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THE EAGLE'S NEST.
Ten Lectures on the Relation of Natural Science to Art,
Given Before the University of Oxford, in Lent Term, 1872
by
JOHN RUSKIN, LL.D.,
Honorary Student of Christ Church, and Honorary Fellow
of Corpus Christi College, Oxford.
Twelfth Thousand
London
George Allen, 156, Charing Cross Road
1900
[All rights reserved]
Printed by Ballantyne, Hanson & Co.
At the Ballantyne Press
PREFACE.
The following Lectures have been written, not with less care, but with
less pains, than any in former courses, because no labour could have
rendered them exhaustive statements of their subjects, and I wished,
therefore, to take from them every appearance of pretending to be so:
but the assertions I have made are entirely deliberate, though their
terms are unstudied; and the one which to the general reader will appear
most startling, that the study of anatomy is destructive to art, is
instantly necessary in explanation of the system adopted for the
direction of my Oxford schools.
At the period when engraving might have become to art what printing
became to literature, the four greatest point-draughtsmen hitherto
known, Mantegna, Sandro Botticelli, Dürer, and Holbein, occupied
themselves in the new industry. All these four men were as high in
intellect and moral sentiment as in art-power; and if they had engraved
as Giotto painted, with popular and unscientific simplicity, would have
left an inexhaustible series of prints, delightful to the most innocent
minds, and strengthening to the most noble.
But two of them, Mantegna and Dürer, were so polluted and paralyzed by
the study of anatomy that the former's best works (the magnificent
mythology of the Vices in the Louvre, for instance) are entirely
revolting to all women and children; while Dürer never could draw one
beautiful female form or face; and, of his important plates, only four,
the Melancholia, St. Jerome in his study, St. Hubert, and The Knight and
Death, are of any use for popular instruction, because in these only,
the figures being fully draped or armed, he was enabled to think and
feel rightly, being delivered from the ghastly toil of bone-delineation.
Botticelli and Holbein studied the face first, and the limbs
secondarily; and the works they have left are therefore (without
exception) precious; yet saddened and corrupted by the influence which
the contemporary masters of body-drawing exercised on them; and at last
eclipsed by their false fame. I purpose, therefore, in my next course of
lectures, to explain the relation of these two draughtsmen to other
masters of design, and of engraving.
BRANTWOOD, _Sept. 2nd, 1872._
CONTENTS.
LECTURE I.
_February 8, 1872._
PAGE
THE FUNCTION IN ART OF THE FACULTY CALLED BY
THE GREEKS σοφίa 1
LECTURE II.
_February 10, 1872._
THE FUNCTION IN SCIENCE OF THE FACULTY CALLED BY
THE GREEKS σοφίa 25
LECTURE III.
_February 15, 1872._
THE RELATION OF WISE ART TO WISE SCIENCE 46
LECTURE IV.
_February 17, 1872._
THE FUNCTION IN ART AND SCIENCE OF THE VIRTUE
CALLED BY THE GREEKS σωφροσύνη 74
LECTURE V.
_February 22, 1872._
THE FUNCTION IN ART AND SCIENCE OF THE VIRTUE
CALLED BY THE GREEKS αὐτάρκεια 89
LECTURE VI.
_February 24, 1872._
THE RELATION TO ART OF THE SCIENCE OF LIGHT 114
LECTURE VII.
_February 29, 1872._
THE RELATION TO ART OF THE SCIENCES OF INORGANIC
FORM 138
LECTURE VIII.
_March 2, 1872._
THE RELATION TO ART OF THE SCIENCES OF ORGANIC
FORM 161
LECTURE IX.
_March 7, 1872._
INTRODUCTION TO ELEMENTARY EXERCISES IN PHYSIOLOGIC
ART. THE STORY OF THE HALCYON 188
LECTURE X.
_March 9, 1872._
INTRODUCTION TO ELEMENTARY EXERCISES IN HISTORIC
ART. THE HERALDIC ORDINARIES 225
THE EAGLE'S NEST.
LECTURE I.
OF WISDOM AND FOLLY IN ART.[A]
_8th February, 1872._
1. The Lectures I have given hitherto, though, in the matter of them
conscientiously addressed to my undergraduate pupils, yet were greatly
modified in method by my feeling that this undergraduate class, to which
I wished to speak, was indeed a somewhat imaginary one; and that, in
truth, I was addressing a mixed audience, in greater part composed of
the masters of the University, before whom it was my duty to lay down
the principles on which I hoped to conduct, or prepare the way for the
conduct of, these schools, rather than to enter on the immediate work of
elementary teaching. But to-day, and henceforward most frequently, we
are to be engaged in definite, and, I trust, continuous studies; and
from this time forward, I address myself wholly to my undergraduate
pupils; and wish only that my Lectures may be serviceable to them, and,
as far as the subject may admit of it, interesting.
[A] The proper titles of these lectures, too long for page-headings,
are given in the Contents.
2. And, farther still, I must ask even my younger hearers to pardon me
if I treat that subject in a somewhat narrow, and simple way. They have
a great deal of hard work to do in other schools: in these, they must
not think that I underrate their powers, if I endeavour to make
everything as easy to them as possible. No study that is worth pursuing
seriously can be pursued without effort; but we need never make the
effort painful merely for the sake of preserving our dignity. Also, I
shall make my Lectures shorter than heretofore. What I tell you I wish
you to remember; and I do not think it possible for you to remember well
much more than I can easily tell you in half-an-hour. I will promise
that, at all events, you shall always be released so well within the
hour, that you can keep any appointment accurately for the next. You
will not think me indolent in doing this; for, in the first place, I can
assure you, it sometimes takes me a week to think over what it does not
take a minute to say: and, secondly, believe me, the least part of the
work of any sound art-teacher must be his talking. Nay, most deeply
also, it is to be wished that, with respect to the study which I have to
bring before you to-day, in its relation to art, namely, natural
philosophy, the teachers of it, up to this present century, had done
less work in talking, and more in observing: and it would be well even
for the men of this century, pre-eminent and accomplished as they are in
accuracy of observation, if they had completely conquered the old habit
of considering, with respect to any matter, rather what is to be said,
than what is to be known.
3. You will, perhaps, readily admit this with respect to science; and
believe my assertion of it with respect to art. You will feel the
probable mischief, in both these domains of intellect, which must follow
on the desire rather to talk than to know, and rather to talk than to
do. But the third domain, into the midst of which, here, in Oxford,
science and art seem to have thrust themselves hotly, like intrusive
rocks, not without grim disturbance of the anciently fruitful
plain;--your Kingdom or Princedom of Literature? Can we carry our
statement into a third parallelism, for that? It is ill for Science, we
say, when men desire to talk rather than to know; ill for Art, when they
desire to talk rather than to do. Ill for Literature, when they desire
to talk,--is it? and rather than--what else? Perhaps you think that
literature means nothing else than talking?--that the triple powers of
science, art, and scholarship, mean simply the powers of knowing, doing,
and saying. But that is not so in any wise. The faculty of saying or
writing anything well, is an art, just as much as any other; and founded
on a science as definite as any other. Professor Max Müller teaches you
the science of language; and there are people who will tell you that the
only art I can teach you myself, is the art of it. But try your triple
parallelism once more, briefly, and see if another idea will not occur
to you. In science, you must not talk before you know. In art, you must
not talk before you do. In literature you must not talk before
you--think.
That is your third Province. The Kingdom of Thought, or Conception.
And it is entirely desirable that you should define to yourselves the
three great occupations of men in these following terms:--
SCIENCE. The knowledge of things, whether
Ideal or Substantial.
ART. The modification of Substantial
things by our Substantial Power.
LITERATURE. The modification of Ideal things
by our Ideal Power.
4. But now observe. If this division be a just one, we ought to have a
word for literature, with the 'Letter' left out of it. It is true that,
for the most part, the modification of ideal things by our ideal power
is not complete till it is expressed; nor even to ourselves delightful,
till it is communicated. To letter it and label it--to inscribe and to
word it rightly,--this is a great task, and it is the part of
literature which can be most distinctly taught. But it is only the
formation of its body. And the soul of it can exist without the body;
but not at all the body without the soul; for that is true no less of
literature than of all else in us or of us--"litera occidit, spiritus
autem vivificat."
Nevertheless, I must be content to-day with our old word. We cannot say
'spiriture' nor 'animature,' instead of literature; but you must not be
content with the vulgar interpretation of the word. Remember always that
you come to this University,--or, at least, your fathers came,--not to
learn how to say things, but how to think them.
5. "How to think them! but that is only the art of logic," you perhaps
would answer. No, again, not at all: logic is a method, not a power; and
we have defined literature to be the modification of ideal things by
ideal power, not by mechanical method. And you come to the University to
get that power, or develop it; not to be taught the mere method of using
it.
I say you come to the University for this; and perhaps some of you are
much surprised to hear it! You did not know that you came to the
University for any such purpose. Nay, perhaps you did not know that you
had come to a University at all? You do not at this instant, some of
you, I am well assured, know what a University means. Does it mean, for
instance--can you answer me in a moment, whether it means--a place
where everybody comes to learn something; or a place where somebody
comes to learn everything? It means--or you are trying to make it
mean--practically and at present, the first; but it means theoretically,
and always, the last; a place where only certain persons come, to learn
_everything_; that is to say, where those who wish to be able to think,
come to learn to think: not to think of mathematics only, nor of morals,
nor of surgery, nor chemistry, but of everything, rightly.
6. I say you do not all know this; and yet, whether you know it or
not,--whether you desire it or not,--to some extent the everlasting
fitness of the matter makes the facts conform to it. For we have at
present, observe, schools of three kinds, in operation over the whole of
England. We have--I name it first, though, I am sorry to say, it is last
in influence--the body consisting of the Royal Academy, with the
Institute of Architects, and the schools at Kensington, and their
branches; teaching various styles of fine or mechanical art. We have, in
the second place, the Royal Society, as a central body; and, as its
satellites, separate companies of men devoted to each several science:
investigating, classing, and describing facts with unwearied industry.
And lastly and chiefly, we have the great Universities, with all their
subordinate public schools, distinctively occupied in regulating,--as I
think you will at once admit,--not the language merely, nor even the
language principally, but the modes of philosophical and imaginative
thought in which we desire that youth should be disciplined, and age
informed and majestic. The methods of language, and its range; the
possibilities of its beauty, and the necessities for its precision, are
all dependent upon the range and dignity of the unspoken conceptions
which it is the function of these great schools of literature to awaken,
and to guide.
7. The range and dignity of _conceptions_! Let us pause a minute or two
at these words, and be sure we accept them.
First, what _is_ a conception? What is this separate object of our
work, as scholars, distinguished from artists, and from men of science?
We shall discover this better by taking a simple instance of the three
agencies.
Suppose that you were actually on the plain of Pæstum, watching the
drift of storm-cloud which Turner has here engraved.[B] If you had
occupied yourself chiefly in schools of science, you would think of the
mode in which the electricity was collected; of the influence it had on
the shape and motion of the cloud; of the force and duration of its
flashes, and of other such material phenomena. If you were an artist,
you would be considering how it might be possible, with the means at
your disposal, to obtain the brilliancy of the light, or the depth of
the gloom. Finally, if you were a scholar, as distinguished from either
of these, you would be occupied with the imagination of the state of the
temple in former times; and as you watched the thunderclouds drift past
its columns, and the power of the God of the heavens put forth, as it
seemed, in scorn of the departed power of the god who was thought by the
heathen to shake the earth--the utterance of your mind would become,
whether in actual words or not, such as that of the Psalmist:--"Clouds
and darkness are round about Him--righteousness and judgment are the
habitation of His throne." Your thoughts would take that shape, of their
own accord, and if they fell also into the language, still your
essential scholarship would consist, not in your remembering the verse,
still less in your knowing that "judgment" was a Latin word, and
"throne" a Greek one; but in your having power enough of conception, and
elevation enough of character, to understand the nature of justice, and
be appalled before the majesty of dominion.
[B] Educational Series, No. 8, E.
8. You come, therefore, to this University, I repeat once again, that
you may learn how to form conceptions of proper range or grasp, and
proper dignity, or worthiness. Keeping then the ideas of a separate
school of art, and separate school of science, what have you to learn in
these? You would learn in the school of art, the due range and dignity
of deeds; or doings--(I prefer the word to "makings," as more general),
and in the school of science, you would have to learn the range and
dignity of knowledges.
Now be quite clear about this: be sure whether you really agree with me
or not.
You come to the School of Literature, I say, to learn the range and
dignity of conceptions.
To the School of Art, to learn the range and dignity of deeds.
To the School of Science, to learn the range and dignity of knowledges.
Do you agree to that, or not? I will assume that you admit my triple
division; but do you think, in opposition to me, that a school of
science is still a school of science, whatever sort of knowledge it
teaches; and a school of art still a school of art, whatever sort of
deed it teaches; and a school of literature still a school of
literature, whatever sort of notion it teaches?
Do you think that? for observe, my statement denies that. My statement
is, that a school of literature teaches you to have one sort of
conception, not another sort; a school of art to do a particular sort of
deed, not another sort; a school of science to possess a particular sort
of knowledge, not another sort.
9. I assume that you differ with me on this point;--some of you
certainly will. Well then, let me go back a step. You will all go thus
far with me, that--now taking the Greek words--the school of literature
teaches you to have νοῧς, or conception of things, instead of ἄνοια,--no
conception of things; that the school of art teaches you τέχνη of
things, instead of ἀτεχνία; and the school of science ἐπιστήμη, instead
of ἄγνοια or 'ignorantia.' But, you recollect, Aristotle names two other
faculties with these three,--φρόνησις, namely, and σοφίa. He has
altogether five, τέχνη, ἐπιστήμη, φρόνησις, σοφίa, νοῦς; that is to say,
in simplest English,--art, science, sense, wisdom, and wit. We have got
our art, science, and wit, set over their three domains; and we old
people send you young ones to those three schools, that you may not
remain artless, scienceless, nor witless. But how of the sense, and the
wisdom? What domains belong to these? Do you think our trefoil division
should become cinquefoil, and that we ought to have two additional
schools; one of Philosophia, and one of Philophronesia? If Aristotle's
division were right it would be so. But his division is wrong, and he
presently shows it is; for he tells you in the next page, (in the
sentence I have so often quoted to you,) that "the virtue of art is the
wisdom which consists in the wit of what is honourable." Now that is
perfectly true; but it of course vitiates his division altogether. He
divides his entire subject into _A_, _B_, _C_, _D_, and _E_; and then he
tells you that the virtue of _A_ is the _B_ which consists in _C_. Now
you will continually find, in this way, that Aristotle's assertions are
right, but his divisions illogical. It is quite true that the virtue of
art is the wisdom which consists in the wit of what is honourable; but
also the virtue of science is the wit of what is honourable, and in the
same sense, the virtue of νοῦς, or wit itself, consists in its _being_
the wit or conception of what is honourable. Σοφία, therefore, is not
only the ἀρετή τέχνης, but, in exactly the same sense, the ἀρετή
ἐπιστήμης, and in this sense, it is the ἀρετή νόου. And if not governed
by σοφίa, each school will teach the vicious condition of its own
special faculty. As σοφία is the ἀρετή of all three, so μωρία will be
the κακία of all three.
10. Now in this, whether you agree with me or not, let me be at least
sure you understand me. Σοφία, I say, is the virtue, μωρία is the vice,
of all the three faculties of art, science, and literature. There is
for each of them a negative and a positive side, as well as a zero.
There is a nescience for zero in science--with wise science on one side,
foolish science on the other: ἀτεχνία for zero in art, with wise art on
one side, foolish art on the other; and ἄνοια for zero in νοῦς, with
wise νοῦς on one side, foolish νοῦς on the other.
11. You will smile at that last expression, 'foolish νοῦς.' Yet
it is, of all foolish things, the commonest and deadliest. We
continually complain of men, much more of women, for reasoning ill. But
it does not matter how they reason, if they don't conceive basely. Not
one person in a hundred is capable of seriously reasoning; the
difference between man and man is in the quickness and quality, the
accipitrine intensity, the olfactory choice, of his νοῦς. Does
he hawk at game or carrion? What you choose to grasp with your mind is
the question;--not how you handle it afterwards. What does it matter how
you build, if you have bad bricks to build with; or how you reason, if
every idea with which you begin is foul or false? And in general all
fatal false reasoning proceeds from people's having some one false
notion in their hearts, with which they are resolved that their
reasoning _shall_ comply.
But, for better illustration, I will now take my own special subject out
of the three;--τέχνη. I have said that we have, for its zero, ἀτεχνία,
or artlessness--in Latin, 'inertia,' opposed to 'ars.' Well, then, we
have, from that zero, wise art on the one side, foolish art on the
other; and the finer the art, the more it is capable of this living
increase, or deadly defect. I will take, for example, first, a very
simple art, then a finer one; but both of them arts with which most of
you are thoroughly acquainted.
12. One of the simplest pieces of perfect art, which you are yourselves
in the habit of practising, is the stroke of an oar given in true time.
We have defined art to be the wise modification of matter by the body
(substantial things by substantial power, § 3). With a good oar-stroke
you displace a certain quantity of water in a wise way. Supposing you
missed your stroke, and caught a crab, you would displace a certain
quantity of water in a foolish way, not only ineffectually, but in a way
the reverse of what you intended. The perfectness of the stroke implies
not only absolutely accurate knowledge or science of the mode in which
water resists the blade of an oar, but the having in past time met that
resistance repeatedly with greater and greater rightness of adaptation
to the end proposed. That end being perfectly simple,--the advance of
the boat as far as possible with a given expenditure of strength, you at
once recognize the degree in which the art falls short of, or the
artlessness negatives, your purpose. But your being 'σοφός,' as an
oarsman, implies much more than this mere art founded on pure science.
The fact of your being able to row in a beautiful manner depends on
other things than the knowledge of the force of water, or the repeated
practice of certain actions in resistance to it. It implies the practice
of those actions under a resolved discipline of the body, involving
regulation of the passions. It signifies submission to the authority,
and amicable concurrence with the humours, of other persons; and so far
as it is beautifully done at last, absolutely signifies therefore a
moral and intellectual rightness, to the necessary extent influencing
the character honourably and graciously. This is the sophia, or wit, of
what is most honourable, which is concerned in rowing, without which it
must become no rowing, or the reverse of rowing.
13. Let us next take example in an art which perhaps you will think
(though I hope not) much inferior to rowing, but which is in reality a
much higher art--dancing. I have just told you (§ 11) how to test the
rank of arts--namely, by their corruptibility, as you judge of the
fineness of organic substance. The moria,[C] or folly, of rowing, is
only ridiculous, but the moria, or folly, of dancing, is much worse than
ridiculous; and, therefore, you may know that its sophia, or wisdom,
will be much more beautiful than the wisdom of rowing. Suppose, for
instance, a minuet danced by two lovers, both highly bred, both of noble
character, and very much in love with each other. You would see, in
that, an art of the most highly finished kind, under the government of a
sophia which dealt with the strongest passions, and most exquisite
perceptions of beauty, possible to humanity.
[C] If the English reader will pronounce the o in this word as in
fold, and in sophia as in sop, but accenting the o, not the i, I
need not any more disturb my pages with Greek types.
14. For example of the contrary of these, in the same art, I cannot give
you one more definite than that which I saw at, I think, the Gaiety
Theatre--but it might have been at any London theatre now,--two years
ago.
The supposed scene of the dance was Hell, which was painted in the
background with its flames. The dancers were supposed to be demons, and
wore black masks, with red tinsel for fiery eyes; the same red light was
represented as coming out of their ears also. They began their dance by
ascending through the stage on spring trap-doors, which threw them at
once ten feet into the air; and its performance consisted in the
expression of every kind of evil passion, in frantic excess.
15. You will not, I imagine, be at a loss to understand the sense in
which the words sophia and moria are to be rightly used of these two
methods of the same art. But those of you who are in the habit of
accurate thinking will at once perceive that I have introduced a new
element into my subject by taking an instance in a higher art. The folly
of rowing consisted mainly in not being able to row; but this folly of
dancing does not consist in not being able to dance, but in dancing
well with evil purpose; and the better the dancing, the worse the
result.
And now I am afraid I must tease you by asking your attention to what
you may at first think a vain nicety in analysis, but the nicety is here
essential, and I hope throughout this course of Lectures, not to be so
troublesome to you again.
16. The mere negation of the power of art--the zero of it--you say, in
rowing, is ridiculous. It is, of course, not less ridiculous in dancing.
But what do you mean by ridiculous? You mean contemptible, so as to
provoke laughter. The contempt, in either case, is slight, in ordinary
society; because, though a man may neither know how to row, or dance, he
may know many other things. But suppose he lived where he could not know
many other things? By a stormy sea-coast, where there could be no
fresco-painting, in a poor country, where could be none of the fine arts
connected with wealth, and in a simple, and primitive society, not yet
reached by refinements of literature; but where good rowing was
necessary for the support of life, and good dancing, one of the most
vivid aids to domestic pleasure. You would then say that inability to
row, or to dance, was far worse than ridiculous; that it marked a man
for a good-for-nothing fellow, to be regarded with indignation, as well
as contempt.
Now, remember, the inertia or zero of art always involves this kind of
crime, or at least, pitiableness. The want of opportunity of learning
takes away the moral guilt of artlessness; but the want of opportunity
of learning such arts as are becoming in given circumstances, may indeed
be no crime in an individual, but cannot be alleged in its defence by a
nation. National ignorance of decent art is always criminal, unless in
earliest conditions of society; and then it is brutal.
17. To that extent, therefore, culpably or otherwise, a kind of moria,
or folly, is always indicated by the zero of art-power. But the true
folly, or assuredly culpable folly, is in the exertion of our art power
in an evil direction. And here we need the finesse of distinction, which
I am afraid will be provoking to you. Observe, first, and simply, that
the possession of any art-power at all implies a sophia of _some_ kind.
These demon dancers, of whom I have just spoken, were earning their
bread by severe and honest labour. The skill they possessed could not
have been acquired but by great patience and resolute self-denial; and
the very power with which they were able to express, with precision,
states of evil passion, indicated that they had been brought up in a
society which, in some measure, knew evil from good, and which had,
therefore, some measure of good in the midst of it. Nay, the farther
probability is, that if you inquired into the life of these men, you
would find that this demon dance had been invented by some one of them
with a great imaginative power, and was performed by them not at all in
preference of evil, but to meet the demand of a public whose admiration
was capable of being excited only by violence of gesture, and vice of
emotion.
18. In all cases, therefore, observe, where the opportunity of learning
has been given; the existence of the art-power indicates sophia and its
absence indicates moria. That great fact I endeavoured to express to
you, two years since, in my third introductory Lecture. In the present
course I have to show you the action of the final, or higher sophia,
which directs the skill of art to the best purposes; and of the final,
or lower moria, which misdirects them to the worst. And the two points
I shall endeavour to bring before you throughout will be these:--First,
that the object of University teaching is to form your conceptions; not
to acquaint you with arts, nor sciences. It is to give you a notion of
what is meant by smith's work, for instance;--but not to make you
blacksmiths. It is to give you a notion of what is meant by medicine,
but not to make you physicians. The proper academy for blacksmiths is a
blacksmith's forge; the proper academy for physicians is an hospital.
Here you are to be taken away from the forge, out of the hospital, out
of all special and limited labour and thought, into the 'Universitas' of
labour and thought, that you may in peace, in leisure, in calm of
disinterested contemplation, be enabled to conceive rightly the laws of
nature, and the destinies of Man.
19. Then the second thing I have to show you is that over these three
kingdoms of imagination, art, and science, there reigns a virtue or
faculty, which from all time, and by all great people, has been
recognised as the appointed ruler and guide of every method of labour,
or passion of soul; and the most glorious recompense of the toil, and
crown of the ambition of man. "She is more precious than rubies, and all
the things thou canst desire are not to be compared unto her. Lay fast
hold upon her; let her not go; keep her, for she is thy life."
Are not these, and the innumerable words like to these, which you
remember as I read them, strange words, if Aristotle's statement
respecting wisdom be true; that it never contemplates anything that can
make men happy, "ἡ μέν γὰρ σοφία οὐδέν θεωρει ἐξ ὦν ἔσται εὐδαίμων
ἄνθρωπος"?
When we next meet, therefore, I purpose to examine what it is which
wisdom, by preference, contemplates; what choice she makes among the
thoughts and sciences open to her, and to what purpose she employs
whatever science she may possess.
And I will briefly tell you, beforehand, that the result of the inquiry
will be, that instead of regarding none of the sources of happiness, she
regards nothing else; that she measures all worthiness by pure felicity;
that we are permitted to conceive her as the cause even of gladness to
God--"I was daily His delight, rejoicing always before Him,"--and that
we are commanded to _know_ her as queen of the populous world,
"rejoicing in the habitable parts of the Earth, and whose delights are
with the sons of Men."
LECTURE II.
OF WISDOM AND FOLLY IN SCIENCE.
_10th February, 1872._
20. In my last lecture I asserted the positive and negative powers of
literature, art, and science; and endeavoured to show you some of the
relations of wise art to foolish art. To-day we are to examine the
nature of these positive and negative powers in science; it being the
object of every true school to teach the positive or constructive power,
and by all means to discourage, reprove, and extinguish the negative
power.
It is very possible that you may not often have thought of, or clearly
defined to yourselves, this destructive or deadly character of some
elements of science. You may indeed have recognized with Pope that a
little knowledge was dangerous, and you have therefore striven to drink
deep; you may have recognized with Bacon, that knowledge might partially
become venomous; and you may have sought, in modesty and sincerity,
antidote to the inflating poison. But that there is a ruling spirit or
σοφίa, under whose authority you are placed, to determine for
you, first the choice, and then the use of all knowledge whatsoever; and
that if you do not appeal to that ruler, much more if you disobey her,
all science becomes to you ruinous in proportion to its accumulation,
and as a net to your soul, fatal in proportion to the fineness of its
thread,--this, I imagine, few of you, in the zeal of learning, have
suspected, and fewer still have pressed their suspicion so far as to
recognize or believe.
21. You must have nearly all heard of, many must have seen, the singular
paintings; some also may have read the poems, of William Blake. The
impression that his drawings once made is fast, and justly, fading away,
though they are not without noble merit. But his poems have much more
than merit; they are written with absolute sincerity, with infinite
tenderness, and, though in the manner of them diseased and wild, are in
verity the words of a great and wise mind, disturbed, but not deceived,
by its sickness; nay, partly exalted by it, and sometimes giving forth
in fiery aphorism some of the most precious words of existing
literature. One of these passages I will ask you to remember; it will
often be serviceable to you--
"Doth the Eagle know what is in the pit,
Or wilt thou go ask the Mole?"
It would be impossible to express to you in briefer terms the great
truth that there is a different kind of knowledge good for every
different creature, and that the glory of the higher creatures is in
ignorance of what is known to the lower.
22. And, above all, this is true of man; for every other creature is
compelled by its instinct to learn its own appointed lesson, and must
centralize its perception in its own being. But man has the choice of
stooping in science beneath himself, and striving in science beyond
himself; and the "Know thyself" is, for him, not a law to which he must
in peace submit; but a precept which of all others is the most painful
to understand, and the most difficult to fulfil. Most painful to
understand, and humiliating; and this alike, whether it be held to
refer to the knowledge beneath us, or above. For, singularly enough, men
are always most conceited of the meanest science:--
"Doth the Eagle know what is in the pit,
Or wilt thou go ask the Mole?"
It is just those who grope with the mole, and cling with the bat, who
are vainest of their sight and of their wings.
23. "Know _thyself_;" but can it indeed be sophia,--can it be the noble
wisdom, which thus speaks to science? Is not this rather, you will ask,
the voice of the lower virtue of prudence, concerning itself with right
conduct, whether for the interests of this world or of the future? Does
not sophia regard all that is above and greater than man; and by so much
as we are forbidden to bury ourselves in the mole's earth-heap, by so
much also, are we not urged to raise ourselves towards the stars?
Indeed, it would at first seem so; nay, in the passage of the Ethics,
which I proposed to you to-day for question, you are distinctly told so.
There are, it is said, many different kinds of phronesis, by which every
animal recognizes what is for its own good: and man, like any other
creature, has his own separate phronesis telling him what he is to seek,
and to do, for the preservation of his life: but above all these forms
of prudence, the Greek sage tells you, is the sophia of which the
objects are unchangeable and eternal, the methods consistent, and the
conclusions universal: and this wisdom has no regard whatever to the
things in which the happiness of man consists, but acquaints itself only
with the things that are most honourable; so that "we call Anaxagoras
and Thales, and such others, wise indeed, but not prudent, in that they
know nothing of what is for their own advantage, but know surpassing
things, marvellous things, difficult things, and divine things."
24. Now here is a question which evidently touches _us_ closely. We
profess at this day to be an especially prudent nation;--to regard only
the things which are for our own advantage; to leave to other races the
knowledge of surpassing things, marvellous things, divine things, or
beautiful things; and in our exceeding prudence we are, at this moment,
refusing the purchase of, perhaps, the most interesting picture by
Raphael in the world, and, certainly, one of the most beautiful works
ever produced by the art-wisdom of man, for five-and-twenty thousand
pounds, while we are debating whether we shall not pay three hundred
millions to the Americans, as a fine for selling a small frigate to
Captain Semmes. Let me reduce these sums from thousands of pounds, to
single pounds; you will then see the facts more clearly; (there is not
one person in a million who knows what a "million" means; and that is
one reason the nation is always ready to let its ministers spend a
million or two in cannon, if they can show they have saved
twopence-halfpenny in tape). These are the facts then, stating pounds
for thousands of pounds; you are offered a Nativity, by Raphael, for
five-and-twenty pounds, and cannot afford it; but it is thought you may
be bullied into paying three hundred thousand pounds, for having sold a
ship to Captain Semmes. I do not say you will pay it. Still your present
position is one of deprecation and humility, and that is the kind of
result which you bring about by acting with what you call "practical
common sense," instead of Divine wisdom.
25. Perhaps you think I am losing Aristotle's notion of common sense, by
confusing it with our vulgar English one; and that selling ships or
ammunition to people whom we have not courage to fight either for or
against, would not by Aristotle have been held a phronetic, or prudent
proceeding. Be it so; let us be certain then, if we can, what Aristotle
does mean. Take the instance I gave you in the last lecture, of the
various modes of feeling in which a master of literature, of science,
and of art, would severally regard the storm round the temples of
Pæstum.
The man of science, we said, thought of the origin of the electricity;
the artist of its light in the clouds, and the scholar, of its relation
to the power of Zeus and Poseidon. There you have Episteme; Techne; and
Nous; well, now what does Phronesis do?
Phronesis puts up his umbrella, and goes home as fast as he can.
Aristotle's Phronesis at least does; having no regard for marvellous
things. But are you sure that Aristotle's Phronesis is indeed the right
sort of Phronesis? May there not be a commonsense, as well as an art,
and a science, under the command of sophia? Let us take an instance of a
more subtle kind.
26. Suppose that two young ladies, (I assume in my present lectures,
that none are present, and that we may say among ourselves what we like;
and we do like, do we not, to suppose that young ladies excel us only in
prudence, and not in wisdom?) let us suppose that two young ladies go to
the observatory on a winter night, and that one is so anxious to look at
the stars that she does not care whether she gives herself cold, or not;
but the other is prudent, and takes care, and looks at the stars only as
long as she can without catching cold. In Aristotle's mind the first
young lady would properly deserve the name of Sophia, and the other that
of Prudence. But in order to judge them fairly, we must assume that they
are acting under exactly the same conditions. Assume that they both
equally desire to look at the stars; then, the fact that one of them
stops when it would be dangerous to look longer, does not show that she
is less wise,--less interested, that is to say, in surpassing and
marvellous things;--but it shows that she has more self-command, and is
able therefore to remember what the other does not think of. She is
equally wise, and more sensible. But suppose that the two girls are
originally different in disposition; and that the one, having much more
imagination than the other, is more interested in these surpassing and
marvellous things; so that the self-command, which is enough to stop the
other, who cares little for the stars, is not enough to stop her who
cares much for them;--you would say, then, that, both the girls being
equally sensible, the one that caught cold was the wisest.
27. Let us make a farther supposition. Returning to our first condition,
that both the girls desire equally to look at the stars; let us put it
now that both have equal self-command, and would therefore, supposing no
other motives were in their minds, together go on star-gazing, or
together stop star-gazing; but that one of them has greater
consideration for her friends than the other, and though she would not
mind catching cold for her own part, would mind it much for fear of
giving her mother trouble. She will leave the stars first, therefore;
but should we be right now in saying that she was only more sensible
than her companion, and not more wise? This respect for the feelings of
others, this understanding of her duty towards others, is a much higher
thing than the love of stars. It is an imaginative knowledge, not of
balls of fire or differences of space, but of the feelings of living
creatures, and of the forces of duty by which they justly move. This is
a knowledge, or perception, therefore, of a thing more surpassing and
marvellous than the stars themselves, and the grasp of it is reached by
a higher sophia.
28. Will you have patience with me for one supposition more? We may
assume the attraction of the spectacle of the heavens to be equal in
degree, and yet, in the minds of the two girls, it may be entirely
different in kind. Supposing the one versed somewhat in abstract
Science, and more or less acquainted with the laws by which what she now
sees may be explained; she will probably take interest chiefly in
questions of distance and magnitude, in varieties of orbit, and
proportions of light. Supposing the other not versed in any science of
this kind, but acquainted with the traditions attached by the religion
of dead nations to the figures they discerned in the sky: she will care
little for arithmetical or geometrical matters, but will probably
receive a much deeper emotion, from witnessing in clearness what has
been the amazement of so many eyes long closed; and recognizing the same
lights, through the same darkness, with innocent shepherds and
husbandmen, who knew only the risings and settings of the immeasurable
vault, as its lights shone on their own fields or mountains; yet saw
true miracle in them, thankful that none but the Supreme Ruler could
bind the sweet influences of Pleiades, or loose the bands of Orion. I
need not surely tell you, that in this exertion of the intellect and the
heart, there would be a far nobler sophia than any concerned with the
analysis of matter, or the measurement of space.
29. I will not weary you longer with questions, but simply tell you,
what you will find ultimately to be true, that sophia is the form of
thought, which makes common sense unselfish,--knowledge unselfish,--art
unselfish,--and wit and imagination unselfish. Of all these, by
themselves, it is true that they are partly venomous; that, as knowledge
puffeth up, so does prudence--so does art--so does wit; but, added to
all these, wisdom, or (you may read it as an equivalent word), added to
all these--charity, edifieth.
30. Note the word; builds forward, or builds up, and builds securely
because on modest and measured foundation, wide, though low, and in the
natural and living rock.
Sophia is the faculty which recognizes in all things their bearing upon
life, in the entire sum of life that we know, bestial and human; but,
which, understanding the appointed objects of that life, concentrates
its interest and its power on Humanity, as opposed on the one side to
the Animalism which it must rule, and distinguished on the other side
from the Divinity which rules it, and which it cannot imagine.
It is as little the part of a wise man to reflect much on the nature of
beings above him, as of beings beneath him. It is immodest to suppose
that he can conceive the one, and degrading to suppose that he should be
busied with the other. To recognize his everlasting inferiority, and his
everlasting greatness; to know himself, and his place; to be content to
submit to God without understanding Him; and to rule the lower creation
with sympathy and kindness, yet neither sharing the passion of the wild
beast, nor imitating the science of the Insect;--this you will find is
to be modest towards God, gentle to His creatures, and wise for
himself.
31. I think you will now be able to fasten in your minds, first the idea
of unselfishness, and secondly, that of modesty, as component elements
of sophia; and having obtained thus much, we will at once make use of
our gain, by rendering more clear one or two points respecting its
action on art, that we may then see more surely its obscurer function in
science.
It is absolutely unselfish, we say, not in the sense of being without
desire, or effort to gratify that desire; on the contrary, it longs
intensely to see, or know the things it is rightly interested in. But it
is not interested specially in itself. In the degree of his wisdom, an
artist is unconcerned about his work as his own;--concerned about it
only in the degree in which he would be, if it were another
man's--recognizing its precise value, or no value, from that outer
standpoint. I do not think, unless you examine your minds very
attentively, that you can have any conception of the difficulty of doing
this. Absolutely to do it is impossible, for we are all intended by
nature to be a little unwise, and to derive more pleasure, therefore,
from our own success than that of others. But the intense degree of the
difference is usually unmeasured by us. In preparing the drawings for
you to use as copies in these schools, my assistant and I are often
sitting beside each other; and he is at work, usually, on the more
important drawing of the two. I so far recognize that greater
importance, when it exists, that if I had the power of determining which
of us should succeed, and which fail, I should be wise enough to choose
his success rather than my own. But the actual effect on my own mind,
and comfort, is very different in the two cases. If _he_ fails, I am
sorry, but not mortified;--on the contrary, perhaps a little pleased. I
tell him, indulgently, 'he will do better another time,' and go down
with great contentment to my lunch. But, if _I_ fail, though I would
rather, for the sake of the two drawings, have had it so, the effect on
my temper is very different. I say, philosophically, that it was better
so--but I can't eat any lunch.
32. Now, just imagine what this inherently selfish
passion--unconquerable as you will find it by the most deliberate and
maintained efforts--fancy what it becomes, when instead of striving to
subdue, we take every means in our power to increase and encourage it;
and when all the circumstances around us concur in the deadly
cultivation. In all base schools of Art, the craftsman is dependent for
his bread on originality; that is to say, on finding in himself some
fragment of isolated faculty, by which his work may be recognized as
distinct from that of other men. We are ready enough to take delight in
our little doings, without any such stimulus;--what must be the effect
of the popular applause which continually suggests that the little thing
we can separately do is as excellent as it is singular! and what the
effect of the bribe, held out to us through the whole of life, to
produce--it being also at our peril _not_ to produce--something
different from the work of our neighbours? In all great schools of art
these conditions are exactly reversed. An artist is praised in these,
not for what is different in him from others, nor for solitary
performance of singular work; but only for doing most strongly what all
are endeavouring; and for contributing, in the measure of his strength,
to some great achievement, to be completed by the unity of multitudes,
and the sequence of ages.