2. Is Usury, as defined by existing law, an absolute term, such as
Theft, or Adultery? and is a man therefore a Usurer who only commits
Usury a little, as a man is an Adulterer who only commits Adultery a
little?
3. Or is it a sin incapable of strict definition, or strictly
retributive punishment; like ‘Cruelty’? and is a man criminal in
proportion to the quantity of it he commits?
4. If criminal in proportion to the quantity he commits, is the proper
legal punishment in the direct ratio of the quantity, or inverse ratio
of the quantity, as it is in the case of theft?
If you will answer these questions clearly, you will do more service to
Humanity than by writing any quantity of papers either on its
Collective Development or its Abstract being. I have not touched upon
any of the more grave questions glanced at in your paper, because in
your present Mercutial temper I cannot expect you to take cognizance of
anything grave. With respect to such matters, I will “ask for you
to-morrow,” not to-day. But here—to end my Fors with a piece of pure
English,—are two little verses of Sir Philip’s, merry enough, in
measure, to be set to a Fandango if you like. I may, perhaps, some time
or other, ask you if you can apply them personally, in address to Mr.
Comte. For the nonce I only ask you the above four plain questions of
English law; and I adjure you, by the soul of every Comes reckoned up
in unique Comte—by all that’s positive, all that’s progressive, all
that’s spiral, all that’s conchoidal, and all that’s evolute—great
Human Son of Holothurian Harries, answer me.
“Since imprisoned in my mother
Thou me feed’st, whom have I other
Held my stay, or made my song?
Yea, when all me so misdeemed,
I to most a monster seemed
Yet in thee my hope was strong.
Yet of thee the thankful story
Filled my mouth: thy gratious glory
Was my ditty all the day.
Do not then, now age assaileth,
Courage, verdure, vertue faileth,
Do not leave me cast away.”
I have little space, as now too often, for any definite school work. My
writing-lesson, this month, is a facsimile of the last words written by
Nelson; in his cabin, with the allied fleets in sight, off Trafalgar.
It is entirely fine in general structure and character.
Mr. Ward has now three, and will I hope soon have the fourth, of our
series of lesson photographs, namely,—
1. Madonna by Filippo Lippi.
2. The Etruscan Leucothea.
3. Madonna by Titian.
4. Infanta Margaret, by Velasquez.
On these I shall lecture, as I have time, here and in the ‘Laws of
Fésole;’ but, in preparation for all farther study, when you have got
the four, put them beside each other, putting the Leucothea first, the
Lippi second, and the others as numbered.
Then, the first, the Leucothea, is entirely noble religious art, of the
fifth or sixth century B.C., full of various meaning and mystery, of
knowledges that are lost, feelings that have ceased, myths and symbols
of the laws of life, only to be traced by those who know much both of
life and death.
Technically, it is still in Egyptian bondage, but in course of swiftly
progressive redemption.
The second is nobly religious work of the fifteenth century of
Christ,—an example of the most perfect unison of religious myth with
faithful realism of human nature yet produced in this world. The
Etruscan traditions are preserved in it even to the tassels of the
throne cushion: the pattern of these, and of the folds at the edge of
the angel’s drapery, may be seen in the Etruscan tomb now central in
the first compartment of the Egyptian gallery of the British Museum and
the double cushion of that tomb is used, with absolute obedience to his
tradition, by Jacopo della Quercia, in the tomb of Ilaria di Caretto.
The third represents the last phase of the noble religious art of the
world, in which realization has become consummate; but all supernatural
aspect is refused, and mythic teaching is given only in obedience to
former tradition, but with no anxiety for its acceptance. Here is, for
certain, a sweet Venetian peasant, with her child, and fruit from the
market-boats of Mestre. The Ecce Agnus, topsy-turvy on the finely
perspectived scroll, may be deciphered by whoso list.
But the work itself is still sternly conscientious, severe, reverent,
and faultless.
The fourth is an example of the highest reach of technical perfection
yet reached in art; all effort and labour seeming to cease in the
radiant peace and simplicity of consummated human power. But all belief
in supernatural things, all hope of a future state, all effort to
teach, and all desire to be taught have passed away from the artist’s
mind. The Child and her Dog are to him equally real, equally royal,
equally mortal. And the History of Art since it reached this
phase—cannot be given in the present number of ‘Fors Clavigera.’