shown by the value it therein attaches to every part of knowledge, new
or old, in proportion to its real utility to mankind, or largeness of
range in creation. The selfishness which renders sophia impossible, and
enlarges the elastic and vaporous kingdom of folly, is shown by our
caring for knowledge only so far as we have been concerned in its
discovery, or are ourselves skilled and admired in its communication. If
there is an art which "puffeth up," even when we are surrounded by
magnificence of achievement of past ages, confessedly not by us to be
rivalled, how much more must there be a science which puffeth up, when,
by the very condition of science, it must be an advance on the
attainments of former time, and however slight, or however slow, is
still always as the leaf of a pleasant spring compared to the dried
branches of years gone by? And, for the double calamity of the age in
which we live, it has chanced that the demand of the vulgar and the dull
for originality in Art, is associated with the demand of a sensual
economy for originality in science; and the praise which is too readily
given always to discoveries that are new, is enhanced by the reward
which rapidity of communication now ensures to discoveries that are
profitable. What marvel if future time shall reproach us with having
destroyed the labours, and betrayed the knowledge of the greatest
nations and the wisest men, while we amused ourselves with fantasy in
art, and with theory in science: happy, if the one was idle without
being vicious, and the other mistaken without being mischievous. Nay,
truth, and success, are often to us more deadly than error. Perhaps no
progress more triumphant has been made in any science than that of
Chemistry; but the practical fact which will remain for the
contemplation of the future, is that we have lost the art of painting on
glass, and invented gun-cotton and nitroglycerine. "Can you imagine,"
the future will say, "those English fools of the nineteenth century, who
went about putting up memorials of themselves in glass which they could
not paint, and blowing their women and children to pieces with
cartridges they would not fight with?"
34. You may well think, gentlemen, that I am unjust and prejudiced in
such sayings;--you may imagine that when all our mischievous inventions
have done their worst, and the wars they provoked by cowardice have been
forgotten in dishonour, our great investigators will be remembered, as
men who laid first the foundations of fruitful knowledge, and vindicated
the majesty of inviolable law. No, gentlemen; it will not be so. In a
little while, the discoveries of which we are now so proud will be
familiar to all. The marvel of the future will not be that we should
have discerned them, but that our predecessors were blind to them. We
may be envied, but shall not be praised, for having been allowed first
to perceive and proclaim what could be concealed no longer. But the
misuse we made of our discoveries will be remembered against us, in
eternal history; our ingenuity in the vindication, or the denial, of
species, will be disregarded in the face of the fact that we destroyed,
in civilized Europe, every rare bird and secluded flower; our chemistry
of agriculture will be taunted with the memories of irremediable famine;
and our mechanical contrivance will only make the age of the
mitrailleuse more abhorred than that of the guillotine.
35. Yes, believe me, in spite of our political liberality, and poetical
philanthropy; in spite of our almshouses, hospitals, and Sunday-schools;
in spite of our missionary endeavours to preach abroad what we cannot
get believed at home; and in spite of our wars against slavery,
indemnified by the presentation of ingenious bills,--we shall be
remembered in history as the most cruel, and therefore the most unwise,
generation of men that ever yet troubled the earth:--the most cruel in
proportion to their sensibility,--the most unwise in proportion to their
science. No people, understanding pain, ever inflicted so much: no
people, understanding facts, ever acted on them so little. You execrate
the name of Eccelin of Padua, because he slew two thousand innocent
persons to maintain his power; and Dante cries out against Pisa that she
should be sunk in the sea, because, in revenge for treachery, she put to
death, by the slow pangs of starvation, not the traitor only, but his
children. But we men of London, we of the modern Pisa, slew, a little
while since, _five hundred_ thousand men instead of _two_ thousand--(I
speak in official terms, and know my numbers)--these we slew, all
guiltless; and these we slew, not for defence, nor for revenge, but most
literally in _cold_ blood; and these we slew, fathers and children
together, by slow starvation--simply because, while we contentedly kill
our own children in competition for places in the Civil Service, we
never ask, when once they have got the places, whether the Civil Service
is done.
36. That was our missionary work in Orissa, some three or four years
ago;--our Christian miracle of the five loaves, assisted as we are in
its performance, by steam-engines for the threshing of the corn, and by
railroads for carrying it, and by proposals from English noblemen to cut
down all the trees in England, for better growing it. That, I repeat, is
what we did, a year or two ago; what are we doing now? Have any of you
chanced to hear of the famine in Persia? Here, with due science, we
arrange the roses in our botanic garden, thoughtless of the country of
the rose. With due art of horticulture, we prepare for our harvest of
peaches;--it might perhaps seriously alarm us to hear, next autumn, of a
coming famine of peaches. But the famine of all things, in the country
of the peach--do you know of it, care for it:--quaint famine that it is,
in the fruitfullest, fairest, richest of the estates of earth; from
which the Magi brought their treasures to the feet of Christ?
How much of your time, scientific faculty, popular literature, has been
given, since this year began, to ascertain what England can do for the
great countries under her command, or for the nations that look to her
for help; and how much to discuss the chances of a single impostor's
getting a few thousands a year?
Gentlemen, if your literature, popular and other; or your art, popular
and other; or your science, popular and other, is to be eagle-eyed,
remember that question I to-day solemnly put to you--will you hawk at
game or carrion? Shall it be only said of the thoughts of the heart of
England--"Wheresoever the _carcase_ is, thither shall the eagles be
gathered together"?
LECTURE III.
THE RELATION OF WISE ART TO WISE SCIENCE.
_"The morrow after St. Valentine's," 1872._
37. Our task to-day is to examine the relation between art and science,
each governed by sophia, and becoming capable, therefore, of consistent
and definable relation to each other. Between foolish art and foolish
science, there may indeed be all manner of reciprocal mischievous
influence; but between wise art and wise science there is essential
relation, for each other's help and dignity.
You observe, I hope, that I always use the term 'science,' merely as the
equivalent of 'knowledge.' I take the Latin word, rather than the
English, to mark that it is knowledge of constant things, not merely of
passing events: but you had better lose even that distinction, and
receive the word "scientia" as merely the equivalent of our English
"knowledge," than fall into the opposite error of supposing that
science means systematization or discovery. It is not the arrangement of
new systems, nor the discovery of new facts, which constitutes a man of
science; but the submission to an eternal system; and the proper grasp
of facts already known.
38. And, at first, to-day, I use the word "art" only of that in which it
is my special office to instruct you; graphic imitation; or, as it is
commonly called, Fine art. Of course, the arts of construction,--building,
carpentering, and the like, are directly dependent on many sciences,
but in a manner which needs no discussion, so that we may put that part
of the business out of our way. I mean by art, to-day, only imitative
art; and by science, to-day, not the knowledge of general laws, but of
existent facts. I do not mean by science, for instance, the knowledge
that triangles with equal bases and between parallels, are equal, but
the knowledge that the stars in Cassiopeia are in the form of a =W=.
Now, accepting the terms 'science' and 'art' under these limitations,
wise art is only the reflex or shadow of wise science. Whatever it is
really desirable and honourable to know, it is also desirable and
honourable to know as completely and as long as possible; therefore, to
present, or re-present, in the most constant manner; and to bring again
and again, not only within the thoughts, but before the eyes; describing
it, not with vague words, but distinct lines, and true colours, so as to
approach always as nearly as may be to the likeness of the thing itself.
39. Can anything be more simple, more evidently or indisputably natural
and right, than such connection of the two powers? That you should
desire to know what you ought; what is worthy of your nature, and
helpful to your life: to know that;--nothing less,--nothing more; and to
keep record and definition of such knowledge near you, in the most vivid
and explanatory form?
Nothing, surely, can be more simple than this; yet the sum of art
judgment and of art practice is in this. You are to recognize, or know,
beautiful and noble things--notable, notabilia, or nobilia; and then you
are to give the best possible account of them you can, either for the
sake of others, or for the sake of your own forgetful or apathetic
self, in the future.
Now as I gave you and asked you to remember without failing, an aphorism
which embraced the law of wise knowledge, so, to-day, I will ask you to
remember, without fail, one, which absolutely defines the relation of
wise art to it. I have, already, quoted our to-day's aphorism to you, at
the end of my fourth lecture on sculpture. Read the few sentences at the
end of that lecture now, down to
"THE BEST, IN THIS KIND, ARE BUT SHADOWS."
That is Shakspeare's judgment of his own art. And by strange
coincidence, he has put the words into the mouth of the hero whose
shadow, or semblance in marble, is admittedly the most ideal and heroic
we possess, of man; yet, I need not ask you, whether of the two, if it
were granted you to see the statue by Phidias, or the hero Theseus
himself, you would choose rather to see the carved stone, or the living
King. Do you recollect how Shakspeare's Theseus concludes his sentence,
spoken of the poor tradesmen's kindly offered art, in the "Midsummer
Night's Dream"?
"The best in this kind are but shadows: and the worst are no worse, if
imagination amend them."
It will not burden your memories painfully, I hope, though it may not
advance you materially in the class list, if you will learn this entire
sentence by heart, being, as it is, a faultless and complete epitome of
the laws of mimetic art.
40. "BUT SHADOWS!" Make them as beautiful as you can; use them only to
enable you to remember and love what they are cast by. If ever you
prefer the skill of them to the simplicity of the truth, or the pleasure
of them to the power of the truth, you have fallen into that vice of
folly, (whether you call her κακία or μωρία,) which concludes the subtle
description of her given by Prodicus, that she might be seen continually
εἰς τὴν ἑαυτης σκιὰν ἀποβλέπειν--to look with love, and exclusive
wonder, at _her own_ shadow.
41. There is nothing that I tell you with more eager desire that you
should believe--nothing with wider ground in my experience for requiring
you to believe, than this, that you never will love art well, till you
love what she mirrors better.
It is the widest, as the clearest experience I have to give you; for the
beginning of all my own right art work in life, (and it may not be
unprofitable that I should tell you this,) depended not on my love of
art, but of mountains and sea. All boys with any good in them are fond
of boats, and of course I liked the mountains best when they had lakes
at the bottom; and I used to walk always in the middle of the loosest
gravel I could find in the roads of the midland counties, that I might
hear, as I trod on it, something like the sound of the pebbles on
sea-beach. No chance occurred for some time to develop what gift of
drawing I had; but I would pass entire days in rambling on the
Cumberland hill-sides, or staring at the lines of surf on a low sand;
and when I was taken annually to the Water-colour Exhibition, I used to
get hold of a catalogue before-hand, mark all the Robsons, which I knew
would be of purple mountains, and all the Copley Fieldings, which I knew
would be of lakes or sea; and then go deliberately round the room to
these, for the sake, observe, not of the pictures, in any wise, but only
of the things painted.
And through the whole of following life, whatever power of judgment I
have obtained, in art, which I am now confident and happy in using, or
communicating, has depended on my steady habit of always looking for the
subject principally, and for the art, only as the means of expressing
it.
42. At first, as in youth one is almost sure to be, I was led too far by
my certainty of the rightness of this principle: and provoked into its
exclusive assertion by the pertinacity with which other writers denied
it: so that, in the first volume of "Modern Painters," several passages
occurred setting the subject or motive of the picture so much above the
mode of its expression, that some of my more feebly gifted disciples
supposed they were fulfilling my wishes by choosing exactly the subjects
for painting which they were least able to paint. But the principle
itself, I maintain, now in advanced life, with more reverence and
firmness than in earliest youth: and though I believe that among the
teachers who have opposed its assertion, there are few who enjoy the
mere artifices of composition or dexterities of handling so much as I,
the time which I have given to the investigation of these has only
farther assured me that the pictures were noblest which compelled me to
forget them.
43. Now, therefore, you see that on this simple theory, you have only to
ask what will be the subjects of wise science; these also, will be, so
far as they can be imitatively or suggestively represented, the subjects
of wise art: and the wisdom of both the science and art will be
recognized by their being lofty in their scope, but simple in their
language; clear in fancy, but clearer in interpretation; severe in
discernment, but delightful in display.
44. For example's sake, since we have just been listening to Shakspeare
as a teacher of science and art, we will now examine him as a _subject_
of science and art.
Suppose we have the existence and essence of Shakspeare to investigate,
and give permanent account of; we shall see that, as the scope and
bearing of the science become nobler, art becomes more helpful to it;
and at last, in its highest range, even necessary to it; but still only
as its minister.
We examine Shakspeare, first, with the science of chemistry, which
informs us that Shakspeare consists of about seventy-five parts in the
hundred of water, some twelve or fifteen of nitrogen, and the rest,
lime, phosphorus, and essential earthy salts.
We next examine him by the science of anatomy, which tells us (with
other such matters,) that Shakspeare has seven cervical, twelve dorsal,
and five lumbar vertebræ; that his fore arm has a wide sphere of
rotation; and that he differs from other animals of the ape species by
being more delicately prehensile in the fingers, and less perfectly
prehensile in the toes.
We next approach Shakspeare with the science of natural history, which
tells us the colour of his eyes and hair, his habits of life, his
temper, and his predilection for poaching.
There ends, as far as this subject is concerned, our possible science of
substantial things. Then we take up our science of ideal things: first
of passion, then of imagination; and we are told by these that
Shakspeare is capable of certain emotions, and of mastering or
commanding them in certain modes. Finally, we take up our science of
theology, and ascertain that he is in relation, or in supposed relation,
with such and such a Being, greater than himself.
45. Now, in all these successive stages of scientific description, we
find art become powerful as an aid or record, in proportion to the
importance of the inquiry. For chemistry, she can do scarcely anything:
merely keep note of a colour, or of the form of a crystal. For anatomy,
she can do somewhat more; and for natural history, almost all things:
while in recording passion, and affectionate intellect, she walks hand
in hand with the highest science; and to theology, can give nobler aid
even than verbal expression of literature.
46. And in considering this power of hers, remember that the theology of
art has only of late been thought deserving of attention: Lord Lindsay,
some thirty years ago, was the first to recognize its importance; and
when I entered upon the study of the schools of Tuscany in 1845, his
"Christian Mythology" was the only guide I could trust. Even as late as
1860, I had to vindicate the true position, in Christian science, of
Luini, the despised pupil of Leonardo. But only assuming, what with
general assent I might assume, that Raphael's dispute of the
Sacrament--(or by its less frequently given, but true name--Raphael's
Theologia,) is the most perfect effort yet made by art to illustrate
divine science, I am prepared hereafter to show you that the most
finished efforts of theologic literature, as compared with that piece of
pictorial interpretation, have expressed less fully the condition of
wise religious thought; and have been warped more dangerously into
unwise religious speculation.
47. Upon these higher fields of inquiry we are not yet to enter. I shall
endeavour for some time only to show you the function of modest art, as
the handmaid of natural science; and the exponent, first of the beauty
of the creatures subject to your own human life; and then of the history
of that life in past time; of which one chief source of illustration is
to be found in the most brilliant, and in its power on character,
hitherto the most practically effective of the arts--Heraldry.
In natural history, I at first intended to begin with the lower types of
life; but as the enlarged schools now give me the means of extending the
use of our examples, we will at once, for the sake of more general
service, take up ornithology, of the uses of which, in general culture,
I have one or two grave words to say.
48. Perhaps you thought that in the beginning of my lecture to-day I too
summarily dismissed the arts of construction and action. But it was not
in disrespect to them; and I must indeed ask you carefully to note one
or two points respecting the arts of which an example is set us by
birds;--building, and singing.
The other day, as I was calling on the ornithologist whose collection of
birds is, I suppose, altogether unrivalled in Europe,--(at once a
monument of unwearied love of science, and an example, in its treatment,
of the most delicate and patient art)--Mr. Gould--he showed me the nest
of a common English bird; a nest which, notwithstanding his knowledge of
the dexterous building of birds in all the world, was not without
interest even to him, and was altogether amazing and delightful to me.
It was a bullfinch's nest, which had been set in the fork of a sapling
tree, where it needed an extended foundation. And the bird had built
this first story of her nest with withered stalks of clematis blossom;
and with nothing else. These twigs it had interwoven lightly, leaving
the branched heads all at the outside, producing an intricate Gothic
boss of extreme grace and quaintness, apparently arranged both with
triumphant pleasure in the art of basket-making, and with definite
purpose of obtaining ornamental form.
49. I fear there is no occasion to tell you that the bird had no purpose
of the kind. I say that I _fear_ this, because I would much rather have
to undeceive you in attributing too much intellect to the lower animals,
than too little. But I suppose the only error which, in the present
condition of natural history, you are likely to fall into, is that of
supposing that a bullfinch is merely a mechanical arrangement of nervous
fibre, covered with feathers by a chronic cutaneous eruption; and
impelled by a galvanic stimulus to the collection of clematis.
50. You would be in much greater, as well as in a more shameful, error,
in supposing this, than if you attributed to the bullfinch the most
deliberate rivalship with Mr. Street's prettiest Gothic designs. The
bird has exactly the degree of emotion, the extent of science, and the
command of art, which are necessary for its happiness; it had felt the
clematis twigs to be lighter and tougher than any others within its
reach, and probably found the forked branches of them convenient for
reticulation. It had naturally placed these outside, because it wanted a
smooth surface for the bottom of its nest; and the beauty of the result
was much more dependent on the blossoms than the bird.
51. Nevertheless, I am sure that if you had seen the nest,--much more,
if you had stood beside the architect at work upon it,--you would have
greatly desired to express your admiration to her; and chat if
Wordsworth, or any other simple and kindly person, could even wish, for
a little flower's sake,
"That to this mountain daisy's self were known
The beauty of its star-shaped shadow, thrown
On the smooth surface of this naked stone,"
much more you would have yearned to inform the bright little
nest-builder of your sympathy; and to explain to her, on art principles,
what a pretty thing she was making.
52. Does it never occur to you, then, that to some of the best and
wisest artists among ourselves, it may not be always possible to explain
what pretty things they are making; and that, perhaps, the very
perfection of their art is in their knowing so little about it?
Whether it has occurred to you or not, I assure you that it is so. The
greatest artists, indeed, will condescend, occasionally, to be
scientific;--will labour, somewhat systematically, about what they are
doing, as vulgar persons do; and are privileged, also, to enjoy what
they have made more than birds do; yet seldom, observe you, as being
beautiful, but very much in the sort of feeling which we may fancy the
bullfinch had also,--that the thing, whether pretty or ugly, could not
have been better done; that they could not have made it otherwise, and
are thankful it is no worse. And, assuredly, they have nothing like the
delight in their own work which it gives to other people.
53. But putting the special simplicities of good artists out of
question, let me ask you, in the second place, whether it is not
possible that the same sort of simplicity might be desirable in the
whole race of mankind; and that we ought all to be doing human work
which would appear better done to creatures much above us, than it does
to ourselves. Why should not _our_ nests be as interesting things to
angels, as bullfinches' nests are to us?
You will, probably, both smile at, and shrink from, such a supposition,
as an insolent one. But to my thought, it seems, on the contrary, the
only modest one. That _we_ should be able to admire the work of angels
seems to me the impertinent idea; not, at all, that they should be able
to admire ours.
54. Under existing circumstances, I confess the difficulty. It cannot be
imagined that either the back streets of our manufacturing towns, or the
designs of our suburban villas, are things which the angels desire to
look into: but it seems to me an inevitable logical conclusion that if
we are, indeed, the highest of the brute creation, we should, at least,
possess as much unconscious art as the lower brutes; and build nests
which shall be, for ourselves, entirely convenient; and may, perhaps, in
the eyes of superior beings, appear more beautiful than to our own.
55. "Which shall be, for ourselves, entirely _convenient_." Note the
word;--becoming, decorous, harmonious, satisfying. We may not be able to
build anything sublime; but, at all events, we should, like other
flesh-invested creatures, be able to contrive what was decent, and it
should be a human privilege to think that we may be admired in heaven
for our contrivance.