermine, peculiarly hon- 
 ourable, from the costliness, to southern nations, of the fur 
 it represents. 
 
 226. The name of the principal heraldic colour has a 
 similar origin : the " rams' skins dyed red " which were 
 used for the curtains of the Jewish tabernacle, were al- 
 ways one of the principal articles of commerce between 
 the east and west : in mediaeval Latin they were called 
 "gulae," and in the French plural "gules," so that to be 
 dressed in " gules " came gradually to mean being dressed 
 in the particular red of those skins, which was a full soft 
 scarlet, not dazzling, but warm and glowing. It is used, 
 in opposition to darker purple, in large masses in the 
 fresco painting of later Home ; — as the dominant colour of 
 ornamental writing in the middle ages (giving us the ec- 
 clesiastical term " rubric "), and asserts itself finally, and 
 most nobly, in the fresco paintings of Ghirlandajo and 
 Luini. I have tried to represent very closely the tint of it 
 Luini has given to St. Catherine's mantle, in my study in 
 your schools. Titian keeps it also as the key-note of his 
 frescoes ; so also Tintoret ; but Eaphael, Correggio, and 
 Michael Angelo, all substituted orange for it in opposition 
 to purple ; and the entire scheme of colour in the Vatican 
 frescoes is of orange and purple, broken by green and 
 
190 THE EAGLE'S NEST. 
 
 white, on a ground' of grey. This orange and purple op- 
 position in meaner hands became gaudy and feeble, and 
 the system of mediaeval colour was at last totally destroyed 
 by it; the orange remaining to this day the favourite, 
 and most distinctive, hue in bad glass painting 
 
 227. The forms of dress, however, derived from the 
 skins of animals are of much more importance than the 
 colours. Of these the principal is the crest, which is 
 properly the mane' of lion or horse. The skin of the 
 horse was neither tough, nor of convenient size for wear- 
 ing ; but the classical Greek helmet is only an adaptation 
 of the outline of its head, with the mane floating behind : 
 many Etruscan helmets have ears also, while, in mediaeval 
 armour, light plates, cut into the shape of wings of birds, 
 are often placed on each side of the crest, which then 
 becomes not the mane of the animal merely, but the 
 image of the entire creature which the warrior desires to 
 be renowned for having .slain. 
 
 228. The Heraldic meaning of the crest is accordingly, 
 first, that the Knight asserts himself to have prevailed 
 over the animal it represents ; and to be stronger than 
 such a creature would be, therefore, against his human 
 enemies. Hence, gradually, he considers himself invested 
 with the power and character of the slain creature itself ; 
 and, as it were, to have taken from it, for his spoil, not 
 its skin only, but its strength. The crest, therefore, is the 
 heraldic indication of personality, and is properly to be 
 distinguished from the bearing on the shield, because that 
 
THE EAGLE'S NEST. 191 
 
 indicated race; but the crest, personal character and 
 valour. 
 
 229. I have traced the practical truth which is the 
 foundation of this idea of the transmitted strength of the 
 Blain creature becoming the inheritance of its victor, in 
 the ac«rant given of the coins of Gamarina, in the Queen 
 of the Air. But it is strange and sad to reflect how 
 much misery has resulted, in the history of man, from the 
 imaginative excuse for cruelty afforded by the adopted 
 character of savage animals ; and how many wolves, bears, 
 lions, and eagles, have been national symbols, instead of 
 gentler creatures. Even the heraldic symbol of Christ is 
 in Italy oftener the lion than the lamb : and among the 
 innumerable painters of his Desert Prophet, only Filippo 
 Lippi understood the full meaning of the raiment of 
 camel's hair, and made him wear the camel's skin, as 
 Heracles the Lion's. 
 
 230. Although the crest is thus essentially an expres- 
 sion of personal character, it practically becomes heredi- 
 tary; and the sign on shield and helmet is commonly the 
 same. But the shield has a system of bearings peculiar to 
 itself, to which I wish especially to direct your attention 
 fo-day. 
 
 Our word 'shield' and the German 'schild' mean 'the 
 covering thing,' that behind which you are sheltered, but 
 you must be careful to distinguish it from the word shell, 
 which means properly a scale or plate, developed, like a 
 fish's scaler for the protection of the body. 
 
192 THE EAGLE S NEST. 
 
 There are properly only two kinds of shields, one round 
 and the other square, passing into oval and oblong ; the 
 round one being for use in free action, the square one for 
 adjustment to ground or walls ; but, on horseback, the 
 lower part of the shield must be tapered off, in order to 
 fall conveniently on the left side of the horse. 
 
 And, therefore, practically, you have two great forms 
 of shield ; the Greek round one, for fighting on foot, or in 
 the chariot, and the Gothic pointed one for fighting on 
 horseback. The oblong one for motionless defence is, 
 however, almost always given to the mythic figure of 
 -Fortitude, and the bearings of the Greek and Gothic 
 shields are always designed with reference to the supposed 
 figures of the circle and square. 
 
 The Greek word for the round shield is ' aspis.' I have 
 no doubt merely a modification of ' apsis ' the potter's 
 wheel ; the proper word for the Gothic shield is ' ecu ' 
 from the Latin ' scutum,' meaning a shield covered with 
 leather. From ' ecu ' you have ' ecuyer ; ' — from scutum 
 ' scutiger,' both passing into our English ' squire.' 
 
 231. The aspis of the Greeks might be much heavier 
 than the Gothic shield, because a Greek never rode fully 
 armed ; his object was to allow both to his horse and to 
 himself the most perfect command of limb compatible 
 with protection ; if, therefore, he was in full armour, and 
 wanted his horse to carry him, he put a board upon 
 wheels, and stood on that, harnessing sometimes to it four 
 horses of the highest breed abreast. Of all hitherto 
 
193 
 
 practised exertions of manual dexterity, the driving thus 
 at full speed over rough ground, standing in the chariot, 
 is. as far as I know, the greatest ever attained by general 
 military discipline. 
 
 It is true that to do anything perfectly well is about 
 equally difficult ; and I suppose that in a chariot race, 
 a tournament, or a modern game at cricket, the manual 
 art of the most highly-trained men woidd be almost 
 equally fine ; still, practically, in Gothic chivalry, the 
 knight trusted more to his weight and less to his skill than 
 a Greek did ; nor could a horse's pace under armour 
 ever render precision of aim so difficult as at unarmed^ 
 speed. 
 
 232. Another great difference of a parallel kind exists 
 in the knight's body-arinflur. A Greek never hopes to 
 turn a lance by his cuirass, nor to be invulnerable, except 
 by enchantment, in his body armour, because he will not 
 have it cumbrous enough to impede his movements ; but 
 he makes his shield, if possible, strong enough to stop a 
 lance, and carries it as he would a piece of wall : a Gothic 
 knight, on the contrary, endeavoured to make Ins coat ar- 
 mour invulnerable, and carried the shield merely to ward 
 thrusts on the left side, never large enough to encumber 
 the arm that held the reins. All fine design in Gothic 
 heraldry is founded, therefore, on the form of a short, but 
 pointed shield, convex enough to throw the point of a 
 spear aside easily ; a form roughly extending from the 
 beginning of the twelfth to the middle of the fifteenth 
 
194 THE EAOH«e's NEST. 
 
 century, but of which the most beautiful types are 
 towards the end of the thirteenth. 
 
 233. The difference in method of device between the 
 Gothic and classic shields resulted partly from this 
 essential difference in form. The pointed shield, having 
 definitely two sides, like a pointed arch, and a determined 
 position^ naturally suggested an arrangement of bearings 
 definitely on one side or the other, or above, or below 
 the centre, while the Greek shield had its boss, or, its 
 main bearing, in the centre always, with subordinate 
 decoration round. Farther, the Gothic fineness of colour- 
 instinct seized at once on this division of parts as an 
 opportunity for inlaying or counterchanging colours; 
 and finally, the respect for race, carried out by registry 
 of the remotest branches of tioble families, compelled 
 the Gothic heralds of later times to use these methods of 
 dividing or quartering in continually redoubled com- 
 plexity. 
 
 234. Essentially, therefore, as distinguished from the 
 classic shield, the Gothic one is parti-coloured beneath 
 its definite bearings, or rather, bi-coloured ; for the tinc- 
 tures are never more than two in the main degjgn of 
 them ; and the specific methods of arrangement of these 
 two masses of colour have deeper and more ancient 
 heraldic significance than, with few exceptions, then 
 superimposed bearings. 1 have arranged the twelve 
 principal ones * in the 7th of your rudimentary exer- 
 
 • Charges which " doe peculiarly belong to this art, and are of 
 
the eagle's nest. 195 
 
 cises, and they will be entirely fixed in your minds by 
 once drawing it. 
 
 235. Observe respecting them. 
 
 1. The Chiefe ; a bar of colour across the upper part 
 of the shield, signifies authority or chief-dom, as the 
 source of all order, power, and peace. 
 
 2. The Cross, as an ordinary, distinguished from the 
 cross as a bearing, consists simple of two bars dividing 
 the shield into four quarters ; and, I believe, that it does 
 not in this form stand properly as a symbol of Christian 
 faith, but only as one of Christian patience and fortitude. 
 The cross as a symbol of faith is terminated within the 
 field. 
 
 3. The Fesse, a horizontal bar across the middle of the 
 shield, represents the knight's girdle, or anything that 
 binds and secures^ or continues. The word. is a corruption 
 of fascia. Sir Francis Drake received for arms from 
 Qxieen Elizabeth a Fesse waved between two pole-stars, 
 where it stands for the waved surface of the sea, and 
 partly, also, to signify that Sir Francis put a girdle round 
 the earth ; and the family of Drummond carries three 
 diminutive Fesses, or bars, waved, because their ancestor 
 brought Queen Margaret safe through many storms. 
 
 4. The Bend, an oblique bar descending from right to 
 
 ordinary use therein, in regard whereof they are called ' ordinaries.' " — 
 See Guillim, sect, ii chap. Hi. (Ed. 1038.) 
 
 " They have also the title of honourable ordinaries in that the court 
 armour is much honoured thereby." The French call them " piece* 
 bonorables." 
 
196 the eagle's nest. 
 
 left of the holder of the shield, represents the sword-belt 
 The Latin balteus and baltoum are, I believe, the origin 
 of the word. They become bendellus and bendellum; 
 then bandeau and bande. Benda is the word used for tho 
 riband round the neck of St. Etheldreda, in the account of 
 her death quoted by Du Cange. I believe, also, the fesse 
 stands often for the cross-bar of the castle gate, and the 
 bend for its very useful diagonal bar : this is only a con- 
 jecture, but I believe as likely to be true as the idea, cer- 
 tainly admitted in heraldry, that the bend sometimes 
 stands for a scaling ladder : so also the next four most im- 
 portant ordinaries have all an architectural significance. 
 
 5. The Pale, an upright bar dividing the shield in half, 
 is simply an upright piece of timber in a palisade. It 
 signifies either defence or enclosure. 
 
 6. The Pile, a wedge-shaped space of colour with the 
 point downwards, represents what we still call a pile ; a 
 piece of timber driven into moist ground to secure the 
 foundation of any building. 
 
 7. The Canton, a square space of colour in either of 
 the upper corners of the shield, signifies the corner-stone 
 of a building. The origin and various use of this word 
 are very interesting. The Greek ieav8bs, used by Aristotle 
 for the corner of the eyes, becomes canto, and then can- 
 tonus. The French coin (corner), is usually derived from 
 the Latin cuneus; but I have no doubt it is one corrup- 
 tion of canton : the mediaeval-Latin cantonus is either an 
 angle or recess, or a four-square corner-stone. Tho heral- 
 
THE EAGLE'S NEST. 197 
 
 die canton is the comer-stone of a building, and the French 
 cantonnier is a road-mender, because the essential thing in 
 repairing a road is to get its comer or edge firm. 
 
 8. The Chevron, a band bent at an angle (properly a 
 right angle), with its point upwards, represents the gable 
 or roof of a house. Thus the four last-named ordinaries 
 represent the four essentials of a fixed habitation : the 
 pale, its enclosure within a given space of ground ; the 
 pile, its foundation ; the canton its wall, and the chevron 
 its roof. 
 
 9. The Orle, a narrow band following the outline of 
 the shield midway between its edge and centre, is a more 
 definite expression of enclosure or fortification by mote 
 or rampart. The relations of this word, no less than that 
 of the canton, are singular, and worth remembering. Du 
 Cange quotes tinder it an order of the municipality of Pia- 
 cenza, that alwaj's, in the cnstom-house where the salt-tax 
 was taken, "a great orled disk" should be kept; "dischus 
 magnus orlatus," i.e., a large plate with a rim, in which 
 every day fresh salt should be placed. Then note that the 
 word disk is used in the middle ages, either for a plate, or 
 a table, (the " holy disk " is the patina of the sacrament), 
 but most generally for a table, whence you get the old 
 German disch ; our dish, the French disner, diner ; and 
 our dinner. The disk cutout into a ring becomes a quoit, 
 which is the simplest form of orle. The word ' orle ' 
 itself comes, I believe, from era, in old Latin, which took 
 a diminutive, omla ; or perhaps the 1 was put in rncrelv 
 
198 the eagle's nest. 
 
 tc distinguish, to the ear, a margined thing, ' orlatns,' from 
 a gilded thing, ' auratus.' It stands for the hem of a robe, 
 or the fillet of a crown, as well as for any margin ; and it 
 is given as an ordinary to such as have afforded protection 
 and defence, because it defends what is within it. .Re- 
 duced to a narrow band, it becomes a ' Tressure.' If you 
 have a sovereign of 1860 to 1870 in your pocket, and look 
 at the right hand upper corner of the Queen's arms, you 
 will see the Scottish Lion within the tressure decorated 
 with fleur-de-lys, which Scotland bears in memory of hei 
 treaty with Charlemagne. 
 
 10. The Gyron, a triangular space of colour with its 
 point in the centre of the shield, derives its name from 
 the old Latin gyro, a fold, " pars vestis qua. laxior fit, et in 
 superiori parte contracta, in largiorem formam in imo se 
 explicat." The heraldic ' gyron,' however, also has a 
 collateral reference to, and root in, the word 'gre- 
 mium,' bosom or lap ; and it signifies properly the chief 
 fold or fall of the dress either over the bosom, or between 
 the knees ; and has whatever symbolic expression may be 
 attributed to that fold, as a sign of kindness or protection. 
 The influence of the lines taken by softly falling drapery 
 in giving gentleness to the action of figures was always 
 felt by the Gothic artists as one of the chief elements of 
 design ; and the two constantly repeated figures of Christ 
 holding souls in the ' gremium ' of his robe, and of the 
 Madonna casting hers over suppliants, gave an inevitably 
 recognized association to them. 
 
199 
 
 11. The Flasque, a space of colour terminated by a 
 curved line on each flank of the shield, derives its name 
 from the Latin flecto, and is the bearing of honour given 
 for successful embassy. It must be counted among the 
 ordinaries, but is of rare occurrence in what groups of 
 authentic bearings I have examined. 
 
 12. The Saltire, from salir, represents the securest form 
 of machine for mounting walls ; it has partly the same 
 significance as the ladder of the Scaligers, but, being 
 properly an ordinary, and not a bearing, has the wider 
 general meaning of successful ascent, not that of mere 
 local attack. As a bearing, it is the St. Andrew's Cross. 
 
 236. These twelve forms of ordinary then, or first colour 
 divisions of the shield, represent symbolically the estab- 
 lishment, defence, and exaltation of the Knight's house 
 by his Christian courage ; and are in this symbolism, 
 different from all other military bearings. They are 
 throughout essentially founded on the " quartering" or 
 division of the field into four spaces by the sign of the 
 Cross : and the history of the chivalry of Europe is abso- 
 lutely that of the connection of domestic honour with 
 Christian faith, and of the exaltation of these two senti- 
 ments into the highest enthusiasm by cultivated imagina- 
 tion. 
 
 The means of this culture by the finer arts ; the errors, 
 or falls, of the enthusiasm so excited ; its extinction by 
 avarice, pride, and lust, in the period of the (so called) 
 
200 the eagle's nest. 
 
 Renaissance, and the possibility of a true Renaissance 01 
 Restoration of courage and pure hope to Christian men 
 in their homes and industries, must form the general sub- 
 ject of the study into which I have henceforth to lead 
 you. In a future course of lectures it will be my endea- 
 vour to show you, in the elementary forms of Christian 
 architecture, the evidence of such mental development 
 and decline in Europe from the tenth to the seventeenth 
 century ; but remember that my power, or any one else's, 
 to show you truths of this kind, must depend entirely on 
 the degree of sympathy you have in yourselves with what 
 is decorous and generous. I use both these words advis- 
 edly, and distinctively, for every high quality of art con- 
 sists either in some expression of what is decent, — becom- 
 ing, — or disciplined in character, or of what is bright and 
 generous in the forces of human life. 
 
 I need not say that I fear no want of such sympathy 
 in you; yet the circumstances in which you are placed 
 are in many respects adverse to it. 
 
 237. I find, on returning to the University after a 
 period of thirty years, the scope of its teaching greatly 
 extended, the zeal of its masters certainly undiminished ; 
 and, as far as I can judge, the feeling of the younger 
 members of the University better, and their readiness to 
 comply with all sound advice, greater, than in my time. 
 What scandals there have been among us, I think have 
 been in great part accidental, and consequent chiefly on 
 the intense I eed for excitement of some trivial kind, which 
 
THE EAGLE'S NEST. 201 
 
 is provoked by our restless and competitive work. Ic 
 temper, in general amenability to right guidance, and in 
 their sense of the advantages open to them, more may now 
 be hoped than ever yet from the students of Oxford — one 
 thing only I find wanting to them altogether — distinct- 
 ness of aim. 
 
 238. In their new schools of science they learn the 
 power of machinery and of physical elements, but not that 
 of the soul ; I am afraid, in our new schools of liberal 
 religion they learn rather to doubt their own faiths than 
 to look with patience or respect on those of others ; and in 
 our new schools of policy, to efface the canons of the past, 
 without having formed any distinct conception of those 
 which must regulate the institutions of the future. 
 
 239. It is therefore a matter of very deep rejoicing to 
 me that, in bringing before your examination the best 
 forms of English art, I am necessarily leading you to take 
 interest in the history of your country at the time when, 
 sr> to speak, it became England. You see how, in every 
 college which is now extending or renewing its buildings, 
 the adopted style is approximately that of the thirteenth 
 century ; — it being felt, and rightly felt, by a continually- 
 extending instinct, that only then the national mind had 
 unimpaired power of ideal conception. Whatever else we 
 may have advanced in, there is no dispute that, in the 
 great arts, we have steadily, since that thirteenth century. 
 declined : and I have, therefore, since accepting this pro- 
 fessorship, partly again taken up my abandoned idea of 
 
 9*> 
 
202 the eagle's hest. 
 
 writing the story of that century, at least in England ;-— 
 of writing it, or, at all events, collecting ify with, the help 
 of my pupils, if they care to help me. By myself, I can 
 do notliing ; yet I should not ask them to help me if I 
 were not certain that at this crisis of our national existence 
 the fixing the minds of young and old upon the customs 
 and conception of chivalry is the best of all moral educa- 
 tion. One thing I solemnly desire to see all children 
 taught — obedience ; and one to all persons entering into 
 life — the power of unselfish admiration. 
 
 240. The incident which I have related in my fourth 
 lecture on sculpture, seen by me last year on the bridge of 
 "Wallingford, is a sufficient example of the courtesies in 
 which we are now bringing up our peasant children. Do 
 you think that any science or art we can teach them will 
 make them happy under such conditions ? . • Way, in what 
 courtesy or in what affection are we even now carefully 
 training ourselves ;— above all, in -what form of duty or 
 reverence to those to whom we owe all our power of un- 
 derstanding even what duty or reverence mean ? I warned 
 you in my former lecture against the base curiosity of 
 seeking for the origin of life in the dust ; in earth instead 
 of heaven : how much more must I warn you against for- 
 getting the true origin of the life that is in your own souls, 
 of that good which you have heard with your ears, and 
 your fathers have told you. You buy the picture of the 
 'Virgin as furniture for your rooms ; but you despise the 
 religion, and you reject the memory, of those who have 
 
203 
 
 taught you to love the aspect of whatsoever things and 
 creatures are good and pure : and too many of you, enter- 
 ing into life, are ready to think, to feel, to act, as the men 
 bid you who are incapable of worship, as they are of crea- 
 tion ; — whose power is only in destruction ; whose glad- 
 ness only in disdain ; whose glorying is in their shame. 
 You know well, I should think, by this time, that I am not 
 one to seek +o conceal from you any truth of nature, or 
 superstitionsly decorate for you any form of faith ; but I 
 trusi deeply — (and T will strive, for my poor part, wholly, 
 so to help you in steadfastness of heart) — that' you, the 
 children of the Christian chivalry whieh was led jn Eng- 
 land by the Lion-Heart, and in France by Roland, and in 
 Spain by the Cid, may not stoop to become as these, whose 
 thoughts are # but to .invent new foulness with which to 
 blaspiierne tne "Story of "Christ, and to destroy the noble 
 works and laws that "have been founded in His name. 
 
 "Will you not rather go round about this England, and 
 tell the towers thereof, and mark well her bulwarks, and 
 consider her palaces, that you may tell it to the generation 
 following ? Will you not rather honour with all .your 
 strength, with all your obedience, with all your holy love 
 and never-ending worship, the princely sires, and pure 
 maids, and nursing mothers, who have bequeathed and 
 blest your life ? — that so, for you also, and for your chil- 
 dren, the days of strength, and the light of memory, may 
 be long in this lovely land which the Lord your God has 
 given you. 
 
FRONDES AGRESTES. 
 
 READINGS IN 'MODERN PAINTERS." 
 
FRONDES AGRE8TES. 
 
 READINGS IN "MODERN PAINTERS," 
 
 CHOSEN AT HER PLEASURE 
 BY THE AUTHOR'S FRIEND, 
 
 THE YOUNGEK LADY OF THE THWAITE, 
 CONISTON. 
 
 Rj** I'-— 
 
 "Spargit agrestes tibi silva frondes." 
 
 NEW YORK: 
 
 JOHN WILEY & SONS, PUBLISHERS, 
 
 15 Astor Place. 
 
 1881. 
 
PREFACE. 
 
 1 have been often asked to republish the first book of 
 mine which the public noticed, and which, hitherto, re- 
 mains their favourite, in a more easily attainable form 
 than that of its existing editions. I am, however, re- 
 solved never to republish the book as a whole; some 
 parts of it being, by the established fame of Turner, 
 rendered unnecessary; and others having been always 
 useless, in their praise of excellence which the public 
 will never give the labour necessary to discern. But, 
 finding lately that one of my dearest friends, who, in ad- 
 vanced age, retains the cheerfulness and easily delighted 
 temper of bright youth, had written out, for her own 
 pleasure, a large number of passages from " Modern Paint- 
 ers," it seemed to me certain that what such a person felt 
 to be useful to herself, could not but be useful also to a 
 class of readers whom I much desired to please, and who 
 would sometimes enjoy, in my early writings, what I 
 never should myself have offered them. I asked my 
 friend therefore, to add to her own already chosen series, 
 anv other passages she thought likely to be of permanent 
 
 (v) 
 
VI PREFACE. 
 
 interest to general readers ; and I have printed her selec- 
 tions in absolute submission to her judgment, merely 
 arranging the pieces she sent me in the order which 
 seemed most convenient for the reciprocal bearing of their 
 fragmentary meanings, and adding here and there an ex- 
 planatory note; or, it may be, a deprecatory one, in cases 
 where my mind had changed. That she did me the grace 
 to write every word with her own hand, adds, in my 
 eyes, and will, I trust, in the readers' also, to the possible 
 claims of the little book on their sympathy; and although 
 I hope to publish some of the scientific and technical por- 
 tions of the original volumes in my own large editions, 
 the selections here made by my friend under her quiet 
 woods at Coniston — the Unter-Walden of England — will, 
 I doubt not, bring within better reach of many readers, 
 for whom I am not now able myself to judge or choose, 
 such service as the book was ever capable of rendering, 
 in the illustration of the powers of nature, and interces- 
 sion for her now too often despised and broken peace 
 Herne Hill, 5th December, 1874. 
 
FROKDES AGRESTES. 
 
 SECTION I. 
 
 PRINCIPLES OF ART. 
 
 1. Perfec t taste is the faculty of receiving the great- 
 est^ possible pleasure from those material sources which 
 are attractive to our moral nature in its puratv_and per- 
 fection; but why we receive pleasure fromsome forms 
 and colours and not from others, is no more to be asked 
 or answered than why we like sugar and dislike worm- 
 wood. 
 
 2. The temper by which right taste is formed is char- 
 acteristically patent. It dwells upon what is submitted 
 to it. It does not trample upon it, — lest it should be 
 pearls, even though it looks like husks. It is good 
 ground, penetrable, retentive ; it does not send up thorns 
 of unkind thoughts, to choke the weak seed ; it is hungry 
 and thirsty too, and drinks all the dew that falls on it, 
 It is an honest and good heart, that shows no too ready 
 springing before the sun b3 up, tut fails not afterwards ; 
 it is distrustful of itself, so as to be ready to believe and 
 
 (7) 
 
8 FRONDES AGRESTES. 
 
 to try all things, and yet so trustful of itself, that it wil] 
 neither quit what it has tried, nor take anything without 
 trying. And the pleasure which it has in things that it 
 finds true and good, is so great, that it cannot possibly be 
 led aside by any tricks of fashion, or diseases of vanity ; 
 it cannot be cramped in its conclusions by partialities and 
 Dypocrisies ; its "visions and its delights are too penetrat- 
 ing, — too living, — for any white-washed object or shallow 
 fountain long to endure or supply. It clasps all that it 
 loves so hard that it crushes it if it be hollow 
 
 3. It is the common consent of men that whatever 
 branch of any pursuit ministers to the bodily comforts, 
 and regards material uses, is ignoble, and whatever part 
 is addressed to the mind only, is noble ; and that geology 
 does better in reclothing dry bones and revealing lost crea- 
 tions, than in tracing veins of lead and beds of iron ; as- 
 tronomy better in opening to us the houses of heaven, 
 than in teaching navigation ; botany better in displaying 
 structure than in expressing juices ; surgery better in in- 
 vestigating organization than in setting limbs. — Only it is 
 ordained that, for our encouragement, every step we make 
 in the more exalted range of science adds something also 
 to its practical applicabilities ; that all the great pheno- 
 mena of nature, the knowledge of which is desired by the 
 angels only, by us partly, as it reveals to farther vision 
 the being and the glory of Him in whom they rejoice and 
 we live, dispense yet such kind influences and so much of 
 material blessing as to be joyfully felt by all inferioi 
 
PRINCIPLES OF ART. 9 
 
 creatures, and to be desired by them with such single de- 
 sire as the imperfection of their nature may admit ; that 
 the strong torrents, which, in their own gladness, fill the 
 hills with hollow thunder, and the vales with winding 
 light, have yet their bounden charge of field to feed, and 
 barge to bear; that the fierce flames to which the Alp 
 owes its upheaval and the volcano its terror, temper for 
 us the metal vein, and warm the quickening spring ; and 
 that for our incitement, I say, not our reward, — for knew 
 edge is its own reward, — herbs have their healing, stoneb 
 their preciousness, and stars their times. 
 
 4. Had it been ordained by the Almighty* that the 
 highest pleasure of sight should be those of most difficult 
 attainment, and that to arrive at them it should be neces- 
 sary to accumulate gilded palaces, tower over tower, and 
 pile artificial mountains around insinuated lakes, there 
 would never have been a direct contradiction between the 
 unselfish duties and the inherent desires of every individ- 
 ual. But no such contradiction exists in the system of 
 Divine Providence; which, leaving it open to us if we 
 will, as creatures in probation, to abuse this sense like 
 every other, and pamper it with selfish and thoughtless 
 vanities, as we pamper the palate with deadly meats, 
 until the appetite of tasteful cruelty is lost in its sickened 
 
 * The reader must observe, that having been thoroughly disci- 
 plined in the Evangelical schools, I supposed myself, at four-and- 
 twenty, to know all about the ordinances of the Almighty. Never- 
 theless, the practical contents of the sentenco are good ; if only they 
 tre intelligible, which I doubt. 
 1* 
 
10 FHONDES AGRESTES. 
 
 satiety, incapable of pleasure unless, Caligula like, it con 
 centrates the labour of a million of lives into the sensa 
 tion of an hour, leaves it also open tons, — by humble and 
 loving ways, to make ourselves susceptible of deep de- 
 light, which shall not separate us from our fellows, nor 
 require the sacrifice of any duty or occupation, but which 
 shall bind us closer to men and to God, and be with us 
 always, harmonized with every action, consistent with 
 every claim, unchanging and eternal. 
 
 5. A great Idealist never can be egotistic. The whole 
 of his power depends upon his losing sight and feeling of 
 his own existence, and becoming a mere witness and mir- 
 ror of truth, and a scribe of visions — always passive in 
 sight, passive in utterance, lamenting continually that he 
 cannot completely reflect nor clearly utter all he has seen — ■ 
 not by any means a proud state for a man' to be in. But 
 the man who has no invention is always setting things in 
 order,* and putting the world to rights, and mending, and 
 beautifying, and pluming himself on his doings, as supreme 
 in all ways. 
 
 6. So far as education does indeed tend to make the senses 
 delicate, and the preceptions accurate, and thus enables 
 people to be pleased with quiet instead of gaudy colour, 
 and with graceful instead of coarse form; and by long 
 acquaintance with the best things, to discern quickly what 
 
 * I am now a comic illustration of this sentence, myself. I have 
 not a ray of invention in all my brains; but am intensely rationa. 
 and orderly, and have resolutely beguu to set the world to rights 
 
PRINCIPLES OF ART. 11 
 
 ts fine from what is common — so far acquired taste is an 
 honourable faculty, and it is true praise of anything to 
 say, it is "in good taste." But,* so far as this higher edu- 
 cation has a tendency to narrow the sympathies and har- 
 den the heart, diminishing the interest of all beautiful 
 things by familiarity, until even what is best can hardly 
 please, and what is brightest hardly entertain — so far as 
 it fosters pride, and leads men to found the pleasure they 
 take in anything, not on the worthiness of the thing, but 
 on the degree in which it indicates some greatness of their 
 own, (as people build marble porticoes, and inlay marble 
 floors, not so much because they like the colours of mar- 
 ole, or find it pleasant to the foot, as because such porches 
 and floors are costly, and separated m all human eyes from 
 plain entrances of stone and timber) — so far as it leads 
 people to prefer gracefulness of dress, manner, and aspect, 
 to value of .substance and heart, liking a well said thing 
 better than a true thing, and a well trained manner better 
 than a sincere one, and a delicately-formed face better than 
 a good natured one — and in all other ways and things set- 
 ting custom and semblance above everlasting truth — so 
 far, finally, as it induces a sense of inherent distinction be- 
 tween class and class, and causes everything to be more or 
 less despised which has no social rank, so that the affec- 
 tion, pleasure, or grief of a clown are looked upon as of 
 no interest compared with the affection and grief of a well 
 
 * Nobody need begin this second volume sentence unless they are 
 breathed like the Graeme : — 
 
 •'Kight up Ben I>dl could be press, 
 Aud no t a sob his toil confess. ' ' 
 
12 FRONDES AGRESTES. 
 
 bred man — just so far, in all these several ways, the feeling 
 induced by what is called "a liberal education" is utterly 
 adverse to the understanding of noble art. 
 
 7. He who habituates himself in his daily life to seek 
 for the stern facts in whatever he hears or sees, will have 
 these facts again brought before him by the involuntary 
 imaginative power, in their noblest associations ; and he 
 who seeks for frivolities and fallacies, will have frivolities 
 and fallacies again presented to him in his dreams.* 
 
 8. All the histories of the Bible are yet waiting to be 
 painted. Moses has never been painted; Elijah never; 
 David never (except as a mere ruddy stripling) ; Deborah 
 never ; Gideon never ; Isaiah never, f What single ex- 
 ample does the reader remember of painting which sug- 
 gested so much as the faintest shadow of their deeds ? 
 Strong men in armour, or aged men with flowing beards, 
 he may remember, who, when he looked at his Louvre or 
 Uffizii catalogue, he found were intended to stand for 
 David or Moses. But does he suppose that, if these pic- 
 
 * Very good. Few people have any idea how much more im- 
 portant the government of the mind is, than the force of its exer- 
 tion. Nearly all the world flog their horses, without ever looking 
 where thoy are going. 
 
 t I knew nothing, when I wrote this passage, of Luni, Fiiippo 
 Lippi, or Saudro Botticelli; and had not capacity to enter into the 
 doeper feelings even of the men whom I was chiefly studying,— 
 Tinlorct and Fra Angelico. But the British public is at present as 
 little acquainted with the greater Florentines as I was then, and the 
 passage, for them, remains true. 
 
PRINCIPLES OF AET. 13 
 
 tures had suggested to him the feeblest image of the pres- 
 ence of such men, he would have passed on as he assuredly 
 did, to the next picture, representing, doubtless, Diana 
 and Actaeon, or Cupid and the Graces, or a gambling 
 quarrel in a pothouse — with no sense of pain or surprise ? 
 Let him meditate over the matter, and he will find ulti- 
 mately that what I say is true, and that religious art at 
 once complete and sincere never yet has existed. 
 
14 FRONDES AGRESTES. 
 
 SECTION II. 
 
 POWER AND OFFICE OF IMAGINATION. 
 
 9. What are the legitimate uses of the imagination, — 
 that is to say, of the power of perceiving, or conceiving 
 with the mind, things which cannot be perceived with the 
 senses ? Its first and noblest use is,* to enable us to bring 
 sensibly to our sight the things which are recorded as 
 belonging to our future state, or invisibly surrounding us 
 in this. It is given us, that we may imagine the cloud of 
 witnesses, in heaven, and earth, and sea, as if they were 
 now present ; the souls of the righteous waiting for us ; 
 that we may conceive the great army of the inhabitants 
 of heaven, and discover among them those whom we most 
 desire to be with for ever ; that we may be able to vision 
 forth the ministry of angels beside us, and see the chariots 
 of fire on the mountains that gird us round ; but, above all, 
 to call up the scenes and facts in which we are commanded 
 to believe, and be present, as if in the body, at every re- 
 corded event of the history of the Redeemer. Its second 
 and ordinary use is, to empower us to traverse the scenes 
 
 * I should be glad if the reader who is interested in the question 
 here raised, would read, as illustrative of the subsequent statement, 
 the account of Tintoret's 'Paradise,' in the close of my Oxford lec- 
 ture on Michael Angelo and Tintoret, which I have printed sepa- 
 rately to make it generally accessible. 
 
POWER AND OFFICE OF IMAGINATION. 15 
 
 of all other history, and force the facts to become again 
 visible, so as to make upon us the same impression which 
 they would have made if we had witnessed them ; and, in 
 the minor necessities of life, to enable us, out of any present 
 good, to gather the utmost measure of enjoyment, by in- 
 vesting it with happy associations, and, in any present 
 evil, to lighten it, by sommoning 1 back the images of other 
 hours ; and also to give to all mental truths some visible 
 type, in allegory, simile, or personification, which shall 
 most deeply enforce them ; and finally, when the mind is 
 utterly outwearied, to refresh it with such innocent play 
 as shall be most in harmony with the suggestive voices of 
 natural things, permitting it to possess living companion- 
 ship, instead of silent beauty, and create for itself fairies 
 in the grass, and naiads in the wave. 
 
 10. Yet, because we thus reverence the power and art 
 of imagination, let none of us despise the power and art of 
 memory. 
 
 Let the reader consider seriously what he would give at 
 any moment -to have the power of arresting the fairest 
 scenes, those which so often rise before him only to vanish ; 
 to stay the cloud in its fading, the leaf in its trembling, 
 and the shadows in their changing ; to bid the fitful foam 
 be fixed upon the river, and the ripples be everlasting 
 upon the lake ; and then to bear away with him no darkness 
 or feeble sun-stain, (though that is beautiful,) but a coun- 
 terfeit which should seem no counterfeit — the true and 
 perfect image of life indeed. Or rather, (for the full maj 
 
J 6 FROJSTDES AGRESTES. 
 
 esty of such a power is not thus sufficiently expressed,) 
 let him consider that it would be in effect nothing less 
 than a capacity of transporting himself at any moment 
 into any scene — a gift as great as can be possessed by a 
 disembodied spirit; and suppose, also, this necromancy 
 embracing not only the present but the past, and enabling 
 us seemingly to enter into' the very bodily presence of 
 men long since gathered to the dust ; to behold them in 
 act as they lived ; but, with greater privilege than ever 
 was granted to the companions of those transient acts of 
 life, to see them fastened at our will in the gesture and 
 expression of an instant, and stayed on the eve of some 
 great deed, in immortality of burning purpose. — Conceive, 
 so far as possible, such power as this, and then say whether 
 the art which conferred it is to be spoken lightly of, or 
 whether we should not rather reverence, as half divine, a 
 gift which would go so far as to raise us into rank, invest 
 us with the felicities of angels.* 
 
 11. I believe the first test of a truly great man is his 
 humility. I do not mean by humility, doubt of his own 
 power, or hesitation of speaking his opinions ; but a right 
 understanding of the relation between what he can do and 
 say, and the rest of the world's sayings and doings. All 
 great men not only know their business, but usually know 
 that they know it ; and are not only right in their main 
 opinions, but they usually know that they are right in 
 
 ♦Passage written in opposition to tbe vulgar notion that the " moi* 
 imitation" of Nature is easy, and useless. 
 
POWER AND OFFICE OF IMAGINATION. 17 
 
 them ; only they do not think much of themselves on thai 
 account. Arnolfo knows he can build a good dome al 
 Florence ; Albert Durer writes calmly to one who has 
 found fault with his work, — "It cannot be better done;" 
 Sir Isaac Newton knows that he has worked out a pro- 
 blem or two that would have puzzled anybody else ; only 
 they do not expect their fellow-men, therefore, to fall down 
 and worship them. They have a curious under-sense of 
 powerlessness, feeling that the greatness is not in them, 
 but through them ; that they could not do or be anything 
 else than God made them — and they see something divine 
 and God- made in every other man they meet, and are end- 
 lessly, foolishly, incredibly merciful. 
 
 12. As far as I can observe, it is a constant law, that 
 the greatest men, whether poets or historians, live en- 
 tirely in their own age, and the greatest fruits of their 
 work are gathered out of their own age. Dante paints 
 Italy in the thirteenth century; Chaucer, England in the 
 fourteenth; Masaccio, Florence in the fifteenth; Tintoret, 
 Venice in the sixteenth; all of them utterly regardless of 
 anachronism and minor error of every kind, but getting 
 always vital truth out of the vital present. If it be said 
 that Shakspeare wrote perfect historical plays on subjects 
 belonging to the preceding centuries, I answer that they 
 are perfect plays, just because there is no care about cen- 
 turies in them, but a life which all men recognize for the 
 human life of all time — and that it is, not because Shaks- 
 peare sought to give universal truth, but because paint 
 
13 FRONDES AGRESTES. 
 
 ing, honestly and completely, from the men about him, he 
 painted that human nature which is indeed constant 
 enough, — a rogue in the fifteenth century being at heart 
 what a rogue is in the nineteenth, and was in the twelfth; 
 and an honest or knightly man being in like manner very 
 similar to other such at any other time. And the work 
 of these great idealists is, therefore, always universal; 
 not because it is not portrait, but because it is complete 
 portrait down to the heart, which is the same in all ages; 
 and the work of the mean idealist is not universal, not 
 because it is portrait, but because it is half portrait — of 
 the outside, the manners and the dress, not of the heart. 
 Thus Tintoret and Shakspeare paint, both of them, sim- 
 ply Venetian and English nature, as they saw it in their 
 time, down to the root; and it does for all time; but as 
 for any care to cast themselves into the particular ways 
 and tones of thought, or custom, of past time in their 
 historical work, you will find it in neither of them,* nor 
 in any other perfectly great man that I know of. 
 
 13. I think it probable that many readers may be sur- 
 prised at my calling Scott the great representative of the 
 mind of the age of literature. Those who can perceive 
 
 * What vestige of Egyptian character is there, for instance, in 
 Cleopatra ?— of Athenian in Theseus or Tiraon?— of old English in 
 Imogen or Cordelia? — of old Scottish in Macbeth? — or even of me- 
 diaeval Italian in Petruchio, the Merchant of "Venice, or Desdemona? 
 And the Roman plays appear definitely Roman only because the 
 strength of Rome was the eternal strength of the world,— pure 
 family life, sustained by agriculture, and defended by simple and 
 fearless manhood 
 
POWER AND OFFICE OF IMAGINATION. • 19 
 
 the intense penetrative depth of "Wordsworth, and the 
 exquisite finish and melodious power of Tennyson, may 
 be offended at my placing in higher rank that poetry of 
 careless glance and reckless rhyme in which Scott poured 
 oat the fancies of his youth; and those who are familiar 
 with the subtle analysis of the French novelists, or who 
 have in any wise submitted themselves to the influence 
 of German philosophy, may be equally indignant at my 
 ascribing a principality to Scott among the literary men 
 of Europe, in an age which has produced De Balzac, and 
 Goethe.* 
 
 But the mass of sentimental literature concerned with 
 the analysis and description of emotion, headed by the 
 poetry of Byron, is altogether of lower rank than the 
 literature which merely describes what it saw. The true 
 seer feels as intensely as any one else; but he does not 
 much describe his feelings. He tells you whom he met, 
 and what they said; leaves you to make out, from that, 
 what they feel, and what he feels, but goes into little de- 
 tail. And, generally speaking, pathetic writing and care- 
 ful explanation of passion are quite easy, compared with 
 this plain recording of what people said, and did, or with 
 the right invention of what they are likely to say and 
 
 *I knew nothing of Goethewhenlputhimwitb Balzac; butthein- 
 tolerable dullness which encumbers the depth of Wilhelm Meister, 
 and the cruel reserve which conceals from all but the intensest 
 readers the meaning of Faust, have made him, in a great degree, an 
 evil influence in European literature; and Evil is always s3cond 
 rate. 
 
20 FRONDES AGRESTES. 
 
 do; for this reason, that to invent a story, or admirably 
 and thoroughly tell any part of a story, it is necessary to 
 grasp the entire mind of every personage concerned in it, 
 and know precisely how they would be affected by what 
 happens; which to do, requires a collossal intellect; but 
 to describe a separate emotion delicately, it is only needed 
 that one should feel it oneself; and thousands of people 
 are capable of feeling this or that noble emotion, for one 
 who is able to enter into all the feelings of somebody 
 sitting on the other side of the table. Even, therefore, 
 where this sentimental literature is first rate, as in pas- 
 sages of Byron, Tennyson, and Keats, it ought not to be 
 ranked so high as the creative; and though perfection 
 even in narrow fields is perhaps as rare as in the wider, 
 and it may be as long before we have another "In Me- 
 moriam" as another "Guy Mannering," I unhesitatingly 
 receive as a greater manifestation of power, the right in- 
 vention of a few sentences spoken by Pleydell and Man- 
 nering across their supper -table, than the most tender and 
 passionate melodies of the self-examining verse. 
 
 14. Fancy plays like a squirrel in its circular prison, 
 and is happy ; but "Imagination is a pilgrim on the earth 
 — and her home is in heaven. Shut her from the fields of 
 the celestial mountains, bear her from breathing their 
 lofty, sun-warmed air ; and we may as well turn upon her 
 the last bolt of the Tower of Famine, and give the kep 
 
POWEK AND OFFICE OF IMAGINATION. a J 
 
 } the keeping of the wildest surge that washes Capraja 
 md Gorgona.* 
 
 15. In the highest poetry, there is no word so familiar, 
 but a great man will bring good out of it, or rather, it 
 will bring good to him, and answer some end for which 
 no other word would have done equally well. A common 
 person, for instance, would be mightily puzzled to apply 
 the word "whelp" to anyone, with a view of flattering 
 him. There is a certain freshness and energy in the term, 
 which gives it agreeableness, but it seems difficult, at 
 first hearing it, to use it complimentarily. If the person 
 spoken of be a prince, the difficulty seems increased ; and 
 when farther he is at one and the same moment to be 
 called a "whelp" and complimented as a hero, it seems 
 that a common idealist -might well be brought to a pause I 
 But hear Shakspeare do it : — 
 
 *• Awake his warlike spirit, 
 And your great uncle's, Edward the Black Prince, 
 Who on the French ground played a tragedy, 
 Making defeat on the full power of France, 
 While his most mighty father on a hill 
 Stood smiling, to behold his lion's whelp 
 Forage in blood of French nobility." 
 
 16. Although in all lovely nature there is, first an ex- • 
 cellent degree of simple beauty, addressed to the eye 
 
 *I leave this passage, as my friend has chosen it ; but it is unin- 
 telligible without the contexts, which show how all the emotions 
 described in the preoeding passages of this section, are founded on 
 trust in the beneficence and rule of an Omnipotent Spirit. 
 
22 FRONDES AGRESTES. 
 
 alone, yet often what impresses us most will form but a 
 very small portion of that visible beauty. That beauty 
 may, for instance, be composed of lovely flowers, and 
 glittering streams, and blue sky and white clouds ; and 
 yet the thing that impresses us most, and which we 
 should be sorriest to lose, may be a thin grey film on the 
 extreme horizon, not so large, in the space of the scene it 
 occupies, as a piece of gossamer on a near-at-hand bush, 
 nor in any wise prettier to the eye than the gossamer ; 
 but because the gossamer is known by us for a little bit 
 of spider's work, and the other grey film is known to mean 
 a mountain of ten thousand feet high, inhabited by a race 
 of noble mountaineers, we are solemnly impressed by the 
 aspect of it, and yet all the while the thoughts and knowl- 
 edge which cause us to receive this impression are so 
 obscure that we are not conscious of them. 
 
 17. Examine the nature of your emotion (if you feel 
 it, and at the sight of the Alps; and you find all the 
 brightness of that emotion hanging, like dew on a gossa- 
 mer, on a curious web of subtle fancy and imperfect 
 knowledge. First you have a vague idea of its size, 
 coupled with wonder at the work of the great Builder of 
 its walls and fountains ; then an apprehension of its eter- 
 nity, a pathetic sense of its perpetualness, and your own 
 transientness, as of the grass upon its sides ; — then, and 
 in very sadness, a sense of strange companionship with 
 past generations, in seeing what they saw. They did 
 not see the clouds that are floating over your head, nor 
 
POWER AND OFFICE OF IMAGINATION. 23 
 
 the cottage wall on tae other side of the field, nor tho 
 road by which you are travelling. But they saw that. 
 The wall of granite in the heavens was the same to them 
 as to you. They have ceased to look upon it ; you will 
 soon cease to look also, and the granite wall will be for 
 others. Then, mingled with these more solemn imagina- 
 tions, come the understandings of the gifts and glories of 
 the Alp; — the fancying forth of all the fountains that 
 well from its rocky walls, and strong rivers that are born 
 out of its ice, and of all the pleasant valleys that wind 
 between its cliffs, and all the chalets that gleam among 
 its clouds, and happy farmsteads couched upon its pas- 
 tures ; while, together with the thoughts of these, ries 
 strange sympathies with all the unknown of human life, 
 and happiness, and death, signified by that narrow white 
 flame of the everlasting snow, seen so far in the morning 
 sky. These images, and far more than these, lie at the 
 root of the emotion which you feel at the sight of the 
 Alps. Yet you may not trace them in your heart, for 
 there is a great deal more in your heart, both of evil and 
 good, than you can ever trace ; but they stir you and 
 quicken you for all that. Assuredly so far as you feel 
 more at beholding the snowy mountain than any other 
 object of the same sweet silvery grey, these are the kind 
 of images which cause you to do so ; and observe, these 
 are nothing more than a greater apprehension of the facts 
 of the thing. "We call the power " Imagination," because 
 it imagines or conceives ; but it is only noble imagination, 
 if it imagines or conceives the truth. And according tc 
 
24 FRONDES AGRESTES. 
 
 the degree of knowledge possessed, and of sensibility tc 
 the pathetic or impressive character of the things known, 
 will he the degree of this imaginative delight. 
 
 18. So natural is it to the human heart to fix itself in 
 hope rather than in present possession, and so subtle is 
 the charm which the imagination casts over what is dis- 
 tant or denied, that there is often a more touching power 
 in the scenes which contain far-away promise of something 
 greater than themselves, than in those which exhaust 
 the treasures and powers of nature in an unconquer- 
 able and excellent glory, leaving nothing more to be by 
 fancy pictured or pursued. I do not know that there is a 
 district in the world more calculated to illustrate this 
 power of the expectant imagination than that which sur- 
 rounds the city of Friburg in Switzerland, extending from 
 it towards Berne. It is of grey sandstone, considerably 
 elevated, but presenting no object of striking interest to 
 the passing traveller; so that as it is generally seen in the 
 course of a hasty journey from the Bernese Alps to those 
 of Savoy, it is rarely regarded with any other sensation 
 than that of weariness, all the more painful because accom 
 panied with reaction from the high excitement caused 
 by the splendour of the Bernese Oberland. The traveller 
 — foot-sore, feverish, and satiated with glacier and preci- 
 pice — lies back in the corner of the diligence, perceiving 
 little more than that the road is winding and hilly, and 
 the country through which it passes, cultivated and tame. 
 Let him, however, only do this tame country the justice 
 
POWER AND OFFICE OF IMAGINATION. 25 
 
 of staying in it a few days, until Ms mind has recovered 
 its tone, and take one or two long walks through its fields, 
 and he will have other thoughts of it. It is, as I said, an 
 undulating district of grey sandstone, never attaining any 
 considerable height, but having enough of the mountain 
 spirit to throw itself into continual succession of bold 
 slope and dale ; elevated, also, just far enough above the 
 sea to render the pine a frequent forest tree along its irreg- 
 ular ridges. Through this elevated tract the river cuts 
 its way in a ravine some five or six hundred feet in depth, 
 which winds for leagues between the gentle hills unthought 
 of until its edge is approached ; and then, suddenly, through 
 the boughs of the firs, the eye perceives, beneath, the 
 green and gliding stream, and the broad walls of sand- 
 stone cliff that form its banks ; hollowed out where the 
 river leans against them at its turns, into perilous over- 
 hariging; and, on the other shore, at the same spot, leaving 
 little breadths of meadow between them and the water, 
 half overgrown with thicket, deserted in their sweetness, 
 inaccessible from above, and rarely visited by any curious 
 wanderers along the hardly traceable footpath which 
 struggles for existence beneath the rocks. And there the 
 river ripples, and eddies and murmurs in an utter solitude. 
 It is passing through a thickly peopled country ; but never 
 was a stream so lonely. The feeblest and most far away 
 torrent among the high hills has its companions ; the goats 
 browse beside it ; and the traveller drinks from it, and 
 passes over it with his staff; and the peasant traces a new 
 channel for it down to his mill-wheel. But this stream 
 
26 FRONDES AGRESTES. 
 
 lias no companions ; it flows on in an infinite seclusion, 
 not secret, nor threatening, but a quietness of sweet day- 
 light and open air — a broad space of tender and deep des- 
 olateness, drooped into repose out of the midst of human 
 labour and life ; the waves plashing lowly, with none to 
 hear them ; and the wild birds building in the boughs, 
 with none to fray them away ; and the soft, fragrant herbs 
 rising and breathing and fading, with no hand to gather 
 them — and yet all bright and bare to the clouds above, and 
 to the fresh fall of the passing sunshine and pure rain. But 
 above the brows of these scarped cliffs, all is in an instant 
 changed. A few steps only beyond the firs that stretch 
 their branches, angular, and white, like forks of lightning, 
 into the air of the ravine — and we are in an arable coun- 
 try of the most perfect richness ; the swarthes of its com 
 glowing and burning from field to field; its pretty hamlets 
 all vivid with fruitful orchards, and flowery gardens, - and 
 goodly with steep-roofed store-house and barn ; its well- 
 kept, hard, park-like roads rising and falling from hillside 
 to hillside, or disappearing among brown banks of moss, 
 and thickets of the wild raspberry and rose; or gleaming 
 through lines of tall trees, half glade, half avenue, where 
 the gate opens, or the gatelesss path turns trustedly aside, 
 unhindered, into the garden of some statelier house, sur- 
 rounded in rural pride with its golden hives, and carved 
 granaries, and irregular domain of latticed and espaliered 
 cottages, gladdening to look upon in their delicate homeli- 
 ness — delicate,, yet, in some sort, rude; not like our Eng- 
 lish homes — trim, laborious, formal, irreproachable in 
 
POWER AND OFFICE OF IMAGINATION. 27 
 
 comfort — but with a peculiar carelessness and largeness 
 in all their detail, harmonizing with the outlawed loveli- 
 ness of iheir country. For there is an untamed strength 
 even in all that soft and habitable -land. It is indeed 
 gilded with corn, and fragrant with deep grass, but it is 
 not subdued to the plough or to the scythe. It gives at 
 its own free will ; it seems to have nothing wrested from 
 it, nor conquered in it. It is not redeemed from desert- 
 ness, but unrestrained in fruitfulness, — generous land, 
 bright with capricious plenty, and laughing from vale to 
 vale in fitful fullness, kind and wild. Nor this without 
 some sterner element mingled in the heart of it. For, 
 along all its ridges stand the dark masses of innumerable 
 pines,* taking no part in its gladness, asserting themselves 
 for ever as fixed shadows, not to be pierced or banished 
 even in the intensest sunlight ; fallen flakes and fragments 
 of the night, stayed in their solemn squares in the midst 
 of all the rosy bendings of the orchard boughs and yellow 
 effulgence of the harvest, and tracing themselves in black 
 net-work and motionless fringes against the blanched blue 
 of the horizon in its saintly clearness. And yet they do 
 not sadden the landscape, but seem to have been set there 
 chiefly to show how bright everything else is round them; 
 and all the clouds look of pure silver, and all the air 
 seems filled with a whiter and more living sunshine, 
 where they are pierced by the sable p*oints of the pines ; 
 
 * Almost the only pleasure I have, myself, in re-reading my old 
 books, is my sense of having at least done justice to the pine. 
 Compare the passage in this book, No. 47. 
 
28 FRONDES AGRESTES. 
 
 and all the pastures look of more glowing green where 
 they run up between the purple trunks ; and the sweet 
 field footpaths skirt the edges of the forest for the sake 
 of its shade, sloping up and down about the slippery 
 roots, and losing themselves every now and then hope- 
 lessly among the violets and ground-ivy and brown shed- 
 dings of the fibrous leaves, and at last plunging into some 
 open aisle, where the light through the distant stems 
 shows that there is a chance of coming out again on the 
 other side; and coming out indeed in a little while from 
 the scented darkness into the dazzling air and marvellous 
 landscape, which stretches still farther and farther in new 
 wilfulness of grove and garden, until at last the craggy 
 mountains of the Simmenthal rise out of it, sharp into 
 the rolling of the southern clouds. 
 
 19* Although there are few districts of Northern Eu- 
 rope, however apparently dull or tame, in which I cannot 
 find pleasure, though the whole of Northern France, (ex- 
 cept Champagne), dull as it seems to most travellers, is to 
 me a perpetual Paradise ; and, putting Lincolnshire, Lei- 
 cestershire, and one or two such other perfectly flat dis- 
 tricts aside, there is not an English county which I should 
 not find entertainment in exploring the cross-roads of, 
 
 *This, and the following passage, have nothing to do with the 
 general statements in "he book. They occur with reference only to 
 my own idiosyncrasy. I was much surprised when I found first 
 how individual it was, by a Pre-Raphealite painter's declaring a 
 piece of unwholesome reedy fen to be more beautiful than Ben- 
 venue. 
 
POWKR AND OFFICE OF IMAGINATION. 29 
 
 foot by foot, — yet all my best enjoyment would be owing 
 to the imagination of the hills, colouring with their far- 
 away memories every lowland stone and herb. The pleas- 
 ant French coteau, green in the sunshine, delights me 
 either by what real mountain character it has in itself, 
 (for in extent and succession of promontory, the flanks of 
 the French valleys have quite the sublimity of true moun- 
 tain distances,) or by its broken ground and rugged steps 
 among the vines, and rise of the leafage above against the 
 blue sky, as it might rise at Vevay or Como. There is 
 not a wave of the Seine, but is associated in my mind with 
 the first rise of the sandstones and forest pines of Fon- 
 tainebleau ; and with the hope of the Alps, as one leaves 
 Paris, with the horses' heads to the southwest, the morn- 
 ing sun flashing on the bright waves at Charenton. If 
 there be no hope or association of this kind, and if I can- 
 not deceive myself into fancying that perhaps at the next 
 rise of the road there may be the film of a blue hill in the 
 gleam of sky at the horizon, the landscape, however beau- 
 tiful, produces in me even a kind of sickness and pain ; 
 and the whole view from Eichmond Hill or Windsor Ter- 
 race, — nay, the gardens of Alcinous, with their perpetual 
 summer — or of the Hesperides, (if they were flat, and not 
 close to Atlas), golden apples and all, I would give away 
 in an instant, for one mossy granite stone a foot broad, 
 and two leaves of lady fern. 
 
 20. I cannot find words to express the intense pleasure 
 1 have always in first finding myself, after some prolonged 
 
30 FRONDES AGRESTES. 
 
 stay in England, at the foot of the old tower of Calais 
 church. The large neglect, the noble unsightliness of it 
 the record of its years written so visibly, yet without sign 
 of weakness or decay ; its stern wasteness and gloom, eaten 
 away by the Channel winds, and overgrown with the bit- 
 ter sea grasses ; its slates and tiles all shaken and rent, 
 and yet not falling; its desert of brickwork, full of bolts, 
 and holes, and ugly fissures, and yet strung, like a bare 
 brown rock; its carelessness of what any one thinks or 
 feels about it, putting forth no claim, having no beauty, 
 nor desireableness, pride, nor grace; yet neither asking 
 for pity; not, as ruins are, useless and piteous, feebly or 
 fondly garrulous of better days; but, useful still, going 
 through its own daily work,— as some old fisherman, 
 beaten grey by storm, yet drawing his daily nets, so it 
 stands, with no complaint about its past youth, in blanched 
 and. meagre massiveness and serviceableness, gathering 
 human souls together underneath it; the sound of its bells 
 for prayer still rolling through its rents ; and the grey 
 peak of it seen far across the sea, principal of the three 
 that rise above the waste of surfysand and hillocked 
 shore, — the lighthouse for life, and the belfry for labour, 
 , and this,— for patience and praise. 
 
 I cannot tell the half of the strange pleasures and 
 thoughts that come about me at the sight of that old 
 tower; for, in some sort, it is the epitome of all that makes 
 the continent of Europe interesting, as opposed to new 
 countries ; and, above all, it completely expresses that aged- 
 ness in the midst of active life which binds the old anc* 
 
POWER AND OFFICE OF IMAGINATION-. 31 
 
 the new into harmony. We in England have our new- 
 streets, our new inn— our green shaven lawn, and our 
 piece of ruin emergent from it, a mere specimen of the 
 middle ages put on a bit of velvet carpet, to be shown; 
 and which, but for its size, might as well be on a museum 
 shelf at once, under cover: — but, on the Continent, the 
 links are unbroken between the past and present ; and, in 
 such use as they can serve for, the grey headed wrecks 
 are suffered to stay with men ; while, in unbroken line, 
 the generations of spared buildings are seen succeeding, 
 each in its place. And thus, in its largeness, in its per- 
 mitted evidence of slow decline, in its poverty, in its 
 absence of all pretence, of all show and care for outside 
 aspect, that Calais tower has an infinite of symbolism in it, 
 all the more striking because usually seen in contrast with 
 English scenes expressive of feelings the exact reverse of 
 these.* 
 
 * My friend won't write out the reverse! Our book is to be all 
 jelly, and no powder, it seems. Well, I'm very thankful she likes 
 the jelly, — at any rate it makes me sure that it is well made. 
 
32 FBONDES AGEESTES. 
 
 SECTION" III. 
 
 ILLUSTBATIVE : THE SKY. 
 
 21. It is a strange thing how little in general people 
 know about the sky. It is the part of creation in which 
 Nature has done more for the sake of pleasing man — 
 more for the sole and evident purpose of talking to him, 
 and teaching him — than in any other of her works ; and 
 it is just the part in which we least attend to her. There 
 are not many of her other works in which some more 
 material or essential purpose than the mere pleasing of 
 man is not answered by every part of their organization; 
 but every essential purpose of the sky might, so far as 
 we know, be answered if once in three days, or there- 
 abouts, a great, ugly, black rain-cloud were brought up 
 over the blue, and everything well watered, and so all 
 left blue again till next time, with perhaps a film of 
 morning and evening mist for dew — and instead of this, 
 there is not a moment of any day of our lives, when Na- 
 ture is not producing scene after scene, picture after pic- 
 ture, glory after glory, and working still upon such 
 exquisite and constant principles of the most perfect 
 beauty, that it is quite certain* it is all done for us, and 
 
 * At least, I thought so, when I was four-and-twenty. At five-and- 
 twenty, I fancy that it is just possible there may be other creatures 
 in the universe, to be pleased, or,— it may be,— displeased, by the 
 weather. 
 
ILLUSTRATIVE : THE SKY. 83 
 
 intended for our perpetual pleasure. And every man, 
 wherever placed, however far from other sources of in- 
 terest or of beauty, has this doing for him constantly. 
 The noblest scenes of the earth can be seen and known 
 but by few; it is not intended that man should live 
 always in the midst of them; he injures them by his 
 presence, he ceases to feel them if he is always with 
 them; but the sky is for all: bright as it is, it is not 
 
 " too bright nor good 
 For human nature's daily food " ; 
 
 it is fitted in all its functions for the perpetual comfort 
 and exalting of the heart, — for soothing it, and purifying 
 it from its dross and dust. Sometimes gentle, sometimes 
 capricious, sometimes awful — never the same for two mo- 
 ments together ; almost human in its passions, almost 
 spiritual in its tenderness, almost divine in its infinity, its 
 appeal to what is immortal in us is as distinct as its min- 
 istry of chastisement or of blessing to what is mortal is 
 essential. And yet we never attend to it, we never make 
 it a subject of thought, but as it has to do with our ani- 
 mal sensations, we look upon all by which it speaks to us 
 more clearly than to brutes, upon all which bears witness 
 to the intention of the Supreme that we are to receive 
 more from the covering vault than the light and the dew 
 which we share with the weed and the worm, only as a 
 succession of meaningless and monotonous accident, too 
 common and too vain to be worthy of a moment of 
 watchfulness, or a glance of admiration. If in our mo- 
 a a* 
 
34 FRONDES AGKESTES. 
 
 ments of utter idleness and insipidity, we turn to the sky 
 as a last resource, which of its phenomena do we speak 
 of? One says, it has been wet ; and another, it has been 
 windy, and another, it has been warm. Who among the 
 whole chattering crowd can tell one of the forms and the. 
 precipices of the chain of tall white mountains that 
 girded the horizon- at noon yesterday? Who saw the 
 narrow sunbeam that came out of the south, and smote 
 upon their summits until they melted and mouldered 
 away in a dust of blue rain? Who saw the dance of the 
 dead clouds where the sunlight left them last night, and 
 the west wind blew them before it like withered leaves ? 
 All has passed unregretted as unseen; or if the apathy be 
 ever shaken off even for an instant, it is only by what is 
 gross, or what is extraordinary. And yet it is not in the 
 broad and fierce manifestations of the elemental energies, 
 nor in the clash of the hail, nor the drift of the whirl- 
 wind, that the highest characters of the sublime are 
 developed. God is not in the earthquake, nor in the fire, 
 but in the still small voice. They are but the blunt and 
 the low faculties of our nature, which can only be ad- 
 dressed through lamp-black and lightning. It is in quiet 
 and unsubdued passages of unobtrusive majesty, the deep 
 and the calm, and the perpetual; that which must be 
 sought ere it is seen, and loved ere it is understood; 
 things which the angels work out for us daily, and yet 
 vary eternally; which are never wanting, and never re- 
 peated, which are to be found always, yet each found but 
 
ILLUSTRATIVE: THE SKY. 85 
 
 once; it is through, these that the lesson of devotion is 
 chiefly taught, and the blessing of beauty given. 
 
 22. We habitually think of the rain-cloud only as 
 dark and grey ; not knowing that we owe to it perhaps 
 the fairest, though not the most dazzling, of the hues of 
 heaven. Often in our English mornings, the rain-clouds 
 in the dawn form soft, level fields, which melt impercep- 
 tibly into the blue ; or, when of less extent, gather into 
 apparent bars, crossing the sheets of broader clouds above; 
 and all these bathed throughout in an unspeakable light 
 of pure rose-colour, and purple, and amber, and blue; not 
 shining, but misty-soft; the barred masses, when seen 
 nearer, composed of clusters or tresses of cloud, like floss 
 silk ; looking as if each knot were a little swathe or sheaf 
 of lighted rain. 
 
 23. Aqueous vapour or mist, suspended in the atmos- 
 phere, becomes visible exactly as dust does in the air of a 
 room. In the shadows, you not only cannot see the dust 
 itself, because unillumined, but you can see other objects 
 through the dust, without obscurity ; the air being thus 
 actually rendered more transparent by a deprivation of 
 light. Where a sunbeam enters, every particle of dust 
 becomes visible, and a palpable interruption to the sight; 
 so that a transverse sunbeam is a real obstacle to the vis- 
 ion — you cannot see things clearly through it. In the 
 same way, wherever vapour is illuminated by transverse 
 rays, there it becomes visible as a whiteness more or less 
 affecting the purity of the blue, and destroying it exactly 
 
36 FRONDES AGBESTES. 
 
 in proportion to the degree of illumination. But -where 
 vapour is in sliade, it has very little effect on the sky, per- 
 haps making it a little deeper and grayer than it otherwise 
 would be, but not, itself, unless very dense, distinguishable 
 or felt as mist. 
 
 24. Has the reader any distinct idea of what clouds are ? 
 
 * That mist which lies in the morning so softly in the 
 valley, level and white, through which the tops of the 
 trees rise as if through an inundation — why is it so heavy, 
 and why does it he so low, being yet so thin and frail that 
 it will melt away utterly into splendour of morning when 
 the sun has shone on it but a few moments more ? Those 
 colossal pyramids, huge and firm, with outlines as of rocks, 
 and strength to bear the beating of the high sun full on 
 their fiery flanks, — why are they so light, their bases high 
 over our heads, high over the heads of Alps ? Why will 
 these melt away, not as the sun rises, but as he descends, 
 and leave the stars of twilight clear ; while the valley va- 
 pour gains again upon the earth, like a shroud ? Or that 
 ghost of a cloud, which steals by yonder clump of pines ; 
 nay, which does not steal by them, but haunts them, 
 wreathing yet round them, and yet, — and yet, — slowly; 
 now falling in a fair waved line like a woman's veil ; now 
 fading, now gone; we look away for an instant, and look 
 back, and it is again there. What has it to do with that 
 clump of pines, .that it broods by them, and waves itself 
 
 *This is a fifth volume bit, and worth moro attention. 
 
ILLUSTRATIVE: THE SKY. 37 
 
 among their branches, to and fro ? Has it hidden a cloudy 
 treasure among the moss at their roots, which it watches 
 thus ? Or has some strong enchanter charmed it into fond 
 returning, or bound it fast within those bars of bough ? 
 And yonder filmy crescent, bent like an archer's bow 
 above the snowy summit, the highest of all the hills— 
 that white arch which never forms but over the supreme 
 crest, — how it is stayed there, repelled apparently from the 
 snow, — nowhere touching it, the clear sky seen between 
 it and the mountain edge, yet never leaving it — poised as 
 a white bird hovers over its nest I Or those war -clouds 
 that gather on the horizon, dragon- crested, tongued with 
 fire, — how is their barbed strength bridled ? "What bits 
 nre those they are champing with their vapourous lips, 
 flinging off flakes of black foam ? Leagued leviathans of 
 the Sea of Heaven, — out of their nostrils goeth smoke, 
 and their eyes are like the eyelids of the morning ; the 
 sword of him that layeth at them cannot hold the spear, 
 the dart, nor the habergeon. Where ride the captains of 
 their armies ? Where are set the measures of their 
 march ? Fierce murmurers, answering each other from 
 morning until evening — what rebuke is this which has 
 awed them into peace ; — what hand has reined them back 
 by the way in which they came ? 
 
 I know not if the reader will think at first that ques- 
 tions like these are easily answered. So far from it, I 
 rather believe that some of the mysteries of the -clouds 
 never will be understood by us at all. "Knowest thou 
 the balancing of the clouds?" Is the answer ever to-be 
 
38 FRONDES AGRESTES. 
 
 one of pride? The wondrous works of Him, which is 
 perfect in knowledge? Is our knowledge eTer to be 
 so? ... . 
 
 For my own part, I enjoy the mystery, and perhaps the 
 reader may. I think he ought. He should not be less 
 grateful for summer rain, or see less beauty in the clouds 
 of morning, because they come to prove him with hard 
 questions ; to which perhaps, if we look close at the heav- 
 enly scroll, we may find also a syllable or two of answer, 
 illuminated here and there.* 
 
 And though the climates of the-south and east may be 
 comparatively clear, they are no more absolutely clear 
 than our own northern air. Intense clearness, whether, 
 in the north, after or before rain, or in some moments of 
 twilight in the south, is always, as far as I am acquainted 
 with natural phenomena, a notable thing. Mist of some 
 sort, or mirage, or confusion of light or of cloud, are the 
 general facts ; the distance may vary in different climates 
 at which the effects of mist begin, but they are always 
 present ; and therefore, in all probability, it is meant that 
 
 we should enjoy them "We surely need not won- 
 
 der that mist and all its phenomena have been made de- 
 lightful to us, since our happiness as thinking beings must 
 depend on our being content to accept only partial 
 knowledge even in those matters which chiefly concern us. 
 If we insist upon perfect intelligibility and complete decla- 
 ration in every moral subject, we shall instantly fall into 
 
 * Compare, in "Sartor Resartus," the boy's watching from the 
 garden wall. 
 
ILLUSTRATIVE : THE SKY. 39 
 
 misery of unbelief. Our whole happiness and power of 
 energetic action depend upon our being able to breathe 
 and live in the cloud ; content to see it opening here, and 
 closing there; rejoicing to catch through the thinnest 
 films of it, glimpses of Stable and substantial things ; but 
 yet perceiving a nobleness even in the concealment, and 
 rejoicing that the kindly veil is spread where the untem- 
 pered light might have scorched us, or the infinite clear- 
 ness wearied. And I believe that the resentment of this 
 interference of the mist is one of the forms of proud error 
 which are too easily mistaken for virtues. To be content 
 in utter darkness and ignorance is indeed unmanly, and 
 therefore we think that to love light and find knowledge 
 must always be right. Yet (as in all matters before ob- 
 served,) wherever pride has any share in the work, ever, 
 knowledge and light may be ill pursued. Knowledge is 
 good, and light is good; yet man perished in seeking 
 knowledge, and moths perish in seeking light ; and if we, 
 who are crushed before the moth, will not accept such 
 mystery as is needful to us, we shall perish in like man- 
 ner. But, accepted in humbleness, it instantly becomes 
 an element of pleasure ; and I think that every rightly 
 constituted mind ought to rejoioe, not so much in know- 
 ing anything clearly, as in feeling that there is infinitely 
 more which it cannot know. None but proud or weak 
 men would mourn over this, for we may always know 
 more if we choose, by working on ; but the pleasure is, 1 
 think, to humble people, in knowing that the journey is 
 endless, the treasure inexhaustib'e, — watching the cloud 
 
40 FRONDES AGRESTES. 
 
 still march, before them with, its summitless pillar, and 
 being sure that, to the end of time, and to the length of 
 eternity, the mysteries of its infinity will still open farther 
 and farther, their dimness being the sign and necessary 
 adjunct of their inexhaustibleness. I know there are an 
 evil mystery, and a deathful dimness, — the mystery of 
 a great Babylon — the dimness of the sealed eye and soul; 
 but do not let us confuse these with the glorious mystery 
 of the things which the angels "desire to look into," or 
 with the dimness which, even before the clear eye. and 
 open soul, still rests on sealed pages of the eternal volume. 
 
 25. On some isolated mountain at daybreak,* when the 
 night mists first rise from off the plain, watch their white 
 and lake-like fields, as they float in level bays, and wind- 
 ing gulfs about the islanded summits of the lower hills, 
 untouched yet by more than dawn, colder and more quiet 
 than a windless sea under the moon of midnight ; watch 
 when the first sunbeam is sent upon the silver channels, 
 how the foam of their undulating surface parts, and 
 passes away, and down under their depths the glittering 
 city and green pasture lie like Atlantas, between the white 
 paths of winding rivers ; the flakes of light falling every 
 
 * I forget now what all this is about. It seems to be a recollection 
 of the Rigi, with assumption that the enthusiastic spectator is to 
 stand for a day and night in observation ; to suffer the effects of a 
 severe thunder-storm, and to get neither breakfast nor dinner. I 
 have seen such a storm on the Rigi, however, and more than one 
 such sunrise ; and I muoh doubt if its present visitors by rail will 
 see more. 
 
ILLUSTRATIVE: THE SKY. 41 
 
 moment faster and broader among the starry spires, as 
 the wreathed surges break and vanish above them, and 
 the confused crests and ridges of the dark hills shorten 
 their grey shadows upon the plain. "Wait a little longer, 
 and you shall see those scattered mists rallying in the 
 ravines, and floating up towards you, along the winding 
 valleys, till they couch in quiet masses, iridescent with 
 the morning light, upon the broad breasts of the higher 
 hills, whose leagues of massy undulation will melt back, 
 back into that robe of material light, until they fade away, 
 and set in its lustre, to appear again above in the serene 
 heaven like a wild, bright, impossible dream, foundation- 
 less, and inaccessible, their very base vanishing in the 
 unsubstantial and making blue of the deep lake below. 
 Wait yet a little longer, and you shall see those mists 
 gather themselves into white towers, and stand like fort- 
 resses along the promontories, massy and motionless, only 
 piled with every instant higher and higher into the sky, 
 and casting longer shadows athwart the rocks ; and out 
 of the pale blue of the horizon you will see forming and 
 advancing a troop of narrow, dark, pointed vapours, 
 which will cover the sky, inch by inch, with their grey 
 network, and take the light off the landscape with an 
 eclipse which will stop the singing of the birds, and the 
 motion of the leaves, together ; — and then you will see 
 horizontal bars of black shadow forming under them, and 
 lurid wreaths create themselves, you know not how, 
 among the shoulders of the hills; you never see them 
 form, but when you look back to a place which was clear 
 
 D 3 
 
42 FRONDES AGBESTES. 
 
 an instant ago, there is a cloud on it, hanging by the pre- 
 cipice, as a hawk pauses OTer his prey ; — and then you 
 will hear the sudden rush of the awakened wind, and you 
 will see those watch-towers ol vapour swept away from 
 their foundations, and waving curtains of opaque rain let 
 down to the valley, swinging from the burdenod clouds 
 in black bending fringes, or, pacing in pale columns along 
 the lake level, grazing its surface into foam as they go. 
 And then as the sun sinks, you shall see the storm drift 
 for an instant from off the hills, leaving their broad sides 
 smoking and loaded yet with snow-white, torn, steam- 
 like rags of capricious vapour, now gone, now gathered 
 again, — while the smouldering sun, seeming not far away, 
 but burning like a red-hot ball beside you, and as if you 
 could reach it, plunges through the rushing wind and rol- 
 ling cloud with headlong fall, as if it meant to rise no 
 more, dyeing all the air about it with blood ; — and then 
 you shall hear the fainting tempest die in the hollow of 
 the night, and you shall see a green halo kindling on the 
 summit of the eastern hills, brighter, brighter yet, till the 
 large white circle of the slow moon is lifted up among the 
 barred clouds, step by step, line by line ; star after star 
 she querches with her kindling light, setting in their 
 stead an army of pale, penetrable, fleecy wreaths in the 
 heaven, to give light upon the earth, which move togeth- 
 er hand in hand, company by company, troop by troop, 
 so measured in their unity of motion that the whole 
 heaven seems to roll with them, and the earth to reel un- 
 der them. And then wait yet for one hour, until the. 
 
ILLUSTRATIVE : THE SKY. 43 
 
 east again becomes purole, and the heaving mountains, 
 rolling against it in darkness, like waves of a wild sea, 
 are drowned one by one in the glory of its burning ; watch 
 the white glaziers blaze in their winding paths about the 
 mountains, like mighty serpents with scales of fire : watch 
 the columnar peaks of solitary snow, kindling downwards 
 chasm by chasm, each in itself a new morning — their 
 long avalanches cast down in keen streams brighter than 
 the lightning, sending each his tribute of driven snow, 
 like altar-smoke up to heaven; the rose-light of their 
 silent domes flushing that heaven about them, and above 
 them, piercing with purer light through its purple lines 
 of lifted cloud, casting a new glory on every wreath, as it 
 passes by, until the whole heaven, one scarlet canopy, is 
 interwoven with a roof of waving flame, and tossing vault 
 beyond vault, as with the drifted wings of many compa- 
 nies of angels : and then when you can look no more for 
 gladness, and when you are bowed down with fear and love 
 of the Maker and Doer of this, tell me who has best 
 delivered this His message unto men I 
 
 26. *The account given of the stages of creation in 
 the first chapter of Genesis is in every respect clear and 
 intelligible to the simplest reader, except in the statement 
 of the work of the second day. I suppose that this state 
 ment is passed Over by careless readers without any en- 
 
 *This passage, to the end of the section, is one of the last, and 
 best, which I wrote in the temper of my youth ; and I oan stilJ 
 ratify it, thus far, that the texts referred to in it must either be re> 
 coived as it explains them, or neglected altogether. 
 
44 FRONDES AGRE3TES. 
 
 deavor to understand it, and contemplated by simple and 
 faithful readers as a sublime mystery which was not in- 
 tended to be understood. But there is no mystery in any 
 other part of the chapter, and it seems to me unjust to 
 conclude that any was intended here. And the passage 
 ought to be peculiarly interesting to us, as being the first 
 in the Bible in which the heavens are named, and the only 
 one in which the word "Heaven," all important as that 
 word is to our understanding of the most precious prom- 
 ises of Scripture, receives a definite explanation. Let us 
 therefore see whether, by a little careful comparison of 
 the verse with other passages in which the word occurs, 
 we may not be able to arrive at as clear an understanding 
 of this portion of the chapter as of the rest. In the first 
 place the English word, "Firmament" itself is obscure 
 and useless ; because we never employ it but as a synonym 
 of heaven, it conveys no other distinct idea to us; and the 
 verse, though from our familiarity with it we imagine that 
 it possesses meaning, has in reality no more point nor 
 value than if it were written, " God said, Let there be a 
 something in the midst of the waters, and God called the 
 something, Heaven." But the marginal reading, "Expan- 
 sion," has definite value; and the statement that God said, 
 Let there be an expansion in the midst of the waters, and 
 " God called the expansion, Heaven," has an apprehensible 
 meaning. Accepting this expression as the one intended, 
 we have next to ask what expansion there is, between two 
 waters, describable by the term heaven. Milton adopts 
 the term " expanse," but he understands it of the whole 
 
illustrative: the sky. 45 
 
 volume of the air which surrounds the earth- Whereas, 
 so far as we can tell, there is no water beyond the air, in 
 the fields of space ; and the whole expression of division 
 of waters from waters is thus rendered valueless. Now 
 with respect to this whole chapter, we must remember 
 always that it is intended for the instruction of all man- 
 kind, not for the learned reader only; and that therefore 
 the most simple and natural interruption is the likeliest in 
 general to be the true one. An unscientific reader knows 
 little about the manner in which the volume of the atmos- 
 phere surrounds the earth ; but I imagine that he could 
 hardly glance at the sky when rain was falling in the dis- 
 tance, and see the level line of the bases of the clouds from 
 which the shower descended, without being able to attach 
 an instant and easy meaning to the words, " expansion in 
 the midst of the waters ; " and if, having once seized this 
 idea, he proceeded to examine it more accurately, he would 
 perceive at once, if he had ever noticed anything of the 
 nature of clouds, that the level line of their bases did in- 
 deed most severely and stringently divide "waters from 
 waters" — that is to say, divide water in its collective and 
 tangible state, from water in its aerial state; or the waters 
 which fall, and flow, from those which rise, and float. Next, 
 if we try this interpretation in the theological sense of the 
 word heaven, and examine whether the clouds are spoken 
 of as God's dwelling place, we find God going before the 
 Israelites in a pillar of cloud ; revealing Himself in a cloud 
 on the mercy-seat, filling the Temple of Solomon with the 
 cloud when its dedication is accepted ; appearing in a grea< 
 
46 FRONDES AGKESTES. 
 
 cloud to Ezekiel; ascending into a cloud before the eyes of 
 the disciples on Mount Olivet; and in like manner return- 
 ing to judgment : " Behold he cometh with clouds, and 
 every eye shall see him." " Then shall they see the Son 
 of Man ooming in the clouds of heaven, with power and 
 great glory." While further the "clouds" and "heavens" 
 are used as interchangeable words in those Psalms which 
 most distinctly set forth the power of God : "He bowed 
 the heavens also, and came down ; he made darkness pavil- 
 lians round about him, dark waters, and thick clouds 
 of the skies." And again, " Thy mercy, Lord, is in the 
 heavens, and thy faithfulness reacheth unto the clouds." 
 And again, " His excellency is over Israel, and his strength 
 is in the clouds." And again, "The clouds poured out 
 water, the skies sent out a sound, the voice of thy thunder 
 was in the heaven." Again, "Clouds and darkness are 
 round about him, righteousness and judgment are the 
 habitation of his throne; the heavens declare his righteous- 
 ness, and all the people see his glory." In all these pas- 
 sages the meaning is unmistakable if they possess definite 
 meaning at all. We are too apt to take them merely for 
 sublime and vague imagery, and therefore gradually to 
 lose the apprehension of their life and power. The ex- 
 pression, " He bowed' the heavens," for instance, is, I sup- 
 pose, received by most readers as a magnificent hyperbole, 
 having reference to some peculiar and fearful manifesta- 
 tion of God's power to the writer of the Psalm in which 
 the words occur. But the expression either has plain 
 meaning, or it has no meaning. Understand by the term 
 
ILLUSTRATIVE: THE SKY. 4i 
 
 "heavens" the compass of infinite space around the earth, 
 and the expression "bowed the heavens," however sub- 
 lime, is wholly without meaning : infinite space cannot ba 
 bent or bowed. But understand by the "heavens" the 
 veil of clouds above the earth, and the expression is 
 neither hyperbolical nor obscure; it is pure, plain, accurate 
 truth, and it describes God, not as revealing Himself in 
 any peculiar way to David, but doing what He is still 
 doing before our own eyes, day by day. By accepting the 
 words in their simple sense, we are thus led to apprehend 
 the immediate presence of the Diety, and His purpose of 
 manifesting Himself as near us whenever the storm-cloud 
 stoops upon its course ; while by our vague and inaccurate 
 acceptance of the words, we remove the idea of His pres- 
 ence far from us, into a region which we can neither see nor 
 know : and gradually, from the close realization of a living 
 God, who "maketh the clouds his chariot," we define and 
 explain ourselves into dim and distant suspicion of an 
 inactive God inhabiting inconceivable places, and fading 
 into the multitudinous formalisms of the laws of Nature. 
 All errors of this kind — and in the present day we are in 
 constant and grievous danger - of falling into them — arise 
 from the originally mistaken idea that man can, "by 
 searching, find out God— find out the Almighty to per- 
 fection" — that is to say, by help of courses of reasoning 
 and accumulations of science, apprehend the nature of the 
 Deity, in a more exalted and more accurate manner than 
 in a state of comparative ignorance; whereas it is clearly 
 necessary, from the beginning to the end of time, that 
 
48 FKONDES AGRESTES. 
 
 God's way of revealing Himself to His creatures should 
 be a simple way, which all those creatures may understand. 
 Whether taught or untaught, whether of mean capacity 
 or enlarged, it is necessary that communion with their 
 Creator should be possible to all; and the admission to 
 such communion must be rested, not on their having a 
 knowledge of astronomy, but on their having a human 
 soul. In order to render this communion possible, the 
 Deity has stooped from His throne, and has, not only in 
 the person of the Son, taken upon Him the veil of our 
 human flesh, but, in the person of the Father, taken upon 
 Him the veil of our human thoughts, and permitted us, by 
 His own spoken authority, to conceive Him simply and 
 clearly as a loving father and friend; a being to be walked 
 with and reasoned with, to be moved by our entreaties, 
 angered by our rebellion, alienated by our coldness, pleased 
 by our love, and glorified by our labour; and finally to 
 be beheld in immediate and active presence in all the 
 powers and changes of creation. This conception of God, 
 which is the child's, is evidently the only one which can 
 be universal, and, therefore, the only one which for us can 
 be true. The moment that, in our pride of heart, we re- 
 fuse to accept the condescension of the Almighty, and 
 desire Him, instead of stooping to hold our hands, to rise 
 up before us into His glory, we, hoping that, by standing 
 on a grain of dust or two of human knowledge higher 
 than our fellows, we may behold the Creator as He rises, 
 — God takes us at our word. He rises, into His own in- 
 visible and inconceivable majesty; He goes forth upon 
 
ILLUSTRATIVE: THE SKY. 49 
 
 the -ways which are not our ways, and retires into the 
 thoughts which are not our thoughts;, and we are left 
 alone. And presently we say in our vain hearts, " There 
 is no God." 
 
 I would desire, therefore, to receive God's account of 
 His own creation as under the ordinary limits of human 
 knowledge and imagination it would be received by a sim- 
 ply minded man ; and finding that the " heavens and the 
 earth " are spoken of always as having something like 
 equal relation to each other, ("Thus the heavens and the 
 earth were finished, and all the host of them,") I reject at 
 once all idea of the term "heavens" being intended to sig- 
 nify the infinity of space inhabited by countless worlds ; 
 for between those infinite heavens and the particle of; sand, 
 which not the earth only, but the sun itself, with all the 
 solar system, is, in relation to them, no relation of equality 
 or comparison could be inferred. But I suppose the heav- 
 ens to mean that part of creation which holds equal com- 
 panionship with our globe; I understand the "rolling of 
 these heavens together as a scroll," to be an equal and re- 
 lative destruction with the melting of the elements in fer- 
 vent heat ; and I understand the making of the firmament 
 to signify that, so far as man is concerned, most magnifi- 
 cent ordinance of the clouds; — the ordinance that as the 
 great plain of waters was formed on the face of the earth, 
 so also a plain of waters should be stretched along the 
 height of air, and the face of the cloud answer the face 
 of the ocean ; and that this upper and heavenly plain 
 should be of waters, as it were, glorified in their nature, 
 
 D (3) 
 
50 FKONDES AGBESTES. 
 
 no longer quenching the fire, but now bearing fire in then- 
 own bosoms ; no longer murmuring only when the winds 
 raise them or rocks divide, but answering each other with 
 their own voices, from pole to pole ; no longer restrained 
 by established shores, and guided through unchanging 
 channels ; but going forth at their pleasure like the armies 
 of the angels, and choosing their encampments upon the 
 heights of the hills ; no longer hurried downwards for 
 ever, moving but to fall, nor lost in the lightless accumu- 
 lation of the abyss, but covering the east and west with 
 the waving of their wings, and robing the gloom of the 
 farther infinite with a vesture of diverse colours, of which 
 the threads are purple and scarlet, and the embroideries 
 flame. 
 
 This I believe is the ordinance of the firmament ; and 
 it seems to me that in the midst of the material nearness 
 of these heavens, God means us to acknowledge His own 
 immediate presence as visiting, judging, and blessing us : 
 "The earth shook, the heavens also dropped at the pres- 
 ence of God." "He doth set his bow in the clouds," and 
 thus renews, in the sound of every drooping swathe of 
 rain, His promises of everlasting love. "In them he hath 
 set a tabernacle for the sun ;" whose burning ball, which, 
 without the firmanent, would be seen but as an intolerable 
 and scorching circle in blackness of vacuity, is by that 
 firmament surrounded with gorgeous service, and tempered 
 by mediatorial ministries : by the firmament of clouds the 
 temple is built, for his presence to fill with light at noon; 
 by the firmament of clouds the purple veil is closed at 
 
illustrative: the sky. 51 
 
 evening, round the sanctuary of his rest ; by the mists of 
 the firmament his implacable light is divided, and its sep- 
 arated fierceness appeased into the soft blue that fills the 
 depth of distance with its bloom, and the flush with which 
 the mountains burn, as they drink the overflowing of the 
 dayspring. And in this tabernacling of the unendurable 
 sun with men, through the shadows of the firmament, 
 God would seem to set forth the stooping of His own 
 Majesty to men, upon the throne of the firmament. As 
 the Creator of all the worlds, and the Inhabiter of eter- 
 nity, we cannot behold Him; but as the Judge of the 
 earth and the Preserver of men, those heavens are indeed 
 His dwelling place : "Swear not, neither by heaven, for 
 it is God's throne ; nor by the earth, for it is his footstool !" 
 And all of those passings to and fro of fruitful showers 
 and grateful shade, and all those visions of silver palaces 
 built about the horizon, and voices of moaning winds and 
 threatening thunders, and glories of coloured robe and 
 cloven ray, are but to deepen in our hearts the acceptance, 
 and distinctness, and dearness, of the simple words, " Our 
 Father, which art in heaven." 
 
52 FRONDES AGRESTES. 
 
 SECTION IY. 
 
 ILLUSTRATIVE : STREAMS AND SEA. 
 
 27. Of all inorganic substances, acting in their own 
 proper nature, and without assistance or combination, wa- 
 ter is the most wonderful. If we think of it as the source 
 of all the changefulness and beauty which we have seen 
 in clouds — then, as the instrument by which the earth we 
 have contemplated was modelled into symmetry, and its 
 crags chiselled into grace ; — then, as in the form of snow, 
 it robes the mountains it has made with that transcendent 
 light which we could not have conceived if we had not 
 seen ; — then as it exists in the foam of the torrent, in the 
 iris which spans it, in the morning mist which rises from 
 it, in the deep chrystalline pools which mirror its hanging 
 shore, in the broad lake and glancing river — finally, in 
 that which is to all human minds the best emblem of un- 
 wearied, unconquerable power, the wild, various, fantastic, 
 tameless unity of the sea ; — what shall we compare to this 
 mighty, this universal element, for glory or beauty? or 
 how shall we follow its eternal changefulness of feeling? 
 It is like trying to paint a soul ! 
 
 28. The great angel of the sea — rain; the angel, ob- 
 serve, — the messenger sent to a special place on a special 
 errand. Wot the diffused, perpetual presence of the bur- 
 
ILLUSTRATIVE: STREAMS AND SEA. 53 
 
 den ot mist, but the going and returning of the intermit- 
 tent cloud. All turns upon that intermittence. Soft moss 
 on stone and rock; cave fern of tangled glen; wayside 
 well — perennial, patient, silent, clear, stealing through its 
 square font of rough-hewn stone; ever thus deep, no 
 more — which the winter wreck sullies not, the summer 
 thirst wastes not, incapable of stain as of decline — where 
 the fallen leaf floats undecayed, and the insect darts un- 
 denting: crossed brook and ever eddying river, lifted even 
 in flood scarcely over its stepping stones, — but through 
 all sweet summer keeping tremulous music with harp- 
 strings of dark water among the silver fingering of the 
 pebbles. Far away in the south the strong river gods 
 have all hasted, and gone down to the sea. Wasted and 
 burning, white furnaces of blasting sand, their broad beds 
 He ghastly and bare; but here in the moss lands, the soft 
 wings of the sea angel droop still with dew, and the 
 shadows of their plumes falter on the hills ; strange laugh - 
 ings and glitterings of silver streamlets, born suddenly, 
 and twined about the mossy heights in trickling tinsel, 
 answering to them as they wave. 
 
 29. Stand for half an hour beside the fall of Schaff- 
 hausen, on the north side, where the rapids are long, and 
 watch how the vault of water, first bends unbroken, iD 
 pure polished velocity, over the arching rocks at the 
 brow of the cataract, covering them with a dome of chrys- 
 tal twenty feet thick, so swift that its motion is unseen 
 except when a foam globe from above darts over it like a 
 
54 FRONDES AGEESTES. 
 
 falling star; and how the trees are lighted above it undei 
 all their leaves,* at the instant that it breaks into foam; 
 and how all the hollows of that foam burn with green 
 fire like so much shattering chrysoprase; and how, ever 
 and anon startling you with its white flash, a jet of spray 
 leaps hissing out of the fall, like a rocket, bursting in the 
 wind and driven away in the dust, filling the air with 
 light ; and how through the curdling wreaths of the restless 
 crashing abyss below, the blue of the water, paled by the 
 foam in its body, shows purer than the sky through white 
 rain -cloud, while the shuddering iris stoops in tremulous 
 stillness over all, fading and flushing alternately through 
 the choking spray and shattered sunshine, hiding itself at 
 last among the thick golden leaves which toss to and fro 
 in sympathy with the wild water, — their dripping masses 
 lifted at intervals, like sheaves of loaded corn, by some 
 stronger gush from the cataraot, and bowed again upon 
 the mossy rocks as its roar dies away, — the dew gushing 
 from their thick branches through drooping clusters of 
 emerald herbage, and sparkling in white threads along the 
 dark rocks of the shore, feeding the lichens, which chase 
 and chequer them with purple and silver 
 
 30. Close beside the path by which travellers ascend 
 the Montanvert from the valley of Chamouni, on the right 
 hand, where it first begins to rise among the pines, there 
 
 * Well noticed. The drawing of the fall of Scbaffhausen, which 
 I made at the time of writing this study, was one of the very few, 
 either by other draughtsmen or myself, which I have seen Turnei 
 pause at with serious attention 
 
ILLUSTRATIVE: STREAMS AND SEA. 55 
 
 descends a small stream from the foot of the granite peak 
 known to the guides as the Aiguille Charmoz. It is con- 
 cealed from the traveller by a thicket of alder, and its 
 murmur is hardly heard, for it is one of the weakest 
 streams of the valley. But it is a constant stream, fed by 
 a permanent, though small, glacier ; and continuing to flow 
 even to the close of summer, when more copious torrents, 
 depending only on the melting of the lower snows, have 
 left their beds, — "stony channels in the sun." The long 
 drought which took place in the autumn of 1854, sealing 
 every source of waters except these perpetual ones, left 
 the torrent of which I am speaking, and such others, in 
 a state peculiarly favourable to observance of their hast 
 action on the mountains from which they descend. They 
 were entirely limited to their own ice fountains, and the 
 quantity of powdered rock which they brought down was, 
 of course, at its minimum, being nearly unmingled with 
 any earth derived from the dissolution of softer soil, or 
 vegetable mould, by rains. At three in the afternoon, on 
 a warm day in September, when the torrent had reached 
 its average maximum strength for the day, I filled an 
 ordinary Bordeaux wine flask with the water where it was 
 least turbid. From this quart of water I obtained twenty- 
 four grains of sand and sediment more or less fine. I cannot 
 estimate the quantity of water in the stream ; but the run- 
 let of it at which I filled the flask was giving about two 
 hundred bottles a minute, or rather more, carrying down, 
 therefore, about three quarters of a pound of powdered 
 granite every minute. This would be forty-five pounds 
 
56 FRONDES AGRESTES. 
 
 an hour ; but allowing for the inferior power of the stream 
 in the cooler periods of the day, and taking into considera 
 tion, on the other side, its increased power in rain, we may, 
 I think, estimate its average hour's work at twentyeight 
 or thirty pounds, or a hundred weight every four hours. 
 By this insignificant runlet, therefore, rather more than 
 two tons of the substance of the Mount Blanc are dis- 
 placed and carried down a certain distance every week ; and, 
 as it is only for three or four months that the flow of the 
 stream is checked by frost, we may certainly allow eighty 
 tons for the mass which it annually moves. It is not 
 worth while to enter into any calculation of the relation 
 born by this runlet to the great torrents which descend from 
 the chain of Mont Blanc into the valley of Chamouni* I 
 but take this quantity, eighty tons, as the result of the 
 labour of a scarcely noticeable runlet at the side of one of 
 them, utterly irrespective of all sudden falls of stones and 
 of masses of mountain (a single thunderbolt will some- 
 -eemes leave a scar on the flank of a soft rock looking like 
 a trench for a railroad), and we shall then begin to appre- 
 hend something of the operation of the great laws of 
 change which are the conditions of all material existence, 
 however apparently enduring. The hills, which as com- 
 pared with living beings seem "everlasting," are in truth 
 as perishing as they; its veins of flowing fountain weary 
 the mountain heart, as the crimson pulse does ours; the 
 
 * I have slightly modified and abridged what follows, being ira- 
 patient of its prolixity, as well as ashamed of what is truly culled 
 the ludicrous underestimate of the mass of the larger streams. 
 
ILLUSTRATIVE: STREAMS AND SEA. 57 
 
 natural form of the iron crag is abated in its appointed 
 time, like the strength of the sinews in a human old age; 
 and it is but the lapse of the longer years of decay which, 
 in the sight of its Creator, distinguishes the maintain 
 range from the moth and the worm. 
 
 31. Few people, comparatively, have ever seen the 
 effect on the sea of a powerful gale continued without in- 
 termission for three or four days and nights ; and to those 
 who have not, I believe it must be unimaginable, not from 
 the mere force or size of surge, but from the complete 
 annihilation of the limit between sea and air. The water, 
 from its prolonged agitation, is beaten, not into mere 
 creamy foam, but into masses of accumulated yeast, which 
 hang in ropes and wreaths from wave to wave ; and where 
 one curls over to break, form a festoon like a drapery 
 from its edge ; these are taken up by the wind, -not in 
 dissipating dust, but bodily, in writhing, hanging, coiling 
 masses, which make the air white and thick as with snow, 
 only the flakes are a foot or two long each ; the surges 
 themselves are full of foam in their very bodies, under- 
 neath, making them white all through, as the water is 
 under a great cataract, — and their masses being thus half 
 water and half air, are torn to pieces by the wind when- 
 ever they rise, and carried away in roaring smoke, which 
 chokes and strangles like actual water. Add to this, that 
 when the air has been exhausted of its moisture by long 
 rain, the spray of the sea is caught by it as described 
 above, and covers its suface not merely with the smoke 
 
 3* 
 
58 FRONDES AGRESTES. 
 
 of finely divided water, but with boiling mist : imagine 
 also the low rain-clouds brought down to the very level 
 of the sea, as I have often seen them, whirling and flying 
 in rags and fragments from wave to wave ; and finally 
 conceive the surges themselves in their utmost pitch of 
 power, velocity, vastness and madness, lifting themselves 
 in precipices and peaks furrowed with their whirl of as- 
 cent, through all this chaos ; and you will understand that 
 there is indeed no distinction left between the sea and air ; 
 that no object, nor horizon, nor any landmark, or natural 
 evidence of position is left ; that the heaven is all spray, 
 and the ocean all cloud, and that you can see no further 
 in any direction than you could see through a cataract.* 
 
 * The whole of this was written merely to show the meaning of 
 Turner's picture of the steamer in distress, throwing up signals. 
 It is a good study of wild weather ; but, separate from its aim, ut< 
 terly feeble in comparison to the few words by which any of the 
 groat poets will describe sea, when they have got to do it. I am 
 rather proud of the short sentence in the " Harbours of England,* 
 describing a great breaker against rock ; — " One moment, a flint 
 oave, — the next, a marble pillar, — the next, a fading cloud." But 
 there is nothing in sea-description, detailed, like Dickens' storm 
 at the death of Ham, in " David Copperfield." 
 
ILLUSTRATIVE : MOUNTAINS. 59 
 
 SECTION" V. 
 
 ILLUSTRATIVE : MOUNTAINS. 
 
 32. The words which marked for us the purpose of the 
 clouds are followed immediately by those notable ones, — 
 "And God said, Let the waters which are under the 
 heavens be gathered together into one place, and let the 
 dry land appear." We do not, perhaps, often enough 
 consider the deep signification of this sentence. "We are 
 too apt to receive it as the description of an event vaster 
 only in its extent, not in its nature, than the compelling 
 of the Eed Sea to draw back that Israel might pass by. 
 "We imagine the Deity in like manner rolling the waves 
 of the greater ocean together on an heap, and setting bars 
 and doors to them eternally. But there is a far deeper 
 meaning than this in the solemn words of Genesis, and in 
 the correspondent verse of the Psalm, " His hands pre- 
 pared the dry land." Up to that moment the earth had 
 been void ; for it had been uriihout form. The command 
 that the waters should be gathered, was the command 
 that the earth should be sculptured. The sea was not 
 driven to its place in suddenly restrained rebellion, but 
 withdrawn to its place in perfect and patient obedience. 
 The dry land appeared, not in level sands forsaken by the 
 surges, which those surges might again claim for their 
 own; but in range beyond Tange of swelling hills and 
 
00 FRONDES AGBESTES. 
 
 iron rocks, forever to claim kindred with the firmament, 
 and be companioned by the clouds of heaven. 
 
 What space of time was in reality occupied by the 
 "Jay " of Genesis, is not at present of any importance for 
 us to consider. By what furnaces of fire the adamant was 
 melted, and by what wheels of earthquake it was torn, 
 and by what teeth of glacier and weight of sea- waves it 
 was engraven and finished into its perfect form, we may, 
 perhaps, hereafter endeavor to conjecture; but here, as in 
 few words the work is summed by the Historian, so in 
 few broad thoughts it should be comprehended by us; 
 and, as we read the mighty sentence, " Let the dry land 
 appear," we should try to follow the finger of God as it' 
 engraved upon the stone tables of the earth the letters 
 and the law of its everlasting form, as gulf by gulf the 
 channels of the deep were ploughed ; and cape by cape 
 the lines were traced with Divine foreknowledge of the 
 shores that were to limit the nations ; and chain by chain 
 the mountain walls were lengthened forth, and their 
 foundations fastened forever; and the compass was set 
 upon the face of the depth, and the fields and the highest 
 part of the dust of the world were made ; and the right 
 hand of Christ first strewed the snow on Lebanon and 
 smoothed the slopes of Calvary. 
 
 It is not, I repeat, always needful, in many respects it is 
 not possible, to conjecture the manner or the time in which 
 this work was done; but it is deeply necessary for all 
 men to consider the magnificence of the accomplished 
 purpose, and the depth of the wisdom and love -which are 
 
illustrative: mountains. 61 
 
 manifested in the ordinances of the hills. For observe, 
 in order to bring the world into the form which it now 
 bears, it was not mere sculpture that was needed ; the 
 mountains could not stand for a day unless they were 
 formed of materials altogether different from those which 
 constitute the lower hills, and the surfaces of the valleys, 
 A harder substance had to be prepared for every moun- 
 tain chain, yet not so hard but that 'it might be capable of 
 crumbling down into earth fit to nourish the Alpine for- 
 est, and the Alpine flower ; not so hard but that in the 
 midst of the utmost majesty of its enthroned strength 
 there should be seen on it the seal of death, and the writ- 
 ing of the same sentence that had gone forth against the 
 human frame, "Dust thou art, and unto dust shalt thou 
 return." And with this perishable substance the most 
 majestic forms were to be framed that were consistent 
 with the safety of man; and the peak was to be lifted and 
 the cliff rent as high and as steeply as was possible, in 
 order yet to permit the shepherd to feed his flocks upon 
 the slopes, and the cottage to nestle beneath their shadow. 
 And observe, two distinct ends were to be accomplished 
 in doing this. It was indeed absolutely necessary that 
 such eminences should be created, in order to fit the earth 
 in any wise for human habitation, for without mountains 
 the air could' not be purified, nor the flowing of the rivers 
 sustained, and the earth must have become for the_ most 
 part plain, or stagnant marsh. But the feeding of the 
 rivers and the purifying of the winds, are the least of the 
 services appointed to the hills. To fill the thirst of the 
 
62 FRONDES AGRESTES. 
 
 human heart for the beauty of God's working — to startle 
 its lethargy with the deep and pure agitation of astonish 
 ment, — are their higher missions. They are as a great 
 and noble architecture, first giving shelter, comfort, and 
 rest; and covered also with mighty sculpture and painted 
 legend. It is impossible to examine in their connected 
 system, the features- of even the most ordinary mountain 
 scenery, without concluding that is has been prepared in 
 order to unite as far as possible, and in the closest com- 
 pass, every means of delighting and sanctifying the heart 
 of man, "as far as possible " — that is, as far as is consist- 
 ent with the fulfilment of the sentence of condemnation 
 on the whole earth. Death must be upon the hills ; and 
 the cruelty of the tempests smite them, and the briar and 
 thorn spring up upon them ; but they so smite as to bring 
 their rocks into the fairest forms, and so spring as to 
 make the very desert blossom as the rose. Even among 
 our own hills of Scotland and Cumberland, though often 
 too barren to be perfectly beautiful, and always too low 
 to be perfectly sublime, it is strange how many deep 
 sources of delight are gathered into the compass of their 
 glens and vales ; and how, down to the most secret clus- 
 ter of their far away flowers, and the idlest leap of their 
 straying streamlets, the whole heart of nature seems 
 thirsting to give, and still to give, shedding forth her ever 
 lasting benificence with a profusion so patient, so passion 
 ate, that our utmost observance and thankfulness are but, 
 at last, neglects of her nobleness, and apathy to her love. 
 But among the true mountains of the greater orders, the 
 
illustrative: mountains. 63 
 
 Divine purpose of appeal at once to all the faculties of 
 the human spirit becomes still more manifest. Inferioi 
 hills ordinarily interrupt, in some degree, the richness of 
 the valleys at their feet; the grey downs of southern Eng- 
 land and treeless cotaux of Central France, and grey 
 swells of Scottish moor, whatever peculiar charm they 
 may possess in themselves, are at least destitute of those 
 which belong to the woods and fields of the lowlands, 
 But the great mountains lift the lowlands on their sides, 
 Let th e reader imagine first the appearance of the most 
 varied plain of some richly cultivated country ; let him 
 imagine it dark with graceful woods, and soft with deep- 
 est pastures; let him fill the space of it, to the utmost 
 horizon, with innumerable and changeful incidents of 
 scenery and life ; leading pleasant streamlets through its 
 meadows, strewing clusters of cottages beside their banks, 
 tracing sweet footpaths through its avenues, and animat- 
 ing its fields with happy flocks, and slow wandering spots 
 of cattle; and when he has wearied himself with endless 
 imagining, and left no space without some loveliness of its 
 , own, let him conceive all this great plain, with its infinite 
 treasures of natural beauty, and happy human life, gathered 
 up in God's hands from one edge of the horizon to the 
 other, like a woven garment, and shaken into deep falling 
 folds, as the robes droop from a king's shoulders ; all its 
 bright rivers leaping into cataracts along the hollows of its 
 fall, and all its forests rearing themselves aslant against its 
 slopes, as a rider rears himself back when his ho: se plunges, 
 and all its villages nestling themselves into the new wind 
 
64; FRONDES AGRESTES. 
 
 ings of its glens, and all its pastures thrown into steep 
 waves of green sward, dashed with dew along the edges 
 of their folds, and sweeping down into endless slopes, with 
 a cloud here and there lying quietly, half on the grass, 
 half in the air, — and he will have as yet in all this lifted 
 world, only the foundation of one of the great Alps. And 
 whatever is lovely in the lowland scenery, becomes lovelier 
 in this change ; the trees grew heavily and stiffly from 
 the level line of plain, assume strange curves of strength 
 and grace as they bend themselves against the mountain 
 side; they breathe more freely and toss their branches 
 more carelessly as each climbs higher, looking to the 
 clear light above the topmost leaves of its brother tree , 
 the flowers which on the arable plains fall before the 
 plough, now find out for themselves unapproachable places, 
 where year by year they gather into happier fellowship 
 and fear no evil ; and the streams which in the level land 
 crept in dark eddies by unwholsome banks, now move 
 in showers of silver, and are clothed with rainbows, and 
 bring health and life wherever the glance of their waves 
 can reach. . . . 
 
 It may not, therefore, be altogether profitless or un- 
 necessary to review briefly the nature of the t hree great 
 offices which mountain ranges are appointed to fulfil, ja 
 order to preserve the health and increase the happiness 
 ofm_ankind. Their first use is, of course, to give motion 
 to water. Every fountain and river, from the inch-deep 
 streamlet that crosses the village lane in trembling clear- 
 ness, to the massy and silent march of the everlasting 
 
ILLUSTRATIVE: MOUNTAINS. 65 
 
 multitude of waters in Amazon or Ganges, owe their play, 
 and purity, and power, to the ordained elevations of the 
 earth. Gentle or steep, extended or abrupt, some deter- 
 mined slope of the earth's surface is of course necessary 
 before any wave can so much as overtake one sedge in its 
 pilgrimage ; and how seldom do we enough consider, as 
 we walk beside the margins of our pleasant brooks, how 
 beautiful and wonderful is that ordinance, of which every 
 blade of grass that waves in their clear waters is a per- 
 petual sign— that the dew and rain fallen on the face of 
 the earth shall' find no resting place ; shall find, on the 
 contrary, fixed channels traced for them from the ravines 
 of the central crests down which they roar, in sudden 
 ranks of foam, to the dark hollows beneath the banks of 
 lowland pasture, round which they must circle ' slowly 
 among the stems and beneath the leaves of the lilies ; 
 paths prepared for them by which, at some appointed rate 
 of journey, they must evermore descend, sometimes slow, 
 and sometimes swift, but never pausing ; the daily por- 
 tion of the earth they have to glide over marked for them 
 at each successive sunrise, the place which has known 
 them knowing them no more, and the gateways of guard-- 
 ing mountains opened for them in cleft and chasm, none 
 letting them in their pilgrimage ; and, from afar off, the 
 great heart of the sea calling them to itself! "Deep 
 calleth unto deep." I. know not which of the two is more 
 wonderful, — that calm, gradated, invisible slope of the 
 champaign land, which gives motion to the stream ; or 
 that passage cloven for it through the ranks of hill, which 
 
66 FRONDES AGRESTES. 
 
 necessary for the health of the land immediately around 
 them, would yet, unless so supernaturally divided, have 
 fatally intercepted the flow of the waters from far off 
 countries. When did the great spirit of the river first 
 knock at these adamantine gates ? "When did the porter 
 open to it, and cast his key away forever, lapped in whirl- 
 ing sand? I am not satisfied — no one should be satisfied — 
 with that vague answer, The river cut its way. Not so. 
 The river found its way. * I do not see that rivers in 
 their own strength can do much in cutting their way; 
 they are nearly as apt to choke their channels up as to 
 carve them out. Only give a river some little sudden 
 power in a valley, and see how it will use it. Cut itself 
 a bed ? Not so, by any means, but fill up its bed ; and 
 look for another in a wild, dissatisfied, inconsistent man- 
 ner, — any way rather than the old one will better please 
 it ; and even if it is banked up and forced to keep to the 
 old one, it will not deepen, but do all it can to raise it, 
 and leap out of it. And although wherever water has a 
 steep fall it will swiftly cut itself a bed deep into the rock 
 or ground, it will not, when the rock is hard, cut a wider 
 channel than it actually needs; so that if the existing 
 river beds, through ranges of mountain, had in reality 
 been cut by the streams, they would be found, wherever 
 the rocks are hard, only in the form of narrow and pro- 
 found ravines, like the well-known channel of the Niagara 
 
 * I attach great importance to the remaining contents of this pas- 
 > sage, and have had occasion to insist on them at great length in 
 recent lectures at Oxl'ord. 
 
ILLUSTRATIVE: MOUNTAINS. 67 
 
 below the fall ; not in that of extended valleys. And the 
 actual work of true mountain rivers, though often much 
 greater in proportion to their body of water than that of 
 the Niagara, is quite insignificant when compared with 
 the area and depth of the valleys through which, they 
 flow ; so that although in many cases it appears that those 
 larger valleys have been excavated at earlier periods by 
 more powerful streams, or by the existing stream in a 
 more powerful condition, still the great fact remains al- 
 ways equally plain, and equally admirable, that, whatever 
 the nature and duration of the agencies employed, the 
 earth was so shaped at first as to direct the currents of 
 its rivers in the manner most healthy and convenient for 
 man. The valley of the Ehone may have been in great 
 part excavated, in early times, by torrents a thousand 
 times larger than the Ehone ; but it could not have been 
 excavated at all, unless the mountains had been thrown 
 at first into two chains, by which the torrents were set to 
 work in a given direction. And it is easy to conceive 
 how, under any less beneficent dispositions of their masses 
 of hill, the continents of the earth might either have been 
 covered with enormous lakes, as parts of North America 
 actually are covered; or have become wildernesses of 
 pestiferous marsh ; or lifeless plains, upon which the water 
 would have dried as it fell, leaving them for great part of 
 the year desert. Such districts do exist, and exist in 
 vastness ; the whole earth is not prepared for the habita- 
 tion of man ; only certain small portions are prepared for 
 him, — the houses, as it were, of the human race, from 
 
68 FRONDES AGRESTES. 
 
 winch they are to look abroad upon the rest of the world; 
 not to wonder or complain that it is not all house, but to 
 be grateful for the kindness of the admirable building, in 
 the house itself, as compared with the rest. It would be 
 as absurd to think it an evil that all the world . is not fit 
 for us to inhabit, as to think it an evil that the globe is 
 no larger than it is. As much as we shall ever need is 
 evidently assigned to us for our dwelling place ; the rest, 
 covered with rolling waves or drifting sands, fretted with 
 ice or crested with fire, is set before us for contemplation 
 in an uninhabitable magnificence. And that part which 
 we are enabled to inhabit owes its fitness for human life 
 chiefly to its mountain ranges, which throwing the super- 
 fluous rain off as it falls, collect it in streams or lakes, 
 and guide it into given places, and in given directions ; 
 so that men can build their cities in the midst of fields 
 which they know will be always fertile, and establish the 
 lines of their commerce upon streams which will not fail. 
 Nor is this giving of motion to water to be considered 
 as confined only to the surface of the earth. A no less 
 important function of the hills is in directing the flow of 
 the fountains and springs from subterranean reservoirs. 
 There is no miraculous springing up of water out of 
 the ground at our feet ; but every fountain and well is 
 supplied from reservoir among the hills, so placed as to 
 involve some slight fall or pressure enough to secure the 
 constant flowing of the stream ; and the incalculable bles- 
 sing of the power given to us, in most valleys, of reach- 
 ing by excavation some point whence the water will rise 
 
ILLUSTRATIVE: MOUNTAINS. 69 
 
 to the surface of the ground in perennial flow, is entirely 
 owing to the concave dispositions of the beds of clay o: 
 rock raised from beneath the bosom of the valley intc 
 ranks of enclosing hills. 
 
 The second great use of mountains is to maintain a 
 constant change in the currents and nature of the air. 
 Such change would, of course, have been partly caused 
 by difference in soils and vegetation, even if the earth 
 had been level ; but to a far less extent than it is now by 
 the chains of hills which — exposing on one side their 
 masses of rock to the full heat of the sun (increased by 
 the angle at which the rays strike on the slope), and on 
 the other casting a soft shadow for leagues over the 
 plains at their feet — divide the earth not only into dis- 
 tricts, but into climates ; and cause perpetual currents of 
 air to traverse their passes in a thousand different states ; 
 moistening it with the spray of their waterfalls, sucking 
 it down and beating it hither and thither in the pools of 
 their torrents, closing it within clefts and caves, where 
 the sunbeams never reach, till it is as cold as November 
 mists; then sending it forth again to breathe lightly across 
 the slopes of velvet fields, or to be scorched among sun- 
 burnt shales and grassless crags ; then drawing it back in 
 moaning swirls through clefts of ice, and up into dewy 
 wreaths above the snow-fields; then piercing it with 
 strange electric darts and flashes of mountain fire, and 
 tossing it high in fantastic storm-cloud, as the dried grass 
 is tossed by the mower, only suffering it to depart at last, 
 
70 FRONDES AGRESTES. 
 
 when chastened and pure, to refresh the faded air of the 
 far off plains. 
 
 The third great use of mountains is to cause perpetual 
 c hange in the soils of the earth. "Without such provision 
 the grounofunder cultivation would in a series of years 
 become exhausted, and require to be upturned laboriously 
 by the hand of man. But the elevations of the earth's 
 surface provide for it a perpetual renovation. The higher 
 mountains suffer their summits to be broken into frag- 
 ments, and to be cast down in sheets of massy rock, full, 
 as we shall see presently, of every substance necessary 
 for the nourishment of plants ; these fallen fragments are 
 again broken by frost, and ground by torrents, into vari- 
 ous conditions of sand and clay — materials which are dis- 
 tributed perpetually by the streams farther and farther 
 frpm the mountain's base. Every shower that swells the 
 rivulets enables their waters to carry certain portions of 
 earth into new positions, and exposes new banks of ground 
 to be mined in their turn. That turbid foaming of the 
 angry water, — that tearing down of bank and rock along 
 the flanks of its fury, — are no disturbances of the kind 
 course of nature; they are beneficient operations of laws 
 necessary to the existence of man, and to the beauty of 
 the earth. The process is continued more gently, but not 
 less effectively, over all the surface of the lower undulating 
 country ; and each filtering thread of summer rain which 
 trickles through the short turf of the uplands- is bearing 
 its own appointed burden of earth to be thrown down on 
 some new natural garden in the dingles beneath. 
 
ILLUSTRATIVE: MOUNTAIN'S. 71 
 
 I have not spoken of the local and peculiar utilities of 
 mountains. I do not count the benefit of the supply of 
 summer streams from the moors of the higher ranges, — 
 of the various medicinal plants which are nested among 
 their rocks, — of the delicate pasturage which they fur- 
 nish for cattle, — of the forests in which they hear timber 
 for shipping, — the stones they supply for building, or the 
 ores of metal which they collect into spots open to dis- 
 covery, and easy for working. All these benefits are of 
 a secondary or a limited nature. But the three great 
 functions which I have just described, — those of giving 
 motion and change to water, air, and earth, are indispen- 
 sable to human existence ; they are operations to be re- 
 garded with as full a depth of gratitude as the laws which 
 bid the tree bear fruit, or the seed multiply itself in the 
 earth. And thus those desolate and threatening ranges 
 of dark mountain, which in nearly all ages of the world 
 men have looked upon with aversion, or with terror, and 
 shrunk back from as if they were haunted by perpetual 
 images of death, are in reality sources of life and happi- 
 ness far fuller and more beneficient than all the bright 
 fruitfulness of the plain. The valleys only feed; the 
 mountains feed, and guard, and strengthen us. We take 
 our idea ef fearlessness and sublimity alternately from the 
 mountains and the sea; but we associate them unjustly. 
 The sea- wave, with all its beneficence, is yet devouring 
 and terrible; but the silent wave of the blue mountain is 
 lifted towards heaven in a stillness of perpetual mercy ; 
 and the one surge, unfathomable in its darkness, the other 
 
72 FBONDES AGKESTES. 
 
 unshaken in its faithfulness, for ever bear the seal of their 
 appointed symbolism: — 
 
 "Thy righteousness is like the great mountains; 
 
 " Thy judgments are a great deep." 
 
 33. Mountains are to the rest of the earth, what violent 
 muscular action is to the body of man. The muscles and 
 tendons of its anatomy are, in the mountain, brought out 
 with force and convulsive energy, full of expression, pas- 
 sion, and strength; the plains and the lower hills are the 
 repose and the effortless motion of the frame, when its 
 muscles he dormant and concealed beneath the lines of 
 its beauty, — yet ruling those lines in their every undula- 
 tion. This then is the first grand principle of the truth 
 of the earth. The spirit of the hills is action, that of the 
 lowlands repose; and between these there is to be found 
 every variety of motion and of rest, from the inactive 
 plain, sleeping like the firmament, with cities for stars, to 
 the fiery peaks, which with heaving bosoms and exulting 
 limbs, with the clouds drifting like hair from their bright 
 foreheads, lift up their Titan heads to Heaven, saying, "I 
 live for ever." 
 
 34. "Where they are,* they seem to form the world ; no 
 mere bank of a river here, or of a lane there, peeping out 
 among the hedges or forests, but from the lowest valley 
 
 * Passage written after I had got by some years cooler and wiser 
 than when I wrote No. 33, describing however the undulation of 
 the gneiss rooks, which, " where they are, seem to form the world,' 
 in terms more fanciful than I now like. 
 
ILLUSTRATIVE: MOUNTAINS. 73 
 
 to the highest clouds, all is theirs, — one adamantine do- 
 minion and rigid authority of rock. We yield ourselves 
 to the impression of their eternal unconquerable stub- 
 bornness of strength ; their mass seems the least yielding 
 least to be softened, or in anywise dealt with by externa 
 force, of all earthly substance. And behold, as we look 
 further into it, it is all touched and troubled, like waves 
 by a summer breeze; rippled far more delicately than 
 seas or lakes are rippled ; they only undulate along their 
 surfaces — this rock trembles through its every nbre/hke 
 the chords of an iEolian harp, like the stillest air of spring, 
 with the echoes of a child's voice. Into the heart of all 
 those great mountains, through every tossing of their 
 boundless crests, and deep beneath all their unfathomable 
 dsfiles, flows that strange quivering of substance. Other 
 and weaker things seem to express their subjection to an 
 Infinite Power only by momentary terrors ; as the weeds 
 bow down before the feverish wind, and the sound of the 
 going in the tops of the taller trees passes on before the 
 clouds, and the fitful opening of pale spaces on the dark 
 water, as if some invisible hand were casting dust abroad 
 upon it, gives warning of the anger that is to come, we 
 may well imagine that there is a fear passing upon the 
 grass, and leaves, and waters, at the presence of some 
 great spirit commissioned to let the tempest loose ; but 
 the terror passes, and their sweet rest is perpetually re- 
 stored to the pastures and the waves. Not so to the 
 mountains. They, which at first seem strengthened be- 
 yond the dread of any violence or change, are yet also 
 
 4 
 
74 FRONDES AGEESTE8. 
 
 ordained to bear upon them the symbol of a perpjtual 
 fear. The tremor which fades from the soft lake and 
 gliding river is sealed to all eternity upon the rock ; and 
 while things that pass visibly from birth to death may 
 sometimes forget their feebleness, the mountains are made 
 to possess a perpetual memorial of their infancy — that 
 infancy which the prophet saw in his vision,* — " I beheld 
 the earth, and lo, it was without form, and void, and the 
 heavens, and they had no light. I beheld the mountains, 
 and lo they trembled, and all the hills moved lightly." 
 
 85. The longer I stayed among the Alps, and the more 
 closely I examined them, the more I was struck by the one 
 broad fact of there being a vast Alpine plateau, or mass 
 of elevated land, upon which nearly all the highest peaks 
 stood like children set upon a table, removed, in most 
 cases, far back from the edge of the plateau, — as if for 
 fear of their falling ; while the most majestic scenes in the 
 Alps are produced, not so much by any violation of this 
 law, as by one of the great peaks having apparently 
 walked to the edge of the table to look over, and thus 
 showing itself suddenly above the valley in its full height. 
 This is the case with the Wetterhorn and Eiger at Grin- 
 delwald, and with the Grande Jorasse above the Col de 
 Ferret. But the raised bank or table is always intelligi- 
 bly in existence, even in these apparently exceptional 
 
 * Utter misinterpretation of the passage. It is the old age, not 
 tho childhood of earth, which Jeremiah describes in this passage. 
 See its true interpretation in "Fors Clavigera," .Letter 46. 
 
illustrative: mountains. 75 
 
 cases ; and for the most part, the great peaks are not al- 
 lowed to come to the edge of it, but remain like the keeps 
 of castles far withdrawn, surrounded, league beyond league, 
 by comparatively level fields of mountain, over which 
 the lapping sheets of glacier writhe and flow, foaming 
 about the feet of the dark central crests like the surf ol 
 an enormous sea-breaker hurled over a rounded rock, and 
 islanding some fragment of it in the midst. And the re- 
 sult of this arrangement is a kind of division of the whole 
 of Switzerland into an upper and lower mountain world,— 
 the lower world consisting of rich valleys, bordered by 
 steep, but easily accessible, wooded banks of mountain, 
 more or less divided by ravines, through which glimpses 
 are caught of the higher Alps ; the upper world, reached 
 after the first banks of 3,000 or 4,000 feet in height have 
 been surmounted, consisting of comparatively level, but 
 most desolate tracts of moor and rock, half covered by 
 glacier, and stretching to the feet of the true pinnacles of 
 the chain. It can hardly be necessary to point out the 
 perfect wisdom and kindness of this arrangement, as a 
 provision for the safety of the inhabitants of the high 
 mountain regions. If the great peaks rose at once from 
 the deepest valleys, every stone which was struck from 
 their pinnacles, and every snow-wreath which slipped 
 from their ledges, would descend at once upon the inhabit- 
 able ground, over which no year would pass without re- 
 cording some calamity of earth-slip or avalanche ; while 
 in the course of their fall both the stones and the snow 
 would strip the woods from the hill-sides, leaving only 
 
76 FRONDES AGRESTES. . 
 
 naked channels of destruction where there are now the 
 sloping meadow and the chestnut glade. Besides this, 
 the masses of snow, cast down at once into the warmer 
 air, would all melt rapidly in the spring, causing furious 
 inundation of every great river for a month or six weeks. 
 The snow being then all thawed, except what lay upon 
 the highest peaks in regions of nearly perpetual frost, the 
 rivers would be supplied during the summer only by 
 fountains, and the feeble tricklings on sunny days from 
 the high snows. The Ehone, under such circumstances, 
 would hardly be larger, in summer, than the Severn, and 
 many Swiss valleys would be left almost without mois- 
 ture. All these calamities are prevented by the peculiar 
 Alpine structure which has been described. The broken 
 rocks and the sliding snow of the high peaks, instead of 
 being dashed at once to the vales, are caught upon the 
 desolate shelves, or shoulders, which everywhere surround 
 the central crests. The soft banks which terminate these 
 shelves, traversed by no falling fragments, clothe them- 
 selves with richest wood, while the masses of snow heaped 
 upon the ledge above them, in a climate neither so warm 
 as to thaw them quickly in the spring, nor so cold as to 
 protect them from all the power of the summer sun, either 
 form themselves into glaciers, or remain in slowly wasting 
 fields even to the close of the year. — in either case sup- 
 plying constant, abundant, and regular streams to the 
 villages and pastures beneath, and to the rest of Europe, 
 noble and navigable rivers. 
 
illustrative: mountains. 77 
 
 Now, that such a structure is the best ami wisest pos- - 
 sible,* is indeed sufficient reason for its existence, and to 
 many people it may seem useless to question farther re- 
 specting its origin. But I can hardly conceive any one 
 standing face to face with one of these towers of central 
 rock, and yet not also asking himself, Is this indeed the 
 actual first work of the Divine Master, on which I gaze ? 
 Was the great precipice shaped by His finger, as Adam 
 was shaped out of the dust ? "Were its clefts and ledges 
 carved upon it by its Creator, as the letters were on the 
 tables of the law, and was it thus left to bear its eternal tes- 
 timony to His beneficence among these clouds of Heaven ? 
 Or is it the descendant of a long race of mountains, exist- 
 ing under appointed laws of birth and endurance, death 
 and decrepitude ? There can be no doubt as to the an- 
 swer. The rock itself answers audibly by the murmur 
 of some falling stone or rending pinnacle. It is not as it 
 was once. Those waste leagues around its feet are loaded 
 with the wrecks of what it was. On these, perhaps, of 
 all mountains, the characters of decay are written most 
 clearly ; around these are spread most gloomily the me- 
 morials of their pride, and the signs of their humiliation. 
 
 What then were they once ? The only answer is yet 
 again — " Behold the cloud I" 
 
 36. There are many spots among the inferior ridges of 
 the Alps, such as the Col de Ferret, the Col dAnteme, 
 
 * Of course, I had seen every other tried before giving this fa- 
 vourable judgment. 
 
78 FRONDES AGRESTES. 
 
 and the associated ranges of the Buet, which, though 
 commanding prospects of great nobleness, are themselves 
 very nearly types of all that is most painful to the human 
 mind. Vast wastes of mountain ground,* covered here 
 and there with dull grey grass or moss, but breaking con- 
 tinually into black banks of shattered slate, all glistening 
 and sodden with slow tricklings of clogged, incapable 
 streams ; the snow-water oozing through them in a cold 
 sweat, and spreading itself in creeping stains among their 
 dust; ever and anon a shaking here and there, and a 
 handful or two of their particles or flakes trembling down, 
 one sees not why, into more total dissolution, leaving a 
 few jagged teeth, like the edges of knives eaten away by 
 vinegar, projecting, through the half dislodged mass, from 
 the inner rock ; keen enough to cut the hand or foot that 
 rests on them, yet crumbling as they wound, and soon 
 sinking again into the smooth, slippery, glutinous heap ; 
 looking like a beach of black scales of dead fish cast 
 ashore from a poisonous sea, and sloping away into foul 
 ravines, branched down immeasurable slopes of barren- 
 ness, where the winds howl and wander continually, and 
 the snow lies in wasted and sorrowful fields covered with 
 sooty dust, that collects in streaks and stains at the bot- 
 tom of all its thawing ripples. 
 
 * This is a fourth volume passage,— and I will venture to say of 
 it, as Albert Durer, when he was pleased with his work— that for 
 what it has to do, it cannot be much better done. It is a study on 
 the Col de Bon Homme. 
 
ILLUSTRATIVE : MOUNTAINS. 79 
 
 I know of no other scenes so appalling as these in storm. 
 or so woful in sunshine. Where, however, these same 
 rocks exist in more favourable positions — that is to say, 
 in gentler banks and at lower elevations — they form a 
 ground for the most luxuriant vegetation ; and the valleys 
 of Savoy owe to them some of their loveliest solitudes — 
 exquisitely rich pastures, interspersed with arable and 
 orchard land, and shaded by groves of walnut and cherry. 
 Scenes of this kind, and of that just described, so singu- 
 larly opposed, and apparently brought together as foils to 
 each other, are, however, peculiar to certain beds of the 
 slaty coherents, which are both vast in elevation, and 
 easy of destruction. In Wales and Scotland the same 
 groups of rocks possess far greater hardness, while they 
 attain less elevation ; and the result is a totally different 
 aspect of scenery. The severity of the climate and the 
 comparative durableness of the rock, forbid the rich vege- 
 tation ; but the exposed summits, though barren, are not 
 subject to the laws of destruction so rapid and fearful as 
 in Switzerland, and the natural colour of the rock is of- 
 tener developed in the purples and greys which, mingled 
 with the heather, form the principal elements of the deep 
 and beautiful distant blue of the British hills. Their gen- 
 tler mountain streams also permit the beds of rock to 
 remain in firm, though fantastic, forms along their banks, 
 and the gradual action of the cascades and eddies upoD 
 the slaty cleavage produces many pieces of foreground 
 scenery to which higher hills can present no parallel. 
 
80 FRONDES AGKESTES. 
 
 37. Unlike Chamouni Aiguilles, there is no aspect of 
 destruction about the Matterhorn cliffs. They are torn 
 remnants of separating spires, yielding flake by flake, and 
 band by band, to the continual process of decay. They 
 are, on the contrary, an unaltered monument, seemingly 
 sculpiured long ago, the huge walls retaining yet the forma 
 into which they were first engraven, and standing like an 
 Egyptian Temple ; — delicate fronted, softly coloured, the 
 suns of uncounted ages rising and falling upon it continu 
 ally, but still casting the same line of shadows from east 
 to west ; still, century after century, touching the same 
 purple stains on the lotus pillars ; while the desert sand 
 ebbs and flows about their feet, as those autumn leaves of 
 rock lie heaped and weak about the base of the Oervin. 
 
 Is not this a strange type in the very heart and height 
 of these mysterious Alps — these wrinkled hills in their 
 snowy, cold, grey-haired old age, at first so silent, then, 
 as we keep quiet at their feet, muttering and whispering 
 to us garrulously in broken and dreaming fits, as it were, 
 about their childhood, — is it not a strange type of the 
 things which "Out of weakness are made strong?" If 
 one of these little flakes of mica sand, hurried in tremu- 
 lous spangling along the bottom of the ancient river, toe 
 light to sink, too faint to float, almost too small for sight, 
 could have had a mind given to it as it was at last borne 
 down with its kindred dust into the abysses of the stream, 
 and laid, (might it not have been thought ?) for a hope- 
 less eternity, in the dark ooze, the most despised, forgot- 
 ten, and feeble of all earth's atoms ; incapable of any use 
 
ILLUSTRATIVE: MOUNTAINS. 81 
 
 or change ; not fit, down there in the diluvial darkness, 
 so much as to help an earth wasp to build its nest, or feed 
 the first fibre of a lichen ; — what would it have thought, 
 had it been told that one day, knitted into a strength as 
 of imperishable iron, rustless by the air, infusible by the 
 flame, out of the substance of it, with its fellows, the axo 
 of God should hew that Alpine tower ? — that against it — ■ 
 poor, helpless mica flake ! — the wild north winds should 
 rage in vain; beneath it — low-fallen mica flake!— the 
 snowy hills should lie bowed hke flocks of sheep, and the 
 kingdoms of the earth fade away in unregarded blue ; and 
 around it — weak, wave-drifted mica flake ! — the great war 
 of the firmament should burst in thunder, and yet stir it 
 not ; and the fiery arrows and angry meteors of the night 
 fall blunted back from it into the air ; and all the stars 
 in the clear heaven should light, one by one as they rose, 
 new cressets upon the points of snow that fringed its 
 abiding-place on the imperishable spire ? 
 
 4« 
 
82 FRONDES AGRESTES. 
 
 SECTION VI. 
 illustrative: stones. 
 
 38. There are no natural objects out of which more 
 san be learned than out of stones. They seem to have 
 been created especially to reward a patient observer. 
 Nearly all other objects in nature can be seen to some ex- 
 tent without patience, and are pleasant even in being half 
 seen. Trees, clouds, and rivers, are enjoyable even by the 
 careless ; but the stone under his foot has, for carelessness, 
 nothing in it but stumbling ; no pleasure is languidly to be 
 had out of it, nor food, nor good of any kind ; nothing 
 Dut symbolism of the hard heart, and the unfatherly gift. 
 And yet, do but give it some reverence and watchfulness, 
 and there is bread of thought in it, more than in any 
 other lowly feature of all the landscape. For a stone, 
 when it is examined, will be found a mountain in minia- 
 ture. The fineness of Nature's work is so great that into 
 a single block, a foot or two in diameter, she can compress 
 as many changes of form and structure, on a small scale, 
 as she needs for her mountains on a large one; and tak- 
 ing moss for forests, and grains of crystal for crags, the 
 surface of a stone in by far the plurality of instances 
 is more interesting than the surface of an ordinary hill; 
 more fantastic in form, and incomparably richer in colour 
 
ILLUSTRATIVE: STOKES. 83 
 
 39. Oa a Highland hill-side are multitudinous clusters 
 of fern and heather ; on an Alpine one,, multitudinous 
 groves of chestnut and pine. The number of the things 
 may be the same, but the sense of infinity is in the latter 
 case far greater, because the number is of nobler things. 
 Indeed, so far as mere magnitude of space occupied on 
 the field of the horizon is the measure of objects, a bank 
 of earth ten feet high may, if we stoop to the foot of it, 
 be made to occupy just as much of the sky as that bank 
 of mountain at Villeneuve ; nay, in many respects, its 
 little ravines and escarpments, watched with some help of 
 imagination, may become very sufficiently representative 
 to us of those of the great mountain; and in classing all 
 water-worn mountain ground under the general and hum- 
 ble term of Banks, I mean to imply this relationship of 
 structure between the smallest eminences and the highest 
 But in this matter of superimposed quantity, the distinctions 
 of rank are at once fixed. The heap of earth bears its 
 few tufts of moss, or knots of grass; the Highland or 
 Cumberland .mountain, its honeyed heathers or scented 
 ferns; but the mass of the bank at Martigny or Ville- 
 neuve has a vineyard in every cranny of its rocks, and 
 a chestnut grove on every crest of them. . . . The 
 minute mounds and furrows scattered up the side of that 
 great promontory when they are actually approached, 
 after three or four hours climbing, turn into independent 
 hills, with true parks of lovely pasture land enclosed among 
 them and avenue after avenue of chestnuts, walnuts, and 
 pines, bending round their bases, while in the deeper din 
 
84 FRONDES AGRESTES. 
 
 gles, populous villages, literally bound down to the rock 
 by the enormous trunks of vine, which, first trained 
 lightly over the loose stone roofs, have in process of years 
 cast their fruitful net over the whole village, and fastened 
 it to the ground under their purple weight and wayward 
 coils as securely as ever human heart was fastened to 
 earth by the net of the Flatterer. 
 
 40. When a rock of any kind has lain for some time 
 exposed to the weather, Nature finishes it in her own 
 way. First she takes wonderful pains about its forms, 
 sculpturing it into exquisite variety of dent and dimple, 
 and rounding or hollowing it into contours, which for 
 fineness no human hand can follow; then she colours it; 
 and every one of her touches of colour, instead of being 
 a powder mixed with oil, is a minute forest of living trees, 
 glorious in strength and beauty and concealing wonders 
 of structure. 
 
 41. On the broken rocks of the foreground in the crys- 
 talline groups, the mosses seem to set themselves consent- 
 fully and deliberately to the task of producing the most 
 exquisite harmonies of colour in their power. They will 
 not conceal the form of the rock, but will gather over it 
 in little brown bosses, like small cushions of velvet, made 
 of mixed threads of dark ruby silk and gold, rounded 
 over more subdued films of white and grey, with lightly 
 crisped and curled edges like hoar frost on fallen leaves, 
 and minute clusters of upright orange stalks with pointed 
 caps, and fibres of deep green, and gold, and faint purplo 
 
ILLUSTRATIVE: STONES. 85 
 
 passing into black, all woven together, and following with 
 unimaginable fineness of gentle growth the undulation of 
 the stone they cherish, until it is charged with colour so 
 that it can receive no more; and instead of looking rug- 
 ged or cold, or stern, as anything that a rock is held to 
 be at heart, it seems to be clothed with a soft dark leop- 
 ard's skin embroidered with arabesque of purple and 
 silver. 
 
 42. The colour of the white varieties of marble is of 
 exquisite delicacy, owing to the partial tran&lacency of the 
 pure rock ; and it has always appeared to me a most won 
 derful ordinance — one of the most marked pieces of pur- 
 pose in the creation — that all the variegated kinds should 
 be comparatively opaque, so as to set off the colour on the 
 surface, while the white which, if it had been opaque, 
 would have looked somewhat coarse, (as for instance 
 common chalk does), is rendered just translucent enough 
 to give an impression of extreme purity, but not so trans- 
 lucent as to interfere in the least with the distinctness of 
 any forms into which it is wrought. The colours of va- 
 riegated marbles are also for the most part very beautiful, 
 especially those composed of purple, amber, and green, 
 with white ; and there seems something notably attractive 
 to the human mind in the vague and veined labyrinths of 
 their arrangements 
 
 43. I have often had occasion to allude to the apparent 
 connection of brilliancy of colour with vigour of life or 
 purity of substance. This is pre-eminently the case in 
 
86 FRONDES AGRESTES. 
 
 the mineral kingdom. The perfection with which the par 
 tides of any substance unite in crystallization, corresponds 
 in that kingdom to the vital power in organic nature ; and 
 it is a universal law, that according to the purity of any 
 substance, and according to the energy of its crystalliza- 
 tion, is its beauty or brightness. Pure earths are white 
 when in powder ; and the same earths, which are the con- 
 stituents of clay and sand, form, when crystallized, the 
 emerald, ruby, sapphire, amethyst, and opal. 
 
 44. As we pass between the hills which has been shaken 
 by earthquake and torn by convulsion, we find that 
 periods of perfect repose succeed those of destruction. 
 The pools of calm water lie clear beneath their fallen rocks, 
 the water-lilies gleam, and the reeds whisper among 
 their shadows ; the village rises again over the forgotten 
 graves, and its church tower, white through the storm- 
 light, proclaims a renewed appeal to His protection in 
 whose hand " are all the corners of the earth, and the 
 strength of the hills is His also." There is no loveliness 
 of Alpine valley that does not teach the same lesson. It 
 is just where the " mountain falling cometh to nought, and 
 the rock is removed out of his' place," that in process of 
 years the fairest meadows bloom between the fragments, 
 the clearest rivulets murmur from between their crevices 
 among the flowers, and the clustered cottages, each shel- 
 tered beneath some strength of mossy stone, now to be 
 removed no more, and with their pastoed flocks around 
 them, safe from the eagle's stoop and the wolfs ravine. 
 
ILLUSTRATIVE: STONES 87 
 
 have written upon their fronts, in simple words, the moun- 
 taineer's faith in the ancient promise, — "Neither shalt 
 thou be afraid of destruction, when it cometh ; for thou 
 shalt be in league with the stones of the field, and the 
 beasts of the field shall be at peace with thee." 
 
88 FRONDES AGEESTE3. 
 
 SECTION VIL 
 
 ILLUSTRATIVE: PLANTS AND FLOWERS. 
 
 45. "Wonderful, in universal adaptation to man's need, 
 desire, and discipline; God's daily preparation of the earth 
 for him, with beautiful means of life. First, a carpet, tc 
 make it soft for him ; then a coloured fantasy of embroidery 
 thereon; then, tall spreading of foliage to shade him from 
 sun-heat, and shade also the fallen rain, that it may not dry 
 quickly back into the clouds, but stay to nourish the springs 
 among the moss. Stout wood to bear this leafage; easily 
 to be cut, yet tough and light, to make houses for him, or 
 instruments, (lance-shaft, or plough handle, according to 
 his temper); useless it had been if harder; useless if less 
 fibrous; useless if less elastic. Winter comes, and the 
 shade of leafage falls away, to let the sun warm the earth ; 
 the strong boughs remain, breaking the strength of win- 
 ter winds. The seeds which are to prolong the race, in- 
 numerable according to the need, are made beautiful and 
 palatable, varied into infinitude of appeal to the fancy of 
 man, or provision for his service; cold juice, or flowing 
 spice, or balm, or incense, softening oil, preserving resin, 
 medicine of styptic, febrifuge, or lulling charm ; and all 
 these presented in forms of endless change. Fragility 01 
 force, softness and strength, in all degrees and aspects; un- 
 erring uprightness, as of temple pillars, or unguided wan 
 
ILLUSTRATIVE: PLANTS AND FLOWERS. 89 
 
 clering of feeble tendrils on the ground; mighty resistances 
 of rigid arm and limb to the storms of ages, or wavings 
 to and fro with faintest pulse of summer streamlet ; roots 
 cleaving the strength of rock, or binding the transience 
 of the sand; crests basking in sunshine of the desert, or 
 hiding by dripping spring and lightless cave ; foliage fai 
 tossing in entangled fields beneath every wave of ocean— 
 clothing with variegated, everlasting films the peaks of 
 the trackless mountains, or. ministering, at cottage doors, 
 to every gentlest passion and simplest joy of humanity. 
 
 46. If ever in autumn a pensiveness falls upon us, as 
 the leaves drift by in their fading, may we not wisely 
 look up in hope to their mighty monuments ? Behold 
 how fair, how far prolonged in arch and aisle, the avenues 
 of the valleys, the fringes of the hills! so stately,-— so 
 eternal; the joy of man, the comfort of all living crea- 
 tures, the glory of the earth, — they are but the monu- 
 ments of those poor- leaves that flit faintly past us to die. 
 Let them not pass, without our understanding their last 
 counsel and example ; that we also, careless of monument 
 by the grave, may build it in the world — monument by 
 which men may be taught to remember, not where we 
 died, but where we lived. 
 
 47. The Pine — magnificent ! nay, sometimes almost ter- 
 rible. Other trees, tufting crag or hill, yield to the form 
 and sway of the ground, clothe it with soft compliance, are 
 partly its subjects, partly its flatterers, partly its com- 
 forters. . But the pine rises in serene resistance, self-con 
 
90 FRONDES AGKESTES. 
 
 tained nor can I ever without awe stay long under a great 
 Alpine cliff, far from all house or work of men, looking 
 up to its companies of pines, as they stand on the inac 
 cessible juts and perilous ledges of the enormous wall, 
 in quiet multitudes, each like the shadow of the one be- 
 side it — upright, fixed, spectral, as troops of ghosts stand- 
 ing on the walls of Hades, not knowing each other, dumb 
 for ever. You cannot reach them, cannot cry to them: 
 those trees never heard humaa voice : they are far above 
 all sound but of the winds. No foot ever stirred fallen 
 leaf of theirs : all comfortless they stand, between the two 
 eternities of the Vacancy and the Rock; yet with such iron 
 will, that the rock itself looks bent and shattered beside 
 them, — fragile, weak, inconsistent, compared to their dark 
 energy of delicate life, and monotony of enchanted pride 
 — unnumbered, unconquerable. 
 
 Then note farther their perfectness. The impression on 
 most people's minds must have been received more from 
 pictures than reality, so far as I can judge, so ragged they 
 think the pine ; whereas its chief character in health is 
 green and full roundness. It stands compact, like one of 
 its own cones, slightly curved on its sides, finished and 
 quaint as a carved tree in some Elizabethan garden ; and 
 instead of being wild in expression, forms the softest of 
 all forest scenery, for other trees show their trunks and 
 twisting boughs; but the pine, growing either in luxu 
 riant mass, or in happy isolation, allows no branch to b« 
 seen. Summit behind summit rise its pyramidal ranges 
 or down to the very grass sweep the circlets of its boughs 
 
illustrative: plants and flowers. 91 
 
 ^-so that there is nothing but green cone, and green carpet. 
 Nor is it only softer, but in one sense more cheerful than 
 other foliage, for it casts only a pyramidal shadow. Low- 
 land forest arches overhead, and chequers the ground with 
 darkness; but the pine, growing in scattered groups, leaves 
 the glades between emerald bright. Its gloom is all its 
 own ; narrowing into the sky, it lets the sunshine strike 
 down to the dew. And if ever a superstitious feeling 
 comes over me among the pine glades, it is never tainted 
 with the old German forest fear, but it is only a more 
 solemn tone of the fairy enchantment that haunts our 
 English meadows ; so that I have always called the pret- 
 tiest pine-glade in Chamouni, "Fairies' Hollow." It is in 
 the glen beneath the steep ascent above Pont Pelissier, 
 and may be reached by a little winding path which goes 
 down from the top of the hill* — being indeed not truly a 
 glen, but a broad ledge of moss and turf, leaning in a for- 
 midable precipice (which, however, the gentle branches 
 hide) over the Arve. An almost isolated rock promon- 
 tory, many coloured, rises at the end of it. On the other 
 sides it is bordered by cliffs, from which a little cascade 
 falls, literally, down among the pines, for it is so light, 
 shaking itself into mere showers of seed pearl in the sun, 
 that the pines don't know it from mist, and grow through 
 it without minding. Underneath, there is only the mossy 
 
 * The new road to Chamouni has been carried right through it. 
 A cascade on the right, as you ascend, marks the place spoken of 
 n the text, — once as lonely as Corrie-nan-shian. 
 
92 FRONDES AGBESTES. 
 
 silence, and above, for ever, the snow of the nameless 
 Aiguille. 
 
 Other trees rise against the sky in dots and knots, but 
 this, in fringes. You never see the edges' of it, so subtle 
 are they ; and for this reason, — it alone of trees, so far as 
 I know, is capable of the fiery change, which has been 
 noticed by Shakspeare. When the sun rises behind a 
 ridge crested with pine, provided the ridge be at a dis- 
 tance of about two miles, and seen clear, all the trees, for 
 about three or four degrees on each side of the sun, be- 
 come trees of light, seen in clear flame against the darker 
 sky, and dazzling as the sun itself. I thought at first 
 this was owing to the actual lustre of the leaves ; but I 
 believe now it is caused by the cloud-dew upon them — ■ 
 every minutest leaf carrying its diamond. It seems as if 
 these trees, living always among the clouds, had caught 
 part of their glory from them ; and themselves, the dark- 
 est of vegetation, could yet add splendour to the sun itself. 
 
 48. The Swiss, have certainly no feelings respecting 
 their mountains in anywise correspondent with ours. It 
 was rather as fortresses of defence, than as spectacles 
 of splendour, that the cliffs of the Eothslock bare rule 
 over the destinies of those who dwelt at their feet ; and 
 the training for which the mountain children had to thank 
 the slopes of the Muotta-Thal, was in soundness of breath, 
 and steadiness of limb, far more than in elevation of idea. 
 But the point which I desire the reader to note is, that 
 the character of the scene which, if any, appears to have 
 been impressive to the inhabitant, is not that which we 
 
illustrative: plants and flowers. 93 
 
 ourselves feel when we enter the district. It was not 
 from their lakes, nor their cliffs, nor their glaciers — ■ 
 though these were all peculiarly their possession — that 
 the. three venerable cantons received their name. They 
 were not called the States of the Eock, nor the States of 
 the Lake, but the States of the Forest. And the one of 
 the three whiph contains the most touching record of the 
 spiritual power of Swiss religion, in the name of the con- 
 vent of the " Hill of Angels," has, for its own, none but 
 the sweet childish name of " Under the Woods." 
 
 And indeed you may pass under them if, leaving the 
 most sacred spot in Swiss history, the Meadow of the 
 Three Fountains, you bid the boatman row southward a 
 little way by the shore of the Bay of Uri. Steepest there 
 on its western side, the walls of its rocks ascend to heaven. 
 Tar in the blue of evening, like a great cathedral pave- 
 ment, lies the lake in its darkness ; and you may hear 
 the whisper of innumerable falling waters return from the 
 hollows of the cliff, like the voices of a multitude praying 
 under their breath. From time to time the beat of a 
 wave, slow lifted where the rocks lean over the black 
 depth, dies heavily as the last note of a requiem. Oppo- 
 site, green with steep grass, and set with chalet villages, 
 the Fron-Alp rises in one solemn glow of pastoral light 
 and peace; and above, against the clouds of twilight, 
 ghostly in the gray precipice, stand, myriad by myriad, 
 the shadowy armies of the Unterwalden pine. 
 
 49. It had been wild weather when I left Eome, and 
 all across the Campagna the clouds were sweeping in sul- 
 
94 FRONDES AGRESTES. 
 
 phurous blue, with, a clap of thunderor two, and break 
 ing gleams of sun along the Claudian aqueduct, lighting 
 up the infir.ity of its arches, like the bridge of Chaos 
 But as I climbed the long slope of the Alban Mount the 
 storm swept finally to the north, and the noble outline of 
 the domes of Albano, and graceful darkness of its ilex 
 grove, rose against pure streaks of alternate blue and 
 amber, the upper sky gradually flushing through the last 
 fragments of rain-cloud in deep palpitating azure, half 
 aather and half dew. The noonday sun came slanting 
 down the rocky slopes of La Eiccia, and their masses of 
 entangled and tall foliage, whose autumnal tints were 
 mixed with the wet verdure of a thousand evergreens, 
 were penetrated with it, as with rain. I cannot call it 
 colour, — it was conflagration. Purple, and crimson, and 
 scarlet, like the curtains of God's Tabernacle, the rejoicing 
 trees sank into the valley in showers of light, every sepa- 
 rate leaf quivering with buoyant and burning life ; each, 
 as it turned to reflect, or to transmit the sunbeam, first a 
 torch and then an emerald. Far up into the recesses of 
 the valley the green vistas arched like the hollows of 
 mighty waves of some crystalline sea, with the arbutus 
 flowers dashed along their banks for foam, and silver 
 flakes of orange spray tossed into the air round them, 
 breaking over the grey walls of rock into a thousaad 
 separate stars, fading and kindling alternately as the weak 
 wind lifted and let them fall. Every glade of grass burned 
 like the golden floor of heaven, opening in sudden gleama 
 as the foliage broke, and closed above it, as shetit-light 
 
ILLUSTEATIVE : PLANTS AND FLOWERS. 95 
 
 niug opens in a cloud at sunset ; the motionless masses of 
 dark rock, dark though flushed with scarlet lichen, cast- 
 ing their quiet shadows across its restless radiance, the 
 fountain underneath them filling its marble hollow with 
 blue mist and fitful sound — and, over all, the multitudi- 
 nous bars of amber and rose — the sacred clouds that have 
 no darkness, and only exist to illumine, were seen in 
 fathomless intervals between the solemn and orbed repose 
 of the stone pines, passing to lose themselves in the last, 
 white, blinding lustre of the measureless line where the 
 Campagna melted into the blaze of the sea. 
 
 50. Flowers seem intended for the solace of ordinary 
 humanity : children love them ; quiet, contented, ordinary 
 people love them as they grow ; luxurious and disorderly 
 people rejoice in them gathered ; they are the cottager's 
 treasure ; and in the crowded town, mark, as with a little 
 broken fragment of rainbow, the windows of the workers 
 in whose hearts rests the covenant of peace. 
 
 51. Yet few people really care about flowers. Many, 
 indeed, are fond of finding a new shape of blossom, caring 
 for it as a child cares about a kaleidoscope. Many, also, 
 like a fair service of flowers in the greenhouse, as a fair 
 service of plate on the table. Many are scientifically in- 
 terested in them, though even these in the nomenclature, 
 rather than the flowers ; and a few enjoy their gardens. 
 .... But, the blossoming time of the year being 
 principally spring, I perceive it to be the mind of most 
 people, during that period, to stay in towns. A ye^ar or 
 
96 FRONDES AGRESTES. 
 
 two ago a keen-sighted and eccentrically-minded friend of 
 mine, having taken it into his head to violate this national 
 custom, and go to the Tyrol in spring, was passing through 
 a valley near Landech with several similarly head-strong 
 companions. A strange mountain appeared in, the dis- 
 tance, belted about its breast with a zone of blue, like our 
 English Queen. Was it a blue cloud, a blue horizontal 
 bar of the air that Titian breathed in youth, seen now far 
 away, which mortal might never breathe again? Was it 
 a mirage — a meteor ? Would it stay to be approached ? — 
 (ten miles of winding road yet between them and the foot 
 of this mountain) — such questioning had they concerning 
 it. My keen-sighted friend, alone, maintained it to be 
 substantial ; — whatever it might be it was not air, and 
 would not vanish. The ten miles of road were over- 
 passed, the carriage left, the mountain climbed. It stayed 
 patiently, expanding still into richer breath and heaven- 
 lier glow — a belt of gentians. Such things may verily be 
 seen among the Alps in spring, and in spring only, which 
 being so, I observe most people prefer going in autumn. 
 
 52. Perhaps few people have ever asked themselves 
 why they admire a rose so much more than all other 
 flowers. If they consider, they will find, first, that red is, 
 in a delicately gradated state, the loveliest of all pure 
 colours ; and secondly, that in the rose there is no shadow, 
 except what is composed of colour. All its shadows are 
 fuller in colour than in lights, owing to the translucenoy 
 and reflective power of the leaves. 
 
ILLUSTRATIVE: PLANTS AND FLOWERS. 97 
 
 53. Has the reader ever considered the relations of 
 commonest forms of volatile substance? The invisible 
 particles which cause the scent of a rose-leaf, how minute, 
 how multitudinous, passing richly away into the air con- 
 tinually ! 
 
 54. In the range of inorganic nature I doubt if any ob- 
 ject can be found more perfectly beautiful, than a fresh, 
 deep snow-drift, seen under warm light. Its curves are 
 of inconceivable perfection and changefulness ; its surface 
 and transparency alike exquisite ; its light and shade of 
 inexhaustible variety and inimitable finish, — the shadows 
 sharp, pale, and of heavenly colour, the reflected lights 
 intense and multitudinous, and mingled with the sweet 
 occurrences of transmitted light. . . If, passing 
 to the edge of a sheet of it upon the xower Alps, early in 
 May, we find, as we are nearly sure to find, two or three 
 little round openings pierced in it ; and through these, 
 emergent, a slender, pensive, fragile flower,* whosesmall, 
 dark, purple-fringed bell hangs down and shudders over 
 the icy cleft that it has cloven, as if partly wondering at 
 its own recent grave, and partly dying of very fatigue 
 after its hard- won victory ; we shall be, or we ought to 
 be, moved by a totally different impression of loveliness 
 
 * Soldanella Alpina. I think it is the only Alpine flower which 
 actually pierces snow, though I have seen gentians filling thawed 
 hoof-prints. Crocuses are languid till they have had sun for a day 
 or two. But tho soldanella enjoys its snow, at first, and afterwards 
 its fields. I have se^n it make a pasture look like a large lilac silk 
 gown. 
 
 a 5 
 
98 FRONDES AGRESTES. 
 
 from that which we receive among the dead ice and the 
 idle clouds : there is now uttered to us a call for . sympa- 
 thy, now offered to us an image of moral purpose and 
 achievement, which, however unconscious or senseless 
 the creature may indeed he that so seems to call, cannol 
 be heard without affection' nor contemplated without wor- 
 ship, by any of us whose heart is rightly turned or whose 
 mind is clearly and surely sighted. 
 
 55. It has been well shown by Dr. Herbert, that many 
 plants are found alone on a certain soil or sub-soil in a 
 wild state, not because such soil is favourable to them, 
 but because they alone are capable of existing on it, and 
 because all dangerous rivals are by its inhospitality re- 
 moved. Now, if we withdraw the plant from this posi- 
 tion, which it hardly endures, and supply it with the 
 earth, and maintain about it the temperature that it de- 
 lights in; withdrawing from it, at the same time, all 
 rivals, which in such conditions nature would have thrust 
 upon it, we shall indeed obtain a magnificently developed 
 example of the plant, colossal in size, and splendid in or- 
 ganization ; but we shall utterly lose in it that moral ideal 
 which is dependent on its right fulfilment of its appointed 
 functions. It was intended and created by the Deity for 
 the covering of those lonely spots where no other plant 
 could live. It has been thereto endowed with courage 
 and strength, and capabilities of endurance ; its character 
 and glory are not therefore in the gluttonous and idle 
 feeding of its own over-luxuriance, at the expense of 
 other creatures utterly destroyed and rooted out for its 
 
ILLUSTRATIVE: PLANTS AND FLOWERS. 99 
 
 good alone ; but in its right doing of its hard duty, and 
 forward climbing into those spots of forlorn hope where 
 it alone can bear witness to the kindness and presence of 
 the spirit that cutteth out rivers among the rocks, as He 
 covers the valleys with corn ; and there, in its vanward 
 place, and only there, where nothing is*withdrawn fo» 
 it, nor hurt by it, and where nothing can take pai\ 
 of its honour, nor usurp its throne, are its strength and 
 fairness, and price, and goodness in the sight of God to be 
 truly esteemed. The first time I saw the Soldanella Al- 
 pina, before spoken of, it was growing of magnificent size 
 on a sunny Alpine pasture, among bleating of sheep, and 
 lowing of cattle, associated with a profusion of Geum 
 Montanum, and Eanunculus Pyranasus. I noticed it only 
 because new to me — nor perceived any peculiar beauty 
 in its cloven flower. Some days after, I found it alone, 
 among the rack of the higher clouds, and howling of 
 glacier winds ; and, as I described it, piercing through an 
 edge of avalanche which in its retiring had left the new 
 ground brown and lifeless, and as if burnt by recent fire. 
 The plant was poor and feeble, and seemingly exhausted 
 with its efforts, — but it was theD that I comprehended its 
 ideal character, and saw its noble function and order of 
 glory among the constellations of the earth. 
 
 56. Grasses. — Minute, granular, feathery, or downy 
 seed vessels, mingling quaint brown punctuation, and 
 dusty tremors of dancing grain, with the bloom of the 
 nearer fields and casting softness of plumy mist along 
 
100 FKONDES AGRESTES. 
 
 their surfaces far away ; mysterious evermore, not onfy 
 with dew in the morning, or mirage at noon, but with 
 the shaking threads of fine aborescence, each a little bel 
 fry of grainbells, all a-chime. 
 
 57. Gather sp single blade of grass, and examine for a 
 minute quietly its narrow sword-shaped strip of fluted 
 green. Nothing, as it seems, there of notable goodness 
 or beauty. A very little strength and a very little tall- 
 ness, and a few delicate long lines meeting in a point, — ■ 
 not a perfect point neither, but blunt and unfinished, by 
 no means a creditable or apparently much-cared-for ex- 
 ample of Nature's workmanship, made, only to be trod- 
 den on to-day, and to-morrow to be cast into the oven, — 
 and a, little pale and hollow stalk, feeble and flaccid, 
 leading down to the dull brown fibres of roots. And 
 yet, think of it well, and judge whether of all the 
 gorgeous flowers that beam in summer air, and of all 
 strong and goodly trees, pleasant to the eyes, or good 
 for food, — stately palm and pine, strong ash and oak, 
 scented citron, burdened vine — there be any man so deeply 
 loved, by God so highly graced, as that narrow point of 
 feeble green. And well does it fulfil its mission. Con- 
 sider what we owe merely to the meadow grass, to the 
 covering of the dark ground by that glorious enamel, by 
 ihe companies of those soft, and countless, and peaceful 
 spears. The fields ! Follow forth but for a little time the 
 thoughts of all that we ought to recognize in these words. 
 All fprn>r and summer is in them — the walks by silent 
 
ILLUSTRATIVE: PLANTS AND FLOWERS. 101 
 
 scented paths, — the rests in noonday heat, — the joy of 
 herds and flocks, — the power of all shepherd life and 
 meditation, — the life of sun-light upon the world falling 
 in emerald streaks, and falling in soft blue shadows where 
 else it would have struck upon the dark mould, or scorch- 
 ing dust. Pastures beside the pacing brooks, soft banks 
 and knowls of lowly hills, thymy slopes of down, over- 
 looked by the blue line of lifted sea, crisp lawns, all dim 
 with early dew, or smooth in evening warmth of barred 
 sunshine, dinted by happy feet, and softening in their fall 
 the sound of loving voices — all these are summed in those 
 simple words ; and these are not all. We may not mea- 
 sure to the full the depth of this heavenly gift in our own 
 land, though still as we think of it longer, the infinite of 
 that meadow sweetness, Shakspeare's peculiar joy, would 
 open on us more and more ; yet we have it but in part. 
 Go out in the spring time among the meadows that slope 
 from the shores of the Swiss lakes to the roots of their 
 lower mountains. There, mingled with the taller Gen- 
 tians, and the white Narcissus, the grass grows deep and 
 free ; and as you follow the winding mountain paths, be- 
 neath arching boughs, all veiled with blossom — paths that 
 forever droop and rise over the green banks and mounds 
 sweeping down in scented undulation steep to the blue 
 water, studded here and there with new-mown heaps fill- 
 ing all the air with fainter sweetness, — look up towards 
 the higher hills, where the waves of everlasting green roll 
 silently into their long inlets among the shadows of the 
 pines ; and we may perhaps at last know the meaning of 
 
102 FRONDES AGRESTES. 
 
 those quiet words of the 147th Psalm, " He maketh grass 
 to grow upon the mountains." 
 
 Assembling the images we have traced, and adding 
 the simplist of all, from Isaiah XL : 6, we find the grass 
 and flowers are types, in their passing, of the passing of 
 human life, and in their excellence, of the excellence of 
 human life; and this in twofold way; first by their benefi- 
 cence, and then by their endurance — the grass of the earth 
 in giving the seed of corn, and in its beauty under tread of 
 foot and stroke of scythe; and the grass of the waters, in 
 giving its freshness for our rest, and in its bending before 
 the wave. But, understood in the broad human and Divine 
 sense, the "herb yielding seed" — (as opposed to the fruit 
 tree yielding fruit) includes a third family of plants, and 
 fulfils a third office to the human race. It includes the 
 great family of the lints and flaxes, and fulfils thus the 
 three offices of giving food, raiment, and rest. Follow out 
 this fulfilment; consider the association of the linen gar- 
 ment and the linen embroidery with the priestly office 
 and the furniture of the tabernacle, and consider how the 
 rush has been to all time the first natural carpet thrown 
 under the human foot. Then next observe the three vir- 
 tues definitely set forth by the three families of plants — 
 not arbitrarily or fancifully associated with them, but in 
 all the three cases marked for us by Scriptural words. 
 1st, Cheerfulness or joyful serenity; in the grass for food 
 and beauty — "Consider the lilies of the field, how they 
 grow ; they toil not, neither do they spin." 2nd. Humility; 
 in the grass for rest — "A bruised reed shall he not break.' 
 
ILLUSTRATIVE: PLANTS AND FLOWERS. 103 
 
 3rd. Love; in the grass for clothing,( because of its swift 
 kindling,) — "The smoking flax shall he not quench." 
 And then finally observe the confirmation of these last 
 two images in, I suppose, the most important prophecy, 
 relating to the future state of the Christian Church, which 
 occurs in the Old Testament, namely that contained in the 
 closing chapters of Ezekiel. The measures of the Temple 
 of God are to be taken; and because it is only by charity 
 and humility that those measures ever can be taken, the 
 angel has," a line of flax in his hand, and a measuring 
 reed." The use of the line was to measure the land, and 
 of the reed to take the dimensions of the buildings; so 
 the buildings of the church, or its labours, are to be 
 measured by humility ; and its territory or land, by love. 
 
 58. Leaves motionless. The strong pines wave above 
 them, and the weak grasses tremble beside them; but the 
 blue stars rest upon the earth with a peace as of heaven ; 
 and far along the ridges of iron rock, moveless as they, 
 the rubied crests of Alpine rose flash in the low rays of 
 morning. 
 
 59. Mosses. — Meek creatures ! the first mercy of the 
 earth, veiling with hushed softness its dintless rocks ; crea- 
 tures full of pity, covering with strange and tender hon- 
 our the scarred disgrace of ruin, laying quiet finger on 
 the trembling stones to teach them rest. No words, that 
 I know of, will say what ^hese mosses are. None are deli- 
 ate enough, none perfect enough, none rich enough. How is 
 one to tell of the rounded bosses of furred and beaming 
 
104 FRONDES AGRESTES. 
 
 green, the starred divisions of rubied bloom, fine-filmed, as 
 if the rock spirit could spin porphyry as we do glass, — the 
 traceries of intricate silver, and fringes of amber, lustrous, 
 arborescent, burnished through every fibre into fitful 
 brightness and glossy traverses of silken change, yet all 
 subdued and pensive, and framed for simplest, sweetest 
 offices of grace? They will not be gathered like the 
 flowers, for chaplet, or love-token ; but of these the wild 
 bird will make its nest, and the wearied child his pillow. 
 And as the earth's first mercy, so they are its last gift 
 to us : when all other service is vain, from plant and tree, 
 the soft mosses and grey lichen take up their watch by 
 the head-stone. The woods, the blossoms, the gift-bear • 
 ing grasses, have done their parts for a time ; but these 
 do service for ever. Trees for the builder's yard, flowers 
 for the bride's chamber, corn for the granary, moss for the 
 grave. 
 
 60. Lichens.— As is one sense the humblest, in another 
 they are the most honoured of the earth-children. Un- 
 fading as motionless, the worm frets them not, and the 
 autumn wastes not. Strong in loveliness, they neither 
 blanch in heat, nor pine in frost. To them, slow-fingered, 
 constant-hearted, is entrusted the weaving of the dark, 
 eternal tapestries of the hills; to them, slow -pencilled, 
 iris-dyed, the tender framing of their endless imagery 
 Sharing the stillness of the unimpassioned rock, they 
 share also its endurance : and while the winds of depart- 
 ing spring scatter the white hawthorn blossom like drifted 
 
ILLUSTRATIVE : PLANTS AND FLOWERS. 105 
 
 snow, and summer dims on the parched meadow the 
 drooping of its cowslip gold, — far above, among the moun- 
 tains, the silver lichen spots rest, star-like, on the stone 
 and the gathering orange stain, upon the edge of yonde* 
 western peak, reflects the sunsets of a thousand years. 
 
106 FRONDES AGRESTES. 
 
 SECTION VIII. 
 
 EDUCATION. 
 
 61. The most helpless and sacred work which can ai 
 present be done for humanity, is to teach people (chiefly 
 oy example, as all best teaching must be done) not how 
 ' to better themselves, but how to ' ' satisfy themselves." It 
 ts the curse of every evil nature and creature to eat and not 
 oe satisfied. The words of blessing are, that they shall eat 
 and be satisfied; and as there is only one kind of water 
 which quenches all thirst, so there is only one kind of 
 bread which satisfies all hunger — the bread of justice or 
 righteousness; which, hungering after, men shall always 
 be filled, that being the bread of Heaven ; but hungering 
 after the bread of wages of unrighteousness, shall not be 
 filled, that being the bread of Sodom. And in order to 
 teach men how to be satisfied, it is necessary fully to un- 
 derstand the art of joy and humble life — this, at present, 
 of all arts or sciences, being the one most needing study. 
 Humble life, that is to say, proposing to itself no future 
 exaltation, but only a sweet continuance ; not excluding 
 the idea of foresight, but wholly of fore-sorrow, and tak- 
 ing no troublous thought for coming days ; so also not ex 
 eluding the idea of providence or provision, but wholly 
 of accumulation ; — the life of domestic affection and do- 
 mestic peace, full of sensitiveness to all elements of cost 
 
EDUCATION. 107 
 
 less and kind pleasure; — therefore, chiefly to the loveli- 
 ness of the natural world. 
 
 62. We shall find that the love of nature, wherever it 
 has existed, has been a faithful and sacred element of hu- 
 man feeling; that is to say, supposing all the circum- 
 stances otherwise the same with respect to two individuals, 
 the one who loves nature most will be always found to 
 have more capacity for faith in God than the other. Na- 
 ture-worship will be found to bring with it such a sense of 
 the presence and power of a Great Spirit as no mere rea- 
 soning can either induce or controvert ; and where that 
 nature worship is innocently pursued — i. e., with due re- 
 spect to other claims on time, feeling, and exertion, and 
 associated with the higher principles of religion, — it be- 
 comes the ohannel of certain sacred truths, which by no 
 other means can be conveyed. 
 
 63. Instead of supposing the love of nature necessarily 
 connected with the faithfulness of the age, I believe it is 
 connected properly with the benevolence and liberty* of 
 the age ; that is precisely the most healthy element which 
 distinctively belongs to us ; and that out of it, cultivated 
 no longer in levity or ignorance but in earnestness and as 
 a duty, results will spring of an importance at present in- 
 
 * I forget, now, what I meant by " liberty " in this passage ; but 
 I often used the word in my first writings, in a good sense, think- 
 ing of Scott's moorland rambles, and the like. It is very wonder- 
 ful to me, now, to see what hopes I had once : but Tubner was 
 alive, then ; and the sun used to shine, and rivers to sparkle. 
 
108 FRONDES AGRESTES. 
 
 conceivable ; and lights arise, which, for the first time in 
 man's history, will reveal to him the true nature of hia 
 life, the true field for his energies, and the true relations 
 between him and his Maker. 
 
 64. To any person who has all his senses about him, a 
 quiet walk, over not more than ten or twelve miles of 
 road a day, is the most amusing of all travelling ; and all 
 travelling becomes dull in exact proportion to its rapidity. 
 
 Going by railroad I do not consider as travelling at all ; 
 it is merely "being sent" to a place, and very little differ- 
 ent from becoming a parcel. 
 
 65. I believe an immense gain in the bodily health and 
 happiness of the upper classes would follow on their 
 steadily endeavouring, however clumsily, to make the 
 physical exertion they now necessarily exert in amuse- 
 ments, definitely serviceable. It would be far better, foi 
 instance, that a gentleman should mow his own fields, than 
 ride over other people's. 
 
 66. In order to define what is fairest, you must delight in 
 what is fair ; and I know not how few or how many there 
 may be who take such delight. Once I could speak joy- 
 fully about beautiful things, thinking to be understood; 
 now I cannot, any more, for it seems to me that no one re- 
 gards them. "Wherever I look or travel, in England or 
 abroad, I see that men, wherever they can reach, destroy all 
 beauty. They seem to have no other desire or hope but 
 to have large houses, and to be able to move fast. Every 
 
EDUCATION. 109 
 
 perfect and lovely spot which they can touch, they defile 
 Thus the railroad bridge over the fall of Schaffhausen 
 and that round the Clarens shore of the Lake of Geneva, 
 have destroyed the power of two pieces of scenery of 
 which nothing can ever supply the place, in appeal to the 
 higher ranks of European mind. 
 
 67. The first thing which I remember as an event in 
 life, was being taken by my nurse to the brow of Friar's 
 Crag on Derwentwater. The intense joy, mingled with 
 awe, that I had in looking through the hollows in the 
 mossy roots, over the crag into the dark lake, has associa- 
 ted itself more or less with all twining roots of trees ever 
 since. Two other things I remember as, in a sort, begin- 
 nings of life ; — crossing Shap-Fells, being let out of the 
 chaise to run up the hills i and going through Glenfarg, 
 near Kinross, on a winter's morning, when the rocks were 
 hung with icicles; these being culminating points in an 
 early life of more travelling than is usually indulged to a 
 child. In such journeyings, whenever they brought me 
 near hills, and in all mountain ground and scenery, I had 
 a pleasure, as early as I can remember, and continuing till 
 I was eighteen or twenty, infinitely greater than any 
 which has been since possible to me in anything. 
 
 68. A fool always wants to shorten space and time ; 
 a wise man wants to lengthen both. A fool wants to kill 
 space and time ; a wise man, first to gain them, then to 
 animate them. 
 
110 FRONDES AGRESTES. 
 
 69. I suspect that system makers in general are not 01 
 much more use, each in his own domain, than, in that of 
 Pomona, the old women who tie cherries upon sticks, for 
 the more portableness of the same. To cultivate well, 
 and choose well your cherries, is of some importance ; 
 but if they can be had in their own wild way of cluster- 
 ing about their crabbed stalks, it is a better connection 
 for them than any others; and if they cannot, then so 
 that they be not bruised, it makes to a boy of practical 
 disposition not much difference whether he gets them by 
 handfuls, or in beaded symmetry on the exalting stick. 
 
 70. Every great man is always being helped by every- 
 body, for his gift is to get good out of all things and all 
 persons. 
 
 71. God appoints to every one of His creatures a sepa- 
 rate mission, and if they discharge it- honourably, if they 
 quit themselves like men, and faithfully follow the light 
 which is in them, withdrawing from it all cold and quench- 
 ing influence, there will assuredly come of it such burn- 
 ing as, in its appointed mode and measure, shall shine 
 before men, and be of service constant and holy. Degrees 
 infinite of lustre there must always be, but the weakest 
 among us has a gift, however seemingly trivial, which is 
 peculiar to him, and which worthily used will be a gift 
 ilso to his race for ever. 
 
 72. There is not any matter, nor any spirit, nor any 
 creature but it is capable of a unity of some kind witb 
 
EDUCATION. Ill 
 
 other creatures ; and in that unity is its perfection and 
 theirs, and a pleasure also for the beholding of all other 
 creatures that can behold. So the unity of spirits is partly 
 in their sympathy ^ and partly in their giving and taking 
 always in their love; and these are their delight and their 
 strength; for their strength is in their co- working and 
 army fellowship, and their delight is in their giving and 
 receiving of alternate and perpetual good ; their insepa 
 rable dependency on each other's being, and their essen 
 tial and perfect depending on their Creator's. And so the 
 unity of earthly creatures is their power, and their peace 
 not like the dead and cold peace of undisturbed stones and 
 solitary mountains, but the living peace of trust, and the 
 living power of support; of hands that hold each other 
 and are still.* 
 
 73. It is good to read of that kindness and humbleness 
 
 of St. Francis of Assisi, who spoke never to bird, nor tc 
 
 cicada, nor even to wolf and beasts of prey, but as his 
 
 brother ; — and so we find are moved the minds of a,ll good 
 
 and mighty men, as in the lesson that we have from the 
 
 " Mariner " of Coleridge, and yet more truly and rightly 
 
 taught in the " Heartleap Well" — 
 
 " Never to blend our pleasure or our pride 
 With sorrow of the meanest thing that feels " — 
 
 * A long, affected, and obscure second volume sentence, written 
 in imitation of Hooker. One short sentence from Proverbs is the 
 Bum of it : " How can one bo warm alone ?" 
 
112 FRONDES AGBESTES. 
 
 and again, in the " White Doe" of Eylstone, with the 
 
 added teaching, that anguish of our own 
 
 " Is tempered and allayed by sympathies 
 Aloft ascending, and descending deep, 
 Even to the inferior kinds " — 
 
 so that I know not of anything more destructive of the 
 whole theoretic faculty, not to say of the Christian char- 
 acter and human intellect,* than those accursed sports, in 
 which man makes of himself oat, tiger, leopard, and alli- 
 gator in one ; and gathers into one continuance of cruelty, 
 for his amusement, all the devices that brutes sparingly 
 and at intervals use against each other for their necessi- 
 ties. 
 
 74. He who loves not God, nor his brother, cannot love 
 the grass beneath his feet, nor the creatures which live 
 not for his uses, filling those spaces in the universe which 
 he needs not ; while on the other hand, none can love 
 God, nor his human brother, without loving all things 
 which his Father loves ; nor without looking upon them 
 every one as in that respect his brethren also, and per- 
 haps worthier than he, if, in the under concords they have 
 to fill, their part is touched more truly, f 
 
 * I am more and more grieved, as 1 re-read this and other por- 
 tions of the most affected and weak of all my books, (written in a 
 moulting time of my life,)— the second volume of "Modern Paint- 
 ers," — at its morbid violence of passion and narrowness of thought. 
 Yet, at heart, the book was like my others, honest ; and in sub- 
 stance it is mostly good ; but ail boiled to rags. 
 
 f Morbidly Franciscan, again I and I am really compelled tc 
 eave out one little bit my friend liked,— as all kindly and hopefu- 
 
EDUCATION. 113 
 
 75. Tilings may always be seen truly by candid people, 
 though never completely. No human capacity ever yet 
 saw the whole of a thing ; but we may see more and more 
 of it the longer we look. Every individual temper will 
 see something different in it ; but supposing the tempera 
 honest, all the differences are there. Every advance in 
 our acuteness of perception will show us something new ; 
 but the old and first discerned thing will still be there, 
 not falsified, only modified and enriched by the new per- 
 ceptions, becoming continually more beautiful in its har- 
 mony with them, and more approved as a part of the 
 infinite truth. 
 
 women would ; — about everything turning out right, and being to 
 some good end. For we have no business whatever with the ends 
 of things, but with their beings ; and their beings are often entirel v 
 bad. 
 
Ill FRONDES AGKESTES. 
 
 SECTION IX. 
 
 MORALITIES. 
 
 76. When people read, " The law came by Moses, but 
 grace and truth by Christ," do they suppose it means that 
 the law was ungracious and untrue ? The law was given 
 for a foundation; the grace, (or mercy,) and truth for 
 fulfilment; — the whole forming one glorious Trinity of 
 judgment, mercy, and truth.* And if people would but 
 read the text of their Bibles with heartier purpose of un- 
 derstanding it, instead of superstitiously, they would see 
 that throughout the parts which they are intended to 
 make most personally their own, (the Psalms,) it is al- 
 ways the Law which is spoken of with chief joy. The 
 Psalms respecting mercy are often sorrowful, as in thought 
 of what it cost ; but those respecting the law are always 
 full of delight. David cannot contain himself for joy in 
 thinking of it, he is never weary of its praise : " How I 
 love thy law I it is my meditation all the day. Thy testi- 
 monies are my delight and my counsellors ; sweeter also 
 than honey and the honey-comb." 
 
 * A great deal of the presumption and narrowness caused by my 
 having been bred in the Evangelical schools, and which now fill 
 me with shame and distress in re-reading "Modern Painters," is 
 to my present mind, atoned for by the accurate thinking by which 
 I broke my way through to the great truth expressed in this pas- 
 sage, which all my later writings, without exception, aave been 
 directed to maintain and illustrate. 
 
MORALITIES. 115 
 
 77. 1 suppose there is no event in the whole life of 
 Christ to which in hours of doubt or fear, men turn with 
 more anxious thirst to know the close facts of it, or with 
 more earnest and passionate dwelling upon every syllable 
 of its recorded narrative, than Christ's showing Himself 
 to His disciples at the Lake of Galilee There is some- 
 thing preeminently open, natural, full fronting our dis 
 belief, in this manifestation. The others, recorded after 
 the resurrection, were sudden, phantom-like, occurring to 
 men in profound sorrow and wearied agitation of heart ; 
 not, it might seem, safe judges of what they saw. But 
 the agitation Was now over. They had gone back to 
 their daily work, thinking still their business lay net- 
 wards, unmeshed from the literal rope and drag. " Simon 
 Peter saith unto them, I go a-fishing. They say unto 
 him, We also go with thee." True words enough, and 
 having far echo beyond those Galilean hills. That night 
 they caught nothing ; but when the morning came, in the 
 clear light of it, behold ! a figure stood on the shore. 
 They were not thinking of anything but their fruitless 
 hauls. They had no guess who it was. It asked them 
 simply if they had caught anything. They say, No, and 
 it tells them to cast again. And John shades his eyes 
 from the morning sun with his hand to look who it is ; 
 and though the glistening of the sea, too, dazzles him, he 
 makes out who it is at last ; and poor Simon, not to be 
 outrun this time, tightens his fisher's coat about him, and 
 dashes in over the nets. One would have liked to see 
 
116 FRONDES AGRESTES. 
 
 him swim those hundred yards, and stagger to his knees 
 upon the beach. 
 
 Well, the others get to the beach, too, in time, in such 
 slow way as men in general do get in this world to its 
 true shore, much impeded by that wonderful "dragging 
 the net with fishes ;" but they get there — seven of them 
 in all, first the Denier, and then the slowest believer, and 
 then the quickest believer, and then the two throne- 
 seekers, and two more, we know not who. 
 
 They sit down on the shore face to face with Him, and 
 eat their broiled fish as He bids. And then to Peter, all 
 dripping still, shivering, and amazed, staring at Christ in 
 the sun, on the other side of the coal-fire, — thinking a 
 little, perhaps, of what happened by another coal-fire, 
 when it was colder, and having had no word changed 
 with him by his Master since that look of His, — to him 
 so amazed, comes the question, " Simon, lovest thou Me?" 
 Try to feel that a little ; and think of it till it is true to 
 you : and then take up that infinite monstrosity and hy- 
 pocrisy, — Eaphael's cartoon of the charge to Peter. Note 
 first the bold fallacy — the putting all the Apostles there, 
 a mere he to serve the Papal heresy of the Petric su- 
 premacy, by putting them all in the background while 
 Peter receives the charge, and making them all witnesses 
 to it. Note the handsomely curled hair and neatly tied 
 sandals of the men who had been out all night in the sea- 
 mists, and on the slimy decks : note their convenient 
 dresses for going a-fishing, with trains that lie a yard 
 along the ground, and goodly fringes — all made to match 
 
MORALITIES. 117 
 
 an apostolic fishing costume. Note how Peter especially, 
 (whose chief glory was in his wet coat girt about him, 
 and naked limbs,) is enveloped in folds and fringes so as 
 to kneel and hold his keys with grace. No fire of coals 
 at all, nor lonely mountain shore, but a pleasant Italian 
 landscape, full of villas and churches, and a flock of sheep 
 to be pointed at ; and the whole group of Apostles, not 
 round Christ, as they would have been naturally, but 
 straggling away in a line, that they may all be shown. 
 The Simple truth is, that the moment we look at the pic- 
 ture we feel our belief of the whole thing taken away. 
 There is visibly no possibility of that group ever having 
 existed, in any place, or on any occasion. It is all a mere 
 mythic absurdity, and faded concoction of fringes, mus- 
 cular arms, and curly heads of Greek philosophers. 
 
 78. Among the children of God there is always that 
 fearful and bowed apprehension of His Majesty, and that 
 sacred dread of all offence to Him which is called the Fear 
 of God, yet of real and essential fear there is not any, bur 
 clinging of confidence to Him as their Eock, Fortress, and 
 Deliverer ; and perfect love and casting out of fear ; so 
 that it is not possible, that, while the mind is rightly bent 
 on Him there should be dread of anything earthly or 
 supernatural ; and the more dreadful seems the height oi 
 His majesty, the less fear they feel' that dwell in the 
 shadow of it. " Of whom shall I be afraid ?" 
 
 79. If, for every rebuke that we utter of men's vices, 
 we put forth a claim upon their hearts ; if from every 
 
118 FRONDES AGKESTES. 
 
 assertion of God's demands from them, we could substi 
 tute a display of His kindness to them ; if side by side 
 with every warning of death, we could exhibit proofs and 
 promises of immortality ; if, in fine, instead of assuming 
 the being of an awful Deity, which men, though they 
 cannot, and dare not deny, are always unwilling, some- 
 times unable to conceive, we were to show them a near, 
 visible, inevitable, but all benevolent Deity, whose pres- 
 ence makes the earth itself a heaven, I think there would 
 be fewer deaf children sitting in the market-place. 
 
 80. If not by sympathy discovered, it is not in words 
 explicable with what divine lines and lights the exercise 
 of godliness and oharity will mould and gild the hardest 
 and coldest countenance, neither to what darkness their 
 departure will consign the loveliest. For there is not any 
 virtue the exercise of which, even momentarily, will not 
 impress a new fairness upon the features. 
 
 81. The love of the human race is increased by their 
 individual differences, and the unity of the creature, made 
 perfect by each having something to bestow and to re- 
 ceive, bound to the rest by a thousand various necessi- 
 ties and various gratitudes ; humility in each rejoicing to 
 admire in his fellow that which he finds not in himself, 
 and each being in some respect the complement of his 
 race. 
 
 82. They who are as the angels of God in heaven, yet 
 cannot be conceived as so assimilated that thejr different 
 
MORALITIES. 119 
 
 experiences and affections upon earth shall then be for- 
 gotten and effectless ; the child, taken early to his place, 
 cannot be imagined to wear there such a body, nor to 
 have such thoughts, as the glorified apostle who had 
 finished his course and kept the faith on earth. And so, 
 whatever perfections and likeness of love we may attribute 
 to either the tried or the crowned creatures, there is the 
 difference of the stars in glory among them yet ; — differ- 
 ences of original gifts, though not of occupying till their 
 Lord come ; different dispensations of trial and trust, of 
 sorrows and support, both in their own inward, variable 
 hearts, and in their positions of exposure or of peace, of 
 the gourd shadow and the smiting sun, of calling at heat 
 of day, or eleventh hour, of the house unroofed by faith, 
 or the clouds opened by revelation ; differences in warn- 
 ing, in mercies, in sickness, in signs, in time of calling to 
 account ; alike only they all are by that which is not of 
 them, but the gift of God's unchangeable mercy. " I will 
 give unto this last even as unto thee." 
 
 83. The desire of rest planted in the heart is no sensual 
 nor unworthy one ; but a longing for renovation, and for 
 escape from a state whose every phase is mere prepara- 
 tion for another equally transitory, to one in which per- 
 manence becomes possible through perfection. Hence 
 the great call of Christ to men, that call on which St. 
 Augustine fixed as the essential expression of Christian 
 hope, is accompanied by the promise of rest ; and the 
 death bequest of Christ to men, is peace. 
 
120 FRONDES AGRESTES. 
 
 84. He who has once stood beside the grave, to look 
 back upon the companionship which has been forever 
 closed, feeling how impotent, there, are the wild love, and 
 the keen sorrow, to give one instant's pleasure to the 
 pulseless heart, or atone in the lowest measure to the de- 
 parted spirit, for the hour of unkindness, will scarcely for 
 the future incur that debt to the heart, which can only be 
 discharged to the dust. But the lessons which men re- 
 ceive as individuals, they do Dot learn as nations. Again 
 and again they have seen their noblest descend into the 
 grave, and have thought it enough to garland the tomb- 
 stone when they had not crowned the brow, and to pay 
 the honor to the ashes, which they had denied to the 
 spirit. Let it not displease them that they are bidden, 
 amidst the tumult and the dazzle of their busy life, to 
 listen for the few voices, and watch for the few lamps, 
 which God has toned and lighted to charm and to guide 
 them, that they may not learn their sweetness by their 
 silence, nor their light by their decay. 
 
 85. In the Cathedral of Lucca, near the entrance door 
 of the north trancept, there is a monument by Jacopo 
 della Quercia to Ilaria di Caretto, the wife of Paolo Gu- 
 inigi. I name it not as more beautiful or perfect than 
 other examples of the same period ; but as furnishing an 
 instance of the exact and right mean between the rigidity 
 and rudeness of the earlier monumental effigies, and the 
 morbid imitation of life sleep, or death, of which the 
 fashion has taken place in modern times. She is lying on 
 
M0RALI1IES. 121 
 
 a simple couch -with a hound at her feet; not on the side, 
 but with the head laid straight and simply on the hard 
 pillow, in which, let it be observed, there is no efi'ort at 
 deceptive imitation of pressure.— It is understood as a 
 pillow, but not mistaken for one. The hair is bound in 
 a flat braid over the fair brow, the sweet and arched eyes 
 are closed, the tenderness of the loving lips is set and 
 quiet; there is that about them which forbids breath; 
 something which is not death nor sleep, but the pure im- 
 age of both. The hands are not lifted in prayer, neither 
 folded, but the arms are laid at length upon the body, and 
 the hands cross as they fall. The feet are hidden by the 
 drapery, and the form of the limbs concealed, but not 
 their tenderness. 
 
 86. I do not know any district possessing a more pure 
 or uninterrupted fulness of mountain character, (and that 
 of the highest order,) or which appears to have been less 
 disturbed by foreign agencies, than that which borders 
 the course of the Trien between Valarsine and Martigny. 
 The paths which lead to it out of the valley of the Ehone, 
 rising at first in steep circles among the walnut trees, like 
 winding stairs among the pillars of a Gothic tower, retire 
 over the shoulders of the hills into a valley almost un- 
 known, but thickly inhabited by an industrious and pa- 
 tient population. Along the ridges of the rocks, smoothed 
 by old glaziers into long, dark billowy swellings, like the 
 backs of plunging dolphins, the peasant watches the slow 
 colouring of the tufts of moss and roots of herb, which 
 6 
 
122 FBONDES AGRESTES. 
 
 little by little gather a feeble soil over the iron substance, 
 then, supporting the narrow slip of clinging ground with 
 a few stones, he subdues it to the spade; and in a year or 
 two a little crest of corn is seen waving upon the rocky 
 casque. The irregular meadows run in and out like in • 
 lets of lake among these harvested rocks, sweet with per- 
 petual streamlets that seem always to have chosen the 
 steepest places to come down, for the sake of the leaps, 
 scattering their handfuls of crystal this way and that, as 
 the wind takes them, with all the grace, but with none of 
 the formalism, of fountains; dividing into fanciful change 
 of dash and spring, yet with the seal of their granite 
 channels upon them, as the lightest play of human speech 
 may bear the seal of past toil, and closing back out of 
 their spray to lave the rigid angles, and brighten with 
 silver fringes and glassy films each lower and lower step 
 of sable stone; until at last, gathered altogether again, — 
 except perhaps some chance drops caught on the apple 
 blossom, where it has budded a little nearer the cascade 
 than it did last spring, — they find their way down to the 
 turf, and lose themselves in that, silently; with quiet 
 depth of clear water furrowing among the grass-blades, 
 and looking only like their shadow, but presently emerg- 
 ing again in little startled gushes and laughing hurries, as 
 if they had remembered suddenly that the day was too 
 short for them to get down the hill. Green field, and glow- 
 ing rock, and glancing streamlet, all slope together in the 
 sunshine towards the brows of ravines, where the pines 
 take up their own dominion of saddened shade; and with 
 
MORALITIES. 123 
 
 everlasting roar, in the twilight, the stronger torrents 
 thunder down, pale from the glaziers, fining all the chasms 
 with enchanted cold, beating themselves to pieces against 
 the great rocks that they have themselves cast down, and 
 forcing fierce way beneath their ghastly poise. The 
 mountain paths stoop to those glens in forty zigzags, 
 leading to some grey and narrow arch, all fringed under 
 its shuddering curve with the ferns that fear the light; 
 a cross of rough-hewn pine, iron-bound to its parapet, 
 standing dark against the lurid fury of the foam. Far 
 up the glen, as we pause beside the cross, the sky is seen 
 through the openings in the pines thin with excess of 
 light; and, in its clear consuming flame of white space, 
 the summits of the rocky mountains are gathered into 
 solemn crowns and circlets, all flushed in that strange, 
 faint silence of possession by the sunshine, which has in 
 it so deep a melancholy, full of power, yet as frail as 
 shadows; lifeless, like the walls of a sepulchre, yet beau- 
 tiful in tender fall of crimson folds, like the veil of some 
 sea spirit, that lives and dies as the foam flashes ; fixed on 
 a perpetual throne, stern against all strength, lifted above 
 all sorrow, and yet effaced and melted utterly into the air 
 by that last sunbeam that has crossed to them from be- 
 tween the two golden clouds. 
 
 High above all sorrow ? Yes ; but not unwitnessing to 
 it. The traveller on his happy journey, as his foot springs 
 from the deep turf, and strikes the pebbles gaily over the 
 edge of the mountain road, sees with a glance of, delight 
 the clusters of nut-brown cottages that nestle along thos# 
 
124 FRONDES AGRESTES. 
 
 sloping orchards, and glow beneath the boughs of the 
 pines. Here, it may u r ell seem to him, if there be some- 
 times hardship, there must be at least innocence and peace, 
 and fellowship of the human soul with nature. It is not 
 so. The wild goats that leap along those rocks have as 
 much passion of joy in all that fair work of God as the 
 men that toil among them, — perhaps more. Enter the 
 street of one of the villages, and you will find it foul with 
 that gloomy foulness that is suffered only by torpor, or 
 by anguish of soul. Here, it is torpor — not absolute 
 suffering — not starvation or disease ; but darkness of calm 
 enduring: the spring, known only as the time of the 
 scythe, and the autumn as the time of the siokle, and the 
 sun only as a warmth, the wind as a chill, and the moun- 
 tains as a danger. They do not understand so much as 
 the name of beauty, or of knowledge. They understand 
 dimly that of virtue. Love, patience, hospitality, faith, — 
 these things they know. To glean their meadows side 
 by side, so happier ; to bear the burden up the breathless 
 mountain flank unmurmingly ; to bid the stranger arink 
 from their vessel of milk ; to see at the foot of their low 
 death-beds a pale figure upon a cross, dying, also pa- 
 tiently ; in this they are different from the cattle and from 
 the stones ; but, in all this, unrewarded, as far as concerns 
 the present life. For them, there is neither hope nor pas- 
 sion of spirit ; for them, neither advance nor exultation. 
 Black bread, rude roof, dark night, laborious day, weary 
 arm at sunset ; and life ebbs away. No books, no the lights, 
 no attainments, no rest, — except only sometimes a little 
 
MORALITIES. 125 
 
 sitting in the sun under the church wall, as the bell tolls 
 thin and far in the mountain air; a pattering of a few- 
 prayers, not understood, by the altar-rails of the dimly 
 gilded chapel, — and so, back to the sombre home, -with 
 the cloud upon them still unbroken — that cloud of rocky 
 gloom, born out of the wild torrents and ruinous stones, 
 and unlightened even in their religion, except by the vague 
 promise of some betteT thing unknown, mingled with 
 threatening, and obscured by an unspeakable horror — a 
 smoke, as it were, of martyrdom, coiling up with the in- 
 cense; and amidst the images of tortured bodiesand la- 
 menting spirits in hurtling flames, the very cross, for them, 
 dashed more deeply than for others with gouts of blood. 
 
 87. A Highland scene is beyond doubt pleasant enough 
 in its own way ; but, looked close at, has its shadows.* 
 Here, for instance, is the very fact of cne — as pretty as I 
 can remember, — having seen many. It is a little valley 
 of soft turf enclosed in its narrow oval by jutting rocks, 
 and broad flakes of nodding fern. From one side of it to 
 the other winds, serpentine, a clear brown stream, droop- 
 ing into quicker ripple as it reaches the end of the oval 
 field, and then, first islanding a purple and white rock 
 with an amber pool, it dashes away into a narrow fall of 
 foam under a thicket of mountain ash and alder. The 
 autumn sun, low, but clear, shines on the scarlet ash- 
 
 * Passage, written to be opposed to an exuberant description, by 
 in amiable Scottish pastor, of everything nattering to Scotchmen 
 .n the Highlands. I have put next to it, a little study of the sad- 
 ness of Italy. 
 
126 FRONDES AGRESTES. 
 
 berries and on the golden-birch leaves, which, fallen here 
 and there, when the breeze has not caught them, rest 
 quiet in the crannies of the purple rock. Beside the 
 rock, in the hollow under the thicket, the carcase of a ewe, 
 drowned in the last flood, lies nearly bare to the bone, 
 its white ribs protruding through the skin, raven-torn; 
 and the rags of its wool still flickering from the branches 
 that first stayed it as the stream swept it down. A little 
 lower, the current plunges, roaring, into a -circular chasm 
 like a well, surrounded on three sides by a chimney-like 
 hollowness of polished rock, down which the foam slips 
 in detached snow-flakes. Bound the edges of the pool 
 beneath, the water circles slowly like black oil ; a little 
 butterfly lies on its back, the wings glued to one of the 
 eddies, its limbs feebly quivering; a fish rises, and it is 
 gone. Lower down the stream, I can see over a knoll the 
 green and damp turf roofs of four or five hovels, built at 
 the edge of a morass, which is trodden by the cattle intc 
 a black Slough of Despond at their doors, and traversed 
 by a few ill-set stepping stones, with here and there a flat 
 slab on the tops, where they have sunk out of sight; — 
 and at the turn of the brook I see a man fishing, with a 
 boy and a dog — a picturesque and pretty group enough 
 certainly, if they had not been there all day starving. I 
 know them, and I know the dog's ribs also, which are 
 nearly as bare as the dead ewe's; and the child's wasted 
 ihoulders, cutting his old tartan jacket through, so sharp 
 are they. 
 
MORALITIES. 12? 
 
 88. Perhaps there is no more impressive scene on earth 
 than the solitary extent of the Campagna of Kome under 
 evening light. Let the reader imagine himself for a mo- 
 ment withdrawn from the sounds and motion of the liv- 
 ing world, and sent forth alone into this wild and wasted 
 plain. The earth yields and crumbles beneath his feet, 
 tread he never so lightly, for its substance is white, hol- 
 low, and carious, like the dusty wreck of the bones of 
 men. The long knotted grass waves and tosses feebly in 
 the evening wind, and the shadows of its motion shake 
 feverishly along the banks of ruin, that lift themselves to 
 the sunlight. Hillocks of mouldering earth heave around 
 him, as if the dead beneath were struggling in their sleep. 
 Scattered blocks of black stone, four-square remnants of 
 mighty edifices, not one left upon another, he upon them 
 to keep them down. A dull purple poisonous haze stretches 
 level along the desert, veiling its spectral wrecks of massy 
 ruins, on whose rents the red light rests, like dying fire 
 on defiled altars ; the blue ridge of the Alban Mount lifts 
 itself against a solemn space of green, clear, quiet sky. 
 Watch-towers of dark clouds stand steadfastly along the 
 promontories of the Apennines. From the plain to the 
 mountains, the shattered aqueducts, pier beyond pier, melt 
 into the darkness, like shadowy and countless troops of 
 uneral mourners, passing from a nation's grave. 
 
 89. I was coming down one evening from the Koch- 
 ers de Naye, above Montreux, having been at work 
 among the Kmestone rocks, where I could get no water 
 
l28 FKONDES AGRESTES. 
 
 and, both weary and thirsty Coming to a spring at a 
 turn of the path, conducted, as usual, by the herdsmen, 
 into a hollow pine trunk, I stooped to it, and drank deeply. 
 As I raised my head, drawing breath heavily, some one 
 behind me said, " Celui qui boiia de cette eau ci, aura en- 
 core soif." I turned, not understanding for a moment 
 what was meant, and saw one of the hill peasants, proba- 
 bly returning to his cMlet from the market-place at Ve- 
 vay or Villeneuve. As I looked at him with an uncom- 
 prehending expression, he went on with the verse ; " Mais 
 celui qui boira de 1'eau que je lui donnerai, n'aura jamais 
 soif." 
 
 90. It may perhaps be admitted me* to mark the sig- 
 nificance of the earliest mention of mountains in the Mo- 
 saic books ; at least of those in which some Divine ap- 
 pointment or command is stated respecting them. They 
 are first brought before us as refuges for God's people from 
 the two judgments of water and fire. The ark rests upon 
 the mountains of Ararat ; and man, having passed through 
 that great Baptism unto death, kneels upon the earth first 
 where it is nearest heaven, and mingles with the moun- 
 tain clouds the smoke of his sacrifice of thanksgiving. 
 Again; from the midst of the first judgment by fire, the 
 command of the Deity to His servant is, " Escape to the 
 mountain;" and the morbid fear of the hills, which fills 
 any human mind after long stay in places of luxury and 
 
 * With reference to the choice of mountain dwellings by the 
 greater monastic orders. 
 
MORALITIES. 129 
 
 Bin, is strangely marked in Lot's complaining reply, "1 
 cannot escape to the mountain, lest some evil take me." 
 The third mention, in way of ordinance, is a far more 
 solemn one, "Abraham lifted up his eyes, and saw the 
 place afar off." "The Place," the mountain of myrrh, or 
 of bitterness, chosen to fulfil to all the seed of Abraham, 
 far off and near, the inner meaning of promise regarded in 
 that vow: "I will lift up mine eyes unto the hills, from 
 whence cometh mine help." And the fourth is the de- 
 livery of the law on Sinai. It seemed then to the monks 
 that the mountains were appointed by their Maker to be 
 to man refuges from Judgment, signs of redemption, and 
 altars of sanctification and obedience ; and they saw them 
 afterwards connected in the manner the most touching 
 and gracious, with the death, after his task had been ac- 
 complished, of the first anointed Priest; the death, in 
 like manner, of the first inspired Lawgiver ; and lastly, 
 with the assumption of His office, by the Eternal Priest, 
 Lawgiver, and Saviour. 
 
 Observe the connection of these three events. Although 
 the time of the deaths of Aaron and Moses was hastened 
 by God's displeasure, we have not, it seems to me, the 
 slightest warrant for concluding that the manner of their 
 deaths was intended to be grievous or dishonourable to 
 them. Far from this, it cannot, I think, be doubted that 
 .n the denial of the permission to enter the Promised 
 Land, the whole punishment of their sin was included ; 
 and that as far as regarded the manner of their deaths, it 
 must have been appointed for them by their Master, in 
 i 6* 
 
130 FRONDES AGRESTES. 
 
 all tenderness and lore, and with the fall purpose of en. 
 nobling the close of their service upon the earth. It 
 might have seemed to us more honourable that both 
 should have been permitted to die beneath the shadow of 
 the Tabernacle, the congregation of Israel watching by 
 their side ; and all whom they loved gathered together to 
 receive the last message from the lips of the meek law- 
 giver, and the last blessing from the prayer of the anointed- 
 priest. But it was not thus they were permitted to die. 
 Try to reahze that going forth of Aaron from the midst 
 of the congregation. He who had so often done sacrifice 
 lor their sin, going forth now to offer up his own spirit. 
 He who had stood among them between the dead and the 
 living, and had seen the eyes of all that great multitude 
 turned to him, that by his intercession their breath might 
 yet be draWn a moment more, going forth now to meet 
 the angel of death face to face, and deliver himself into 
 his hand. Try if yon cannot walk in thought with these 
 two brothers, and the son, as they passed the outmost 
 tents of Israel, and turned, while yet the dew lay round 
 about the camp, towards the slopes of Mount Hor ; talk- 
 ing together for the last time, as step by step they felt 
 the steeper rising of the rocks, and hour after hour, be- 
 neath the ascending sun, the horizon grew broader as they 
 climbed, and all the folded hills of Idumea, one by one 
 subdued, showed, amidst their hollows in the haze of 
 noon, the windings of that long desert journey, now at 
 last to close. But who shall enter into the thoughts of 
 the High Priest as his eye followed those paths of ancient 
 
MORALITIES. 131 
 
 pilgrimage ; and through the silence of the arid and end- 
 less hills, stretching even to the dim peak of Sinai, the 
 whole history of those forty years was unfolded before 
 him, and the mystery of his own ministries revealed to 
 him; and that other Holy of Holies, of which the moun- 
 tain peaks were the altars, and the mountain clouds the 
 veil, the firmament of his Father's dwelling, opened to 
 him still more brightly and infinitely as he drew nearer 
 his death ? — until at last, on the shadeless summit, from 
 him on whom sin was to be laid no more, from him on 
 whose heart the names of sinful nations were to press 
 their graven fire no longer, the brother and the son took 
 breast-plate and ephod, and left him to his rest. There 
 is indeed a secretness in this calm faith, and deep restraint 
 of sorrow, into which it is difficult for us to enter ; but 
 the death of Moses himself is more easily to be conceived, 
 and had in it circumstances still more touching as regards 
 the influence of the external scene. For forty years Moses 
 had not been alone. The care and burden of all the peo- 
 ple, the weight of their woe, and guilt, and death, had 
 been upon him continually. The multitude had been laid 
 upon him as if he had conceived them ; their tears had 
 been his meat night and day, until he had felt as if God 
 had withdrawn His favour from him, and he had prayed 
 that he might be slain and not see his wretchedness. And 
 now at last the command came, "Get thee up into this 
 mountain" The weary hands that had been so long 
 Btayed up against the enemies of Israel, might lean again 
 upon the shepherd's staff, and fold themselves for the 
 
132 FRONDES AGRESTES. 
 
 shepherds prayer — for the shepherd's slumber. Not 
 strange to his feet, though forty years unknown, the 
 roughness of the bare mountain path, as he climbed 
 from ledge to ledge of Abarim; net strange to his 
 aged eyes the scattered clusters of the mountain herb- 
 age, and the broken shadows of the cliffs, indented 
 far across the silence of uninhabited ravines; scenes 
 such as those among which, as now, with none beside 
 him but God, he had led his flocks so often; and 
 which he had left, how painfully 1 taking upon him the 
 appointed power to make of the fenced city a wilderness, 
 and to fill the desert with songs of deliverance. It was 
 not to embitter the last hours of his life that God restored 
 to him for a day the beloved solitudes he had lost, and 
 breathed the peace of the perpetual hills around him, and 
 cast the world in which he had laboured, and sinned, far 
 beneath his feet in that mist of dying blue ; — all sin, all 
 wandering, soon to be forgotten forever. The Dead Sea — 
 a type of God's anger, understood by him, of all men, most 
 clearly, who had seen the earth open her mouth, and the 
 sea his depth, to overwhelm the companies of those who 
 contended with his Master — laid waveless beneath him , 
 and beyond it the fair hills of Judah, and the soft plains 
 and banks of Jordan, purple in the evening light as with 
 the blood of redemption, and fading in their distant ful* 
 ness into mysteries of promise and of love. There, with 
 his unabated strength, his undimmed glance, lying down 
 upon the utmost rocks, with angels waiting near to con- 
 tend for the spoils of his spirit, he put off his earthly 
 
MOB 1LITIES. 138 
 
 armour. We do deep reverence to his companion prophet, 
 for whom the chariot of fire came down from heaven ; 
 but was his death less noble whom his Lord Himself 
 buried in the vales of Moab, keeping, in the secrets of the 
 eternal councils, the knowledge of a sepulchre, from which 
 he was to be called in the fulness of time, to talk with 
 that Lord upon Hermon of the death that he should ac- 
 complish at Jerusalem ? 
 
 And lastly, let us turn our thoughts for a few moments 
 to the cause of the resurrection of these two prophets. 
 "We are all of us too much in the habit of passing it by, 
 as a thing mystical and inconceivable, taking place in the 
 life of Christ for some purpose not by us to be under- 
 stood, or, at the best, merely as a manifestation of His 
 divinity, by brightness of heavenly light, and the minis- 
 tering to the spirits of the dead, intended to strengthen 
 the faith of His three chosen apostles. And in this, as 
 in many other events recorded by the Evangelists, we 
 lose half the meaning, and evade the practical power upon 
 ourselves, by never accepting in its fulness the idea that 
 our Lord was "perfect man," — "tempted in all things 
 like as we are." Our preachers are continually trying, 
 in all manner of subtle ways, to explain the union of the 
 Divinity with the Manhood — an explanation which cer- 
 tainly involves first their being able to describe the nature 
 of Deity itself, or, in p' (tin words, to comprehend God. 
 They never can explain, in any one particular, the union 
 of the natures ; they only succeed in weakening the faith 
 of their hearers as to the entireness of either. The thing 
 
L34 FRONDES AGEESTES. 
 
 they have to do is precisely the contrary of this— to insist 
 upon the entireness of both, "We never think of Christ 
 enough as God, never enough as Man; the instinctive 
 habit of our minds being always to miss of the Divinity, 
 and the reasoning and enforced habit to miss of the hu- 
 manity. "We are afraid to "harbour in our own hearts, or 
 to utter in the hearing of others, any thought of our Lord 
 as hungering, tired, sorrowful, having a human soul, . a 
 human will, and affected by events of human life, as a 
 finite creature is; and yet one half of the efficiency 
 of His atonement, and the whole of the efficiency of 
 His example, depend on His having been this to the 
 full. Consider, therefore, the Transfiguration as it re- 
 lates to the human feelings of our Lord. It was the 
 first definite preparation for His death. He had foretold 
 jt to His disciples six days before ; then takes with Him 
 the three chosen ones into " an high mountain apart." ■ 
 From an exceeding high mountain, at the first taking on 
 Him the ministry of life, He had beheld and rejected the 
 kingdoms of the earth, and their glory : now, on a high 
 mountain, He takes upon Him the ministry of death. 
 Peter and they that were with Him, as in Gethsemane. 
 were heavy with sleep. Christ's work had to be done 
 alone. 
 
 The tradition is, that the Mount of Transfiguration was 
 the summit of Tabor ; but Tabor is neither a high moun- 
 tain, nor was it in any sense a mountain " apart" being 
 in those years both inhabited and fortified. All the im- 
 mediately preceding ministries of Christ had been at 
 
MORALITIES. 135 
 
 CesaTea Philippi. There is no mention of travel south- 
 ward in the six days that intervened between the warn- 
 ing given to Bis disciples and the going up into the hill. 
 What other hill could it be than the southward slope of 
 that goodly mountain, Hermon, which is indeed the centre 
 of all the Promised Land, from the entering in of Hamath 
 unto the river of Egypt ; the mount of fruitfulness, from 
 which the springs of Jordan descended to the valleys of 
 Israel ? Along its mighty forest avenues, until the grass 
 grew fair with the mountain lilies, His feet dashed in the 
 dew of Hermon, He must have gone to pray His first re- 
 corded prayer about death ; and from the steep of it, be- 
 fore He knelt, could see to the south all the dwellings of 
 the people that had sat in darkness, and seen the great 
 light, the land of Zabulon and of Naphtali, Galilee of the 
 nations, — could see, even with His human sight, the 
 gleam of that lake by Capernaum and Chorazin, and 
 many a place loved by Him, and vainly ministered to, 
 whose house was now left unto them desolate ; and chief 
 of all, far in the utmost blue, the hills above Nazareth, 
 sloping down to His old home ; hills on which yet the 
 stones lay loose that had been taken up to cast at Him 
 when He left them forever. 
 
 "And as He prayed, two men stood by Him." Among 
 the many ways in which we miss the help and hold of 
 Scripture, none is more subtle than our habit of supposing 
 that, even as man, Christ was free from the fear of death. 
 How could he then have been tempted as we are?— since 
 among the trials of the earth, none spring from the dust 
 
136 FRONDES AGRESTES. 
 
 more terrible than that fear. It had to be borne by Him, 
 indeed, in a unity, which we can never comprehend, with 
 the foreknowledge of victory, — as His sorrow for Lazarus 
 with the consciousness of His power to restore Him; but 
 it had to be borne, and that in its full earthly terror; and 
 the presence of it is surely marked for us enough by the 
 rising of those two at His side. When, in the desert, 
 He was girding Himself for the work of life, angels of life 
 came and ministered to Him; now in the fair world, when 
 He is girding Himself for the work of death, the minis- 
 trants come to Him from the grave. But, from the grave, 
 conquered. One from that tomb under Abarim, which 
 His own hand had sealed long ago; the other, from the 
 rest into which he had entered without seeing corruption. 
 "There stood by him Moses and Elias, and spake of His 
 decease." Then, when the prayer is ended, first, since the 
 star paused over him at Bethlehem, the full glory falls 
 upon Him from heaven, and the testimony is borne to His 
 everlasting Sonship and power. "Hear ye Him." 
 
 If, in their remembrance of these things, and in their en 
 deavour to follow in the footsteps of their Master, religious 
 men of bygone days, closing themselves in the hill-solitudes, 
 forgot sometimes, and sometimes feared, the duties they 
 owed to the active world, we may perhaps pardon them 
 more easily than we ought to pardon ourselves, if we neither 
 seek any influence for good, nor submit to it unsought, 
 in scenes to which thus all the men whose writings we 
 receive as inspired, together with their Lord, retired when 
 ever they had any task or trial laid upon them needing more 
 
MORALITIES. 137 
 
 than their usual strength of spirit. Nor perhaps should 
 we have unprofitably entered into the mind of the earlier 
 ages, if among our other thoughts, as we watch the chains 
 of the snowy mountains rise on the horizon, we should 
 sometimes admit the memory of the hour in which their 
 Creator, among their solitudes, entered on His travail for 
 the salvation of our race; and indulge the dream, that as 
 the flaming and trembling mountains of the earth seem 
 to be monuments of the manifesting of His terror on Sinai 
 these pure and white hills, near to the heaven, and sources 
 of all good to the earth, are the appointed memorials of 
 of that light of His mercy, that fell, snow-like, on the 
 Mount of Transfiguration. 
 
 mas.