This lecture, the full title of which is "The Mystery of Life and
its Arts," was delivered in Dublin on May 13, 1868. It composed
one of a series of afternoon lectures on various subjects,
religion excepted, arranged by some of the foremost residents in
Dublin. The latter half of the lecture is included in the present
volume of selections. The first publication of the lecture was as
an additional part to a revised edition of _Sesame and Lilies_ in
1871. Ruskin took exceptional care in writing "The Mystery of
Life": he once said in conversation, "I put into it all that I
know," and in the preface to it when published he tells us that
certain passages of it "contain the best expression I have yet
been able to put in words of what, so far as is within my power, I
mean henceforward both to do myself, and to plead with all over
whom I have any influence to do according to their means." Sir
Leslie Stephen says this "is, to my mind, the most perfect of his
essays." In later editions of _Sesame and Lilies_ this lecture was
withdrawn. At the time the lecture was delivered its tone was
characteristic of Ruskin's own thought and of the attitude he then
took toward the public.
We have sat at the feet of the poets who sang of heaven, and they have
told us their dreams. We have listened to the poets who sang of earth,
and they have chanted to us dirges and words of despair. But there is
one class of men more:--men, not capable of vision, nor sensitive to
sorrow, but firm of purpose--practised in business; learned in all
that can be, (by handling,) known. Men, whose hearts and hopes are
wholly in this present world, from whom, therefore, we may surely
learn, at least, how, at present, conveniently to live in it. What
will _they_ say to us, or show us by example? These kings--these
councillors--these statesmen and builders of kingdoms--these
capitalists and men of business, who weigh the earth, and the dust of
it, in a balance.[230] They know the world, surely; and what is the
mystery of life to us, is none to them. They can surely show us how to
live, while we live, and to gather out of the present world what is
best.
I think I can best tell you their answer, by telling you a dream I had
once. For though I am no poet, I have dreams sometimes:--I dreamed I
was at a child's May-day party, in which every means of entertainment
had been provided for them, by a wise and kind host. It was in a
stately house, with beautiful gardens attached to it; and the children
had been set free in the rooms and gardens, with no care whatever but
how to pass their afternoon rejoicingly. They did not, indeed, know
much about what was to happen next day; and some of them, I thought,
were a little frightened, because there was a chance of their being
sent to a new school where there were examinations; but they kept the
thoughts of that out of their heads as well as they could, and
resolved to enjoy themselves. The house, I said, was in a beautiful
garden, and in the garden were all kinds of flowers; sweet, grassy
banks for rest; and smooth lawns for play; and pleasant streams and
woods; and rocky places for climbing. And the children were happy for
a little while, but presently they separated themselves into parties;
and then each party declared it would have a piece of the garden for
its own, and that none of the others should have anything to do with
that piece. Next, they quarrelled violently which pieces they would
have; and at last the boys took up the thing, as boys should do,
"practically," and fought in the flower-beds till there was hardly a
flower left standing; then they trampled down each other's bits of the
garden out of spite; and the girls cried till they could cry no more;
and so they all lay down at last breathless in the ruin, and waited
for the time when they were to be taken home in the evening.[231]
Meanwhile, the children in the house had been making themselves happy
also in their manner. For them, there had been provided every kind of
in-door pleasure: there was music for them to dance to; and the
library was open, with all manner of amusing books; and there was a
museum full of the most curious shells, and animals, and birds; and
there was a workshop, with lathes and carpenters' tools, for the
ingenious boys; and there were pretty fantastic dresses, for the girls
to dress in; and there were microscopes, and kaleidoscopes; and
whatever toys a child could fancy; and a table, in the dining-room,
loaded with everything nice to eat.
But, in the midst of all this, it struck two or three of the more
"practical" children, that they would like some of the brass-headed
nails that studded the chairs; and so they set to work to pull them
out. Presently, the others, who were reading, or looking at shells,
took a fancy to do the like; and, in a little while, all the children,
nearly, were spraining their fingers, in pulling out brass-headed
nails. With all that they could pull out, they were not satisfied; and
then, everybody wanted some of somebody else's. And at last, the
really practical and sensible ones declared, that nothing was of any
real consequence, that afternoon, except to get plenty of brass-headed
nails; and that the books, and the cakes, and the microscopes were of
no use at all in themselves, but only, if they could be exchanged for
nail-heads. And at last they began to fight for nail-heads, as the
others fought for the bits of garden. Only here and there, a despised
one shrank away into a corner, and tried to get a little quiet with a
book, in the midst of the noise; but all the practical ones thought of
nothing else but counting nail-heads all the afternoon--even though
they knew they would not be allowed to carry so much as one brass knob
away with them. But no--it was--"who has most nails? I have a hundred,
and you have fifty; or, I have a thousand, and you have two. I must
have as many as you before I leave the house, or I cannot possibly go
home in peace." At last, they made so much noise that I awoke, and
thought to myself, "What a false dream that is, of _children!_" The
child is the father of the man;[232] and wiser. Children never do such
foolish things. Only men do.
But there is yet one last class of persons to be interrogated. The
wise religious men we have asked in vain; the wise contemplative men,
in vain; the wise worldly men, in vain. But there is another group
yet. In the midst of this vanity of empty religion--of tragic
contemplation--of wrathful and wretched ambition, and dispute for
dust, there is yet one great group of persons, by whom all these
disputers live--the persons who have determined, or have had it by a
beneficent Providence determined for them, that they will do something
useful; that whatever may be prepared for them hereafter, or happen to
them here, they will, at least, deserve the food that God gives them
by winning it honourably: and that, however fallen from the purity, or
far from the peace, of Eden, they will carry out the duty of human
dominion, though they have lost its felicity; and dress and keep the
wilderness,[233] though they no more can dress or keep the garden.
These,--hewers of wood, and drawers of water,[234]--these, bent under
burdens, or torn of scourges--these, that dig and weave--that plant
and build; workers in wood, and in marble, and in iron--by whom all
food, clothing, habitation, furniture, and means of delight are
produced, for themselves, and for all men beside; men, whose deeds are
good, though their words may be few; men, whose lives are serviceable,
be they never so short, and worthy of honour, be they never so
humble;--from these, surely, at least, we may receive some clear
message of teaching; and pierce, for an instant, into the mystery of
life, and of its arts.
Yes; from these, at last, we do receive a lesson. But I grieve to say,
or rather--for that is the deeper truth of the matter--I rejoice to
say--this message of theirs can only be received by joining them--not
by thinking about them.
You sent for me to talk to you of art; and I have obeyed you in
coming. But the main thing I have to tell you is,--that art must not
be talked about. The fact that there is talk about it at all,
signifies that it is ill done, or cannot be done. No true painter ever
speaks, or ever has spoken, much of his art. The greatest speak
nothing. Even Reynolds is no exception, for he wrote of all that he
could not himself do,[235] and was utterly silent respecting all that he
himself did.
The moment a man can really do his work he becomes speechless about
it. All words become idle to him--all theories.
Does a bird need to theorize about building its nest, or boast of it
when built? All good work is essentially done that way--without
hesitation, without difficulty, without boasting; and in the doers of
the best, there is an inner and involuntary power which approximates
literally to the instinct of an animal--nay, I am certain that in the
most perfect human artists, reason does _not_ supersede instinct, but
is added to an instinct as much more divine than that of the lower
animals as the human body is more beautiful than theirs; that a great
singer sings not with less instinct than the nightingale, but with
more--only more various, applicable, and governable; that a great
architect does not build with less instinct than the beaver or the
bee, but with more--with an innate cunning of proportion that embraces
all beauty, and a divine ingenuity of skill that improvises all
construction. But be that as it may--be the instinct less or more than
that of inferior animals--like or unlike theirs, still the human art
is dependent on that first, and then upon an amount of practice, of
science,--and of imagination disciplined by thought, which the true
possessor of it knows to be incommunicable, and the true critic of it,
inexplicable, except through long process of laborious years. That
journey of life's conquest, in which hills over hills, and Alps on
Alps arose, and sank,--do you think you can make another trace it
painlessly, by talking? Why, you cannot even carry us up an Alp, by
talking. You can guide us up it, step by step, no otherwise--even so,
best silently. You girls, who have been among the hills, know how the
bad guide chatters and gesticulates, and it is "put your foot here";
and "mind how you balance yourself there"; but the good guide walks on
quietly, without a word, only with his eyes on you when need is, and
his arm like an iron bar, if need be.
In that slow way, also, art can be taught--if you have faith in your
guide, and will let his arm be to you as an iron bar when need is. But
in what teacher of art have you such faith? Certainly not in me; for,
as I told you at first, I know well enough it is only because you
think I can talk, not because you think I know my business, that you
let me speak to you at all. If I were to tell you anything that seemed
to you strange, you would not believe it, and yet it would only be in
telling you strange things that I could be of use to you. I could be
of great use to you--infinite use--with brief saying, if you would
believe it; but you would not, just because the thing that would be of
real use would displease you. You are all wild, for instance, with
admiration of Gustave Doré. Well, suppose I were to tell you, in the
strongest terms I could use, that Gustave Doré's art was bad--bad, not
in weakness,--not in failure,--but bad with dreadful power--the power
of the Furies and the Harpies mingled, enraging, and polluting; that
so long as you looked at it, no perception of pure or beautiful art
was possible for you. Suppose I were to tell you that! What would be
the use? Would you look at Gustave Doré less? Rather, more, I fancy.
On the other hand, I could soon put you into good humour with me, if I
chose. I know well enough what you like, and how to praise it to your
better liking. I could talk to you about moonlight, and twilight, and
spring flowers, and autumn leaves, and the Madonnas of Raphael--how
motherly! and the Sibyls of Michael Angelo--how majestic! and the
Saints of Angelico--how pious! and the Cherubs of Correggio--how
delicious! Old as I am, I could play you a tune on the harp yet, that
you would dance to. But neither you nor I should be a bit the better
or wiser; or, if we were, our increased wisdom could be of no
practical effect. For, indeed, the arts, as regards teachableness,
differ from the sciences also in this, that their power is founded not
merely on facts which can be communicated, but on dispositions which
require to be created. Art is neither to be achieved by effort of
thinking, nor explained by accuracy of speaking. It is the instinctive
and necessary result of power, which can only be developed through the
mind of successive generations, and which finally burst into life
under social conditions as slow of growth as the faculties they
regulate. Whole æras of mighty history are summed, and the passions of
dead myriads are concentrated, in the existence of a noble art; and if
that noble art were among us, we should feel it and rejoice; not
caring in the least to hear lectures on it; and since it is not among
us, be assured we have to go back to the root of it, or, at least, to
the place where the stock of it is yet alive, and the branches began
to die.
And now, may I have your pardon for pointing out, partly with
reference to matters which are at this time of greater moment than the
arts--that if we undertook such recession to the vital germ of
national arts that have decayed, we should find a more singular arrest
of their power in Ireland than in any other European country. For in
the eighth century Ireland possessed a school of art in her
manuscripts and sculpture, which, in many of its qualities--apparently
in all essential qualities of decorative invention--was quite without
rival; seeming as if it might have advanced to the highest triumphs in
architecture and in painting. But there was one fatal flaw in its
nature, by which it was stayed, and stayed with a conspicuousness of
pause to which there is no parallel: so that, long ago, in tracing the
progress of European schools from infancy to strength, I chose for the
students of Kensington, in a lecture since published, two
characteristic examples of early art, of equal skill; but in the one
case, skill which was progressive--in the other, skill which was at
pause. In the one case, it was work receptive of correction--hungry
for correction; and in the other, work which inherently rejected
correction. I chose for them a corrigible Eve, and an incorrigible
Angel, and I grieve to say[236] that the incorrigible Angel was also an
Irish angel!
And the fatal difference lay wholly in this. In both pieces of art
there was an equal falling short of the needs of fact; but the
Lombardic Eve knew she was in the wrong, and the Irish Angel thought
himself all right. The eager Lombardic sculptor, though firmly
insisting on his childish idea, yet showed in the irregular broken
touches of the features, and the imperfect struggle for softer lines
in the form, a perception of beauty and law that he could not render;
there was the strain of effort, under conscious imperfection, in every
line. But the Irish missal-painter had drawn his angel with no sense
of failure, in happy complacency, and put red dots into the palms of
each hand, and rounded the eyes into perfect circles, and, I regret to
say, left the mouth out altogether, with perfect satisfaction to
himself.
May I without offence ask you to consider whether this mode of arrest
in ancient Irish art may not be indicative of points of character
which even yet, in some measure, arrest your national power? I have
seen much of Irish character, and have watched it closely, for I have
also much loved it. And I think the form of failure to which it is
most liable is this,--that being generous-hearted, and wholly
intending always to do right, it does not attend to the external laws
of right, but thinks it must necessarily do right because it means to
do so, and therefore does wrong without finding it out; and then, when
the consequences of its wrong come upon it, or upon others connected
with it, it cannot conceive that the wrong is in any wise of its
causing or of its doing, but flies into wrath, and a strange agony of
desire for justice, as feeling itself wholly innocent, which leads it
farther astray, until there is nothing that it is not capable of doing
with a good conscience.
But mind, I do not mean to say that, in past or present relations
between Ireland and England, you have been wrong, and we right. Far
from that, I believe that in all great questions of principle, and in
all details of administration of law, you have been usually right, and
we wrong; sometimes in misunderstanding you, sometimes in resolute
iniquity to you. Nevertheless, in all disputes between states, though
the strongest is nearly always mainly in the wrong, the weaker is
often so in a minor degree; and I think we sometimes admit the
possibility of our being in error, and you never do.[237]
And now, returning to the broader question, what these arts and
labours of life have to teach us of its mystery, this is the first of
their lessons--that the more beautiful the art, the more it is
essentially the work of people who _feel themselves wrong_;--who are
striving for the fulfilment of a law, and the grasp of a loveliness,
which they have not yet attained, which they feel even farther and
farther from attaining the more they strive for it. And yet, in still
deeper sense, it is the work of people who know also that they are
right. The very sense of inevitable error from their purpose marks the
perfectness of that purpose, and the continued sense of failure arises
from the continued opening of the eyes more clearly to all the
sacredest laws of truth.
This is one lesson. The second is a very plain, and greatly precious
one: namely,--that whenever the arts and labours of life are fulfilled
in this spirit of striving against misrule, and doing whatever we have
to do, honourably and perfectly, they invariably bring happiness, as
much as seems possible to the nature of man. In all other paths by
which that happiness is pursued there is disappointment, or
destruction: for ambition and for passion there is no rest--no
fruition; the fairest pleasures of youth perish in a darkness greater
than their past light; and the loftiest and purest love too often does
but inflame the cloud of life with endless fire of pain. But,
ascending from lowest to highest, through every scale of human
industry, that industry worthily followed, gives peace. Ask the
labourer in the field, at the forge, or in the mine; ask the patient,
delicate-fingered artisan, or the strong-armed, fiery-hearted worker
in bronze, and in marble, and in the colours of light; and none of
these, who are true workmen, will ever tell you, that they have found
the law of heaven an unkind one--that in the sweat of their face they
should eat bread, till they return to the ground;[238] nor that they
ever found it an unrewarded obedience, if, indeed, it was rendered
faithfully to the command--"Whatsoever thy hand findeth to do--do it
with thy might."[239]
These are the two great and constant lessons which our labourers teach
us of the mystery of life. But there is another, and a sadder one,
which they cannot teach us, which we must read on their tombstones.
"Do it with thy might." There have been myriads upon myriads of human
creatures who have obeyed this law--who have put every breath and
nerve of their being into its toil--who have devoted every hour, and
exhausted every faculty--who have bequeathed their unaccomplished
thoughts at death--who, being dead, have yet spoken,[240] by majesty of
memory, and strength of example. And, at last, what has all this
"Might" of humanity accomplished, in six thousand years of labour and
sorrow? What has it _done_? Take the three chief occupations and arts
of men, one by one, and count their achievements. Begin with the
first--the lord of them all--Agriculture. Six thousand years have
passed since we were sent to till the ground, from which we were
taken. How much of it is tilled? How much of that which is, wisely or
well? In the very centre and chief garden of Europe--where the two
forms of parent Christianity have had their fortresses--where the
noble Catholics of the Forest Cantons, and the noble Protestants of
the Vaudois valleys, have maintained, for dateless ages, their faiths
and liberties--there the unchecked Alpine rivers yet run wild in
devastation; and the marshes, which a few hundred men could redeem
with a year's labour, still blast their helpless inhabitants into
fevered idiotism. That is so, in the centre of Europe! While, on the
near coast of Africa, once the Garden of the Hesperides, an Arab
woman, but a few sunsets since, ate her child, for famine. And, with
all the treasures of the East at our feet, we, in our own dominion,
could not find a few grains of rice, for a people that asked of us no
more; but stood by, and saw five hundred thousand of them perish of
hunger.[241]
Then, after agriculture, the art of kings, take the next head of
human arts--weaving; the art of queens, honoured of all noble
Heathen women, in the person of their virgin goddess[242]--honoured
of all Hebrew women, by the word of their wisest king--"She layeth
her hands to the spindle, and her hands hold the distaff; she
stretcheth out her hand to the poor. She is not afraid of the snow
for her household, for all her household are clothed with scarlet.
She maketh herself covering of tapestry; her clothing is silk and
purple. She maketh fine linen, and selleth it, and delivereth
girdles unto the merchant."[243] What have we done in all these
thousands of years with this bright art of Greek maid and Christian
matron? Six thousand years of weaving, and have we learned to weave?
Might not every naked wall have been purple with tapestry, and every
feeble breast fenced with sweet colours from the cold? What have we
done? Our fingers are too few, it seems, to twist together some poor
covering for our bodies. We set our streams to work for us, and
choke the air with fire, to turn our pinning-wheels--and,--_are we
yet clothed_? Are not the streets of the capitals of Europe foul
with the sale of cast clouts and rotten rags?[244] Is not the beauty
of your sweet children left in wretchedness of disgrace, while, with
better honour, nature clothes the brood of the bird in its nest, and
the suckling of the wolf in her den? And does not every winter's
snow robe what you have not robed, and shroud what you have not
shrouded; and every winter's wind bear up to heaven its wasted
souls, to witness against you hereafter, by the voice of their
Christ,--"I was naked, and ye clothed me not"?[245]
Lastly--take the Art of Building--the strongest--proudest--most
orderly--most enduring of the arts of man; that of which the produce
is in the surest manner accumulative, and need not perish, or be
replaced; but if once well done, will stand more strongly than the
unbalanced rocks--more prevalently than the crumbling hills. The art
which is associated with all civic pride and sacred principle; with
which men record their power--satisfy their enthusiasm--make sure
their defence--define and make dear their habitation. And in six
thousand years of building, what have we done? Of the greater part of
all that skill and strength, _no_ vestige is left, but fallen stones,
that encumber the fields and impede the streams. But, from this waste
of disorder, and of time, and of rage, what _is_ left to us?
Constructive and progressive creatures that we are, with ruling
brains, and forming hands, capable of fellowship, and thirsting for
fame, can we not contend, in comfort, with the insects of the forest,
or, in achievement, with the worm of the sea? The white surf rages in
vain against the ramparts built by poor atoms of scarcely nascent
life; but only ridges of formless ruin mark the places where once
dwelt our noblest multitudes. The ant and the moth have cells for each
of their young, but our little ones lie in festering heaps, in homes
that consume them like graves; and night by night, from the corners of
our streets, rises up the cry of the homeless--"I was a stranger, and
ye took me not in."[246]
Must it be always thus? Is our life for ever to be without
profit--without possession? Shall the strength of its generations be
as barren as death; or cast away their labour, as the wild fig-tree
casts her untimely figs?[247] Is it all a dream then--the desire of the
eyes and the pride of life--or, if it be, might we not live in nobler
dream than this? The poets and prophets, the wise men, and the
scribes, though they have told us nothing about a life to come, have
told us much about the life that is now. They have had--they
also,--their dreams, and we have laughed at them. They have dreamed of
mercy, and of justice; they have dreamed of peace and good-will; they
have dreamed of labour undisappointed, and of rest undisturbed; they
have dreamed of fulness in harvest, and overflowing in store; they
have dreamed of wisdom in council, and of providence in law; of
gladness of parents, and strength of children, and glory of grey
hairs. And at these visions of theirs we have mocked, and held them
for idle and vain, unreal and unaccomplishable. What have we
accomplished with our realities? Is this what has come of our worldly
wisdom, tried against their folly? this, our mightiest possible,
against their impotent ideal? or, have we only wandered among the
spectra of a baser felicity, and chased phantoms of the tombs, instead
of visions of the Almighty; and walked after the imaginations of our
evil hearts,[248] instead of after the counsels of Eternity, until our
lives--not in the likeness of the cloud of heaven, but of the smoke of
hell--have become "as a vapour, that appeareth for a little time, and
then vanisheth away"?[249]
_Does_ it vanish then? Are you sure of that?--sure, that the
nothingness of the grave will be a rest from this troubled
nothingness; and that the coiling shadow, which disquiets itself in
vain, cannot change into the smoke of the torment that ascends for
ever?[250] Will any answer that they _are_ sure of it, and that there
is no fear, nor hope, nor desire, nor labour, whither they go?[251] Be
it so: will you not, then, make as sure of the Life that now is, as
you are of the Death that is to come? Your hearts are wholly in this
world--will you not give them to it wisely, as well as perfectly? And
see, first of all, that you _have_ hearts, and sound hearts, too, to
give. Because you have no heaven to look for, is that any reason that
you should remain ignorant of this wonderful and infinite earth, which
is firmly and instantly given you in possession? Although your days
are numbered, and the following darkness sure, is it necessary that
you should share the degradation of the brute, because you are
condemned to its mortality; or live the life of the moth, and of the
worm, because you are to companion them in the dust? Not so; we may
have but a few thousands of days to spend, perhaps hundreds
only--perhaps tens; nay, the longest of our time and best, looked back
on, will be but as a moment, as the twinkling of an eye; still we are
men, not insects; we are living spirits, not passing clouds. "He
maketh the winds His messengers; the momentary fire, His minister";[252]
and shall we do less than _these_? Let us do the work of men while
we bear the form of them; and, as we snatch our narrow portion of
time out of Eternity, snatch also our narrow inheritance of passion
out of Immortality--even though our lives _be_ as a vapour, that
appeareth for a little time, and then vanisheth away.
But there are some of you who believe not this--who think this
cloud of life has no such close--that it is to float, revealed and
illumined, upon the floor of heaven, in the day when He cometh with
clouds, and every eye shall see Him.[253] Some day, you believe,
within these five, or ten, or twenty years, for every one of us the
judgment will be set, and the books opened.[254] If that be true,
far more than that must be true. Is there but one day of judgment?
Why, for us every day is a day of judgment--every day is a Dies
Iræ,[255] and writes its irrevocable verdict in the flame of its
West. Think you that judgment waits till the doors of the grave are
opened? It waits at the doors of your houses--it waits at the
corners of your streets; we are in the midst of judgment--the
insects that we crush are our judges--the moments that we fret away
are our judges--the elements that feed us, judge, as they
minister--and the pleasures that deceive us, judge as they indulge.
Let us, for our lives, do the work of Men while we bear the form of
them, if indeed those lives are _Not_ as a vapour, and do _Not_
vanish away.
"The work of men"--and what is that? Well, we may any of us know very
quickly, on the condition of being wholly ready to do it. But many of
us are for the most part thinking, not of what we are to do, but of
what we are to get; and the best of us are sunk into the sin of
Ananias,[256] and it is a mortal one--we want to keep back part of the
price; and we continually talk of taking up our cross, as if the only
harm in a cross was the _weight_ of it--as if it was only a thing to
be carried, instead of to be--crucified upon. "They that are His have
crucified the flesh, with the affections and lusts."[257] Does that
mean, think you, that in time of national distress, of religious
trial, of crisis for every interest and hope of humanity--none of us
will cease jesting, none cease idling, none put themselves to any
wholesome work, none take so much as a tag of lace off their footmen's
coats, to save the world? Or does it rather mean, that they are ready
to leave houses, lands, and kindreds--yes, and life, if need be?
Life!--some of us are ready enough to throw that away, joyless as we
have made it. But "_station_ in Life"--how many of us are ready to
quit _that_? Is it not always the great objection, where there is
question of finding something useful to do--"We cannot leave our
stations in Life"?
Those of us who really cannot--that is to say, who can only maintain
themselves by continuing in some business or salaried office, have
already something to do; and all that they have to see to is, that
they do it honestly and with all their might. But with most people who
use that apology, "remaining in the station of life to which
Providence has called them" means keeping all the carriages, and all
the footmen and large houses they can possibly pay for; and, once for
all, I say that if ever Providence _did_ put them into stations of
that sort--which is not at all a matter of certainty--Providence is
just now very distinctly calling them out again. Levi's station in
life was the receipt of custom; and Peter's, the shore of Galilee; and
Paul's, the antechambers of the High Priest,--which "station in life"
each had to leave, with brief notice.
And, whatever our station in life may be, at this crisis, those of us
who mean to fulfil our duty ought first to live on as little as we
can; and, secondly, to do all the wholesome work for it we can, and to
spend all we can spare in doing all the sure good we can.
And sure good is, first in feeding people, then in dressing people,
then in lodging people, and lastly in rightly pleasing people, with
arts, or sciences, or any other subject of thought.
I say first in feeding; and, once for all, do not let yourselves be
deceived by any of the common talk of "indiscriminate charity." The
order to us is not to feed the deserving hungry, nor the industrious
hungry, nor the amiable and well-intentioned hungry, but simply to
feed the hungry.[258] It is quite true, infallibly true, that if any
man will not work, neither should he eat[259]--think of that, and every
time you sit down to your dinner, ladies and gentlemen, say solemnly,
before you ask a blessing, "How much work have I done to-day for my
dinner?" But the proper way to enforce that order on those below you,
as well as on yourselves, is not to leave vagabonds and honest people
to starve together, but very distinctly to discern and seize your
vagabond; and shut your vagabond up out of honest people's way, and
very sternly then see that, until he has worked, he does _not_ eat.
But the first thing is to be sure you have the food to give; and,
therefore, to enforce the organization of vast activities in
agriculture and in commerce, for the production of the wholesomest
food, and proper storing and distribution of it, so that no famine
shall any more be possible among civilized beings There is plenty of
work in this business alone, and at once, for any number of people who
like to engage in it.
Secondly, dressing people--that is to say, urging every one within
reach of your influence to be always neat and clean, and giving them
means of being so. In so far as they absolutely refuse, you must give
up the effort with respect to them, only taking care that no children
within your sphere of influence shall any more be brought up with such
habits; and that every person who is willing to dress with propriety
shall have encouragement to do so. And the first absolutely necessary
step towards this is the gradual adoption of a consistent dress for
different ranks of persons, so that their rank shall be known by their
dress; and the restriction of the changes of fashion within certain
limits. All which appears for the present quite impossible; but it is
only so far even difficult as it is difficult to conquer our vanity,
frivolity, and desire to appear what we are not. And it is not, nor
ever shall be, creed of mine, that these mean and shallow vices are
unconquerable by Christian women.
And then, thirdly, lodging people, which you may think should have
been put first, but I put it third, because we must feed and clothe
people where we find them, and lodge them afterwards. And providing
lodgment for them means a great deal of vigorous legislation, and
cutting down of vested interests that stand in the way, and after
that, or before that, so far as we can get it, thorough sanitary and
remedial action in the houses that we have; and then the building of
more, strongly, beautifully, and in groups of limited extent, kept in
proportion to their streams, and walled round, so that there may be no
festering and wretched suburb anywhere, but clean and busy street
within, and the open country without, with a belt of beautiful garden
and orchard round the walls, so that from any part of the city
perfectly fresh air and grass, and the sight of far horizon, might be
reachable in a few minutes' walk. This is the final aim; but in
immediate action every minor and possible good to be instantly done,
when, and as, we can; roofs mended that have holes in them--fences
patched that have gaps in them--walls buttressed that totter--and
floors propped that shake; cleanliness and order enforced with our own
hands and eyes, till we are breathless, every day. And all the fine
arts will healthily follow. I myself have washed a flight of stone
stairs all down, with bucket and broom, in a Savoy inn, where they
hadn't washed their stairs since they first went up them; and I never
made a better sketch than that afternoon.
These, then, are the three first needs of civilized life; and the law
for every Christian man and woman is, that they shall be in direct
service towards one of these three needs, as far as is consistent with
their own special occupation, and if they have no special business,
then wholly in one of these services. And out of such exertion in
plain duty all other good will come; for in this direct contention
with material evil, you will find out the real nature of all evil; you
will discern by the various kinds of resistance, what is really the
fault and main antagonism to good; also you will find the most
unexpected helps and profound lessons given, and truths will come thus
down to us which the speculation of all our lives would never have
raised us up to. You will find nearly every educational problem
solved, as soon as you truly want to do something; everybody will
become of use in their own fittest way, and will learn what is best
for them to know in that use. Competitive examination will then, and
not till then, be wholesome, because it will be daily, and calm, and
in practice; and on these familiar arts, and minute, but certain and
serviceable knowledges, will be surely edified and sustained the
greater arts and splendid theoretical sciences.
But much more than this. On such holy and simple practice will be
founded, indeed, at last, an infallible religion. The greatest of all
the mysteries of life, and the most terrible, is the corruption of
even the sincerest religion, which is not daily founded on rational,
effective, humble, and helpful action. Helpful action, observe! for
there is just one law, which obeyed, keeps all religions
pure--forgotten, makes them all false. Whenever in any religious
faith, dark or bright, we allow our minds to dwell upon the points in
which we differ from other people, we are wrong, and in the devil's
power. That is the essence of the Pharisee's thanksgiving--"Lord, I
thank Thee that I am not as other men are."[260] At every moment of our
lives we should be trying to find out, not in what we differ with
other people, but in what we agree with them; and the moment we find
we can agree as to anything that should be done, kind or good, (and
who but fools couldn't?) then do it; push at it together: you can't
quarrel in a side-by-side push; but the moment that even the best men
stop pushing, and begin talking, they mistake their pugnacity for
piety, and if's all over. I will not speak of the crimes which in past
times have been committed in the name of Christ, nor of the follies
which are at this hour held to be consistent with obedience to Him;
but I _will_ speak of the morbid corruption and waste of vital power
in religious sentiment, by which the pure strength of that which
should be the guiding soul of every nation, the splendour of its
youthful manhood, and spotless light of its maidenhood, is averted or
cast away. You may see continually girls who have never been taught to
do a single useful thing thoroughly; who cannot sew, who cannot cook,
who cannot cast an account, nor prepare a medicine, whose whole life
has been passed either in play or in pride; you will find girls like
these, when they are earnest-hearted, cast all their innate passion of
religious spirit, which was meant by God to support them through the
irksomeness of daily toil, into grievous and vain meditation over the
meaning of the great Book, of which no syllable was ever yet to be
understood but through a deed; all the instinctive wisdom and mercy of
their womanhood made vain, and the glory of their pure consciences
warped into fruitless agony concerning questions which the laws of
common serviceable life would have either solved for them in an
instant, or kept out of their way. Give such a girl any true work that
will make her active in the dawn, and weary at night, with the
consciousness that her fellow-creatures have indeed been the better
for her day, and the powerless sorrow of her enthusiasm will transform
itself into a majesty of radiant and beneficent peace.
So with our youths. We once taught them to make Latin verses, and
called them educated; now we teach them to leap and to row, to hit a
ball with a bat, and call them educated. Can they plough, can they
sow, can they plant at the right time, or build with a steady hand? Is
it the effort of their lives to be chaste, knightly, faithful, holy in
thought, lovely in word and deed? Indeed it is, with some, nay with
many, and the strength of England is in them, and the hope; but we
have to turn their courage from the toil of war to the toil of mercy;
and their intellect from dispute of words to discernment of things;
and their knighthood from the errantry of adventure to the state and
fidelity of a kingly power. And then, indeed, shall abide, for them,
and for us, an incorruptible felicity, and an infallible religion;
shall abide for us Faith, no more to be assailed by temptation, no
more to be defended by wrath and by fear;--shall abide with us Hope,
no more to be quenched by the years that overwhelm, or made ashamed by
the shadows that betray:--shall abide for us, and with us, the
greatest of these; the abiding will, the abiding name of our Father.
For the greatest of these is Charity.[261]
[230] _Isaiah_ xl, 12.
[231] I have sometimes been asked what this means. I intended it to
set forth the wisdom of men in war contending for kingdoms, and
what follows to set forth their wisdom in peace, contending for
wealth. [Ruskin.]
[232] See Wordsworth's poem, _My heart leaps up when I behold_.
[233] See _Genesis_ ii, 15, and the opening lines of the first
selection in this volume.
[234] _Joshua_ ix, 21.
[235] In his _Discourses on Art_. Cf. pp. 24 ff. above.
[236] See _The Two Paths_, §§ 28 _et seq_. [Ruskin.]
[237] References mainly to the Irish Land Question, on which Ruskin
agreed with Mill and Gladstone in advocating the establishment of a
peasant-proprietorship in Ireland.
[238] _Genesis_ iii, 19.
[239] _Ecclesiastes_ ix, 10.
[240] _Hebrews_ xi, 4.
[241] During the famine in the Indian province of Orissa.
[242] Athena, goddess of weaving.
[243] _Proverbs_ xxxi, 19-22, 24.
[244] _Jeremiah_ xxxviii, 11.
[245] _Matthew_ xxv, 43.
[246] _Matthew_ xxv, 43.
[247] _Revelation_ vi, 13.
[248] _Jeremiah_ xi, 8.
[249] _James_ iv, 14.
[250] _Psalms_ xxxix, 6 and _Revelation_ xiv, 11.
[251] _Ecclesiastes_ ix, 10.
[252] _Psalms_ civ, 4.
[253] _Revelation_ i, 7.
[254] _Daniel_ vii, 10.
[255] _Dies Iræ_, the name generally given (from the opening words)
to the most famous of the mediæval hymns, usually ascribed to the
Franciscan Thomas of Celano (died c. 1255). It is composed in
triplets of rhyming trochaic tetrameters, and describes the Last
Judgment in language of magnificent grandeur, passing into a
plaintive plea for the souls of the dead.
[256] _Acts_ v, 1, 2.
[257] _Galatians_ v. 24.
[258] _Isaiah_ lviii, 7.
[259] 2 _Thessalonians_ iii, 10.
[260] _Luke_ xviii, 11.
[261] 1 _Corinthians_ xiii, 13.