art by greater skill, as by a radical change in temper. The art of this
day is not merely a more _knowing_ art than that of the thirteenth
century,--it is altogether another art. Between the two there is a great
gulf, a distinction forever ineffaceable. The change from one to the
other was not that of the child into the man, as we usually consider it;
it was that of the chrysalis into the butterfly. There was an entire
change in the habits, food, method of existence, and heart of the whole
creature. That we know more than thirteenth century people is perfectly
true; but that is not the essential difference between us and them. We
are different kind of creatures from them,--as different as moths are
different from caterpillars; and different in a certain broad and vast
sense, which I shall try this evening to explain and prove to
you;--different not merely in this or that result of minor
circumstances,--not as you are different from people who never saw a
locomotive engine, or a Highlander of this century from a Highlander of
1745;--different in a far broader and mightier sense than that; in a
sense so great and clear, that we are enabled to separate all the
Christian nations and tongues of the early time from those of the latter
time, and speak of them in one group as the kingdoms of the Middle Ages.
There is an infinite significance in that term, which I want you to
dwell upon and work out; it is a term which we use in a dim
consciousness of the truth, but without fully penetrating into that of
which we are conscious. I want to deepen and make clear to you this
consciousness that the world has had essentially a Trinity of ages--the
Classical Age, the Middle Age, the Modern Age; each of these embracing
races and individuals of apparently enormous separation in kind, but
united in the spirit of their age,--the Classical Age having its
Egyptians and Ninevites, Greeks and Romans,--the Middle Age having its
Goths and Franks, Lombards and Italians,--the Modern Age having its
French and English, Spaniards and Germans; but all these distinctions
being in each case subordinate to the mightier and broader distinction,
between _Classicalism_, _Mediaevalism_, and _Modernism_.
111. Now our object to-night is indeed only to inquire into a matter of
art; but we cannot do so properly until we consider this art in its
relation to the inner spirit of the age in which it exists; and by doing
so we shall not only arrive at the most just conclusions respecting our
present subject, but we shall obtain the means of arriving at just
conclusions respecting many other things.
Now the division of time which the Pre-Raphaelites have adopted, in
choosing Raphael as the man whose works mark the separation between
Mediaevalism and Modernism, is perfectly accurate. It has been accepted
as such by all their opponents.
You have, then, the three periods: Classicalism, extending to the fall
of the Roman empire; Mediaevalism, extending from that fall to the close
of the fifteenth century; and Modernism thenceforward to our days.
112. And in examining into the spirit of these three epochs, observe, I
don't mean to compare their bad men,--I don't mean to take Tiberius as a
type of Classicalism, nor Ezzelin as a type of Mediaevalism, nor
Robespierre as a type of Modernism. Bad men are like each other in all
epochs; and in the Roman, the Paduan, or the Parisian, sensuality and
cruelty admit of little distinction in the manners of their
manifestation. But among men comparatively virtuous, it is important to
study the phases of character; and it is into these only that it is
necessary for us to inquire. Consider therefore, first, the essential
difference in character between three of the most devoted military
heroes whom the three great epochs of the world have produced,--all
three devoted to the service of their country,--all of them dying
therein. I mean, Leonidas in the Classical period, St. Louis in the
Mediaeval period, and Lord Nelson in the Modern period.
Leonidas had the most rigid sense of duty, and died with the most
perfect faith in the gods of his country, fulfilling the accepted
prophecy of his death. St. Louis had the most rigid sense of duty, and
the most perfect faith in Christ. Nelson had the most rigid sense of
duty, and----
You must supply my pause with your charity.
Now you do not suppose that the main difference between Leonidas and
Nelson lay in the modern inventions at the command of the one, as
compared with the imperfect military instruments possessed by the other.
They were not essentially different, in that the one fought with lances
and the other with guns. But they were essentially different in the
whole tone of their religious belief.
113. By this instance you may be partially prepared for the bold
statement I am going to make to you, as to the change which constitutes
Modernism. I said just now that it was like that of the worm to the
butterfly. But the changes which God causes in His lower creatures are
almost always from worse to better, while the changes which God allows
man to make in himself are very often quite the other way; like Adam's
new arrangement of his nature. And in saying that this last change was
like that of a chrysalis, I meant only in the completeness of it, not in
the tendency of it. Instead of from the worm to the butterfly, it is
very possible it may have been from the butterfly to the worm.
Have patience with me for a moment after I tell you what I believe it to
have been, and give me a little time to justify my words.
114. I say that Classicalism began, wherever civilization began, with
Pagan Faith. Mediaevalism began, and continued, wherever civilization
began and continued to _confess_ Christ. And, lastly, Modernism began
and continues, wherever civilization began and continues to _deny_
Christ.
You are startled, but give me a moment to explain. What, you would say
to me, do you mean to tell us that _we_ deny Christ? we who are
essentially modern in every one of our principles and feelings, and yet
all of us professing believers in Christ, and we trust most of us true
ones? I answer, So far as we are believers indeed, we are one with the
faithful of all times,--one with the classical believer of Athens and
Ephesus, and one with the mediaeval believer of the banks of the Rhone
and the valleys of the Monte Viso. But so far as, in various strange
ways, some in great and some in small things, we deny this belief, in so
far we are essentially infected with this spirit, which I call
Modernism.
115. For observe, the change of which I speak has nothing whatever to do
with the Reformation, or with any of its effects. It is a far broader
thing than the Reformation. It is a change which has taken place, not
only in reformed England, and reformed Scotland; but in unreformed
France, in unreformed Italy, in unreformed Austria. I class honest
Protestants and honest Roman Catholics for the present together, under
the general term Christians: if you object to their being so classed
together, I pray your pardon, but allow me to do so at present, for the
sake of perspicuity, if for nothing else; and so classing them, I say
that a change took place, about the time of Raphael, in the spirit of
Roman Catholics and Protestants both; and that change consisted in the
_denial_ of their religious belief, at least in the external and trivial
affairs of life, and often in far more serious things.
116. For instance, hear this direction to an upholsterer of the early
thirteenth century. Under the commands of the Sheriff of Wiltshire, he
is thus ordered to make some alterations in a room for Henry the Third.
He is to "wainscot the King's lower chamber, and to paint that wainscot
of a green color, and to put a border to it, and to cause the heads of
kings and queens to be painted on the borders; and to paint on the walls
of the King's upper chamber the story of St. Margaret, Virgin, and the
four Evangelists, and to paint the wainscot of the same chamber of a
green color, spotted with gold."[34]
[Footnote 34: Liberate Rolls, preserved in the Tower of London, and
quoted by Mr. Turner in his History of the Domestic Architecture of
England.]
Again, the Sheriff of Wiltshire is ordered to "put two small glass
windows in the chamber of Edward the King's son; and put a glass window
in the chamber of our Queen at Clarendon; and in the same window cause
to be painted a Mary with her Child, and at the feet of the said Mary, a
queen with clasped hands."
Again, the Sheriff of Southampton is ordered to "paint the tablet beside
the King's bed, with the figures of the guards of the bed of Solomon,
and to glaze with white glass the windows in the King's great Hall at
Northampton, and cause the history of Lazarus and Dives to be painted in
the same."
117. And so on; I need not multiply instances. You see that in all these
cases, the furniture of the King's house is made to confess his
Christianity. It may be imperfect and impure Christianity, but such as
it might be, it was all that men had then to live and die by; and you
see there was not a pane of glass in their windows, nor a pallet by
their bedside that did not confess and proclaim it. Now, when you go
home to your own rooms, supposing them to be richly decorated at all,
examine what that decoration consists of. You will find Cupids, Graces,
Floras, Dianas, Jupiters, Junos. But you will not find, except in the
form of an engraving, bought principally for its artistic beauty, either
Christ, or the Virgin, or Lazarus and Dives. And if a thousand years
hence, any curious investigator were to dig up the ruins of Edinburgh,
and not know your history, he would think you had all been born
heathens. Now that, so far as it goes, is denying Christ; it is pure
Modernism.
"No," you will answer me, "you misunderstand and calumniate us. We do
not, indeed, choose to have Dives and Lazarus on our windows; but that
is not because we are moderns, but because we are Protestants, and do
not like religious imagery." Pardon me: that is not the reason. Go into
any fashionable lady's boudoir in Paris, and see if you will find Dives
and Lazarus there. You will find, indeed, either that she has her
private chapel, or that she has a crucifix in her dressing-room; but for
the general decoration of the house, it is all composed of Apollos and
Muses, just as it is here.
118. Again. What do you suppose was the substance of good education, the
education of a knight, in the Middle Ages? What was taught to a boy as
soon as he was able to learn anything? First, to keep under his body,
and bring it into subjection and perfect strength; then to take Christ
for his captain, to live as always in His presence, and finally, to do
his _devoir_--mark the word--to all men. Now consider, first, the
difference in their influence over the armies of France, between the
ancient word "devoir," and modern word "gloire." And, again, ask
yourselves what you expect your own children to be taught at your great
schools and universities. Is it Christian history, or the histories of
Pan and Silenus? Your present education, to all intents and purposes,
denies Christ, and that is intensely and peculiarly Modernism.
119. Or, again, what do you suppose was the proclaimed and understood
principle of all Christian _governments_ in the Middle Ages? I do not
say it was a principle acted up to, or that the cunning and violence of
wicked men had not too often their full sway then as now; but on what
principles were that cunning and violence, so far as was possible,
restrained? By the _confessed_ fear of God, and _confessed_ authority of
His law. You will find that all treaties, laws, transactions whatsoever,
in the Middle Ages, are based on a confession of Christianity as the
leading rule of life; that a text of Scripture is held, in all public
assemblies, strong enough to be set against an appearance of expediency;
and although, in the end, the expediency might triumph, yet it was never
without a distinct allowance of Christian principle, as an efficient
element in the consultation. Whatever error might be committed, at least
Christ was openly confessed. Now what is the custom of your British
Parliament in these days? You know that nothing would excite greater
manifestations of contempt and disgust than the slightest attempt to
introduce the authority of Scripture in a political consultation. That
is denying Christ. It is intensely and peculiarly Modernism.
120. It would be easy to go on showing you this same thing in many more
instances; but my business to-night is to show you its full effect in
one thing only, namely, in art, and I must come straightway to that, as
I have little enough time. This, then, is the great and broad fact which
distinguishes modern art from old art; that all ancient art was
_religious_, and all modern art is _profane_. Once more, your patience
for an instant. I say, all ancient art was religious; that is to say,
religion was its first object; private luxury or pleasure its second. I
say all modern art is profane; that is, private luxury or pleasure is
its first object; religion its second. Now you all know, that anything
which makes religion its second object, makes religion _no_ object. God
will put up with a great many things in the human heart, but there is
one thing He will _not_ put up with in it--a second place. He who offers
God a second place, offers Him no place. And there is another mighty
truth which you all know, that he who makes religion his first object,
makes it his whole object; he has no other work in the world than God's
work. Therefore I do not say that ancient art was _more_ religious than
modern art. There is no question of degree in this matter. Ancient art
was religious art; modern art is profane art; and between the two the
distinction is as firm as between light and darkness.
121. Now, do not let what I say be encumbered in your minds with the
objection, that you think art ought not to be brought into the service
of religion. That is not the question at present--do not agitate it. The
simple fact is, that old art _was_ brought into that service, and
received therein a peculiar form; that modern art _is not_ brought into
that service, and has received in consequence another form; that this is
the great distinction between mediaeval and modern art; and from that are
clearly deducible all other essential differences between them. That is
the point I wish to show you, and of that there can be no dispute.
Whether or not Christianity be the purer for lacking the service of art,
is disputable--and I do not mean now to begin the dispute; but that art
is the _impurer_ for not being in the service of Christianity, is
indisputable, and that is the main point I have now to do with.
122. Perhaps there are some of you here who would not allow that the
religion of the thirteenth century was Christianity. Be it so; still is
the statement true, which is all that is necessary for me now to prove,
that art was great because it was devoted to such religion as then
existed. Grant that Roman Catholicism was not Christianity--grant it, if
you will, to be the same thing as old heathenism--and still I say to
you, whatever it was, men lived and died by it, the ruling thought of
all their thoughts; and just as classical art was greatest in building
to its gods, so mediaeval art was great in building to its gods, and
modern art is not great, because it builds to _no_ God. You have, for
instance, in your Edinburgh Library, a Bible of the thirteenth century,
the Latin Bible, commonly known as the Vulgate. It contains the Old and
New Testaments, complete, besides the books of Maccabees, the Wisdom of
Solomon, the books of Judith, Baruch, and Tobit. The whole is written in
the most beautiful black-letter hand, and each book begins with an
illuminated letter, containing three or four figures, illustrative of
the book which it begins. Now, whether this were done in the service of
true Christianity or not, the simple fact is, that here is a man's
life-time taken up in writing and ornamenting a Bible, as the sole end
of his art; and that doing this, either in a book or on a wall, was the
common artist's life at the time; that the constant Bible reading and
Bible thinking which this work involved, made a man serious and
thoughtful, and a good workman, because he was always expressing those
feelings which, whether right or wrong, were the groundwork of his whole
being. Now, about the year 1500, this entire system was changed. Instead
of the life of Christ, men had, for the most part, to paint the lives of
Bacchus and Venus; and if you walk through any public gallery of
pictures by the "great masters," as they are called, you will indeed
find here and there what is called a Holy Family, painted for the sake
of drawing pretty children, or a pretty woman; but for the most part you
will find nothing but Floras, Pomonas, Satyrs, Graces, Bacchanals, and
Banditti. Now, you will not declare--you cannot believe--that Angelico
painting the life of Christ, Benozzo painting the life of Abraham,
Ghirlandajo painting the life of the Virgin, Giotto painting the life of
St. Francis, were worse employed, or likely to produce a less healthy
art, than Titian painting the loves of Venus and Adonis, than Correggio
painting the naked Antiope, than Salvator painting the slaughters of the
thirty years' war? If you will not let me call the one kind of labor
Christian, and the other unchristian, at least you will let me call the
one moral, and the other immoral, and that is all I ask you to admit.
123. Now observe, hitherto I have been telling you what you may feel
inclined to doubt or dispute; and I must leave you to consider the
subject at your leisure. But henceforward I tell you plain facts, which
admit neither of doubt nor dispute by any one who will take the pains to
acquaint himself with their subject-matter.
When the entire purpose of art was moral teaching, it naturally took
truth for its first object, and beauty, and the pleasure resulting from
beauty, only for its second. But when it lost all purpose of moral
teaching, it as naturally took beauty for its first object, and truth
for its second.
That is to say, in all they did, the old artists endeavored, in one way
or another, to express the real facts of the subject or event, this
being their chief business: and the question they first asked themselves
was always, how would this thing, or that, actually have occurred? what
would this person, or that, have done under the circumstances? and then,
having formed their conception, they work it out with only a secondary
regard to grace or beauty, while a modern painter invariably thinks of
the grace and beauty of his work first, and unites afterwards as much
truth as he can with its conventional graces. I will give you a single
strong instance to make my meaning plainer. In Orcagna's great fresco of
the Triumph of Death, one of the incidents is that three kings,[35]
when out hunting, are met by a spirit, which, desiring them to follow
it, leads them to a churchyard, and points out to them, in open coffins,
three bodies of kings such as themselves, in the last stages of
corruption. Now a modern artist, representing this, would have
endeavored dimly and faintly to suggest the appearance of the dead
bodies, and would have made, or attempted to make, the countenances of
the three kings variously and solemnly expressive of thought. This would
be in his, or our, view, a poetical and tasteful treatment of the
subject. But Orcagna disdains both poetry and taste; he wants the
_facts_ only; he wishes to give the spectator the same lesson that the
kings had; and therefore, instead of concealing the dead bodies, he
paints them with the most fearful detail. And then, he does not consider
what the three kings might most gracefully do. He considers only what
they actually in all probability _would have done_. He makes them
looking at the coffins with a startled stare, and one holding his nose.
This is an extreme instance; but you are not to suppose it is because
Orcagna had naturally a coarse or prosaic mind. Where he felt that
thoughtfulness and beauty could properly be introduced, as in his
circles of saints and prophets, no painter of the Middle Ages is so
grand. I can give you no better proof of this, than the one fact that
Michael Angelo borrowed from him openly--borrowed from him in the
principal work which he ever executed, the Last Judgment, and borrowed
from him the principal figure in that work. But it is just because
Orcagna was so firmly and unscrupulously true, that he had the power of
being so great when he chose. His arrow went straight to the mark. It
was not that he did not love beauty, but he loved truth first.
[Footnote 35: This incident is not of Orcagna's invention, it is
variously represented in much earlier art. There is a curious and
graphic drawing of it, _circa_ 1300, in the MS. Arundel 83, Brit. Mus.,
in which the three dead persons are walking, and are met by three
queens, who severally utter the sentences,
"Ich am aferd."
"Lo, whet ich se?"
"Me thinketh hit beth develes thre."
To which the dead bodies answer--
"Ich wes wel fair."
"Such scheltou be."
"For Godes love, be wer by me."
It is curious, that though the dresses of the living persons, and the "I
was well fair" of the first dead speaker, seem to mark them distinctly
to be women, some longer legends below are headed "primus _rex_
mortuus," etc.]
124. So it was with all the men of that time. No painters ever had more
power of conceiving graceful form, or more profound devotion to the
beautiful; but all these gifts and affections are kept sternly
subordinate to their moral purpose; and, so far as their powers and
knowledge went, they either painted from nature things as they were, or
from imagination things as they must have been.
I do not mean that they reached any imitative resemblance to nature.
They had neither skill to do it, nor care to do it. Their art was
conventional and imperfect, but they considered it only as a language
wherein to convey the knowledge of certain facts; it was perfect enough
for that; and though always reaching on to greater attainments, they
never suffered their imperfections to disturb and check them in their
immediate purposes. And this mode of treating all subjects was persisted
in by the greatest men until the close of the fifteenth century.
125. Now so justly have the Pre-Raphaelites chosen their time and name,
that the great change which clouds the career of mediaeval art was
affected, not only in Raphael's time, but by Raphael's own practice, and
by his practice in _the very center of his available life_.
You remember, doubtless, what high ground we have for placing the
beginning of human intellectual strength at about the age of twelve
years.[36] Assume, therefore, this period for the beginning of Raphael's
strength. He died at thirty-seven. And in his twenty-fifth year, one
half-year only past the precise center of his available life, he was
sent for to Rome, to decorate the Vatican for Pope Julius II., and
having until that time worked exclusively in the ancient and stern
mediaeval manner, he, in the first chamber which he decorated in that
palace, wrote upon its walls the _Mene, Tekel, Upharsin_ of the Arts of
Christianity.
[Footnote 36: Luke ii. 42, 49.]
And he wrote it thus: On one wall of that chamber he placed a picture of
the World or Kingdom of _Theology_, presided over by _Christ_. And on
the side wall of that same chamber he placed the World or Kingdom of
_Poetry_, presided over by _Apollo_. And from that spot, and from that
hour, the intellect and the art of Italy date their degradation.