Florence, 1st May, 1872.
My Friends,
Have you thought, as I prayed you to think, during the days of April,
what things they are that will hinder you from being happy on this
first of May? Be assured of it, you are meant, to-day, to be as happy
as the birds, at least. If you are not, you, or somebody else, or
something that you are one or other responsible for, is wrong; and
your first business is to set yourself, them, or it, to rights. Of
late you have made that your last business; you have thought things
would right themselves, or that it was God's business to right them,
not yours. Peremptorily it is yours. Not, observe, to get your rights,
but to put things to rights. Some eleven in the dozen of the population
of the world are occupied earnestly in putting things to wrongs,
thinking to benefit themselves thereby. Is it any wonder, then,
you are uncomfortable, when already the world, in our part of it,
is over-populated, and eleven in the dozen of the over-population
doing diligently wrong; and the remaining dozenth expecting God to do
their work for them; and consoling themselves with buying two-shilling
publications for eighteenpence?
To put things to rights! Do you not know how refreshing it is, even
to put one's room to rights, when it has got dusty and decomposed? If
no other happiness is to be had, the mere war with decomposition
is a kind of happiness. But the war with the Lord of Decomposition,
the old Dragon himself,--St. George's war, with a princess to save,
and win--are none of you, my poor friends, proud enough to hope for
any part in that battle? Do you conceive no figure of any princess for
May Queen; or is the definite dragon turned into indefinite cuttlefish,
vomiting black venom into the waters of your life; or has he multiplied
himself into an host of pulicarious dragons--bug-dragons, insatiable
as unclean,--whose food you are, daily?
St. George's war! Here, since last May, when I engraved Giotto's
Hope for you, have I been asking whether any one would volunteer for
such battle? Not one human creature, except a personal friend or two,
for mere love of me, has answered.
Now, it is true, that my writing may be obscure, or seem only half
in earnest. But it is the best I can do: it expresses the thoughts
that come to me as they come; and I have no time just now to put them
into more intelligible words. And, whether you believe them or not,
they are entirely faithful words: I have no interest at all to serve
by writing, but yours.
And, literally, no one answers. Nay, even those who read, read so
carelessly that they don't notice whether the book is to go on or not.
Heaven knows; but it shall, if I am able, and what I undertook
last May, be fulfilled, so far as the poor faculty or time left me
may serve.
Read over, now, the end of that letter for May last, from "To talk
at a distance," in page 10.
I have given you the tenth of all I have, as I promised. I cannot,
because of those lawyers I was talking of last month, get it given
you in a permanent and accumulative form; besides that, among the
various blockheadisms and rascalities of the day, the perversion of
old endowments from their appointed purposes being now practised
with applause, gives one little encouragement to think of the
future. However, the seven thousand pounds are given, and wholly
now out of my own power; and, as I said, only two or three friends,
for love of me, and one for true love of justice also, have, in the
course of the year, joined with me.
However, this is partly my own fault, for not saying more clearly what
I want; and for expecting people to be moved by writing, instead of
by personal effort. The more I see of writing the less I care for it;
one may do more with a man by getting ten words spoken with him face
to face, than by the black lettering of a whole life's thought.
In parenthesis, just read this little bit of Plato; and take it to
heart. If the last sentence of it does not fit some people I know of,
there is no prophecy on lip of man.
Socrates is speaking. "I have heard indeed--but no one can say now
if it is true or not--that near Nancratis, in Egypt, there was born
one of the old gods, the one to whom the bird is sacred which they
call the ibis; and this god or demigod's name was Theuth." Second
parenthesis--(Theuth, or Thoth: he always has the head of an ibis
with a beautiful long bill, in Egyptian sculpture; and you may see
him at the British Museum on stone and papyrus infinite,--especially
attending at judgments after death, when people's sins are to be
weighed in scales; for he is the Egyptian account-keeper, and adds up,
and takes note of, things, as you will hear presently from Plato. He
became the god of merchants, and a rogue, among the Romans, and
is one now among us). "And this demigod found out first, they say,
arithmetic, and logic, and geometry, and astronomy, and gambling,
and the art of writing.
"And there was then a king over all Egypt, in the great city which
the Greeks called Thebes. And Theuth, going to Thebes, showed the
king all the arts he had invented, and said they should be taught to
the Egyptians. But the king said:--'What was the good of them?' And
Theuth telling him, at length, of each, the king blamed some things,
and praised others. But when they came to writing: 'Now, this piece
of learning, O king,' says Theuth, 'will make the Egyptians more
wise and more remembering; for this is physic for the memory, and
for wisdom.' But the king answered:--'O most artful Theuth, it is one
sort of person's business to invent arts, and quite another sort of
person's business to know what mischief or good is in them. And you,
the father of letters, are yet so simple-minded that you fancy their
power just the contrary of what it really is; for this art of writing
will bring forgetfulness into the souls of those who learn it, because,
trusting to the external power of the scripture, and stamp [14] of
other men's minds, and not themselves putting themselves in mind,
within themselves, it is not medicine of divine memory, but a drug
of memorandum, that you have discovered, and you will only give the
reputation and semblance of wisdom, not the truth of wisdom, to the
learners: for,'" (now do listen to this, you cheap education-mongers),
"'for becoming hearers of many things, yet without instruction,
they will seem to have manifold opinions, but be in truth without
any opinions; and the most of them incapable of living together in
any good understanding; having become seeming-wise, instead of wise.'"
So much for cheap literature; not that I like cheap talk better, mind
you; but I wish I could get a word or two with a few honest people,
now, face to face. For I have called the fund I have established
The St. George's Fund, because I hope to find, here and there, some
one who will join in a White Company, like Sir John Hawkwood's,
to be called the Company of St. George; which shall have for its
end the wise creating and bestowing, instead of the wise stealing,
of money. Now it literally happened that before the White Company went
into Italy, there was an Italian Company called 'of St. George,' which
was afterwards incorporated with Sir John's of the burnished armour;
and another company, called 'of the Rose,' which was a very wicked and
destructive one. And within my St. George's Company,--which shall be
of persons still following their own business, wherever they are, but
who will give the tenth of what they have, or make, for the purchase of
land in England, to be cultivated by hand, as aforesaid, in my last May
number,--shall be another company, not destructive, called of "Monte
Rosa," or "Mont Rose," because Monte Rosa is the central mountain
of the range between north and south Europe, which keeps the gift of
the rain of heaven. And the motto, or watchword of this company is to
be the old French "Mont-joie." And they are to be entirely devoted,
according to their power, first to the manual labour of cultivating
pure land, and guiding of pure streams and rain to the places where
they are needed: and secondly, together with this manual labour, and
much by its means, they are to carry on the thoughtful labour of true
education, in themselves, and of others. And they are not to be monks
nor nuns; but are to learn, and teach all fair arts, and sweet order
and obedience of life; and to educate the children entrusted to their
schools in such practical arts and patient obedience; but not at all,
necessarily, in either arithmetic, writing, or reading.
That is my design, romantic enough, and at this day difficult enough;
yet not so romantic, nor so difficult as your now widely and openly
proclaimed design, of making the words "obedience" and "loyalty"
to cease from the English tongue.
That same number of the 'Republican' which announced that all
property must be taken under control, was graced by a frontispiece,
representing, figuratively, "Royalty in extremis;" the joyful end
of Rule, and of every strength of Kingship; Britannia, having,
perhaps, found her waves of late unruly, declaring there shall be
no rule over the land neither. Some day I may let you compare this
piece of figurative English art with Giotto's; but, meantime, since,
before you look so fondly for the end of Royalty, it is well that you
should know somewhat of its beginnings, I have given you a picture
of one of the companions in the St. George's Company of all time,
out of a pretty book, published at Antwerp, by John Baptist Vrints,
cutter of figures in copper, on the 16th April, 1598; and giving
briefly the stories, and, in no unworthy imagination, the pictures
also, of the first 'foresters' (rulers of woods and waves [15]) in
Flanders, where the waves once needed, and received, much ruling;
and of the Counts of Flanders who succeeded them, of whom this one,
Robert, surnamed "of Jerusalem," was the eleventh, and began to reign
in 1077, being "a virtuous, prudent, and brave prince," who, having
first taken good order in his money affairs, and ended some unjust
claims his predecessors had made on church property; and established a
perpetual chancellorship, and legal superintendence over his methods
of revenue; took the cross against the infidels, and got the name,
in Syria, for his prowess, of the "Son of St. George."
So he stands, leaning on his long sword--a man desirous of setting
the world to rights, if it might be; but not knowing the way of it,
nor recognizing that the steel with which it can be done, must take
another shape than that double-edged one.
And from the eleventh century to this dull nineteenth, less and less
the rulers of men have known their weapon. So far, yet, are we from
beating sword into ploughshare, that now the sword is set to undo the
plough's work when it has been done; and at this hour the ghastliest
ruin of all that moulder from the fire, pierced through black rents
by the unnatural sunlight above the ashamed streets of Paris, is the
long, skeleton, and roofless hollow of the "Grenier d'Abondance."
Such Agriculture have we contrived here, in Europe, and ploughing of
new furrows for graves. Will you hear how Agriculture is now contrived
in America?--where, since you spend your time here in burning corn,
you must send to buy it; trusting, however, still to your serviceable
friend the Fire, as here to consume, so there, to sow and reap,
for repairing of consumption. I have just received a letter from
California, which I trust the writer will not blame me for printing:--
"March 1st, 1872.
"Sir,
"You have so strongly urged 'agriculture by the hand' that it
may be of some interest to you to know the result thus far of
agriculture by machinery, in California. I am the more willing
to address you on this subject from the fact that I may have
to do with a new Colony in this State, which will, I trust,
adopt, as far as practicable, your ideas as to agriculture by
the hand. Such thoughts as you might choose to give regarding the
conduct of such a Colony here would be particularly acceptable;
and should you deem it expedient to comply with this earnest and
sincere request, the following facts may be of service to you in
forming just conclusions.
"We have a genial climate and a productive soil. Our farms
('ranches') frequently embrace many thousands of acres, while the
rule is, scarcely ever less than hundreds of acres. Wheat-fields
of 5,000 acres are by no means uncommon, and not a few of above
40,000 acres are known. To cultivate these extensive tracts much
machinery is used, such as steam-ploughs, gang-ploughs, reaping,
mowing, sowing, and thrashing machines; and seemingly to the
utter extermination of the spirit of home, and rural life. Gangs
of labourers are hired during the emergency of harvesting; and
they are left for the most part unhoused, and are also fed more
like animals than men. Harvesting over, they are discharged, and
thus are left near the beginning of our long and rainy winters
to shift for themselves. Consequently the larger towns and cities
are invested for months with idle men and boys. Housebreaking and
highway robbery are of almost daily occurrence. As to the farmers
themselves, they live in a dreamy, comfortless way, and are mostly
without education or refinement. To show them how to live better
and cleaner; to give them nobler aims than merely to raise wheat
for the English market; to teach them the history of those five
cities, and 'their girls to cook exquisitely,' etc., is surely a
mission for earnest men in this country, no less than in England,
to say nothing of the various accomplishments to which you have
alluded. I have caused to be published in some of our farming
districts many of the more important of your thoughts bearing on
these subjects, and I trust with beneficial results.
"I trust I shall not intrude on Mr. Ruskin's patience if I now say
something by way of thankfulness for what I have received from your
works. [16] I know not certainly if this will ever reach you. If
it does, it may in some small way gladden you to know that I owe
to your teaching almost all the good I have thus attained. A large
portion of my life has been spent at sea, and in roaming in Mexico,
Central and South America, and in the Malaysian and Polynesian
Islands. I have been a sailor before and abaft the mast. Years ago
I found on a remote island of the Pacific the 'Modern Painters';
after them the 'Seven Lamps of Architecture'; and finally your
complete works. Ignorant and uncultivated, I began earnestly to
follow certain of your teachings. I read most of the books you
recommended, simply because you seemed to be my teacher; and so
in the course of these years I have come to believe in you about
as faithfully as one man ever believes in another. From having no
fixed object in life I have finally found that I have something
to do, and will ultimately, I trust, have something to say about
sea-life, something that has not, I think, hitherto been said--if
God ever permits me the necessary leisure from hard railway work,
the most hopeless and depressing of all work I have hitherto done.
"Your most thankful servant, ----"
With the account given in the first part of this letter of the results
of mechanical agriculture in California, you shall now compare a
little sketch by Marmontel of the peasant life, not mechanical, in
his own province. It is given, altering only the name of the river,
in the "Contes Moraux," in the story, professing to continue that of
Moliére's 'Misanthrope':
"Alceste, discontented as you know, both with his mistress and
with his judges, decided upon flying from men, and retired very
far from Paris to the banks of the Vologne; this river, in which
the shells enclose pearl, is yet more precious by the fertility
which it causes to spring on its borders; the valley that it
waters is one beautiful meadow. On one side of it rise smiling
hills, scattered all over with woods and villages, on the other
extends a vast level of fields covered with corn. It was there
that Alceste went to live, forgotten by all, free from cares, and
from irksome duties; entirely his own, and finally delivered from
the odious spectacle of the world, he breathed freely, and praised
heaven for having broken all his chains. A little study, much
exercise, pleasures not vivid, but untroubled; in a word, a life
peacefully active, preserved him from the ennui of solitude: he
desired nothing, and regretted nothing. One of the pleasures of
his retreat was to see the cultivated and fertile ground all about
him nourishing a peasantry, which appeared to him happy. For a
misanthrope who has become so by his virtue, only thinks that he
hates men, because he loves them. Alceste felt a strange softening
of the heart mingled with joy at the sight of his fellow-creatures
rich by the labour of their hand. 'Those people,' said he, 'are
very happy to be still half savage. They would soon be corrupted
if they were more civilized.' As he was walking in the country,
he chanced upon a labourer who was ploughing, and singing as he
ploughed. 'God have a care of you, my good man!' said he; 'you are
very gay?' 'I mostly am,' replied the peasant. 'I am happy to hear
it: that proves that you are content with your condition.' 'Until
now, I have good cause to be.' 'Are you married?' 'Yes, thank
heaven.' 'Have you any children?' 'I had five. I have lost one, but
that is a mischief that may be mended.' 'Is your wife young?' 'She
is twenty-five years old.' 'Is she pretty?' 'She is, for me, but
she is better than pretty, she is good.' 'And you love her?' 'If I
love her! Who would not love her! I wonder?' 'And she loves you
also, without doubt.' 'Oh! for that matter, with all her heart--
just the same as before marriage.' 'Then you loved each other
before marriage?' 'Without that, should we have let ourselves be
caught?' 'And your children--are they healthy?' 'Ah! it's a
pleasure to see them! The eldest is only five years old, and he's
already a great deal cleverer than his father, and for my two
girls, never was anything so charming! It'll be ill-luck indeed
if they don't get husbands. The youngest is sucking yet, but the
little fellow will be stout and strong. Would you believe it?--he
beats his sisters when they want to kiss their mother!--he's
always afraid of anybody's taking him from the breast.' 'All that
is, then, very happy?' 'Happy! I should think so--you should see
the joy there is when I come back from my work! You would say they
hadn't seen me for a year. I don't know which to attend to first.
My wife is round my neck--my girls in my arms--my boy gets hold of
my legs--little Jeannot is like to roll himself off the bed to get
to me--and I, I laugh, and cry, and kiss all at once--for all that
makes me cry!' 'I believe it, indeed,' said Alceste. 'You know it,
sir, I suppose, for you are doubtless a father?' 'I have not that
happiness.' 'So much the worse for you! There's nothing in the
world worth having, but that.' 'And how do you live?' 'Very well:
we have excellent bread, good milk, and the fruit of our orchard.
My wife, with a little bacon, makes a cabbage soup that the King
would be glad to eat! Then we have eggs from the poultry-yard; and
on Sunday we have a feast, and drink a little cup of wine' 'Yes,
but when the year is bad?' 'Well, one expects the year to be bad,
sometimes, and one lives on what one has saved from the good
years.' 'Then there's the rigour of the weather--the cold and the
rain, and the heat--that you have to bear.' 'Well! one gets used
to it; and if you only knew the pleasure that one has in the
evening, in getting the cool breeze after a day of summer; or, in
winter, warming one's hands at the blaze of a good faggot, between
one's wife and children; and then one sups with good appetite, and
one goes to bed; and think you, that one remembers the bad weather?
Sometimes my wife says to me,--"My good man, do you hear the wind
and the storm? Ah, suppose you were in the fields?" "But I'm not in
the fields, I'm here," I say to her. Ah, sir! there are many people
in the fine world, who don't live as content as we.' 'Well! but the
taxes?' 'We pay them merrily--and well we should--all the country
can't be noble, our squires and judges can't come to work in the
fields with us--they do for us what we can't--we do for them what
they can't--and every business, as one says, has its pains.' 'What
equity!' said the misanthrope; 'there, in two words, is all the
economy of primitive society. Ah, Nature! there is nothing just but
thee! and the healthiest reason is in thy untaught simplicity. But,
in paying the taxes so willingly, don't you run some risk of
getting more put on you?' 'We used to be afraid of that; but, thank
God, the lord of the place has relieved us from this anxiety. He
plays the part of our good king to us. He imposes and receives
himself, and, in case of need, makes advances for us. He is as
careful of us as if we were his own children.' 'And who is this
gallant man?' 'The Viscount Laval--he is known enough, all the
country respects him.' 'Does he live in his château?' 'He passes
eight months of the year there.' 'And the rest?' 'At Paris, I
believe.' 'Does he see any company?' 'The townspeople of Bruyeres,
and now and then, some of our old men go to taste his soup and
chat with him.' 'And from Paris does he bring nobody?' 'Nobody but
his daughter.' 'He is much in the right. And how does he employ
himself?' 'In judging between us--in making up our quarrels--in
marrying our children--in maintaining peace in our families--in
helping them when the times are bad.' 'You must take me to see his
village,' said Alceste, 'that must be interesting.'
"He was surprised to find the roads, even the cross-roads, bordered
with hedges, and kept with care; but, coming on a party of men
occupied in mending them, 'Ah!' he said, 'so you've got forced
labour here?' 'Forced?' answered an old man who presided over the
work. 'We know nothing of that here, sir; all these men are paid,
we constrain nobody; only, if there comes to the village a vagrant,
or a do-nothing, they send him to me, and if he wants bread he
can gain it; or, he must go to seek it elsewhere.' 'And who has
established this happy police?' 'Our good lord--our father--the
father to all of us.' 'And where do the funds come from?' 'From
the commonalty; and, as it imposes the tax on itself, it does not
happen here, as too often elsewhere, that the rich are exempted
at the expense of the poor.'
"The esteem of Alceste increased every moment for the wise and
benevolent master who governed all this little country. 'How
powerful would a king be!' he said to himself--'and how happy
a state! if all the great proprietors followed the example of
this one; but Paris absorbs both property and men, it robs all,
and swallows up everything.'
"The first glance at the village showed him the image of confidence
and comfort. He entered a building which had the appearance of a
public edifice, and found there a crowd of children, women, and
old men occupied in useful labour;--idleness was only permitted to
the extremely feeble. Childhood, almost at its first steps out of
the cradle, caught the habit and the taste for work; and old age,
at the borders of the tomb, still exercised its trembling hands;
the season in which the earth rests brought every vigorous arm
to the workshops--and then the lathe, the saw, and the hatchet
gave new value to products of nature.
"'I am not surprised,' said Alceste, 'that this people is pure
from vice, and relieved from discontent. It is laborious, and
occupied without ceasing.' He asked how the workshop had been
established. 'Our good lord,' was the reply, 'advanced the first
funds for it. It was a very little place at first, and all that
was done was at his expense, at his risk, and to his profit; but,
once convinced that there was solid advantage to be gained, he
yielded the enterprise to us, and now interferes only to protect;
and every year he gives to the village the instruments of some
one of our arts. It is the present that he makes at the first
wedding which is celebrated in the year.'"
Thus wrote, and taught, a Frenchman of the old school, before the
Revolution. But worldly-wise Paris went on her own way absorbing
property and men; and has attained, this first of May, what means
and manner of festival you see in her Grenier d'Abondance.
Glance back now to my proposal for the keeping of the first of May,
in the letter on "Rose Gardens" in 'Time and Tide,' and discern which
state is best for you--modern "civilization," or Marmontel's rusticity,
and mine.
Ever faithfully yours,