daylight with lateral sun. Where the sunlight reaches the water, every
ripple, wave, or swell reflects to the eye from some of its planes
either the image of the sun or some portion of the neighboring bright
sky. Where the cloud interposes between the sun and sea, all these
luminous reflections are prevented, and the raised planes of the waves
reflect only the dark under-surface of the cloud; and hence, by the
multiplication of the images, spaces of light and shade are produced,
which lie on the sea precisely in the position of real or positive light
and shadows--corresponding to the outlines of the clouds--laterally
cast, and therefore seen in addition to, and at the same time with, the
ordinary or direct reflection, vigorously contrasted, the lights being
often a blaze of gold, and the shadows a dark leaden gray; and yet, I
repeat, they are no more real lights, or real shadows, on the sea, than
the image of a black coat is a shadow on a mirror, or the image of white
paper a light upon it.[191]
Are there, then, _no_ shadows whatsoever upon the sea? Not so. My
assertion is simply that there are none on clear water near the eye. I
shall briefly state a few of the circumstances which give rise to real
shadow in distant effect.
I. Any admixture of opaque coloring matter, as of mud, chalk, or
powdered granite renders water capable of distinct shadow, which is cast
on the earthy and solid particles suspended in the liquid. None of the
seas on our south-eastern coast are so clear as to be absolutely
incapable of shade; and the faint tint, though scarcely perceptible to a
near observer,[192] is sufficiently manifest when seen in large extent
from a distance, especially when contrasted, as your correspondent says,
with reflected lights. This was one reason for my introducing the
words--“near the eye.”
There is, however, a peculiarity in the appearances of such shadows
which requires especial notice. It is not merely the transparency of
water, but its polished surface, and consequent reflective power, which
render it incapable of shadow. A perfectly opaque body, if its power of
reflection be perfect, receives no shadow (this I shall presently
prove); and therefore, in any lustrous body, the incapability of shadow
is in proportion to the power of reflection. Now the power of reflection
in water varies with the angle of the impinging ray, being of course
greatest when that angle is least: and thus, when we look along the
water at a low angle, its power of reflection maintains its incapability
of shadow to a considerable extent, in spite of its containing suspended
opaque matter; whereas, when we look _down_ upon water from a height, as
we then receive from it only rays which have fallen on it at a large
angle, a great number of those rays are unreflected from the surface,
but penetrate beneath the surface, and are then reflected[193] from the
suspended opaque matter: thus rendering shadows clearly visible which,
at a small angle, would have been altogether unperceived.
II. But it is not merely the presence of opaque matter which renders
shadows visible on the sea seen from a height. The eye, when elevated
above the water, receives rays reflected from the bottom, of which, when
_near_ the water, it is insensible. I have seen the bottom at seven
fathoms, so that I could count its pebbles, from the cliffs of the
Cornish coast; and the broad effect of the light and shade of the bottom
is discernible at enormous depths. In fact, it is difficult to say at
what depth the rays returned from the bottom become absolutely
ineffective--perhaps not until we get fairly out into blue water. Hence,
with a white or sandy shore, shadows forcible enough to afford
conspicuous variety of color may be seen from a height of two or three
hundred feet.
III. The actual color of the sea itself is an important cause of shadow
in distant effect. Of the ultimate causes of local color in water I am
not ashamed to confess my total ignorance, for I believe Sir David
Brewster himself has not elucidated them. Every river in Switzerland has
a different hue. The lake of Geneva, commonly blue, appears, under a
fresh breeze, striped with blue and bright red; and the hues of
coast-sea are as various as those of a dolphin; but, whatever be the
cause of their variety, their intensity is, of course, dependent on the
presence of sun-light. The sea under shade is commonly of a cold gray
hue; in sun-light it is susceptible of vivid and exquisite coloring: and
thus the forms of clouds are traced on its surface, not by light and
shade, but by variation of _color_ by grays opposed to greens, blues to
rose-tints, etc. All such phenomena are chiefly visible from a height
and a distance; and thus furnished me with additional reasons for
introducing the words--“near the eye.”
IV. Local color is, however, the cause of one beautiful kind of
chiaro-scuro, visible when we are close to the water--shadows cast, not
_on_ the waves, but through them, as through misty air. When a wave is
raised so as to let the sun-light through a portion of its body, the
contrast of the transparent chrysoprase green of the illuminated parts
with the darkness of the shadowed is exquisitely beautiful.
Hitherto, however, I have been speaking chiefly of the _transparency_ of
water as the source of its incapability of shadow. I have still to
demonstrate the effect of its polished surface.
Let your correspondent pour an ounce or two of quicksilver into a flat
white saucer, and, throwing a strip of white paper into the middle of
the mercury, as before into the water, interpose an upright bit of stick
between it and the sun: he will then have the pleasure of seeing the
shadow of the stick sharply defined on the paper and the edge of the
saucer, while on the intermediate portion of mercury it will be totally
invisible[195]. Mercury is a perfectly opaque body, and its incapability
of shadow is entirely owing to the perfection of its polished surface.
Thus, then, whether water be considered as transparent or reflective
(and according to its position it is one or the other, or partially
both--for in the exact degree that it _is_ the one, it is _not_ the
other), it is equally incapable of shadow. But as on distant water, so
also on near water, when broken, pseudo shadows take place, which are
in reality nothing more than the aggregates of reflections. In the
illuminated space of the wave, from every plane turned towards the sun
there flashes an image of the sun; in the _un_-illuminated space there
is seen on every such plane only the dark image of the interposed body.
Every wreath of the foam, every jet of the spray, reflects in the
sunlight a thousand diminished suns, and refracts their rays into a
thousand colors; while in the shadowed parts the same broken parts of
the wave appear only in dead, cold white; and thus pseudo shadows are
caused, occupying the position of real shadows, defined in portions of
their edge with equal sharpness: and yet, I repeat, they are no more
real shadows than the image of a piece of black cloth is a shadow on a
mirror.
But your correspondent will say, “What does it matter to me, or to the
artist, whether they _are_ shadows or not? They are darkness, and they
supply the place of shadows, and that it is all I contend for.” Not so.
They do _not_ supply the place of shadows; they are divided from them by
this broad distinction, that while shadow causes uniform deepening of
the ground-tint in the objects which it affects, these pseudo shadows
are merely portions of that ground-tint itself undeepened, but cut out
and rendered conspicuous by flashes of light irregularly disposed around
it. The ground-tint both of shadowed and illumined parts is precisely
the same--a pure pale gray, catching as it moves the hues of the sky and
clouds; but on this, in the illumined spaces, there fall touches and
flashes of intense reflected light, which are absent in the shadow. If,
for the sake of illustration, we consider the wave as hung with a
certain quantity of lamps, irregularly disposed, the shape and extent of
a shadow on that wave will be marked by the lamps being all put out
within its influence, while the tint of the water itself is entirely
unaffected by it.
The works of Stanfield will supply your correspondent with perfect and
admirable illustrations of this principle. His water-tint is equally
clear and luminous whether in sunshine or shade; but the whole lustre of
the illumined parts is attained by bright isolated touches of reflected
light.
The works of Turner will supply us with still more striking examples,
especially in cases where slanting sunbeams are cast from a low sun
along breakers, when the shadows will be found in a state of perpetual
transition, now defined for an instant on a mass of foam, then lost in
an interval of smooth water, then coming through the body of a
transparent wave, then passing off into the air upon the dust of the
spray--supplying, as they do in nature, exhaustless combinations of
ethereal beauty. From Turner’s habit of choosing for his subjects sea
much broken with foam, the shadows in his works are more conspicuous
than in Stanfield’s, and may be studied to greater advantage. To the
works of these great painters, those of Vandevelde may be opposed for
instances of the impossible. The black shadows of this latter painter’s
near waves supply us with innumerable and most illustrative examples of
everything which sea shadows are _not_.
Finally, let me recommend your correspondent, if he wishes to obtain
perfect knowledge of the effects of shadow on water, whether calm or
agitated, to go through a systematic examination of the works of Turner.
He will find _every_ phenomenon of this kind noted in them with the most
exquisite fidelity. The Alnwick Castle, with the shadow of the bridge
cast on the dull surface of the moat, and mixing with the reflection, is
the most finished piece of water-painting with which I am acquainted.
Some of the recent Venices have afforded exquisite instances of the
change of color in water caused by shadow, the illumined water being
transparent and green, while in the shade it loses its own color, and
takes the blue of the sky.
But I have already, Sir, occupied far too many of your valuable pages,
and I must close the subject, although hundreds of points occur to me
which I have not yet illustrated[196]. The discussion respecting the
Grotto of Capri is somewhat irrelevant, and I will not enter upon it,
as thousands of laws respecting light and color are there brought into
play, in addition to the water’s incapability of shadow.[197] But it is
somewhat singular that the Newtonian principle, which your correspondent
enunciates in conclusion, is the _very cause_ of the incapability of
shadow which he disputes. I am not, however, writing a treatise on
optics, and therefore can at present do no more than simply explain what
the Newtonian law actually signifies, since, by your correspondent’s
enunciation of it, “pellucid substances reflect light only from their
surfaces,” an inexperienced reader might be led to conclude that
_opaque_ bodies reflected light from something else than their surfaces.
The law is, that whatever number of rays escape reflection at the
surface of water, pass through its body without further reflection,
being therein weakened, but not reflected; but that, where they pass
_out_ of the water again, as, for instance, if there be air-bubbles at
the bottom, giving an under-surface to the water, there a number of rays
are reflected from that under-surface, and do _not_ pass out of the
water, but return to the eye; thus causing the bright luminosity of the
under bubbles. Thus water reflects from both its surfaces--it reflects
it when passing out as well as when entering; but it reflects none
whatever from its own interior mass. If it did, it would be capable of
shadow.
I have the honor to be, Sir,
Your most obedient servant,
THE AUTHOR OF “MODERN PAINTERS.”
[From “The London Review,” May 16, 1861.]
_THE REFLECTION OF RAINBOWS IN WATER.[198]_
_To the Editor of “The London Review.”_
SIR: I do not think there is much difficulty in the rainbow business. We
cannot see the reflection of the same rainbow which we behold in the
sky, but we see the reflection of another invisible one within it.
Suppose A and B, Fig. 1, are two falling raindrops, and the spectator is
at S, and X Y is the water surface. If R A S be a sun ray giving, we
will say, the red ray in the visible rainbow, the ray, B C S, will give
the same red ray, reflected from the water at C.
[Illustration: FIG. 1.]
It is rather a long business to examine the lateral angles, and I have
not time to do it; but I presume the result would be, that if _a m b_,
Fig. 2, be the visible rainbow, and X Y the water horizon, the
reflection will be the dotted line _c e d_, reflecting, that is to say,
the invisible bow, _c n d_; thus, the terminations of the arcs of the
visible and reflected bows do not coincide.
[Illustration: FIG. 2.]
The interval, _m n_, depends on the position of the spectator with
respect to the water surface. The thing can hardly ever be seen in
nature, for if there be rain enough to carry the bow to the water
surface, that surface will be ruffled by the drops, and incapable of
reflection.
Whenever I have seen a rainbow over water (sea, mostly), it has stood on
it reflectionless; but interrupted conditions of rain might be imagined
which would present reflection on near surfaces.
Always very truly yours,
J. RUSKIN.
7_th May,_ 1861.
[From “The Proceedings of the Ashmolean Society,” May 10, 1841.]
_A LANDSLIP NEAR GIAGNANO._
“The Secretary read a letter[199] from J. Ruskin, Esq., of Christ
Church, dated Naples, February 7, 1841, and addressed to Dr.
Buckland,[200] giving a description of recent landslip near that place,
which had occasioned a great loss of life: it occurred at the village of
Giagnano, near Castel-a-mare, on the 22d of January last. The village is
situated on the slope of a conical hill of limestone, not less than 1400
feet in height, and composed of thin beds similar to those which form
the greater part of the range of Sorrento. The hill in question is
nearly isolated, though forming part of the range, the slope of its
sides uniform, and inclined at not less than 40°. Assisted by projecting
ledges of the beds of rock, a soil has accumulated on this slope three
or four feet in depth, rendering it quite smooth and uniform. The higher
parts are covered in many places with brushwood, the lower with vines
trellised over old mulberry trees. There are slight evidences of recent
aqueous action on the sides of the hill, a few gullies descending
towards the east side of the village. After two days of heavy rain, on
the evening of January 22, a torrent of water burst down on the village
to the west of these gullies, and the soil accumulated on the side of
the hill gave way in a wedge-shaped mass, the highest point being about
600 feet above the houses, and slid down, leaving the rocks perfectly
bare. It buried the nearest group of cottages, and remained heaped up in
longitudinal layers above them, whilst the water ran in torrents over
the edge towards the plain, sweeping away many more houses in its
course. To the westward of this point another slip took place of smaller
dimensions than the first, but coming on a more crowded part of the
village, overwhelmed it completely, occasioning the loss of 116 lives.”
[From “The Athenæum,” February 14, 1857.]
_THE GENTIAN.[201]_
DENMARK HILL, _Feb._ 10.
If your correspondent “Y. L. Y.” will take a little trouble in inquiring
into the history of the gentian, he will find that, as is the case with
most other flowers, there are many species of it. He knows the dark blue
gentian (_Gentiana acaulis_) because it grows, under proper cultivation,
as healthily in England as on the Alps. And he has _not_ seen the pale
blue gentian (_Gentiana verna_) shaped like a star, and of the color of
the sky, because that flower grows unwillingly, if at all, except on its
native rocks. I consider it, therefore, as specially characteristic of
Alpine scenery, while its beauty, to my mind, far exceeds that of the
darker species.
I have, etc.,
J. RUSKIN.
[Date and place of original publication unknown.]
_ON THE STUDY OF NATURAL HISTORY._
_To Adam White, of Edinburgh._
It would be pleasing alike to my personal vanity and to the instinct of
making myself serviceable, which I will fearlessly say is as strong in
me as vanity, if I could think that any letter of mine would be helpful
to you in the recommendation of the study of natural history, as one of
the best elements of early as of late education. I believe there is no
child so dull or so indolent but it may be roused to wholesome exertion
by putting some practical and personal work on natural history within
its range of daily occupation; and, once aroused, few pleasures are so
innocent, and none so constant. I have often been unable, through
sickness or anxiety, to follow my own art work, but I have never found
natural history fail me, either as a delight or a medicine. But for
children it must be curtly and wisely taught. We must _show_ them
things, not tell them names. A deal chest of drawers is worth many books
to them, and a well-guided country walk worth a hundred lectures.
I heartily wish you, not only for your sake, but for that of the young
thistle buds of Edinburgh, success in promulgating your views and
putting them in practice.
Always believe me faithfully yours,
J. RUSKIN.
END OF VOLUME 1.
* * * * *
FOOTNOTES:
[1] “The Bibliography of Ruskin: a bibliographical list, arranged in
chronological order, of the published writings of John Ruskin, M.A.
(From 1834 to 1879.)” By Richard Herne Shepherd.
[2] The letter out of which it took its rise, however, will be found
on the 82d page of the first volume; and with regard to it, and
especially to the mention of Mr. Frith’s picture in it, reference
should be made to part of a further letter in the _Art Journal_ of
this month.
“I owe some apology, by the way, to Mr. Frith, for the way I spoke
of his picture in my letter to the Leicester committee, not intended
for publication, though I never write what I would not allow to be
published, and was glad that they asked leave to print it.” (_Art
Journal_, August, 1880, where this sentence is further explained.)
[3] Some of the notes, it will be remarked, are in larger type than
the rest; these are Mr. Ruskin’s original notes to the letters as
first published, and are in fact part of them; and they are so printed
to distinguish them from the other notes, for which I am responsible.
[4] It should be 16th, the criticism having appeared in the preceding
weekly issue.
[5] See “Modern Painters,” vol. i. p. 159 (Pt. II. § 2, cap. 2,
§ 5). “Again, take any important group of trees, I do not care
whose,--Claude’s, Salvator’s, or Poussin’s,--with lateral light
(that in the Marriage of Isaac and Rebecca, or Gaspar’s Sacrifice of
Isaac, for instance); can it be supposed that those murky browns and
melancholy greens are representative of the tints of leaves under full
noonday sun?” The picture in question is, it need hardly be said, in
the National Gallery (No. 31).
[6] See “Modern Painters,” vol. i. pp. 157-8 (Pt. II. § ii., cap. 2, §
4). The critic of the _Chronicle_ had written that the rocky mountains
in this picture “are _not_ sky-blue, neither are they near enough for
detail of crag to be seen, neither are they in full light, but are
quite as indistinct as they would be in nature, and just the color.”
The picture is No. 84 in the National Gallery.
[7] See “Modern Painters,” vol. i. p. 184 (Pt. II. § ii., cap. 4, §
6). “Turner introduced a new era in landscape art, by showing that the
foreground might be sunk for the distance, and that it was possible to
express immediate proximity to the spectator, without giving anything
like completeness to the forms of the near objects. This, observe, is
not done by slurred or soft lines (always the sign of vice in art),
but by a decisive imperfection, a firm but partial assertion of form,
which the eye feels indeed to be close home to it, and yet cannot
rest upon, nor cling to, nor entirely understand, and from which it
is driven away of necessity to those parts of distance on which it
is intended to repose.” To this the critic of the _Chronicle_ had
objected, attempting to show that it would result in Nature being
“represented with just half the quantity of light and color that she
possesses.”
[8] The passage in the _Chronicle_ ran thus: “The Apollo is but an
ideal of the human form; no figure ever moulded of flesh and blood was
like it.” With the objection to this criticism we may compare “Modern
Painters” (vol. i. p. 27), where the ideal is defined as “the utmost
degree of beauty of which the species is capable.” See also vol. ii.
p. 99: “The perfect _idea_ of the form and condition in which all the
properties of the species are fully developed is called the Ideal of
the species;” and “That unfortunate distinctness between Idealism and
Realism which leads most people to imagine that the Ideal is opposed
to the Real, and therefore false.”
[9] This picture of Sir David Wilkie’s was presented to the National
Gallery (No. 99) by Sir George Beaumont, in 1826.
[10] The bank of cloud in the “Sacrifice of Isaac” is spoken of in
“Modern Painters” (vol. i. p. 227, Pt. II., § iii., cap. 3, §7), as “a
ropy, tough-looking wreath.” On this the reviewer commented.
[11] “We agree,” wrote the _Chronicle_, “with the writer in almost
every word he says about this great artist; and we have no doubt that,
when he is gone from among us, his memory will receive the honor due
to his living genius.” See also the postscript to the first volume of
“Modern Painters” (pp. 422-3), written in June, 1851.
[12] Cimabue. The quarter of the town is yet named, from the rejoicing
of that day, Borgo Allegri.{*} (_Original note to the letter: see
editor’s preface._)
{*} The picture thus honored was that of the Virgin, painted for the
Church of Santa Maria Novella, where it now hangs in the Rucellai
Chapel. “This work was an object of so much admiration to the people,
... that it was carried in solemn procession, with the sound of
trumpets and other festal demonstrations, from the house of Cimabue
to the church, he himself being highly rewarded and honored for it.
It is further reported, and may be read in certain records of old
painters, that whilst Cimabue was painting this picture in a garden
near the gate of San Pietro, King Charles the Elder, of Anjou, passed
through Florence, and the authorities of the city, among other marks
of respect, conducted him to see the picture of Cimabue. When this
work was shown to the king, it had not before been seen by any one;
wherefore all the men and women of Florence hastened in great crowds
to admire it, making all possible demonstrations of delight. The
inhabitants of the neighborhood, rejoicing in this occurrence, ever
afterwards called that place Borgo Allegri; and this name it has
since retained, although in process of time it became enclosed within
the walls of the city.--Vasari, “Lives of Painters.” Bohn’s edition.
London, 1850. Vol. i. p. 41. This well-known anecdote may also be
found in Jameson’s “Early Italian Painters,” p. 12.
[13] This letter was written in reply to one signed “Matilda Y.,”
which had been printed in the _Artist and Amateur’s Magazine_, p. 265,
December, 1843, and which related to the opposite opinions held by
different critics of the works of Turner, which were praised by some
as “beautiful and profoundly truthful representations of nature,”
whilst others declared them to be “executed without end, aim, or
principle.” “May not these contradictions,” wrote the correspondent,
in the passage alluded to by Mr. Ruskin, “be in a great measure the
result of extreme ignorance of art in the great mass of those persons
who take upon themselves the office of critics and reviewers? Can any
one be a judge of art whose judgment is not founded on an accurate
knowledge of nature? It is scarcely possible that a mere knowledge of
pictures, however extensive, can qualify a man for the arduous and
responsible duties of public criticism of art.”