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SESAME AND LILIES.
THREE LECTURES
DELIVERED IN x864 AND 1868.
BY
JOHN RUSKIN, M.A.


I. OF KINGS TREASURIES.
I. OF Q UEES' GARDENS.
III. OF THE M YSTER Y OF LIFE.
REVISED EDITION.
NEW YORK:
JOHN B. ALDEN, PUBLISHER.
I885.




TROW'S3
VRINTIKG A"D UOOKDINDING COMPAN;.
NEW YORK.




PREFACE.
BEING now fifty-one years old, and little likely to
change my mind hereafter on any important subject
of thought (unless through weakness of age), I wish
to publish a connected series of such parts of my
works as now seem to me right, and likely to be of
permanent use. In doing so I shall omit much, but
not attempt to mend what I think worth reprinting.
A young man necessarily writes otherwise than an old
one, and it would be worse than wasted time to try to
recast the juvenile language: nor is it to be thought
that I am ashamed even of what I cancel; for great
part of my earlier work was rapidly written for temporary purposes, and is now unnecessary, though true,
even to truism. What I wrote about religion, was,
on the contrary, painstaking, and, I think, forcible, as
compared with most religious writing; especially in
its frankness and fearlessness: but it was wholly mistaken; for I had been educated in the doctrines of a
narrow sect, and had read history as obl,. ly as sectarians necessarily must.
Mingled among these either unnecessary oi 'roneous statements, I find, indeed, some that mig.it be
still of value; but these, in my earlier books, disfigured by affected language, partly through the desire
to be thought a fine writer, and partly, as in the second
volume of " Modern Painters," in the notion of returning as far as I could to what I thought the better style
of old English literature, especially to that of my then
favorite, in prose, Richard Hooker.
For these reasons, though, as respects either art,
policy, or morality as distinct from religion, I not only




iv


PREFACE.


still hold, but would even wish strongly to re-affirm
the substance of what I said in my earliest books, I
shall reprint scarcely anything in this series out of the
first and second volumes of " Modern Painters;" and
shall omit much of the" Seven Lams " and " Stones of
Venice:" but all my books written within the last fifteen years will be republished without change, as new
editions of them are called for, with here and there
perhaps an additional note, and having their text divided, for convenient reference, into paragraphs consecutive through each volume. I shall also throw together the shorter fragments that bear on each other,
and fill in with such unprinted lectures or studies as
seem to me worth preserving, so as to keep the volumes, on an average, composed of about a hundred
leaves each.
The first book of which a new edition is required
chances to be " Sesame and Lilies," from which I now
detach the old preface, about the Alps, for use elsewhere;* and to which I add a lecture given in Ireland on a subject closely connected with that of the
book itself. I am glad that it should be the first of
the complete series, for many reasons; though in now
looking over these two lectures, I am painfully struck
by the waste of good work in them. They cost me
much thought, and much strong emotion; but it was
foolish to suppose that I could rouse my audiences in
a little while to any sympathy with the temper into
which I had brought myself by years of thinking over
subjects full of pain; while, if I missed my purpose at
the time, it was little to be hoped I could attain it afterwards; since phrases written for oral delivery become ineffective when quietly read. Yet I should
only take away what good is in them if I tried to
translate them into the language of books; nor, indeed, could I at all have done so at the time of their
delivery, my thoughts then habitually and impatiently
putting themselves into forms fit only for emphatic
speech; and thus I am startled, in my review of them,
*The original preface is retained in this edition.-As. PUB.




PRERFA CE.


v


to find that, though there is much (forgive me the impertinence) which seems to me accurately and energetically said, there is scarcely anything put in a form
to be generally convincing, or even easily intelligible;
and I can well imagine a reader laying down the book
without being at all moved by it, still less guided, to
any definite course of action.
I think, however, if I now say briefly and clearly
what I meant my hearers to understand, and what I
wanted, and still would fain have them to do, there
may afterwards be found some better service in the
passionately written text.
The first Lecture says, or tries to say, that, life being very short, and the quiet hours of it few, we ought
to waste none of them in reading valueless books;
and that valuable books should, in a civilized country,
be within the reach of every one, printed in excellent
form, for a just price; but not in any vile, vulgar, or,
by reason of smallness of type, physically injurious
form, at a vile price. For we none of us need many
books, and those which we need ought to be clearly
printed, on the best paper, and strongly bound. And
though we are, indeed, now, a wretched and povertystruck nation, and hardly able to keep soul and body
together, still, as no person in decent circumstances
would put on his table confessedly bad wine, or bad
meat, without being ashamed, so he need not have
on his shelves ill-printed or loosely and wretchedlystitched books; for, though few can be rich, yet every
man who honestly exerts himself may, I think, still
provide, for himself and his family, good shoes, good
gloves, strong harness for his cart or carriage horses,
and stout leather binding for his books.  And I
would urge upon every young man, as the beginning
of his due and wise provision for his household, to
obtain as soon as he can, by the severest economy, a
restricted, serviceable, and steadily-however slowly
-increasing, series of books for use through life;
making his little library, of all the furniture in his
room, the most studied and decorative piece; every




Vi


P 'ReEFA CE.


volume having its assigned place, like a little statue
in its niche, and one of the earliest and strictest lessons to the children of the house being how to turn
the pages of their own literary possessions lightly and
deliberately, with no chance of tearing or dogs' ears.
That is my notion of the founding of King's Treasuries; and the first Lecture is intended to show somewhat the use and preciousness of their treasures: but
the two following ones have wider scope, being written in the hope of awakening the youth of England,
so far as my poor words might have any power with
them, to take some thought of the purposes of the life
into which they are entering, and the nature of the
world they have to conquer.
These two lectures are fragmentary and ill-arranged, but not, 1 think, diffuse or much compressible.
The entire gist and conclusion of them, however, is in
the last six paragraphs of the third lecture, which I
would beg the reader to look over not once nor twice
(rather than any other part of the book), for they contain the best expression I have yet been able to put in
words of what, so far as is within my power, I mean
henceforward both to do myself, and to plead with all
over whom I have any influence, to do also according
to their means: the letters begun on the first day of
this year, to the workmen of England, having the object of originating, if possible, this movement among
them, in true alliance with whatever trustworthy element of help they can find in the higher classes.
After these paragraphs, let me ask you to read, by the
fiery light of recent events, the fable at p. 104, and
also the four concluding paragraphs; and observe, my
statement respecting the famine at Orissa is not rhetorical, but certified by official documents as within
the truth. Five lhundred thousand persons, at least,
died by starvation in our British dominions, wholly in
consequence of carelessness and want of forethought.
Keep that well in your memory-; and note it as the
best possible illustration of modern political economy
in true practice, and of the relations it has accom



PREFACE.


vii


plished between Supply and Demand. Then begin
the second lecture, and all will read clear enough, I
think, to the end; only, since that second lecture was
written, questions have arisen respecting the education and claims of women which have greatly troubled
simple minds and excited restless ones. I am sometimes asked my thoughts on this matter, and I suppose that some girl readers of the second lecture may
at'the end of it desire to be told summarily what I
would have them do and desire in the present state of
things. This, then, is what I would say to any girl
who had confidence enough in me to believe what I
told her, or do what I ask her.
First, be quite sure of one thing, that, however much
you may know, and whatever advantages you may
possess, and however good you may be, you have not
been singled out, by the God who made you, from all
the other girls in the world, to be especially informed
respecting His own nature and character. You have
not been born in a luminous point upon the surface of
the globe, where a perfect theology might be expounded to you from your youth up, and where everything you were taught would be true, and everything
that was enforced upon you, right. Of all the insolent, all the foolish persuasions that by any chance
could enter and hold your empty little heart, this is
the proudest and foolishest,-that you have been so
much the darling of the Heavens, and favorite of the
Fates, as to be born in the very nick of time, and in
the punctual place, when and where pure Divine truth
had been sifted from the errors of the Nations; and
that your papa had been providentially disposed to
buy a house in the convenient neighborhood of the
steeple under which that Immaculate and final verity
would be beautifully proclaimed. Do not think it,
child; it is not so. This, on the contrary, is the fact,
-unpleasant you may think it; pleasant. it seems to
me,-that you, with all your prett\,dresses, and
dainty looks, and kindly thoughts, and saintly-aspirations, are not one whit more thought of or loved by




Viii


PREFA CE.


the great Maker and Master than any poor little red,
black, or blue savage, running wild in the pestilent
woods, or naked on the hot sands of the earth: and
that, of the two, you probably know less about God
than she does; the only difference being that she
thinks little of Him that is right, and you, much that
is wrong.
That, then, is the first thing to make sure of;-that
you are not yet perfectly well informed on the most
abstruse of all possible subjects, and that, if you care
to behave with modesty or propriety, you had better
be silent about it.
The second thing which you may make sure of is,
that however good you may be, you have faults; that
however dull you may be, you can find out what some
of them are; and that however slight they may be, you
had better make some-not too painful, but patienteffort to get quit of them. And so far as you have
confidence in me at all, trust me for this, that how
many soever you may find or fancy your faults to be,
there are only two that are of real consequence,-Idleness and Cruelty. Perhaps you may be proud. Well,
we can get much good out of pride, if only it be not
religious. Perhaps you may be vain: it is highly
probable; and very pleasant for the people who like to
praise you. Perhaps you are a little envious: that is
really very shocking; but then-so is everybody else.
Perhaps, also, you are a little malicious, which I am
truly concerned to hear, but should probably only the
more, if I knew you, enjoy your conversation. But
whatever else you may be, you must not be useless,
and you must not be cruel. If there is any one point
which, in six thousand years of thinking about right
and wrong, wise and good men have agreed upon, or
successively by experience discovered, it is that God
dislikes idle and cruel people more than any o~ther;that His first order is, " Work while you have light;"
and His second, " Be merciful while you have mercy."
" Work while you have light," especially while you
have the light of morning. There are few things




PREFACE.


iX


more wonderful to me than that old people never tell
young ones how precious their youth is. They sometimes sentimentally regret their own earlier days;
sometimes prudently forget them; often foolishly rebuke the young, often more foolishly indulge, often
most foolishly thwart and restrain; but scarcely ever
warn or watch them. Remember, then, that I, at
least, have warned you, that the happiness of your life,
and its power, and its part and rank in earth or- in
heaven, depend on the way you pass your days now.
They are not to be sad days; far from that, the first
duty of young people is to be delighted and delightful; but they are to be in the deepest sense solemn
days. There is no solemnity so deep, to a rightlythinking creature, as that of dawn. But not only in
that beautiful sense, but in all their character and
method, they are to be solemn days. Take your Latin
dictionary, and look out " sollennis," and fix the sense
of the word well in your mind, and remember that
every day of your early life is ordaining irrevocably,
for good or evil, the custom and practice of your soul;
ordaining either sacred customs of dear and lovely recurrence, or trenching deeper and deeper the furrows
for seed of sorrow. Now, therefore, see that no day
passes in which you do not make yourself a somewhat
better creature; and in order to do that, find out, first,
what you are now. Do not think vaguely about it;
take pen and paper, and write down as accurate a description of yourself as you can, with the date to it.
If you dare not do so, find out why you dare not, and
try to get strength of heart enough to look yourself
fairly in the face, in mind as well as body. I do not
doubt but that the mind is a less pleasant thing to
look at than the face, and for that very reason it
needs more looking at; so always have two mirrors
on your toilet table, and see that with proper care you
dress body and mind before them daily. After the
dressing is once over for the day, think no more about
it: as your hair will blow about your ears, so your
temper and thoughts will get ruffled with thy day's


0




X


PREFA CE.


work, and may need, sometimes, twice dressing; but
I don't want you to carry about a mental pocketcomb;
only to be smooth braided always in the morning.
Write down then, frankly, what you are, or, at least,
what you think yourself, not dwelling upon those inevitable faults which I have just told you are of little
consequence, and which the action of a right life will
shake or smooth away; but that you may determine
to the best of your intelligence what you are good for,
and can be made into. You will find that the mere
resolve not to be useless, and the honest desire to help
other people, will, in the quickest and delicatest ways,
improve yourself. Thus, from the beginning, consider
all your accomplishments as means of assistance
to others; read attentively, in this volume, pages
22-25, and 76-79, and you will understand what I
mean, with respect to languages and music. In
music especially you will soon find what personal
benefit there is in being serviceable: it is probable
that, however limited your powers, you have voice and
ear enough to sustain a note of moderate compass in
a concerted piece;-that, then, is the first thing to
make sure you can do. Get your voice disciplined and
clear, and think only of accuracy; never of effect or
expression: if you have any soul worth expressing it
will show itself in your singing; but most likely there
are very few feelings in you, at present, needing any
particular expression; and the one thing you have to
do is to make a clear-voiced little instrument of yourself, which other people can entirely depend upon for
the note wanted. So, in drawing, as soon as you can
set down the right shape of anything, and thereby explain its character to another person, or make the look
of it clear and interesting to a child, you will begin to
enjoy the art vividly for its own sake, and all your
habits of mind and powers of memory will gain precision; but if you only try to make showy drawings for
praise, or pretty ones for amusement, your drawing
will have little or real interest for you, and no educational power whatever.




P REfA CE.


Xi


Then, besides this more delicate work, resolve to
do every day some that is useful in the vulgar sense.
Learn first thoroughly the economy of the kitchen;
the good and bad qualities of every common article of
food, and the simplest and best modes of their preparation: when you have time, go and help in the cooking of poorer families, and show them how to make
as much of everything as possible, and how to make
little, nice; coaxing and tempting them into tidy and
pretty ways, and pleading for well-folded table-cloths,
however coarse, and for a flower or two out of the
garden to strew on them. If you manage to get a
clean table-cloth, bright plates on it, and a good dish
in the middle, of your own cooking, you may ask leave
to say a short grace; and let your religious ministries
be confined to that much for the present.
Again, let a certain part of your day (as little as you
choose, but not to be broken in upon) be set apart for
making strong and pretty dresses for the poor. Learn
the sound qualities of all useful stuffs, and make
everything of the best you can get, whatever its price.
I have many reasons for desiring you to do this,-too
many to be told just now,-trust me, and be sure you
get everything as good as can be: and if, in the villanous state of moderate trade, you cannot get it
good at any price, buy its raw material, and set some
of the poor women about you to spin and weave, till
you have got stuff that can be trusted: and then,
every day, make some little piece of useful clothing,
sewn with your own fingers as strongly as it can be
stitched; and embroider it or otherwise beautify it
moderately with fine needlework, such as a girl may
be proud of having done. And accumulate these
things by you until you hear of some honest persons
in need of clothing, which may often too sorrowfully
be; and, even though you should be deceived, and
give them to the dishonest, and hear of their being at
once taken to the pawnbroker's, never mind that, for
t the pawnbroker must sell them to some one who has
need of them. That is no business of yours; what




Xii


PREFACE.


concerns you is only that when you see a half-naked
child, you should have good and fresh clothes to give it,
if its parents will let it be taught to wear them. If they
will not, consider how they came to be of such a
mind, which it will be wholesome for you beyond
most subjects of inquiry to ascertain. And after you
have gone on doing this a little while, you will begin
to understand the meaning of at least one chapter of
your Bible, Proverbs xxxi., without need of any labored comment, sermon, or meditation.
In these, then (and of course in all minor ways besides, that you can discover 'in your own household),
you must be to the best of your strength usefully employed during the greater part of the day, so that you
may be able at the end of it to say, as proudly as any
peasant, that you have not eaten the bread of idleness. Then secondly, I said, you are not to be cruel.
Perhaps you think there is no chance of your being
so; and indeed I hope it is not likely that you should
be deliberately unkind to any creature; but unless you
are deliberately kind to every creature, you will often
be cruel to many. Cruel, partly through want of imagination (a far rarer and weaker faculty in women
than men) and yet more, at the present day, through
the subtle encouragement of your selfishness by the
religious doctrine that all which we now suppose to
be evil will be brought to a good end; doctrine practically issuing, not in less earnest efforts that the immediate unpleasantness may be averted from ourselves,
but in our remaining satisfied in the contemplation of
its ultimate objects, when it is inflicted on others.
It is not likely that the more accurate methods of
recent mental education will now long permit young
people to grow up in the persuasion that, in any danger or distress, they may expect to be themselves
saved by the providence of God, while those around
them are lost by His Improvidence: but they may be
yet long restrained from rightly kind action, and longaccustomed to endure both their own pain occasionally, and the pain of others always, with an unwise




PREFA CE.


Xlll


patience, by misconception of the eternal and incurable nature of real evil. Observe, therefore, carefully
in this matter: there are degrees of pain, as degrees
of faultfulness, which are altogether conquerable, and
which seem to be merely forms of wholesome trial or
discipline. Your fingers tingle when you go out on a
frosty morning, and are all the warmer afterwards;
your limbs are weary with wholesome work, and lie
down in the pleasanter rest; you are tried for a little
while by having to wait for some promised good, and
it is all the sweeter when it comes. But you cannot
carry the trial past a certain point. Let the cold
fasten on your hand in an extreme degree, and your
fingers will moulder from  their sockets.  Fatigue
yourself; but once, to utter exhaustion, and to the end
of life you shall not recover the former vigor of your
frame. Let heart-sickness pass beyond a certain bitter point, and the heart loses its life forever.
Now, the very definition of evil is in this irremediableness. It means sorrow, or sin, which end in death;
and assuredly, as far as we know, or can conceive,
there are many conditions both of pain and sin which
cannot but so end. Of course we are ignorant and
blind creatures, and we cannot know what seeds of
good may be in present suffering, or present crime;
but with what we cannot know, we are not concerned.
It is conceivable that murderers and liars may in some
distant world be exalted into a higher humanity than
they could have reached without homicide or falsehood; but the contingency is not one by which our
actions should be guided. There is, indeed, a better
hope that the beggar, who lies at our gates in misery,
may, within gates of pearl be comforted; but the
Master, whose words are our only authority for thinking
so, never Himself inflicted disease as a blessing, nor
sent away the hungry unfed, or the wounded unhealed.
Believe me, then, the only right principle of action
here, is to consider good and evil as defined by our
natural sense of both; and to strive to promote the




Xiv


PREFA CE.


one, and to conquer the other, with as hearty endeavor
as if there were, indeed, no other world than this.
Above all, get quit of the absurd idea that Heaven
will interfere to correct great errors, while allowing
its laws to take their course in punishing small ones.
If you prepare a dish of food carelessly, you do not
expect Providence to make it palatable; neither, if,
through years of folly, you misguide your own life,
need you expect Divine interference to bring round
everything at last for the best. I tell you, positively,
the world is not so constituted: the consequences of
great mistakes are just as sure as those of small ones,
and the happiness of your whole life, and of all the
lives over which you have power, depends as literally
on your own common sense and discretion as the excellence and order of the feast of a day.
Think carefully and bravely over these things, and
you will find them true: having found them so, think
also carefully over your own position in life. I assume that you belong to the middle or upper classes,
and that you would shrink from descending into a
lower sphere. You may fancy you would not: nay, if
you are very good, strong-hearted, and romantic, perhaps you really would not; but it is not wrong that
you should. You have then, I suppose, good food,
pretty rooms to live in, pretty dresses to wear, power
of obtaining every rational and wholesome pleasure;
you are, moreover, probably gentle and grateful, and
in the habit of every day thanking God for these things.
But why do you thank Hlim? Is it because in these matters, as well as in your religious knowledge, you think
He has made a favorite of you? Is the essential
meaning of your thanksgiving, "Lord, I thank thee
that I am not as other girls are, not in that I fast
twice in the week while they feast, but in that I feast
seven times a week, while they fast," and are you
quite sure this is a pleasing form of thanksgiving to
your Heavenly Father?  Suppose you saw one of
your own true earthly sisters, Lucy or Emily, cast out
of your mortal father's house, starving, helpless, heart



PREFA CE.


XV


broken; and that every morning when you went into
your father's room, you said to him, " How good you
are, father, to give me what you don't give Lucy," are
you sure that, whatever anger your parent might have
just cause for, against your sister, he would be pleased
by that thanksgiving, or flattered by that praise?
Nay, are you even sure that you are so much the favorite: suppose that, all this while, he loves poor Lucy
just as well as you, and is only trying you through her
pain, and perhaps not angry with her in anywise, but
deeply angry with you, and all the more for your
thanksgivings? Would it not be well that you should
think, and earnestly too over this standing of yours:
and all the more if you wish to believe that text, which
clergymen so much dislike preaching on, " How hardly
shall they that have riches enter into the Kingdom of
God? " You do not believe it now, or you would be
less complacent in your state; and you cannot believe
it all, until you know that the Kingdom of God means
-( not meat and drink, but justice, peace, and joy in
the Holy Ghost," nor until you know also that such
joy is not by any means, necessarily, in going to
church, or in singing hymns; but may be joy in a
dance, or joy in a jest, or joy in anything you have deserved to possess, or that you are willing to give; but
joy in nothing that separates you, as by any strange
favor, from your fellow-creatures, that exalts you
through their degradation-exempts you from their
toil-or indulges you in time of their distress.
Think, then, and some day, I believe, you will feel
also-no morbid passion of pity such as would turn
you into a black Sister of Charity, but the steady fire
of perpetual kindness which will make you a bright
one. I speak in no disparagement of them; I know
well how good the Sisters of Charity are, and how
much we owe to them; but all these professional'
pieties (except so far as distinction or association may
be necessary for effectiveness of work) are in their
spirit wrong, and in practice merely plaster the sores
of disease that ought never have been permitted to




xvi


PREFACE.


exist; encouraging at the same time the herd of less
excellent women in frivolity, by leading them to think
that they must either be good up to the black standard, or cannot be good for anything. Wear a costume, by all means, if you like; but let it be a cheerful and becoming one; and be in your heart a Sister
of Charity always, without either veiled or voluble
declaration of it.
As I pause, before ending my preface-thinking of
one or two more points that are difficult to write ofI find a letter in The Times, from a French lady,
which says all I want so beautifully, that I will print
it just as it stands:
"SIR,-It is often said that one example is worth
many sermons. Shall I be judged presumptuous if I
point out one, which seems to me so striking just
now, that, however painful, I cannot help dwelling
upon it?
" It is the share, the sad and large share, that French
society and its recent habits of luxury, of expenses, of
dress, of indulgence in every kind of extravagant dissipation, has to lay to its own door in its actual crisis
of ruin, misery, and humiliation. If our menageres
can be cited as an example to English housewives, so,
alas! can other classes of our society be set up as an
example-not to be followed.
"Bitter must be the feelings of many a French
woman whose days of luxury and expensive habits
are at an end; and whose bills of bygone splendor
lie with a heavy weight on her conscience, if not on
her purse!
"With us the evil has spread high and low. Everywhere have the examples given by the highest ladies
in the land been followed but too successfully.
"Every year did dress become more extravagant,
entertainments more costly, expenses of every kind
more considerable. Lower and lower became the
tone of society, its good breeding, its delicacy. More
and more were monde and demzi-monde associated in




PREFACE.


Xvii


newspaper accounts of fashionable doings, in scandalous gossip, on race courses, in premieres representzations, in imitation of each other's costumes, mobilZers
and slang.
" Living beyond one's means became habitual-almost necessary for every one to keep up with, if not
to go beyond, every one else.
" What the result of all this has been we now see in
the wreck of our prosperity, in the downfall of all that
seemed brightest and highest.
" Deeply and fearfully impressed by what my own
country has incurred and is suffering, I cannot help
feeling sorrowful when I see in England signs of our
besetting sins appearing also. Paint and chignons,
slang and vaudevilles, knowing I Anonymas' by
name, and reading doubtfully moral novels, are in
themselves small offences, although not many years
ago they would have appeared very heinous ones, yet
they are quick and tempting conveyances on a very
dangerous high-road.
" I would that all Englishwomen knew how they are
looked up to from abroad-what a high opinion, what
honor and reverence we foreigners have for their
principles, their truthfulness, the fresh and pure innocence of their daughters, the healthy youthfulness of
their lovely children.
" May I illustrate this by a short example which happened very near me? During the days of the dmeutes
of 1848, all the houses in Paris were being searched
for firearms by the mob. The one I was living in
contained none, as the master of the house repeatedly
assured the furious and incredulous Republicans.
They were going to lay violent hands on him, when
his wife, an English lady, hearing the loud discussion,
came bravely forward and assured them that no arms
were concealed. ' Vous etes anglaise, nous vous
croyons; les anglaises disent toujours la verite,' was
the immediate answer, and the rioters quietly left.
" Now, Sir, shall I be accused of unjust criticism if,
loving and admiring your country, as these lines will
2




Xviii


PREFA CE.


prove, certain new features strike me as painful discrepancies in English life?
" Far be it from me to preach the contempt of all
that can make life lovable and wholesomely pleasant.
I love nothing better than to see a woman nice, neat,
elegant, looking her best in the prettiest dress that
her taste and purse can afford, or your bright, fresh
young girls fearlessly and perfectly sitting their horses,
or adorning their houses as pretty [sicz, it is not quite
grammar, but it is better than if it were;] as care,
trouble, and refinement can make them.
" It is the degree beyond that which to us has proved
so fatal, and that I would our example could warn
you from, as a small repayment for your hospitality
and friendliness to us in our days of trouble.
" May Englishwomen accept this in a kindly spirit as
a new-year's wish from
"FRENCH LADY.
"Dec. 29."
That, then, is the substance of what I would fain
say convincingly, if it might be, to my girl friends; at
all events with certainty in my own mind that I was
thus far a safe guide to them.
For other and older readers it is needful I should
write a few words more, respecting what opportunity
I have had to judge, or right I have to speak, of such
things; for, indeed, too much of what I have said
about women has been said in faith only. A wise
and lovely English lady told me, when "Sesame and
Lilies" first appeared, that she was sure the Sesame
would be useful, but that in the Lilies I had been
writing of what I knew nothing about, Which was
in a measure too true, and alsd that it is more partial
than my writings are usually: for as Ellesmere spoke
his speech on the   intervention, not indeed otherwise than he felt, but yet altogether for the sake of
Gretchen, so I wrote the Lilies to please one girl; and
were it not for what I remember of her, and of few
besides, should now perhaps recast some of the sen



PREFA CE..M


tences -in the Lilies in a very different tone: for as
years have gone by, it has chanced to me, untowardly
in some respects, fortunately in others (because it enables me to read history more clearly), to see the utmost evil that is in women, while I have had but to
believe the utmost good. The best women are indeed necessarily the most difficult to know; they are
recognized chiefly in the happiness of their husbands
and the nobleness of their children; they are only to
be divined, not discerned, by the stranger; and, sometimes, seem almost helpless except in their homes; yet
without the help of one of them,*, to whom this book
is dedicated, the day would probably have come before now, when I should have written and thought no
more.
On the other hand, the fashion of the time renders
whatever is forward, coarseor senseless, in feminine
natures too palpable to all'men:-the weak picturesqueness of my earlier writings brought me acquainted with much of their emptiest enthusiasm; and the
chances of later life gave me opportunities of watching women in states of degradation and vindictiveness which opened to me the gloomiest secrets of
Greek and Syrian tragedy. I have seen them betray
their household charities to lust, their pledged love to
devotion; I have seen mothers dutiful to their children, as Medea; and children dutiful to their parents,
as the daughter of Herodias: but my trust is still unmoved in the preciousness of the natures that are so
fatal in their error, and I leave the words of the Lilies
unchanged; believing, yet, that no man ever lived a
right life who had not been chastened bvya woman's
love, strengthened by her courage, and guided by her
discretion.
What I might myself have been, so helped, I rarely
indulge in the idleness of thinking; but what I am,
since I take on me the function of a teacher, it is well
that the reader should know, as far as I can tell him.
* Oi77/.




xx               PREFACE.
Not an unjust person; not an unkind one; not a
false one; a lover of order, labor, and peace. That,
it seems to me, is enough to give me right to say all I
care to say on ethical subjects: more, I could only
tell definitely through details of autobiography such
as none but prosperous and (in the simple sense of
the word) faultless, lives could justify;-and mine
has been neither. Yet, if any one, skilled in reading
the torn manuscripts of the human soul, cares for
more intimate knowledge of me, he may have it by
knowing with what persons in past history I have
most sympathy.
I will name three.
In all that is strongest and deepest in me,-that
fits'me for my work, and gives light or shadow to my
being, I have sympathy with Guido Guinicelli.
In my constant natural temper, and thoughts of
things and of people, with Marmontel.
In my enforced and accidental temper, and thoughts
of things and of people, with Dean Swift.
Any one who can understand the natures of those
three men, can understand mine; and having said so
much, I am content to leave both life and work to be
remembered or forgotten, as their uses may deserve.
Denmark Hill,
ist January, I871.




SESAME AND LILIES.
LECTURE I.-SESAME.
OF KINGS' TREASURIES.
-E awrfc e.Feevx rat apror, * * * Kat xi',a Xovaiov.*
I BELIEVE, ladies and gentlemen, that my first duty
this evening is to ask your pardon for the ambiguity
of title under which the subject of lecture has been
announced; and for having endeavored, as you may
ultimately think, to obtain your audience under false
pretences. For indeed I am not going to talk of kings,
known as regnant, nor of treasuries, understood to
contain wealth; but of quite another order of royalty,
and material of riches, than those usually acknowledged. And I had even intended to ask your attention for a little while on trust, and (as sometimes one
contrives in taking a friend to see a favorite piece of
scenery) to hide what I wanted most to show, with
such imperfect cunning as I might, until we had unexpectedly reazhed the best point of view by winding
paths. But since my good plain-spoken friend, Canon
Anson, has already partly anticipated my reserved
" trot for the avenue " in his first advertised title of subject, " How and What to Read;"-and as also I have
heard it said, by men practised in public address, that
hearers are never so much fatigued as by the endeavor
to follow a speaker who gives them no clue to his
purpose, I will take the slight mask off at once, and
tell you plainly that I want to speak to you about
* Job xxviii. 5, 6.




I        -SESAAIE AND LILIES.
books; and about th way we read them, and could,
or should read them. A grave subject, you wiUllay;
and a wide one! Yes: so'-wide that I shall make no
effort to touch the compass Of —it. I will try only to
bring before you a few simple thoughts about reading,
which press themselves upon me every day. more
deeply, as I watch the course- of the public mind with
respect to our daily enlarging iibhans of education, and
the answeringly wider spreading, on the levels, of the
irrigation of literature. It happens that I have practically some connection with schools for different
classes of youth: and I receive many letters from
parents respecting the education of their children. In
the mass of these letters, I am always struck by the
precedence which the idea of a " position in life " takes
above all other thoughts in the parents'-more especially in the mothers'-minds. " The education befitting such and such a statio in life "-this is the
phrase, this the object, always. They never seek, as
far as I can make out, an education good in itself;
the conception of abstract rightness in training rarely
seems reached by the writer. But an education "which
shall keep a good coat on my son's back;-an education which shall enable him to ring with confidence
the visitors' bell at double-belled doors;-education
which shall result ultimately in establishment of a
double-belled door to his own house; in a word,
which shall lead to advancement in life." It never
seems to occur to the parents that there may be an
education which, in itself, is advancement in Life;that any other than that may perhaps be advancement
in Death; and that this essential education might be
more easily got, or given, than they fancy, if they set
about it in the right way; while it is for no price, and
by no favor, to be got, if they set about it ia the
wrong.
Indeed, among the ideas most prevalent and effective in the mind of this busiest of countries, I suppose
the first-at least that which is confessed with the
greatest frankness, and put forward as the fittest




OF KINGSL TREASURIES.


I3


stimulus to youthful exertion-is this of "Advancemejt in life." My main purpose this' evening is to
determine, with you, what this idea practically includes,
and what it should include.
Practically, then, at present, " advancement in life"
means becoming conspicuous in life;-obtaining a
position which shall be acknowledged by others to be
respectable or honorable. We do not understand by
this advancement, in general, the mere making of
money, but the being known to have made it; not the
accomplishment of any great aim, but the being seen
to have accomplished it. In a word, we mean the
gratification of our thirst for applause. That thirst, if
the last infirmity of noble minds, is also the first infirmity of weak ones; and, on the whole, the strongest
impulsive influence of average humanity: the greatest
efforts of the race have always been traceable to, the
love of praise, as its greatest catastrophes to the love
of pleasure.   *          -.; l
I am not about to attack or defend this impulse. I
want you only to feel how it lies at the root of effort;,:
especially of all4nodern effort. It is the gratification,
of vanity which is, with us, the stimulus of toil, and
balm of repose; so closely does it touch the very
springs of life, that the wounding of our vanity is always spoken of (and truly) as in its measure mortal;
we call it " mortification," using the same expression
which we should apply to a gangrenous and incurable
bodily hurt. And although few of us may be physicians enough to recognize the various effect of this
passion upon health and energy, I believe most honest
men know, and would at once acknowledge, its leading power with them as a motive. The seaman does
not commonly desire to be made captain only because
he knows he can manage the ship better than any
other sailor on board. He wants to be made captain
that he may be called captain. The clergyman does
not usually want to be made a bishop only because he
believes that no other hand can, as firmly as his, direct
the diocese through its difficulties. He wants to be




14


SESAME AID LILIES.


made bishop primarily that he may be called "My
Lord." And a prince does not usually desire to enlarge, or a subject to gain, a kingdom because he believes that no one else can as well serve the state upon
the throne; but, briefly, because he wishes to be addressed as "Your Majesty," by as many lips as may
be brought to such utterance.
This, then, being the main idea of advancement in
life, the force of it applies, for all of us, according to
our station, particularly to that secondary result of such
advancement which we call " getting into good society."
We want to get into good society, not that we have it,
but that we may be seen in it; and our notion of its
goodness depends primarily on its conspicuousness.
Will you pardon me if I pause for a moment to put
what I fear you may think an impertinent question?
I never can go on with an address unless I feel, or
know, that my audience are either with me or against
me: (I do not much care which, in' beginning;) but I
must know where they are; and I would fain find out,
at this instant, whether you think I am putting the
motives of popular action too low. I am resolved tonight, to state them low enough to be admitted as
probable; for whenever, in my writings on Political
Economy, I assume that a little honesty, or generosity,
-or what used to be called " virtue "-may be calculated upon as a human motive of action, people always
answer me, saying, "( You must not calculate on that:
that is not in human nature: you must not assume
anything to be common to men but acquisitiveness and
jealousy; no other feeling ever has influence on them,
except accidentally, and in matters out of the way of
business." I begin accordingly to-night low down in
the scale of motives; but I must know if you think me
right in doing so. Therefore, let me ask those who
admit the love of praise to be usually the strongest
motive in men's minds in seeking advancement, and
the honest desire of doing any kind of duty to be an
entirely secondary one, to hold up their hands. (About
a dozen of hands held up-the audience partly not be



OF AItNGS'- TREASURIES.


I5


ing sure the lecturer is serious, and partly shy of expressinzg opinion.)  I am quite serious-I really do
want to know what you think; however, 1 can judge
by putting the reverse question. Will those who think
that duty is generally the first, and love of praise the second motive, hold up their hands? (Onehandreportedto
have been heCld up, behind the lecturer.) Very good:
I see you are with me, and that you think I have not
begun too near the ground. Now, without teasing
you by putting farther question, I venture to assume
that you will admit duty as at least a secondary or tertiary motive. You think that the desire of doing something useful, or obtaining some real good, is indeed an
existent collateral idea, though a secondary one, in
most men's desire of advancement. You will grant
that moderately honest men desire place and office, at
least in some measure for the sake of their beneficent
power; and would wish to associate rather with sensible and well-informed persons than with fools and
ignorant persons, whether they are seen in the company of the sensible ones or not. And finally. without
being troubled by repetition of any common truisms
about the preciousness of friends, and the influence of
companions, you will admit, doubtless, that according
to the sincerity of our desire that our friends may be
true, and our companions wise,-and in proportion to
'the earnestness and discretion with which we choose
both, will be the general chances of our happiness and
usefulness.
But, granting that we had both the will and the sense
to choose our friends well, how few of us have the power! or, at least, how limited, for most, in the sphere of
choice! Nearly all our associations are determined
by chance or necessity; and restricted within a narrow
circle. We cannot know whom we would; and those
whom we know, we cannot have at our side when we
most need them. All the higher circles of human intelligence are, to those beneath, only momentarily and
partially open. We may, by good fortune, obtain a
glimpse of a great poet, and hear the sound of his voice;




16


SESAME Aij LILIES.


or put a question to a man of science, and be answered
good-humorecly. We may intrude ten minutes' talk
on a cabinet minister, answered probably with words
worse than silence, being deceptive; or snatch, once
or twice in our lives, the privilege of throwing a bouquet
in the path of a Princess, or arresting the kind glance
of a Queen. And yet these momentary chances we
covet; and spend our years, and passions, and powers
in pursuit of little more than these; while, meantime,
there is a society continually open to us, of people who
will talk to us as long as we like, whatever our rank
or occupation;-talk to us in the best words they can
choose, and with thanks if we listen to them. And
this society, because it is so numerous and so gentle,
-and can be kept waiting round us all day long, not
to grant audience, but to gain it;-kings and statesmen lingering patiently in those plainly furnished and
narrow anterooms, our book-case shelves,-we make
no account of that company,-perhaps never listen to
a word they would say, all day long!
You may tell me, perhaps, or think within yourselves,
that the apathy with which we regard this company of
the noble, who are praying us to listen to them, and
the passion with which we pursue the company, probably of the ignoble, who despise us, or who have nothing to teach us, are grounded in this,-that we can
see the faces of the living men, and it is themselves,
and not their sayings, with which we desire to become
familiar. But it is not so. Suppose you never were
to see their faces;-suppose you could be put behind
a screen in the statesman's cabinet, or the prince's
chamber, would you not be glad to listen to their
words, though you were forbidden to advance beyond
the screen? And when the screen is only a little less,
folded in two, instead of four, and you can be hidden
behind the cover of the two boards that bind a book,
and listen, all day long, not to the casual talk, but to
the studied, determined, chosen addresses of the wis- -
est of men;-this station of audience, and honorable
privy council, you despise!




OF KYNGS' WREASURZES.


17


But perbaps you will say that it is because the living
people talk of things that are passing, and are of immediate interest to you, that you desire to hear them.
Nay; that cannot be so, for the living people will
themselves tell you about passing matters, much better in their writings than in their careless talk. But I
admit that this motive does influence you, so far as
you prefer those rapid and ephemeral writings to slow
and enduring writings-books, properly so called.
For all books are divisible into two classes, the books
of the hour, and the books of all time. Mark this distinction-it is not one of quality only. It is not merely
the bad book that does not last, and the good one that
does. It is a distinction of species. There are good
books for the hour, and good ones for all time; bad
books for the hour, and bad ones for all time. I must
define the two kinds before I go farther.
The good book of the hour, then-I do not speak
of the bad ones-is simply the useful or pleasant talk
of some person whom you cannot otherwise converse
with, printed for you. Very useful often, telling you
what you need to know; very pleasant often, as a sensible friend's present talk would be. These bright accounts of travels; good-humored and witty discussions of question; lively or pathetic story-telling in the
form of novel; firm fact-telling, by the real agents
concerned in the events of passing history;-all these
books of the hour, multiplying among us as education
becomes more general, are a peculiar characteristic
and possession of the present age: we ought to be entirely thankful for them, and entirely ashamed of ourselves if we make no good use of them. But we make
the worst possible use, if we allow them to usurp the
place of true books: for, strictly speaking, they are
not books at all, but merely letters or newspapers in
good print. Our friend's letter may be delightful, or
necessary, to-day: whether worth keeping or not, is to
be considered. The newspaper may be entirely proper
at breakfast time, but assuredly it is not reading for all
day. So, though bound up in a volume, the long let2




SESAME AND LILIES.


ter which gives you so pleasant an account of the inns,
and roads, and weather last year at such a place, or
which tells you that amusing story, or gives you the
real circumstances of such and such events, however
valuable for occasional reference, may not be, in the
real sense of the word, a " book" at all, nor, in the
real sense, to be " read." A book is essentially not a
talked thing, but a written thing; and written, not
with the view of mere communication, but of permanence. The book of talk is printed only because its
author cannot speak to thousands of people at once;
if he could, he would-the volume is mere mnultizlicalion of his voice. You cannot talk to your friend in
India; if you could, you would; you write instead:
that is mere conveyance of voice. But a book is written, not to multiply the voice merely, not to carry it
merely, but to preserve it. The author has something
to say which he perceives to be true and useful, or
helpfully beautiful. So far as he knows, no one else
has yet said it; so far as he knows, no one else can
say it.  He is bound to say it, clearly and melodiously if he may; clearly, at all events. In the sum
of his life he finds this to be the thing, or group of
things, manifest to him;-this the piece of true knowledge, or sight, which his share of sunshine and earth
has permitted him to seize. He would fain set it down
forever; engrave it on rock, if he could; saying,
A" This is the best of me; for the rest, I ate, and drank,
and slept, loved, and hated, like another; my life was
as the vapor, and is not; but this I saw and knew:
this, if anything of mine, is worth your memory."
That is his '" writing; " it is, in his small human way,
and with whatever degree of true inspiration is in him,
his inscription, or scripture. That is a "Book."
Perhaps you think no books were ever so written?
But, again, I ask you, do you at all believe in honesty, or at all in kindness? or do you think there is
never any honesty or benevolence in wise people?
None of us, I hope, are so unhappy as to think that.
Well, whatever bit of a wise man's work is honestly




OF KIN"GS' TREASURIES.


I9


and benevolently done, that bit is his book, or his piece
of art. It is mixed always with evil fragments-illdone, redundant, affected work. But if you read
rightly, you will easily discover the true bits, and those
are the book.
Now books of this kind have been written in all ages
by their greatest men;-by great leaders, great statesmen, and great thinkers. These are all at your choice;
and life is short. You have heard as much before;yet have you measured and mapped out this short life
and its possibilities? Do you know, if you read this,
that you cannot read that —that what you lose to-day
you cannot gain to-morrow? Will you go and gossip
with your housemaid, or your stable-boy, when you
may talk with queens and kings; or flatter yourselves
that it is with any worthy consciousness of your own
claims to respect that you jostle with the common
crowd for entree here, and audience there, when all
the while this eternal court is open to you, with its society wide as the world, multitudinous as its days, the
chosen, and the mighty, of every place and time?
Into that you may enter always; in that you may take
fellowship and rank according to your wish; from
that, once entered into it, you can never be outcast
but by your own fault; by your aristocracy of companionship there, your own inherent aristocracy will be
assuredly tested, andthe motives with which you
strive to take high place in the society of the living,
measured, as to all the truth and sincerity that are in
them, by the place you desire to take in this company
of the Dead.
"The place you desire," and the place you ft yoursef for, I must also say; because, observe, this court
of the past differs from all living aristocracy in this:
-it is open to labor and to merit, but- to nothing else.
No wealth will bribe, no name overawe, no artifice deceive, the guardian of those Elysian gates. In the
deep sense, no vile or vulgar person ever enters there.
At the'portieres of that silent Faubourg St. Germain,
there is but brief question, "Do you deserve to en



20


SESAMIE ANVD LILIES.


ter? " "Pass. Do you ask to be the companion of
nobles? Make yourself noble, and you shall be. Do
you long for the conversation of the wise? Learn to
understand it, and you shall hear it. But on other
terms?-no. If you will not rise to us, we cannot
stoop to you. The living lord may assume courtesy,
the living philosopher explain his thought to you with
considerable pain; but here we neither feign nor interpret; you must rise to the level of our thoughts if
you would be gladdened by them, and share our feelings, if you would recognize our presence."
Thlis, then, is what you have to do, and I admit that
it is much. You must, in a word, love these people,
if you are to be among them. No ambition is of any
use. They scorn your ambition. You must love them,
and show your love in these two following ways:
1. First, by a true desire to be taught by them, and
to enter into their thoughts. To enter into theirs, observe; not to find your own expressed by them. If
the person who wrote the book is not wiser than you,
you need not read it; if he be, he will think differently
from you in many respects.
Very ready we are to say of a book, "1 How good
this is-that's exactly what I think!" But the right
feeling is, " How strange that is! I never thought of
that before, and yet I see it is true; or if I do not now,
I hope I shall, some day." But whether thus submissively or not, at least be sure that you go to the author
to get at his meaning, not to find yours. Judge it
afterwards, if you think yourself qualified to do so;
but ascertain it first. And be sure also, if the author
is worth anything, that you will not get at his meaning
all at once;-nay, that at his whole meaning you will
not for a long time arrive in any wise. Not that he
does not say what he means, and in strong words too;
but he cannot say it all; and what is more strange,
will not, but in a hidden way and in parables, in order
that he may be sure you want it. I cannot quite see
the reason of this, nor analyze that cruel reticence in
the breasts of wise men which makes them always hide




OF J KIGS' 77REASSURITZ.S.


21


their deeper thought. They do not give it you by way
of help, but of reward, and will make themselves sure
that you deserve it before they allow you to reach it.
But it is the same with the physical type of wisdom,
gold. There seems, to you and me, no reason why
the electric forces of the earth should not carry whatever there is of gold within it at once to the mountain
tops, so that kings and people might know that all the
gold they could get was there; and without any
trouble of digging, or anxiety, or chance, or waste of
time, cut it away, and coin as much as they needed.
But nature does not manage it so. She puts it in little fissures in the earth, nobody knows where: you
may dig long and find none; you must dig painfully
to find any.
And it is just the same with men's best wisdom.
When you come to a good book, you must ask yourself, "Am I inclined to work as an Australian miner
would? Are my pickaxes and shovels in good order,
and am I in good trim myself, my sleeves well up to
the elbow, and my breath good, and my temper?"
And, keeping the figure a little longer, even at cost of
tiresomeness, for it is a thoroughly useful one, the metal
you are in search of being the author's mind or meaning, his words are as the rock which you have to crush
and smelt in order to get at it. And your pickaxes
are your own care, wit, and learning; your smeltingfurnace is your own thoughtful soul. Do not hope to
get at any good author's meaning without those tools
and that fire; often you will need sharpest, finest
chiselling, and patientest fusing, before you can gather
one grain of the metal., And, therefore, first of all, I tell you, earnestly and
authoritatively, (I know I am right in this,) you must
get into the habit of looking intensely at words, and
assuring yourself of their meaning, syllable by syllable
-nay, letter by letter. For though it is only by reason
of the opposition of letters in the function of signs, to
sounds in function of signs, that the study of books is
called " literature," and that a man versed in it is called,




22


SESAME AND LILIES.


by the consent of nations, a man of letters instead of
a man of books, or of words, you may yet connect with
that accidental nomenclature this real principle:-that
you might read all the books in the British Museum
(if you could live long enough), and remain an utterly
illiterate," uneducated person; but that if you read
ten pages of a good book, letter by letter,-that is to
say, with real accuracy,-you are for evermore in some
measure an educated person. The entire difference
between education and non-education (as regards the
merely intellectual part of it), consists in this accuracy.
A well-educated gentleman may not know many languages,-may not be able to speak any but his own,may have read very few books. But whatever language
he knows, he knows precisely; whatever word he pronounces he pronounces rightly; above all, he is learned
in the peerage of words; knows the words of true descent and ancient blood, at a glance, from words of
modern canaille; remembers all their ancestry-their
intermarriages, distantest relationships, and the extent
to which they were admitted, and offices they held,
among the national noblesse of words at any time, and
in any country. But an uneducated person may know
by memory any number of languages, and talk them
all, and yet truly know not a word of any,-not a word
even of his own. An ordinarily clever and sensible
seaman will be able to make his way ashore at most
ports; yet he has only to speak a sentence of any language to be known for an illiterate person: so also the
accent, or turn of expression of a single sentence will
at once mark a scholar. And this is so strongly felt,
so conclusively admitted by educated persons, that a
false accent or a mistaken syllable is enough, in the
parliament of any civilized nation, to assign to a man
a certain degree of inferior standing forever. And this
is right; but it is a pity that the accuracy insisted on
is not greater, and required to a serious purpose. It
is right that a false Latin quantity should excite a smile
in the House of Commons; but'it is wrong that a false
English meaning shoul  ot excite a frown there. Liet
o.t — f




OF KINVGS' TREASURIES.


23


the accent of words be watched, by all means, but let
their meaning be watched more closely still, and fewer
will do the work. A few words well chosen and well
distinguished, will do work that a thousand cannot,
when every one is acting, equivocally, in the function
of another. Yes; and words, if they are not watched,
will do deadly work sometimes. There are masked
words droning and skulking about us in Europe just
now, —4(there never were so many, owing to the spread
of a shallow, blotching, blundering, infectious " information," or rather deformation, everywhere, and to the
reaching of catechisms and phrases at schools instead
of human meanings)-there are masked words abroad,
I sav, which nobody understands, but which everybody
Us5cs, and most people will also fight for, live for, or
even die for, fancying they mean this, or that, or the
other, of things dear to them: for such words wear
chamw:ieon cloaks —" groundlion " cloaks, of the color
of the ground of any man's fancy: on that ground they
lie in wait, and rend him with a spring from it. There
were never creatures of prey so mischievous, never
diplomatists so cunni.xg, never poisoners so deadly, as
these masked words; vhey are the unjLst sgewards of
all men's ideas: whatever fancy or favorite instinct a
man most cherishes, he gives to his favorite masked
word to take care of for him; the word at last comes
to have an infinite power over him,-you cannot get
at him but by its ministry. And in languages so mongrel in breed as the English, there is a fatal power of
equivocation put into men's hands, almost whether
they will or no, in being able to use Greek or Latin
forms for a word when they want it to be respectable,
and Saxon or otherwise common forms when they
want to discredit it. What a singular and salutary effect, for instance, would be produced on the minds of
people who are in the habit of taking the Form of the
words they live by, for the Power of which those words
tell them, if we always either retained, or refused, the
Greek form " biblos," or " biblion," as the right expression for " book "-instead of employing it only in the




24


SESAME AND LILIES.


one instance in which we wish to give dignity to the
idea, and translating it everywhere else. How wholesome it would be for the many simple persons who
worship the Letter of God's Word instead of its Spirit,
(just as other idolaters worship His picture instead of
His presence,) if, in such places (for instance) as Acts
xix. 19 we retained the Greek expression, instead of
translating it, and they had to read-" Many of them
also which used curious arts, brought their bibles together, and burnt them before all men; and they
counted the price of them, and found it fifty thousand
pieces of silver!" Or if, on the other hand, we translated instead of retaining it, and always spoke of " the
Holy Book," instead of "Holy Bible," it might come
into more heads than it does at present that the Word
of God, by which the heavens were, of old, and by
which they are now kept in store,* cannot be made a
present of to anybody in morocco binding; nor sown
on any wayside by help either of steam plough or steam
press; but is nevertheless being offered to us daily,
and by us with contumely refused; and sown in us
daily, and by us as instantly as may be, choked.
So, again, consider what effect has been produced on
the English vulgar mind by the use of the sonorous
Latin form " damno," in translating the Greek KaraKpivo, when people charitably wish to make it forcible;
and the substitution of the temperate " condemn " for
it, when they choose to keep it gentle. And what notable sermons have been preached by illiterate clergymen
on-" He that believeth not shall be damned;" though
they would shrink with horror from translating Heb.
xi. 7, ' The saving of his house, by which he damned
the world," or John viii. 12, "Woman, hath no man
damned thee.? She saith, No man, Lord. Jesus answered her, Neither do I damn thee; go and sin no
more." And divisions in the mind of Europe, which
have cost seas of blood, and in the defence of which
the noblest souls of men have been cast away in frantic
desolation, countless as forest leaves-though, in the
* 2 Peter iii. 5-7.




OF KINGS' T7REASURIES.


25


heart of them, founded on deeper causes-have nevertheless been rendered practicably possible, mainly, by
the European adoption of the Greek word for a public
meeting, to give peculiar respectability to such meetings, when held for religious purposes; and other collateral equivocations, such as the vulgar English one
of using the word "priest" as a contraction for "presbyter."
Now, in order to deal with words rightly, this is the
habit you must form. Nearly every word in your language has been first a word of some other languageof Saxon, German, French, Latin, or Greek; (not to
speak of eastern and primitive dialects.) And many
words have been all these;-that is to say, have been
Greek first, Latin next, French or German next, and
English last: undergoing a certain change of sense
and use on the lips of each nation; but retaining a
deep vital meaning which all good scholars feel in employing them, even at this day. If you do not know
the Greek alphabet, learn it; young or old-girl or boy
-whoever you may be, if you think of reading seriously (which, of course, implies that you have some
leisure at command), learn your Greek alphabet; then
get good dictionai ies of all these languages, and whenever you are in doubt about a word, hunt it down patiently. Read Ma x Miiller's lectures thoroughly, tot
begin with; and, after that, never let a word escape
you that looks suspicious. It is severe work; but you
will find it, even at first, interesting, and at last, endlessly amusing. And the general gain to your character, in power and precision, will be quite incalculable.
Mind, this does not imply knowing, or trying to
know, Greek, or Latin, or French. It takes a whole *
life to learn any language perfectly. But you can easily
ascertain the meanings through which the English
word has passed; and those which in a good writer's
work it must still bear.
And now, merely, for example's sake, I will, with
your permission, read a few lines of a true book with
you, carefully; and see what will come out of them.




SESAME AND LILIES.


I will take a book perfectly known to you all; no English words are more familiar to us, yet nothing perhaps has been less read with sincerity. I will take
these few following lines of Lycidas.
Last came, and last did go,
The pilot of the Galilean lake
Two massy keys he bore of metals twain,
(The golden opes, the iron shuts amain),
He shook his mitred locks, and stern bespake,
OHow well could I have spar'd for thee, young swain,
Enow of such as for their bellies' sake
Creep and intrude, and climb into the fold!
Of other care they little reckoning make,
Than how to scramble at the shearers' feast,
And shove away the worthy bidden guest;
Blind mouths! that scarce themselves know how to hold
A sheep-hook, or have learn'd aught else, the least
That to the faithful herdsman's art belongs!
What recks it them? What need they? They are sped;
And when they list, their lean and flashy songs
Grate on their scrannel pipes of wretched straw;
The hungry sheep look up, and are not fed,
But swoln with wind, and the rank mist they draw,
Rot inwardly, and foul contagion spread;
Besides what the grim wolf with privy paw
Daily devours apace, and nothing saide.
Let us think over this passage, and examine its
words.
First, is it not singular to find Milton assigning to
St. Peter, not only his full episcopal function, but the
very types of it which Protestants usually refuse most
passionately?   His " mitred " locks! Milton was no
Bishop-lover; how    comes St. Peter to be " mitred"?
" Twro massy keys he bore."    Is this, then, the power
of the keys claimed by the Bishops of Rome, and is it
acknowledged here by Milton only in a poetical licence,
for the sake of its picturesqueness, that he may get the
gleam of the golden keys to help his effect? Do not
think it. Great men do not play stage tricks with doctrines of life and death: only little men do that.  Milton means what he says; and means it with his might
too-is going to put the whole strength of his spirit
presently into the saying of it.  For though not a lover
of false bishops, he was a lover of true ones; and the
Lake-pilot is here, in his thoughts, the type and head




OF KINVGS TREASURIES.


27


of true episcopal power. For Milton reads that text.
"I will give unto thee the keys of the kingdom ot
Heaven" quite honestly. Puritan though he be, he
would not blot it out of the book because there have
been bad bishops; nay, in order to understand him,
we must understand that verse first; it will not do to
eye it askance, or whisper it under our breath, as if it
were a weapon of an adverse sect. It is a solemn, universal assertion, deeply to be kept in mind by all sects.
But perhaps we shall be better able to reason on it if
we go on a little farther, and come back to it. For
clearly, this marked insistance on the power of the true
episcopate is to make us feel more weightily what is to
be charged against the false claimants of episcopate;
or generally, against false claimants of power and rank
in the body of the clergy; they who, " for their bellies'
sake, creep, and intrude, and climb into the fold."
Do not think-Milton uses those three words to fill
up his verse, as a loose writer would. He needs all
the three: specially those three, and no more than those
— " creep," and "intrude," and "climb;" no other
words would or could serve the turn, and no more
could be added. For they exhaustively comprehend
the three classes, correspondent to the three characters, of men who dishonestly seek ecclesiastical power.
First, those who "creep " into the fold; who do not
care for office, nor name, but for secret influence, and
do all things occultly and cunningly, consenting to any
servility of oflice or conduct, so only that they may intimately discern, and unawares direct, the minds of
men.   Then those who " intrude" (thrust, that is)
themselves into the fold, who by natural insolence of
heart, and stout eloquence of tongue, and fearlessly
perseverant self-assertion, obtain hearing and authority with the common crowd. Lastly, those who "climb,"
who, by labor and learning, both stout and sound, but
selfishly exerted in the cause of their own ambition,
gain high dignities and authorities, and become " lords
er te heritage'," though not " ensamples to the flock."
N ow go on: i:




28


SESAME AND LILIES


Of other care they little reckoning make,
Than how to scramble at the shearers' feast.
Blind mouthsI pause again, for this is a strange expression; a
broken metaphor one might think, careless and unscholarly.
Not so: its very audacity and pithiness are intended
to make us look close at the phrase and remember it.
Those two monosyllables express the precisely accurate contraries of right character, in the two great offices of the Church-those of bishop and pastor.
A Bishop means a person who sees.
A Pastor means one who feeds.
The most unbishoply character a man can have is
therefore to be Blind.
The most unpastoral is, instead of feeding, to want
to be fed,-to be a Mouth.
Take the two reverses together, and you have " blind
mouths." We may advisably follow out this idea a
little. Nearly all the evils in the Church have arisen
from bishops desiring power more than light. They
want authority, not outlook. Whereas their real office
is not to rule; though it may be vigorously to exhort and
rebuke; it is the king's office to rule; the bishop's office is to oversee the flock; to number it, sheep by
sheep; to be ready always to give full account of it.
Now it is clear he cannot give account of the souls, if
he has not so much as numbered the bodies of his X
flock. The first thing, therefore, that a bishop has to
do is at least to put himself in a position in which, at'
any moment, he can obtain the history from childhood
of every living soul in his diocese, and of its present
state. Down in that back street, Bill, and Nancy,
knocking each other's teeth out!-Does the bishop
know all about it? Has he his eye upon them? Has
he had his eye upon them? Can he circumstantially
explain to us how Bill got into the habit of beating
Nancy about the head? If he cannot, he is no bishop,
though he had a mitre as high as Salisbury steeple;
he is no bishop,-he has sought to be at the helm in'



OF KINGS' TREASURIES.


29


stead of the masthead; he has no sight of things.
"Nay," you say, it is not his duty to look after Bill in
the back street. What! the fat sheep that have full
fleeces —you think it is only those he should look after,
while (go back to your Milton) "the hungry sheep
look up, and are not fed, besides what the grim wolf,
with privy paw" (bishops knowing nothing about it)
"daily devours apace, and nothing said? "
" But that's not our idea of a bishop." Perhaps not;
but it was St. Paul's; and it was Milton's. They
may be right, or we may be; but we must not think
we are reading either one or the other by putting our
meaning into their words.
I go on.
But, swollen with wind, and the rank mist they draw.
This is to meet the vulgar answer that " if the poor
are not looked after in their bodies, they are in their
souls; they have spiritual food."
And Milton says, "Thef have no such thing as
spiritual food; they are only swollen with wind." At
first you may think that is a coarse type, and an obscure one. But again, it is a quite literally accurate
one. Take up your Latin and Greek dictionaries, and
find out the meaning of " Spirit." It is only a contraction of the Latin word <" breath," and an indistinct
translation of the Greek word for " wind." The same
word is used in writing, The wind bloweth where it
listeth;" and in writing, "So is every one that is born
of the Spirit; " born of the breath, that is; for it means
the breath of God, in soul and body. We have the
true sense of it in our words "inspiration" and "expire." Now, there are two kinds of breath with which
the flock may be filled; God's breath, and man's. The
breath of God is health, and life, and peace to them,
as the air of heaven is to the flocks on the hills; but
man's breath-the word which he calls spiritual, —is
disease and contagion to them, as the fog of the fen.
They rot inwardly with it; they are puffed up by it,
a a dead body by the vapors of its own decomposition.




3o


SESAM1E AND LILIES.


This is literally true of all false religious teaching; the
first, and last, and fatalest sign of it is that " puffing up."
Your converted children, who teach their parents; your
converted convicts, who teach honest men; your converted dunces, who, having lived in cretinous stupefaction half their lives, suddenly awaking to the fact of
there being a God, fancy themselves therefore His peculiar people and messengers; your sectarians of every
species, small and great, Catholic or Protestant, of high
church or low, in so far as they think themselves exclusively in the right and others wrong; and pre-eminently, in every sect, those who hold that men can be
saved by thinking rightly instead of doing rightly, by
word instead of act, and wish instead of work:-these
are the true fog children-clouds, these, without water;
bodies, these, of putrescent vapor and skin, without
blood or flesh: blown bag-pipes for the fiends to pipe
with-corrupt, and corrupting,-" Swollen with wind,.
and the rank mist they draw."
Lastly, let us return to the lines respecting the power
of the keys, for now we can understand them. Note
the difference between Milton and Dante in their interpretation of this power: for once, the latter is
weaker in thought; he supposes both the keys to be of
the gateof heaven; one is of gold, the other of silver:
they are given by St. Peter to the sentinel angel; and
it is not easy to determine the meaning either of the
substances of the three steps of the gate, or of the two
keys.  But Milton makes one, of gold, the key of
heaven; the other, of iron, the key of the prison, in
which the wicked teachers are to be bound who " have
taken away the key of knowledge, yet entered not in
themselves."
We have seen that the duties of bishop and pastor
are to see, and feed; and, of all who do so, it is said,
I He that watereth, shall be watered also himself."
But the reverse is truth also. He that watereth not,
shall be withered himself, and he that seeth not, shall
himself be shut out of sight,-shut into the perpetual
p:-i-on-house. And that prison opens here, as well as




OF K'INGS' TREASURIES.


3I


hereafter: he who is to be bound in heaven must first be
bound on earth. That command to the strong angels,
of which the rock-apostle is the image, 1" Take him,
and bind him hand and foot, and cast him out,"
issues, in its measure, against the teacher, for every
help withheld, and for every truth refused, and for
every falsehood enforced so that he is more strictly
fettered the more he fetters, and farther outcast, as he
more and more misleads, till at last the bars of the
iron cage close upon him, and as " the golden opes,
the iron shuts amain."
We have got something out of the lines, I think,
and much more is yet to be found in them; but we
have done enough by way of example of the kind of
word-by-word examination of your author which is
rightly called " reading; " watching every accent and
expression, and putting ourselves always in the author's place, annihilating our own personality, and
seeking to enter into his, so as to be able assuredly to
say, " Thus Milton thought," not "Thus I thought,
in mis-reading Milton." And by this process you will
gradually come to attach less weight to your own
" Thus I thought" at other times. You will begin to
perceive that what you thought was a matter of no
serious importance;-that your thoughts on any subject are not perhaps the clearest and wisest that could
be arrived at thereupon: in fact, that unless you are a
very singular person, you cannot be said to have any
thoughts" at all; that you have no materials for
them, in any serious matters;-no right to " thirk,"
but only to try to learn more of the facts. Nay, most
probably all your life (unless, as I said, you are a singular person) you will have no legitimate right to an
" opinion" on any business, except that instantly
under your hand. What must of necessity be done,
you can always find oat, beyond question, how to do.
Have you a house to keep in order, a commodity to
sell, a field to plough, a ditch to cleanse? There need
be no two opinions about these proceedings; it is at
your peril if you have not much more than an " opin



32


SESA21ME AA'D LILIES.


ion" on the way to manage such matters. And also,
outside of your own business, there are one or two
subjects on which you are bound to have but one opinion. That roguery and lying are objectionable, and
are instantly to be flogged out of the way whenever
discovered;-that covetousness and love of quarrelling are dangerous dispositions even in children, and
deadly dispositions in men and nations; that in the
end, the God of heaven and earth loves active, modest,
and kind people, and hates idle, proud, greedy, and
cruel ones; on these general facts you are bound to
have but one, and that a very strong, opinion. For the
rest, respecting religions, governments, sciences, arts,
you will find that, on the whole, you can know NOTHING,-judge nothing; that the best you can do, even.
though you may be a well-educated person, is to be
silent, and strive to be wiser every day, and to understand a little more of the thoughts of others, which so
soon as you try to do honestly, you will discover that
the thoughts even of the wisest are very little more
than pertinent questions. To put the difficulty into a
clear shape, and exhibit to you the grounds for indecision, that is all they can generally do for you!-and
well for them and for us, if indeed they are able " to
mix the music with our thoughts, and sadden us with
heavenly doubts." This writefrom whom I have
been reading to you, is not among the first or wisest:
he sees shrewdly as far as he sees, and therefore it iS
easy to find out his full meaning, but with the greater
men, you cannot fathom their meaning; they do not
even wholly measure it themselves,-it is so wide..
Suppose I had asked you, for instance, to seek for
Shakespeare's opinion, instead of Milton's, on this matter of Church authority?-or for Dante's? Have any
of you, at this instant, the least idea what either
thought about it? Have you ever balanced the scenewith the bishops in Richard III. against the character
of Cranmer? the description of St. Francis and St.
Dominio against that of him who made Virgil wonder
to gaze upon him,- "disteso, tanto vilmente, nell'




OF KINGS' TREASURIES.


33


eterno esilio;" or of him whom Dante stood beside,
" come '1 frate che confessa lo perfido assassin? " *
Shakespeare and Alighieri knew men better than most
of us, I presume! They were both in the midst of the
main struggle between the temporal and spiritual
powers. They had an opinion, we may guess? But
where is it?  Bringit intocourt! Put Shakespeare's
or Dante's creed into articles, and send that up into
the Ecclesiastical Courts!
You will not be able, I tell you again, for many and
many a day, to come at the real purposes and teaching of these great men; but a very little honest study
of them will enable you to perceive that what you took
for your own " judgment" was mere chance prejudice,
and drifted, helpless, entangled weed of castaway
thought: nay, you will see that most men's minds are
indeed little better than rough heath wilderness, neglected and stubborn, partly barren, partly overgrown
with pestilent brakes and venomous windsown herbage
of evil surmise; that the first thing you have to do for
them, and yourself, is eagerly and scornfully to set
fire to this; burn all the jungle into wholesome ashheaps, and then plough and sow. All the true literary
work before you, for life, must begin with obedience
to that order, " Break up your fallow ground, and sow
not among thorns."
II. Having then faithfully listened to the great
teachers, that you may enter into their Thoughts,
you have yet this higher advance to maei;-ou
have to enter into their Hes.   As you go to
them first for clear sight, so you must stay with them
that you may share at last their just and mighty Passion. Passion, or "sensation."  I am not afraid of
the word; still less of the thing. You have heard
many outcries against sensation lately; but, I can tell
you, it is not less sensation we want, but more. The
ennobling difference between one man and another,between one animal and another,-is precisely in this,
that one feels more than another. If we were sponges,
* Inf. xix. 71; xxiii.  17.
3




.34


SESAME AND LILIES.


perhaps sensation might not be easily got for us; if
we were earth-worms, liable at every instant to be cut
in two by the spade, perhaps too much sensation
might not be good for us. But, being human creatures, it is good for us; nay, we are only human in so far
as we are sensitive, and our honor is precisely in proportion to our passion.
You know I said of that great and pure society of
the dead, that it would allow "no vain or vulgar person to enter there." What do you think I meant by
a " vulgar " person? What do you yourselves mean
by " vulgarity?" You will find it a fruitful subject of
thought; but, briefly, the essence of all vulgarity lies
in want of sensation. Simple and innocent vulgarity
is merely an untrained and undeveloped bluntness of
body and mind; but in true inbred vulgarity, there is
a deathful callousness, which, in extremity, becomes
capable of every sort of bestial habit and crime, without fear, without pleasure, without horror, and without pity. It is in the blunt hand and the dead heart,
in the diseased habit, in the hardened conscience,
that men become vulgar; they are forever vulgar,
precisely in proportion as they are incapable of sympathy,-of quick understanding,-of all that, in deep
insistance on the common, but most accurate term,
may be called the "tact" or touch-faculty of body
and soul: that tact which the Mimosa has in trees,
which the pure woman has above all creatures;-fineness and fulness of sensation, beyond reason;-the
guide and sanctifier of reason itself. Reason can but
determine what is true:-it is the God-given passion
of humanity which alone can recognize what God has
made good.
We come then to that great concourse of the Dead,
not merely to know from them what is True, but
chiefly to feel with them what is Righteous. Now, to
feel with them, we must be like them; and none of
us can become that without pains.  As the true
knowledge is disciplined and tested knowledge,-not
the first thought that comes,-so the true passion is




OF ICINGS' TREASURIES.


35


disciplined and tested passion-not the first passion
that comes. The first that come are the vain, the
false, the treacherous; if you yield to them they will
lead you wildly and far, in vain pursuit, in hollow enthusiasm, till you have no true purpose and no true
passion left. I Not that any feeling possible to humanity is in itself wrong, but only wrong when undisciplined.1 Its nobility is in its force and justice; it is
wrong when it is weak, and felt for paltry cause.
There is a mean wonder as of a child who sees a juggler tossing golden balls, and this is base, if you will.
But do you think that the wonder is ignoble, or the
sensation less, with which every human soul is called
to watch the golden balls of heaven tossed through
the night by the Hand that made them? There is a
mean curiosity, as of a child opening a forbidden door,
or a servant prying into her master's business;-and a
noble curiosity, questioning, in the front of danger,
the source of the great river beyond the sand-the
place of the great continents beyond the sea;-a nobler curiosity still, which questions of the source of the
River of Life, and of the space of the Continent of
Heaven,-things which "the angels desire to look
into." So the anxiety is ignoble, with which you linger over the course and catastrophe of an idle tale;
but do you think the anxiety is less, or greater, with
which you watch, or ought to watch, the dealings of
fate and destiny with the life of an agonized nation?
Alas! it is the narrowness, selfishness, minuteness, of
your sensation that you have to deplore in England at
this da;-sensation which spends itself in bouquets
and speeches; in revellings and junketings; in sham
fights and gay puppet shows, while you can look on
and see noble nations murdered, man by man, woman
by woman, child by child, without an effort, or a tear.
I said "minuteness" and "selfishness" of sensation, but in a word, I ought to have said "injustice '
or " unrighteousness " of sensation. For as in nothing
is a gentleman better to be discerned from a vulgar
person, so in nothing is a gentle nation (such nations




36


SESAME AND LILIES.


have been) better to be discerned from a mob, than in
this,-that their feelings are constant and just, results
of due contemplation, and of equal thought. You
can talk a mob into anything; its feelings may beusually are-on the whole generous and right; but it
has no foundation for them, no hold of them; you
may tease or tickle it into any, at your pleasure; it
thinks by infection, for the most part, catching a passion like a cold, and there is nothing so little that it
will not roar itself wild about, when the fit is on;- -
nothing so great but it will forget in an hour, when
the fit is past. But a gentleman's, or a gentle nation's
passions are just, measured, and continuous. A great
nation, for instance, does not spend its entire national
wits for a couple of months in weighing evidence of a
single ruffian's having done a single murder; and for a
couple of years, see its own children murder each
other by their thousands or tens of thousands a day,
considering only what the effect is likely to be on the
price of cotton, and caring nowise to determine which
side of battle is in the wrong. Neither does a great
nation send its poor little boys to jail for stealing six
walnuts; and allow its bankrupts to steal their hundreds
of thousands with a bow, and its bankers, rich with
poor men's savings, to close their doors " under circumstances over which they have no control," with a
" by your leave;" and large landed estates to be
bought by men who have made their money by going
with armed steamers up and down the China Seas,
selling opium at the cannon's mouth, and altering, for
the benefit of the foreign nation, the common highwayman's demand of "your money or your life," into
that of "your money and your life." Neither does a
great nation allow the lives of its innocent poor to be'
parched out of them by fog fever, and rotted out of
them by dunghill plague, for the sake of sixpence a
life extra per week to its landlords;* and then debate,
* See the evidence in the medical officer's report to the Privy
Council, just published. There are suggestions in its preface
which will make some stir among us, I fancy, respecting which let
me note these points following:



OF KINGS' TREASURIES.


37


with drivelling tears, and diabolical sympathies, whether
it ought not piously to save, and nursingly cherish,
There are two theories on the subject of land now abroad, and
in contention; both false.
The first is that by Heavenly law, there have always existed, and
must continue to exist, a certain number of hereditarily sacred persons, to whom the earth, air, and water of the world belong, as
personal property; of which earth, air, and water these persons
may, at their pleasure, permit, or forbid, the rest of the human race
to eat, to breathe, or to drink. This theory is not for many years
longer tenable. The adverse theory is that a division of the land of
the world among the mob of the world would immediately elevate
the said mob into sacred personages; that houses would then build
themselves, and corn grow of itself; and that everybody would be
able to live, without doing any work for his living. This theory
would also be found highly untenable in practice.
It will, however, require some rough experiments, and rougher
catastrophes, even in this magnesium-lighted epoch, before the
generality of persons will be convinced that no law concerning
anything, least of all concerning land, for either holding or dividing it, or renting it high, or renting it low, would be of the smallest ultimate use to the people, so long as the general contest for
life, and for the means of life, remains one of mere brutal competition.  That contest, in an unprincipled nation, will take one
deadly form or another, whatever laws you make for it. For instance, it would be an entirely wholesome law for England, if it
could be carried, that maximum limits should be assigned to incomes, according to classes; and that every nobleman's income
should be paid to him as a fixed salary or pension by the nationand not squeezed by him in a variable sum, at discretion, out of
the tenants of his land. But if you could get such a law passed tomorrow; and if, which would be farther necessary, you could fix
the value of the assigned incomes by making a given weight of
pure wheat-flour legal tender for a given sum, a twelve-month
would not pass before another currency would have been tacitly
established, and the power of accumulative wealth would have reasserted itself in some other article, or some imaginary sign. Forbid men to buy each other's lives for sovereigns, and they will for
shells or slates. There is only one cure for public distress-and
that is public education, directed to make men thoughtful, merciful, and just. There are, indeed, many laws conceivable which
would gradually better and strengthen the national temper; but,
for the most part, they are such as the national temper must be
much bettered before it would bear. A nation in its youth may be
helped by laws, as a weak child by backboards, but when it is old,
it cannot that way straighten its crooked spine.
And besides, the problem of land, at its worst, is a bye one;. distribute the earth as you will, the principal question remains inexorable.-Who is to dig it? Which of us, in brief words, is to do
the hard and dirty work for the rest-and for what pay? Who is
to do the pleasant and clean work, and for what pay? Who is to
do no work, and for what pay? And there are curious moral and
religious questions connected with these. How far is it lawful to
suck a portion of the soul out of a great many persons, in order to
put the abstracted psychical quantities together, and make one very




38


SESAME AND LILIES.


the lives of its murderers. Also, a great nation having made up its mind that hanging is quite the wholesomest process for its homicides in general, can yet
with mercy distinguish between the degrees of guilt
in homicides; and does not yelp like a pack of frostpinched wolf-cubs on the blood track of an unhappy
crazed boy, or gray-haired clodpate Othello, "perplexed i' the extreme," at the very moment that it is
sending a Minister of the Crown to make polite
speeches to a man who is bayoneting young girls in
their father's sight, and killing noble youths in cool
blood, faster than a country butcher kills Iambs in
spring. And, lastly, a great nation does not mock
Heaven and its Powers, by pretending belief in a revelation which asserts the love of money to be the root
of all evil, and declaring, at the same time, that it is
actuated, and intends to be actuated, in all chief national deeds and measures, by no other love.
My friends, I do not know why any of us should
talk about reading.  We want some sharper discipline
than that of reading; but, at all events, be assured, we
cannot read. No reading is possible for a people with
beautiful or ideal soul? If we had to deal with mere blood, instead
of spirit, and the thing might literally be done (as it has been done
with infants before now) so that it were possible, by taking a certain quantity of blood from the arms of a given number of the mob,
and putting it all into one person to make a more azure-blooded
gentleman of him, the thing would of course be managed; but
secretly, I should conceive. But now, because it is brain and
soul that we abstract, not visible blood, it can be done quite openly; and we live, we gentlemen, on delicatest prey, after the manner of weasels; that is to say, we keep a certain number of clowns
digging and ditching, and generally stupefied, in order that we,
being fed gratis, may have all the thinking and feeling to ourselves. Yet there is a great deal to be said for this. A highlybred and trained English, French, Austrian, or Italian gentleman
(much more a lady) is a great production; a better production than
most statues; being beautifully colored as well as shaped, and
plus all the brains a glorious thing to look at, a wonderful thing
to talk to; and you cannot have it, any more than a pyramid or a
church, but by sacrifice of much contributed life. And it is perhaps better to build a beautiful human creature than a beautiful
dome or steeple; and more delightful to look up reverently to a
creature far above us, than to a wall; only the beautiful human
creature will have some duties to do in return —duties of living
belfry and rampart-of which presently.




OF KINGS' TREASURIES.


39


its mind in this state. No sentence of any great
writer is intelligible to them. It is simply and sternly
impossible for the English public, at this moment, to
understand any thoughtful writing,-so incapable of
thought has it become in its insanity of avarice. Happily, our disease is, as yet, little worse than this incapacity of thought; it is not corruption of the inner nature; we ring true still, when anything strikes home to
us; and though the idea that everything should 1( pay "
has infected our every purpose so deeply, that even
when we would play the good Samaritan,- we never
take out our twopence and give them -to the host,
without saying, "When I come again, thou shalt give
me fourpence," there is a capacity of noble passion left
in our hearts' core. We show it in our work-in our
war,-even in those unjust domestic affections which
make us furious at-a small-private wrong, while we are
polite to a boundless public one: we are still industrious to the last hour of the day, though we add the
gambler's fury to the laborer's patience; we are still
brave to the death, though incapable of discerning true
cause for battle, and are still true in affection to our
own flesh, to the death, as the sea-monsters are, and
the rock-eagles. And there is hope for a nation while
this can be still said of it. As lorfg as it holds its life
in its hand, ready to give it for its honor (though a
foolish honor), for its love (though a selfish love), and
for its business (though a base business), there is hope
for it. But hope only; for this instinctive, reckless
virtue cannot last.  No nation can last, which has
made a mob of itself, however generous at heart. It
must discipline its passions, and direct them, or they
will discipline it, one day, with scorpion whips. Above
all, a nation cannot last as a money-making mob: it
cannot with impunity,-it cannot with existence,-go
on despising literature, despising science, despising art,
despising nature, despising compassion, and concentrating its soul on Pence. Do you think these are harsh
or wild words? Have patience with me but a little




40


SESAME AND LILIES.


longer. I will prove their truth to you, clause by
clause.
I. I say first we have despised literature. What do
we, as a nation, care about books? How much do you
think we spend altogether on our libraries, public or
private, as compared with what we spend on our
horses? If a man spends lavishly on his library, you call
him mad-a biblio-maniac. But you never call any
one a horse-maniac, though men ruin themselves every
day by their horses, and you do not hear of people
ruining themselves by their books. Or, to go lower
still, how much do you think the contents of the bookshelves of the United Kingdom, public and private,
would fetch, as compared with the contents of its
wine-cellars? What position would its expenditure
on literature take, as compared with its expenditure
on luxurious eating? We talk of food for the mind,
as of food for the body: now a good book contains
such food inexhaustibly; it is a provision for life, and
for the best part of us; yet how long most people
would look at the best book before they would give
the price of a large turbot for it! Though there have
been men who have pinched their stomachs and bared
their backs to buy a book, whose libraries were cheaper
to them, I think, in the end, than most men's dinners
are. We are few of us put to such trial, and more
the pity; for, indeed, a precious thing is all the more
precious to us if it has been won by work or economy;
and if public libraries were half as costly as public dinners, or books cost the tenth part of what bracelets do,
even foolish men and women might sometimes suspect
there was good in reading, as well as in munching and
sparkling; whereas the very cheapness of literature is
making even wise people forget that if a book is worth
reading, it is worth buying. No book is worth anything which is not worth much; nor is it serviceable,
until it has been read, and reread, and loved, and loved
again; and marked, so that you can refer to the passages you want in it, as a soldier can seize the weapon.
he needs in an armory, or a housewife bring the spice




OF KINGS' TREASURIES.


41


she needs from her store. Bread of flour is good
but there is bread, sweet as honey, if we would eat it,
in a good book; and the family must be poor indeed
which, once in their lives, cannot, for such multipliable
barley-loaves, pay their baker's bill. We call ourselves
a rich nation, and we are filthy and foolish enough to
thumb each other's books out of circulating libraries!
II. I say we have despised science. "' What! " (you
exclaim) 'I are we not foremost in all discovery, and is
not the whole world giddy by reason, or unreason, of
our inventions?"  Yes; but do YOU suppose that is
national work? That work is all done in spite of the
nation; by private people's zeal and money. We are
glad enough, indeed, to make our profit of science; we
snap up anything in the way of a scientific bone that
has meat on it, eagerly enough; but if the scientific
man comes for a bone or a crust to us, that is another
story. What have we publicly done for science? We
are obliged to know what o'clock it is, for the safety of
our ships, and therefore we pay for an observatory;
and we allow ourselves, in the person of our Parliament, to be annually toimented into doing something,
in a slovenly way, for the British Museum; sullenly
apprehending that to be a place for keeping stuffed
birds in, to amuse our children. If anybody-will pay
for their own telescope, and resolve another nebula,
we cackle over the discernment as if it were our own;
if one in ten thousand of our hunting squires suddenly
perceives that the earth was indeed made to be something else than a portion for foxes, and burrows in it
himself, and tells us where the gold is, and where the
coals, we understand that there is some use in that;
and very properly knight him: but is the accident of
his having found out how to employ himself usefully
any credit to us? (The negation of such discovery
among his brother squires may perhaps be some discredit to us, if we would consider of it.) But if you
doubt these generalities, here is one fact for us all to
meditate upon, illustrative of our love of science. Two
years ago there was a collection of the fossils of Solen



42


SESAME AND LILIES.


hofen to be sold in Bavaria; the best in existence, containing many specimens unique for perfectness, and
one, unique as an example of a species (a whole kingdom of unknown living creatures being announced by
that fossil). This collection, of which the mere market worth, among private buyers, would probably have
been some thousand or twelve hundred pounds, was
offered to the English nation for seven hundred: but
we would not give seven hundred, and the whole series would have been in the Munich museum at this
moment, if Professor Owen* had not, with loss of his
own time, and patient tormenting of the British public in person of its representatives, got leave to give
four hundred pounds at once, and himself become answerable for the other three! which the said public will
doubtless pay him eventually, but sulkily, and caring
nothing about the matter all the while; only always
ready to cackle if any credit comes of it. Consider, I
beg of you, arithmetically, what this fact means. Your
annual expenditure for public purposes (a third of it
fokmilitary apparatus) is at least 50 millions. Now
7o06. is to 5o,ooo,oool. roughly, as seven pence to two
thousand pounds. Suppose then, a gentleman of unknown income, but whose wealth was to be conjectured from the fact that he spent two thousand a year
on his park-walls and footmen only, professes himself
fond of science; and that one of his servants comes
eagerly to tell him that an unique collection of fossils,
giving clue to'a new era of creation, is to be had for
the sum of seven pence sterling; and that the gentleman, who is fond of science, and spends two thousand
a year on his park, answers, after keeping his servant
waiting several months, "Well! I'll give you fourpence for them, if you will be answerable for the extra
threepence yourself, till next year!"  I
III. I say you have despised Art! "What!" you
again answer, "have we not Art exhibitions, miles
* I state this fact without Professor Owen's permission, which of
course he could not with propriety have granted, had I asked it;
but I consider it so important that the public should be aware of
the fact, that I do what seems to me right, though rude.




OF KZNGS' TREASURIES.


43


long? and do we not pay thousands of pounds for single pictures? and have we not Art schools and institutions, more than ever nation had before?i" Yes,
truly, but all that is for the sake of the shop. You
would fain sell canvas as well as coals, and crockery
as well as iron; you would take every other nation's
bread out of its mouth if you could; not being able to
do that, your ideal of life is to stand in the thoroughfares of the'world, like Ludgate apprentices, screaming
to every passer-by, "What d'ye lack? " You know
nothing of your own faculties or circumstances; you
fancy that, among your damp, flat, fat fields of clay,
you can have as quick art-fancy as the Frenchman
among his bronzed vines, or the Italian under his volcanic cliffs;-that Art may be learned as book-keeping
is, and when learned, will give you more books to
keep. You care for pictures, absolutely, no more than
you do for the bills pasted on your dead walls. There
is always room on the wall for the bills to be read,never for the pictures to be seen. You do not know
what pictures you have (by repute) in the country, nor
whether they are false or true, nor whether they are.
taken care of or not; in. foreign countries, you calmly
see the noblest existing pictures in the world rotting in
abandoned wreck-(and, in Venice, with the Austrian
guns deliberately pointed at the palaces containing
them), and if you heard that all the Titians in Europe
were made sand-bags to-morrow on the Austrian forts,
it would not trouble you so much as the chance of a
brace or two of game less in your own bags in
a day's shooting. That is your national love of
Art.
IV. You have despised nature; that is to say, all the
deep and sacred sensations of natural scenery. The
French revolutionists made stables of the cathedrals
of France; you have made race-courses of the cathedrals of the earth. Your one conception of pleasure
is to drive in railroad carriages round their aisles, and
eat off their altars. You have put a railroad bridge
over the fall of Schaffhausen. You have tunnelled the




44


SESAME AND LILIES.


cliffs of Lucerne by Tell's chapel; you have destroyed
the Clarens shore of the Lake of Geneva; there is not
a quiet valley in England that you have not filled with
bellowing fire; there is no particle left of English land
which you have not trampled coal ashes into —nor any
foreign city in which the spread of your presence is notmarked among its fair old streets and happy gardens
by a consuming white leprosy of new hotels and perfumers' shops: the Alps themselves, which your own
poets used to love so reverently, you look upon as
soaped poles in a bear-garden, which you set yourselves to climb, and slide down again, with " shrieks
of delight." When you are past shrieking, having no
human articulate voice to say you are glad with, you
fill the quietude of their valleys with gunpowder blasts,
and rush home, red with cutaneous eruption of conceit, and voluble with convulsive hiccough of self-satisfaction. I think nearly the two sorrowfullest spectacles I have ever seen in humanity, taking the deep
inner significance of them, are the English mobs in the
valley of Chamouni, amusing themselves with firing
rusty howitzers; and the Swiss vintagers of Zurich expressing their Christian thanks for the gift of the vine,
by assembling in knots in the "towers of the vineyards,"
and slowly loading and firing horse-pistols from morning till evening. It is pitiful to have dim conceptions
of duty; more pitiful, it seems to me, to have conceptions like these, of mirth.
Lastly. You despise compassion. There is no need
of words of mine for proof of this. I merely print one
of the newspaper paragraphs which I am in the habit
of cutting out and throwing into my store-drawer;
here is one from a Daily Telegraph of an early date
this year; date which, though by me carelessly left
unmarked, is easily discoverable; for on the back of
the slip, there is the announcement that "yesterday
the seventh of the special services of this year was
performed by the Bishop of Ripon in St. Paul's; " and
there is a pretty piece of modern political economy besides, worth preserving note of, I think, so I print it in




OF' AKIGS' TREASURIES.


45


the note below.*  But my business is with the main
paragraph, relating one of such facts as happen now
daily, which, by chance, has taken a form in which it
came before the coroner. I will print the paragraph
in red.t Be sure, the facts themselves are written in
that color,'in a book which we shall all of us, literate
or illiterate, have to read our page of, some day.
"An inquiry was held on Friday by Mr. Richards,
deputy coroner, at the White Horse Tavern, Christ
Church, Spitalfields, respecting the death of Michael
Collins, aged 58 years. Mary Collins, a miserable-looking woman, said that she lived with the deceased and
his son in a room at 2, Cobb's court, Christ Church.
Deceased was a ' translator' of boots. Witness went
out and bought old boots; deceased and his son made
them into good ones, and then witness sold them for
what she could get at the shops, which was very little
indeed. Deceased and his son used to work night and
day to try and get a little bread and tea, and pay for
the room (2s. a week), so as to keep the home together.
On Friday night week deceased got up from his bench
and began to shiver. He threw down the boots, say-.ng, ' Somebody else must finish them when I am gone,
for I can do no more.' There was no fire, and he said,
'I would be better if I was warm.' Witness therefore
took two pairs of translated boots to sell at the shop,
but she could only get I4d. for the two pairs, for the
people at the shop said, ' We must have our profit.'
Witness got I41b. of coal, and a little tea and bread.
Her son sat up the whole night to make the ' translations,' to get money, but deceased died on Saturday
morning.   The family never had enough to eat.* It is announced that an arrangement has been concluded between the Ministry of Finance and the Bank of Credit for the payment of the eleven millions which the State has to pay to the National Bank by the z4th inst. This sum will be raised as follows;The eleven commercial members of the committee of the Bank of
Credit will each borrow a million of florins for three months of
this bank, which will accept their bills, which again will be discounted by the National Bank. By this arrangement the National
Bank will itself furnish funds with which it will be jaid.
t The following extract was printed in red in the English edition.




46


SESAME AND LILIES.


Coroner: ' It seems to me deplorable that you did not
go into the workhouse.'-Witness: 'We wanted the
comforts of our little home.' A juror asked what the
comforts were, for he only saw a little straw in the
corner of the room, the windows of which were broken.
The witness began to cry, and said that they had a
quilt and other little things. The deceased said he
never would go into the workhouse. In summer,
when the season was good, they sometimes made as
much as los. profit in the week. They then always
saved towards the next week, which was generally a
bad one. In winter they made not half so much. For
three years they had been getting from bad to worse.
-Cornelius Collins said that he had assisted his father
since I847. They used to work so far into the night
that both nearly lost their eyesight. Witness now had
a film over his eyes. Five years ago deceased applied
to the parish for aid. The relieving officer gave him
a 4lb. loaf, and told him if he came again he should
'get the stones.'* That disgusted deceased, and he
* I do not know what this means. It is curiously coincident 'in
verbal form with a certain passage which some of us may remember.
It may perhaps be well to preserve besides this paragraph, another
cutting out of my store-drawer, from the Morning Post, of about
a parallel date, Friday, March 0o, i865;-" The salons of Mme.
C-, who did the honors with clever imitative grace and elegance,
were crowded with princes, dukes, marquises, and counts-in fact,
with the same male company as one meets at the parties of the
Princess Metternich and Madame Drouyn de Lhuys. Some English
peers and members of Parliament were present, and appeared to enjoy the animated and dazzlingly improper scene. On the second
floor the supper tables were loaded with every delicacy of the season. That your readers may form some idea of the dainty fare of
the Parisian demimonde, I copy the menu of the supper, which was
served to all the guests (about 200) seated at four o'clock. Choice
Yquem, Johannisberg, Laffitte, Tokay, and Champagne of the
finest vintages were served most lavishly throughout the morning.
After supper dancing was resumed with increased animation, and
the ball terminated with a chaine diabolique and a cancan d'enfer
at seven in the morning. (Morning-service — Ere the fresh lawns
appeared, under the opening eyelids of the Morn.-') Here is the
menu:-' Consommd de volaille i la Bagration; I6 hors-d'ceuvres
varids. Bouchdes & la Talleyrand. Saumons froids, sauce Ravigote.
Filets de boeuf en Bellevue, timbales milanaises chaudfroid de gibier. Dindes truffdes. Patds de foies gras, buissons d'6crevisses,
salades venltiennes, geldes blanches aux fruits, gateaux mancini,
parisiens et parisiennes. Fromages glaces Ananas. Dessert.




OF KINGS' TREASURIES.


47


would have nothing to do with them since. They got
worse and worse until last Friday week, when they
had not even a halfpenny to buy a candle. Deceased
then lay down on the straw, and said he could not live
till morning.-A juror: You are dying of starvation
yourself, and you ought to go into the house until the
summer. Witness: If we went in we should die.
When we come out in the summer we should be like
people dropped from the sky. No one would know us,
and we would not have even a room. I could work
now if I had food, for my sight would get better. Dr.
G. P. Walker said deceased died from syncope, from
exhaustion from want of food. The deceased had had
no bedclothes. For four months he had nothing but
bread to eat. There was not a particle of fat in the
body. There was no disease, but if there had been
medical attendance he might have survived the syncope or fainting. The coroner having remarked upon
the painful nature of the case, the jury returned the
following verdict,' That deceased died from exhaustion from want of food and the common necessaries
of life; also through want of medical aid.'"
Why would witness not go into the workhouse?"
you ask. Well, the poor seem to have a prejudice
against the workhouse which the rich have not; for
of course every one who takes a pension from Government goes into the workhouse on a grand scale:
only the workhouses for the rich do not involve the
idea of work, and should be called play-houses. But
the poor like to die independently, it appears; perhaps
if we made the play-houses for them pretty and
pleasant enough, or gave them their pensions at home,
and allowed them a little introductory peculation
with the public money, their minds might be reconciled to it. Meantime, here are the facts: we
make our relief either so insulting to them, or so
painful, that they rather die than take it at our hands;
or, for third alternative, we leave them so untaught
and foolish that they starve like brute creatures, wild




c48


SESAME AND LILIES.


and dumb, not knowing what to do, or what to ask.
I say, you despise compassion; if you did not, such a
newspaper paragraph would be as impossible in a
Christian country as a deliberate assassination permitted in its public streets.*  " Christian " did I say?
Alas, if we were but wholesomely un-Christian, it
would be impossible: it is our imaginary Christianity
that helps us to commit these crimes, for we revel and
luxuriate in our faith, for the lewd sensation of it;
dressing it up, like everything else, in fiction. The
dramatic Christianity of the organ and aisle, of dawnservice and twilight-revival-the Christianity which
we do not fear to mix the mockery of, pictorially, with
our play about the devil, in our Satanellas,-Roberts,
-Fausts, chanting hymns through traceried windows
for background effect, and artistically modulating the
* I am heartily glad to see such a paper as the Pall Mall Gazette
established; for the power of the press in the hands of highly-educated men, in independent position, and of honest purpose, may
indeed become all that it has been hitherto vainly vaunted to be.
Its editor will therefore, I doubt not, pardon me, in that, by very
reason of my respect for the journal, I do not let pass unnoticed an
article in its third number, page 5, which was wrong in every word
of it, with the intense wrongness which only an honest man can
achieve who has taken a false turn of thought in the outset, and is
following it: regardless of consequences. It contained at the end
this notable passage:" The bread of affliction, and the water of affliction-aye, and the
bedsteads and blankets of affliction, are the very utmost that the
law ought to give to outcasts merely as outcasts."  I merely put beside this expression of the gentlemanly mind of England in i865, a
part of the message whichlsaiah was ordered to " lift up his voice
like a trumpet in declaring to the gentlemen of his day: " Ye
fast for strife, and to smite with the fist of wickedness. Is not
this the fast that I have chosen, to deal thy bread to the hungry,
and that thou bring the poor that are cast out (margin 'afflicted ')
to thy house." The falsehood on which the writer had mentally
founded himself, as previously stated by him, was this: " To confound the functions of the dispensers of the poor-rates with those
of the dispensers of a charitable institution is a great and pernicious
error." This sentence is so accurately and exquisitely wrong, that
its substance must be thus reversed in our minds before we can
deal with any existing problem of national distress. " To understand that the dispensers of the poor-rates are the almoners of the
nation, and should distribute its alms with a gentleness and freedom of hand as much greater and franker than tlat possible to individual charity, as the collective national wisdom and power may
be supposed greater than those of any single person, is the foundation of all law respecting pauperism."




0F' KINGS' TREASURIES.


49


" Dio " through variation of mimicked prayer: (while
we distribute tracts, next day, for the benefit of uncultivated swearers, upon what we suppose to be the signification of the Third Commandment;)-the gaslighted, and gas-inspired, Christianity, we are triumphant in and draw back the hem of our robes from the
touch of the heretics who dispute it. But to do a
piece of common Christian righteousness in a plain
English word or deed; to make Christian law any
rule of life, and found one National act or hope thereon-we know too well what our faith comes to for
that! You might sooner get lightning out of incense
smoke than true action or passion out of your modern
English religion. You had better get rid of the smoke,
and the organ pipes, both: leave them, and the Gothic
windows, and the painted glass, to the property, man;
give up your carburetted hydrogen ghost in one
healthy expiration, and look after Lazarus at the doorstep. For there is a true Church wherever one hand
meets another helpfully, and that is the only holy or
Mother Church which ever was, or ever shall be.
All these pleasures, then, and all these virtues, I repeat, you nationally despise. You have, indeed, men
among you who do not; by whose work, by whose
strength, by whose life, by whose death, you live, and
never thank them. Your wealth, your amusement,
your pride, would all be alike impossible, but for those
whom you scorn or forget. The policeman, who is -
walking up and down the black lane all night to watch
the guilt you have created there, and may have his
brains beaten out and be maimed for life at any moment, and never be thanked; the sailor wrestling with
the sea's rage, the quiet student poring over his book
or his vial; the common worker, without praise, and
nearly without bread, fulfilling his task as your horses
drag your carts, hopeless, and spurned of all: these
are the men by whom England lives; but they are
not the nation; they are only the body and nervous
force of it, acting still from old habit in a convulsive
perseverance, while the mind is gone. Our National
4




50      SESAME AND LILIES.


mind and purpose are to be amused; our National religion, the performance of church ceremonies, and
preaching of soporific truths (or untruths) to keep the
mob quietly at work, while we amuse' ourselves; and
the necessity for this amusement is fastening on us as
a feverous disease of parched throat and wandering
eyes-senseless, dissolute, merciless. When men are
rightly occupied, their amusement grows out of their
work, as the color-petals out of a fruitful flower;when they are faithfully helpful and compassionate,
all their emotions become steady, deep, perpetual, and
vivifying to the soul as the natural pulse to the body.
But now, having no true business, we pour our whole
masculine energy into the false business of moneymaking; and having no true emotion, we must have
false emotions dressed up for us to play with, not innocently, as children with dolls, but guiltily and darkly,
as the idolatrous Jews with their pictures on cavern
walls, which men had to dig to detect. The justice
we do not execute, we mimic in the novel and on the
stage; for the beauty we destroy in nature, we substitute the metamorphosis of the pantomime, and (the
human nature of us imperatively requiring awe and
sorrow of some kind) for the noble grief we should
have borne with our fellows, and the pure tears we
should have wept with them, we gloat over the pathos
of the police court, and gather the night-dew of the
grave.
It is difficult to estimate the true significance of these
things; the facts are frightful enough;-the measure
of national fault involved in them is perhaps not as
great as it would at first seem. We permit, or cause,
thousands of deaths daily, but we mean no harm; we
set fire to houses, and ravage peasants' fields; yet we
should be sorry to find we had injured anybody. We
are still kind at heart; still capable of virtue, but only
as children are. Chalmers, at the end of his long life,
having had much power with the public, being plagued
in some serious matter by a reference to "public opinion," uttered the impatient exclamation, "The public




OF KINGS' 'TREAS'URIES.


5I1


is just a great baby! " And the reason that 1 have
allowed all these graver subjects of thought to mix
themselves up with an inquiry into methods of reading,
is that, the more I see of our nationalfaults or miseries,
the more they resolve themselves into conditions of
childish illiterateness, and want of education in the
most ordinary habits of thought. It is, I repeat, not
vice, not selfishness, not dulness of brain, which we
have to lament; but an unreachable schoolboy's recklessness, only differing from the true schoolboy's in
its incapacity of being hilped, because it acknowledges
no master. There is a curious type of us given in one
of the lovely, neglected words of the last of our great
painters. It is a drawing of Kirkby Lonsdale churchyard, and of its brook, and valley, and hills, and folded
morning sky beyond. And unmindful alike of these,
and of the dead who have left these for other valleys
and for other skies, a group of schoolboys have piled
their little books upon a grave, to strike them off with
stones. So do we play with the words of the dead
that would teach us, and strike them far from us with
our bitter, reckless will, little thinking that those leaves
which the wind scatters had been piled, not only upon
a gravestone, but upon the seal of an enchanted vault
-nay, the gate of a great city of sleeping kings, who
would awake for us, and walk with us, if we knew but
how to call them by their names. How often, even if
we lift the marble entrance gate, do we but wander
among those old kings in their repose, and finger the
robes they lie in, and stir the -crowns on their foreheads; and still they are silent to us, and seem but a
dusty imagery; because we know not the incantation
of the heart that would wake them;-which, if they
once heard, they would start up to meet us in their
power of long ago, narrowly to look upon us, and
consider us; and, as the fallen kings of Hades meet
the newly fallen, saying, " Art thou also become weak
as we-art thou also become one of us? " so would
these kings, with their undimmed, unshaken diadems,
meet us, saying, " Art thou also become pure and




SESAME. AND LILIES;


mighty of heart as we? art thou also become one of
us?"
Mighty of heart, mighty of mind-" magnanimous"
-to be this, is indeed to be great in life; to become
this increasingly, is, indeed, to " advance in life,"-in
life itself-not in the trappings of it. My friends, do
you remember that old Scythian custom, when the
head of a house died? How he was dressed in his
finest dress, and set in his chariot, and carried about
to his friends' houses; and each of them placed him
at his table's head, and all feasted in his presence?
Suppose it were offered to you, in plain words, as it is
offered to you in dire facts, that you should gain this
Scythian honor, gradually, while you yet thought yourself alive. Suppose the offer were this: "You shall
die slowly; your blood shall daily grow cold, your
flesh petrify, your heart beat at last only as a rusted
group of iron valves. Your life shall fade from you,
and sink through the earth into the ice of Caina; but,
day by day, your body shall be dressed more gayly,
and set in higher chariots, and have more orders on its
breast-crowns on its head, if you will. Men shall
bow before it, stare and shout round it, crowd after it
up and down the streets; build palaces for it, feast
with it at their tables' heads all the night long; yotr
soul shall stay enough within it to know what they do,
and feel the weight of the golden dress on its shoulders, and the furrow of the crown-edge on the skull;no more. Would you take the offer, verbally made
by the death-angel? Would the meanest among us
take it, think you? Yet practically and verily we
grasp at it, every one of us, in a measure; many of us
grasp at it in its fulness of horror. Every man accepts
it, who desires to advance in life without knowing
what life is; who means only that he is to get more
horses, and more footmen, and more fortune, and
more public honor, and-not more personal soul. He
only is advancing in life, whose heart is getting softer,
whose blood warmer, whose brain quicker, whose




OF KINGS' TREASURIES.


53


spirit is entering into Living* peace. And the men
who have this life in them are the true lords or kings
of the earth-they, and they only. All other kingships, so far as they are true, are only the practical issue and expression of theirs; if less than this, they
are either dramatic royalties,-costly shows, with real
jewels instead of tinsel-the toys of nations; or else,
they are no royalties at all, but tyrannies, or the mere
active and practical issue of national folly; for which
reason I have said of them  elsewhere, " Visible governments are the toys of some nations, the diseases of
others, the harness of some, the burdens of more."
But I have no words for the wonder with which I
hear Kinghood still spoken of, even among thoughtful
men, as if governed nations were a personal property,
and might be bought and sold, or otherwise acquired,
as sheep, of whose flesh their king was to feed, and
whose fleece he was to gather; as if Achilles' indignant epithet of base kings, "people-eating," were the
constant and proper title of all monarchs; and enlargement of a king's dominion meant the same thing as the
increase of a private man's estate! Kings who think
so, however powerful, can no more be the true kings
of the nation than gad-flies are the kings of a horse;
they suck it, and may drive it wild, but do not guide it.
They, and their courts, and their armies are, if one
could see clearly, only a large species of marsh mosquito, with bayonet proboscis and melodious, bandmastered, trumpeting in tho summer air; the twilight
being, perhaps, sometimes fairer, but hardly more
wholesome, for its glittering mists of midge companies.
The true kings, meanwhile, rule quietly, if at all, and
hate ruling; too many of them make " il gran refiuto; "
and if they do not, the mob, as soon as they are likely
to become useful to it, is pretty sure to make its " gran
refidto" of them.
Yet the visible king may also be a true one, some
day, if ever day comes when he will estimate his do* "t rb R Pov7Mia roT) rveviaroc Cw l ica e I p 1v?."




54


SESAME AND LILIES.


minion by the force of it,-not the geographical boundaries. It matters very little whether Trent cuts you a
cantel out here, or Rhine rounds you a castle less
there.  But it does matter to you, king of men,
whether you can verily say to this man, " Go " and he
goeth;.and to another, "Come," and he cometh.
Whether you can turn your people as you can Trentand where it is that you bid them come, and where go.
It matters to you, king of men, whether your people
hate you, and die by you, or love you, and'live by you.
You may measure your dominion by multitudes better than by miles; and count degrees of love-latitude,
not from, but to, a wonderfully warm and infinite equator. Measure! nay, you cannot measure the difference between the power of those who "' do and teach,"
and who are grealt st in the kingdoms of earth, as of
heaven-and the power of those who undo, and consume-whose power, at the fullest, is only the power
of the moth and the rust? Strange! to think how the
Moth-kings lay up treasures for the moth, and the
Rust-kings, who are to their peoples' strength as rust
to armor, lay up treasures for rust; and the Robberkings, treasures for the robber; but how few kings
have ever laid up treasures that needed no guardingtreasures of which, the more thieves there were, the
better! Broidered robe, only to be rent-helm and
sword, only to be dimmed; jewel and gold, only to be
scattered.-there have been three kinds of kings who
have gathered these. Suppose there ever should arise
a Fourth order of kings, who had read, in some
obscure writing of long ago, that there was a Fourth
kind of treasure, which the jewel and gold could not
equal, neither should it be valued with pure gold. A
web more fair in the weaving, by Athena's shuttle; an
armor, forged in diviner fire by Vulcanian force-a
gold only to be mined in the sun's red heart, where he
sets over the Delphian cliffs;-deep-pictured tissue,
impenetrable armor, potable gold!-the three great
Angels of Conduct, Toil, and Thought, still calling to
us, and waiting at the posts of our doors, to lead us,




OP AKINGS' TREASURIE~S.


55


if we would, with their winged power, and guide us,
with their inescapable eyes, by the path which no fowl
knoweth, and which the vulture's eye has not seen!
Suppose kings should ever arise, who heard and believed this word, and at last gathered and brought
forth treasures of-Wisdoml-for their people?
Think what an amazing business that would be!
How inconceivable, in the state of our present national
wisdom. That we should bring up our peasants to a
book exercise instead of a bayonet exercise! —organize,
drill, maintain with pay, and good generalship, armies
of thinkers, instead of armies of stabbers!-find national amusement in reading-rooms as well as riflegrounds; give prizes for a fair shot at a fact, as well
as for a leaden splash on a target. What an absurd
idea it seems, put fairly in words, that the wealth of
the capitalists of civilized nations should ever come to
support literature instead of war! Have yet patience
with me, while I read you a single sentence out of the
only book, properly to be called a book, that I have
yet written myself, the one that will stand, (if anything stand,) surest and longest of all work of mine.
" It is one very awful form of the operation of wealth in Europe
that it is entirely capitalists' wealth which supports unjust wars.
Just wars do not need so much money to support them; for most of
the men who wage such, wage them gratis; but for an unjust war,
men's bodies and souls have both to be bought; and the best tools
of war for them besides, which makes such war costly to the maximum; not to speak of the cost of base fear, and angry suspicion,
between nations which have not grace nor honesty enough in all
their multitudes to buy an hour's peace of mind with; as, at
present France and England, purchasing of each other ten millions'
sterling worth of consternation, annually (a remarkably light crop,
half thorns and half aspen leaves, sown, reaped, and granaried by
the 'science' of the modern political economist, teaching covetousness instead of truth). And, all unjust war being supportable, if
not by pillage of the enemy, only by loans from capitalists, these
loans are repaid by subsequent taxation of the people, who appear
to have no will in the matter, the capitalists' will being the primary
root of the war; but its real root is the covetousness of the whole
nation, rendering it incapable of faith, frankness, or justice, and
bringing about, therefore, in due time, his own separate loss and
punishment to each person."
France and England literally, observe, buy panic of
each other; they pay, each of them, for ten thousand




56


SESAME AND ZLILES.


thousand pounds' worth of terror, a year. Now suppose, instead of buying these ten millions' worth of
panic annually, they made up their minds to be at peace
with each other, and buy ten millions' worth of knowledge annually; and that each nation spent its ten thousand thousand pounds a year in founding royal libraries, royal art galleries, royal museums, royal gardens,
and places of rest. Might it not be better somewhat
for both French and English?
It will be long, yet, before that comes to pass. Nevertheless, I hope it will not be long before royal or
national libraries will be founded in every considerable
city, with a royal series of books in them; the same
series in every one of them, chosen books, the best in
every kind, prepared for that national series in the most
perfect way possible; their text printed all on leaves
of equal size, broad of margin, and divided into pleasant volumes, light in the hand, beautiful, and strong,
and thorough as examples of binders' work; and that
these great libraries will be accessible to all clean and
orderly persons at all times of the day and evening;
strict law being enforced for this cleanliness and quietness.
I could shape for you other plans, for art-galleries,
and for natural history galleries, and for many precious,
many, it seems to me, needful, things; but this book
plan is the easiest and needfullest, and would prove a
considerable tonic to what we call our British constitution, which has fallen dropsical of late, and has an
evil thirst, and evil hunger, and wants healthier feeding.
You have got its corn laws repealed for it; try if you
cannot get corn laws established for it, dealing in a
better bread;-bread made of that old enchanted Arabian grain, the Sesame, which opens doors;-doors,
not of robbers', but of Kings' Treasuries.
Friends, the treasuries of true kings are the streets
of their cities; and the gold they gather, which for
others is as the mire of the streets, changes itself, for
them and their people, into a crystalline pavement for
evermore.




LECTURE II.-LILIES.


OF QUEENS' GARDENS.
" mCf Kp'vov ev #cta aliaven, oitcr' r irvaiz /Iov"
IT will, pernaps, be well, as this Lecture is the sequel
of one previously given, that I should shortly state to
you my general intention in both. The questions specially proposed to you in the first, namely, How and
What to Read, rose out of a far deeper one, which it
was my endeavor to make you propose earnestly to
yourselves, namely, Why to Read. I want you to feel,
with me, that whatever advantages we possess in the
present day in the diffusion of education and of literature, can only be rightly used by any of us when we
have apprehended clearly what education is to lead to,
and literature to teach. I wish you to-see that both
well-directed moral training and well-chosen reading
lead to the possession of a power over the ill-guided
and illiterate, which is, according to the measure of it,
in the truest sense, kinz4gly; conferring indeed the
purest kingship that can exist among men: too many
other kingships (however distinguished by visible insignia or material power) being either spectral, or tyrannous;-Spectral-that is to say, aspects and shadows
only of royalty, hollow as death, and which only the
" Likeness of a kingly crown have on; " or else tyrannous-that is to say, substituting their own will for the
law of justice and love by which all true kings rule.
There is, then, I repeat-and as I want to leave this
idea with you, I begin with it, and shall end with it* Canticles Ho. 2.




SESAME ANA:D LILIZS.


only one pure kind of kingship; an inevitable and eternal kind, crowned or not: the kingship, namely, which
consists in a stronger moral state, and a truer thoughtful state, than that of others; enabling you, therefore,
'to guide, or to raise them. Observe that word" State; "
we have got into a loose way of using it. It means
literally the standing and stability of a thing; and you
have the full force of it in the derived word "statue "
-" the. immovable thing." A king's majesty or
"state," then, and the right of his kingdom to be called
a state, depends on the movelessness of both:-without
tremor, without quiver of balance; established and enthroned upon a foundation of eternal law which nothing can alter nor overthrow.
Believing that all literature and all education are only
useful so far as they tend to confirm this calm, beneficent, and therefore kingly, power-first, over ourselves,
and, through ourselves, over all around us, I am now
going to ask you to consider with me farther, what
special portion or kind of this royal authority, arising
out of noble education, may rightly be possessed by
women; and how far they also are called to a true
queenly power. Not in their households merely, but
over all within their sphere. And in what sense, if,  they rightly understood and exercised this royal or
gracious influence, the order and beauty induced by
such benignant power would justify us in speaking of
the territories over which each of them reigned, as
" Queens' Gardens."
And here, in thle very outset, we are met by a far
deeper question, which-strange though this may seem
-remains among many of us yet quite undecided, in
spite of its infinite importance.
We cannot determine what the queenly power of
women should be, until we are agreed what their ordinary power should be. We cannot consider how education may fit them for any widely extending duty, until we are agreed what is their true constant duty.
And their never was a time when wilder words were
spoken, or more vain imagination permitted, respecting




OF QUEEVS' GARDENS.


59


this question-quite vital to all social happiness. The
relations of the womanly to the manly nature, their
different capacities of intellect or of virtue, seem never
to have been yet measured with entire consent. We
hear of the mission and of the rights of Woman, as if
these could ever be separate from the mission and the
rights of Man;-as if she and her lord were creatures
of independent kind and of irreconcilable claim. This,
at least, is wrong. And not less wrong-perhaps even
more foolishly wrong (for I will anticipate thus far
what I hope to prove)-is the idea that woman is only
the shadow and attendant image of her lord, owing
him a thoughtless and servile obedience, and supported
altogether in her weakness by the pre-eminence of his
fortitude.
This, I sav, is the most foolish of all errors respecting her who was made to be the helpmate of man.
As if he could be helped effectively by a shadow, or
worthily by a slave!
Let us try, then, whether we cannot get at some clear
and harmonious idea (it must be harmonious if it is
true) of what womanly mind and virtue are in power
and office, with respect to man's; and how their relations, rightly accepted, aid, and increase, the vigor, and
honor, and authority of both.
And now I must repeat one thing I said in the last
lecture: namely, that the first use of education was to
enable us to consult with the wisest and the greatest
men on all points of earnest difficulty. That to use
books rightly, was to go to them for help: to appeal
to them, when our own knowledge and power of
thought failed; to be led by them into wider sight,
purer conception than our own, and receive from them
the united sentence of the judges and councils of all
time, against our solitary and unstable opinion.
Let us do this now. Let us see whether the greatest, the wisest, the purest-hearted of all ages are agreed
in any wise on this point: let us hear the testimony
they have left respecting what they held to be the true
dignity of woman, and her mode of help to man.




60o


SESAME AND LILIES.


And first let us take Shakespeare.
Note broadly in the outset, Shakespeare has no heroes;-he has only heroines. There is not one entirely heroic figure in all his plays, except the slight
sketch of Henry the Fifth, exaggerated for the purposes
of the stage; and the still slighter Valentine in The
Two Gentlemen of Verona. In his labored and perfect plays you have no hero. Othello would have been
one, if his simplicity had not been so great as to leave
him the prey of every base practice round him; but he
is the only example even approximating to the heroic
type. Coriolanus-Caesar-Antony,-stand in flawed
strength, and fall by their vanities;-Hamlet is indolent, and drowsily speculative; Romeo an impatient
boy; the Merchant of Venice languidly submissive to
adverse fortune; Kent, in King Lear, is entirely noble
at heart, but too rough and unpolished to be of true
use at the critical time, and he sinks into the office of
a servant only. Orlando, no less noble, is yet the despairing toy of chance, followed, comforted, saved, by
Rosalind. Whereas there is hardly a play that has not
a perfect woman in it, steadfast in grave hope, and
errorless purpose; Cordelia, Desdemona, Isabella,
Hermione, Imogen. Queen Katherine, Perdita, Sylvia,
Viola, Rosalind, Helena, and last, and perhaps loveliest, Virgilia, are all faultless; conceived in the highest
heroic type of humanity.
Then observe, secondly,
The catastrophe of every play is caused by the folly
or fault of a man; the redemption, if there be any, is
by the wisdom and virtue of a woman, and, failing that,
there is none. The catastrophe of King Lear is owing
to his own want of judgment, his impatient vanity, his
misunderstanding of his children; the virtue of his one
true daughter would have saved him from all the injuries of the others, unless he had cast her away from
him; as it is, she all but saves him.
Of Othello I need not trace the tale;-nor the one
weakness of his so mighty love; nor the inferiority of
his perceptive intellect to that even of the second woman




OF QUEENS' GARDENS.


character in the play, the Emilia who dies in wild testimony against his error:-" Oh, murderous coxcomb 1
What should such a fool do with so good a wife?"
In Romeo and Juliet, the wise and entirely brave
stratagem of the wife is brought to ruinous issue by
the reckless impatience of her husband. In Winter's
Tale, and in Cymbeline, the happiness and existence
of two princely households, lost through long years,
and imperilled to the death by the folly and obstinacy
of the husbands, are redeemed at last by the queenly
patience and wisdom of the wives. In Measure for
Measure, the injustice of the judges, and the corrupt
cowardice of the brother, are opposed to the victorious
truth and adamantine purity of a woman. In Coriolanus, the mother's counsel, acted upon in time, would
have saved her son from all evil; his momentary forgetfulness of it is his ruin; her prayer, at last granted,
saves him-not, indeed, from death, but from the
curse of living as the destroyer of his country.
And what shall I say of Julia, constant against the
fickleness of a lover who is a mere wicked child?-of
Helena, against the petulance and insult of a careless
youth?-of the patience of Hero, the passion of Beatrice, and the calmly devoted wisdom of the "unles —
soned girl," who appears among the helplessness, the
blindness, and the vindictive passions of men, as a gentle angel, to save merely by her presence, and defeat
the worst intensities of crime by her smile?
Observe, further, among all the principal figures in
Shakespeare's plays, there is only one weak womanOphelia; and it is because she fails Hamlet at the critical moment, and is not, and cannot in her nature be,
a guide to him when he needs her most, that all the
bitter catastrophe follows. Finally, though there are
three wicked women among the principal figures, Lady
Macbeth, Regan, and Goneril, they are felt at once to
be frightful exceptions to the ordinary laws of life;
fatal in their influence also in proportion to the power
for good which they have abandoned.
Such, in broad light, is Shakespeare's testimony to




SESAME AND LILL&Y.


the position and character of women in human life.
He represents them  as infallibly faithful and wise
counsellors,-incorruptibly just and pure examplesstrong always to sanctify, even when they cannot save.
Not as in any wise comparable in knowledge of the
nature of man,-still less in his understanding of the
causes and courses of fate,-but only as the writer
who has given us the broadest view of the conditions
and modes of ordinary thought in modern society, I
ask you next to receive the witness of Walter Scott.
I put aside his merely romantic prose writings as of
no value: and though the early romantic poetry is very
beautiful, its testimony is of no weight, other than that
of a boy's ideal. But his true works, studied from
Scottish life, bear a true witness, and in the whole
range of these there are but three men who reach the
heroic type-Dandie Dinmont, Rob Roy, and Claverhouse: of these, one is a border farmer; another a
freebooter; the third a soldier in a ba4c cause. And
these touch the ideal of heroism only in their courage
and faith, together with a strong, but uncultivated, or
mistakenly applied, intellectual power; while his
younger men are the gentlemanly playthings of fantastic fortune, and only by aid (or accident) of that fortune, survive, not vanquish, the trials they involuntarily
sustain. Of any disciplined, or consistent character,
earnest in a purpose wisely conceived, or dealing with
forms of hostile evil, definitely challenged, and resolutely subdued, there is no trace in his conceptions of
men.   Whereas in his imaginations of women,-in
the characters of Ellen Douglas, of Flora MacIvor,
Rose Brad wardine, Catherine-Seytorr, Diana Vernon,
Lilias Redgauntlet, Alice Bridgenorth, Alice Lee, and
Jeanie Deans,-with endless varieties of grace, tenderness, and intellectual power, we find in all a quite infallible and inevitable sense qf dignity and justice; a
fearless, instant, and untiring $elf-sacrifice to even the
appearance of duty, much moie to its real claims; and,
finally, a patient wisdom of deeply restrained affection,
which does infinitely more than protect its objects from




OF QUEENS' GARDENS.


A,3


a momentary error; it gradually fdrms, animates, and
exalts the characters of the unworthy lovers, until, at
the close of the tale, we are just able, and no more, to
take patience in hearing of their unmerited success.
So that in all cases, with Scott as with Shakespeare,
it is the woman who watches over, teaches, and guides
the youth; it is never, by any chance, the youth who
watches over or educates his mistress.
Next, take, though more briefly, graver and deeper
testimony-that of the great Italians and Greeks. You
know well the plan of Dante's great poem —that it is
a love-poem to his dead lady, a song of praise for her
watch over his soul. Stooping only to pity, never to
love, she yet saves him from destruction-saves him
from hell. He is going eternally astray in despair;
she comes down from heaven to his help, and throtighout the ascents of Paradise is his teacher, interpreting
for him the most difficult truths, divine and human;
and leading him, with rebuke upon rebuke, from rkar
to star.
I do not insist upon Dante's conception; if I begi..
I could not cease: besides, you might think this a wild
imagination on one poet's heart. So I will rather read
to you a few verses of the deliberate writing of a knight
of Pisa to his living lady, wholly characteristic of the
feeling of all the noblest men of the thirteenth century,
preserved among many other such records of knightly
honor and love, which Dante Rossetti has gathered for
us from among the early Italian poets.
For io! thy law is passed
That this my love should manifestly be
To serve and honor thee
And so l do; and my delight is full,
Accepted for the servant of thy rule.
Without almost, I am all rapturous,
Since thus my will was set
To serve, thou flower of joy, thine excellence:
Nor ever seems it anything could rouse
A pain or regret,
But on thee wels mine every thought and sense:
Considering that from thee all virtues spread
As from a fountain head,



64


SESAME AND LILIES.


That in thy gift is wisdom's best avail,
A nd honor withoutfail;
With whom each sovereign good dwells separate,
Fulfilling the perfection of thy state.
Lady, since I conceived
Thy pleasurable aspect in my heart,
Ary life has been apart
In shining brightness and the p1ace of truth
Which till that time, good sooth
Groped among shadows in a darken'd place,
Where many hours and days
It hardly ever had remember'd good.
But now my servitude
Is thine, and I am full of joy and rest.
A man from a wild beast
Thou madest me, since for thy love I lived.
You may think, perhaps, a Greek knight would have
had a lower estimate of women than this Christian
lover. His own spiritual subjection to them was indeed not so absolute; but as regards their own personal character, it was only because you could not have
followed me so easily, that I did not take the Greek
women instead of Shakespeare's; and instance, for
chief ideal types of human beauty and faith, the simple
mother's and wife's heart of Andromache; the divine,
yet rejected wisdom of Cassandra; the playful kindness and simple princess-life of happy Nausicaa; the
housewifely calm of that of Penelope, with its watch
upon the sea; the ever patient, fearless, hopelessly devoted piety of the sister, and daughter, in Antigone;
the bowing down of Iphigenia, lamb-like and silent;
and, finally, the expectation of the resurrection, made
clear to the soul of the Greeks in the return from her
grave of that Alcestis, who, to save her husband, had
passed calmly through the bitterness of death.
Now I could multiply witness upon witness of this
kind upon you if I had time. I would take Chaucer,
and show you why he wrote a Legend of Good
Women; but no Legend of Good Men. I would take
Spenser, and show you how all his fairy knights are
sometimes deceived and sometimes vanquished; but
the soul of Una is never darkened, and the spear of
Britomart is never broken. Nay, I could go back into




OF QUEENS' GARDENS.


the mythical teaching of the most ancient times, and
show you how the great people,-by one of whose
princesses it was appointed that the Lawgiver of all
the earth should be educated, rather than by his own
kindred;-how that great Egyptian people, wisest
then of nations, gave to their Spirit of Wisdom the
form of a woman; and into her hand, for a symbol,
the weaver's shuttle: and how the name and the form
of that spirit, adopted, believed, and obeyed by the
Greeks, became that Athena of the olive-helm, and
cloudy shield, to whose faith you owe, down to this
date, whatever you hold most precious in art, in literature, or in types of national virtue.
But I will not wander into this distant and mythical
element; I will only ask you to give its legitimate
value to the testimony of these great poets and men
of the world,-consistent as you see it is on this head.
I will ask you whether it can be supposed that these
men, in the main work of their lives, are amusing
themselves with a fictitious and idle view of the relations between man and woman;-nay, worse than
fictitious or idle; for a thing may be imaginary, yet
desirable, if it were possible; but this, their ideal of
women, is, according to our common idea of the marriage relation, wholly undesirable. The woman, we
say, is not to guide, nor even to think, for herself.
The man is always to be the wiser; he is to be the
thinker, the ruler, the superior in knowledge and discretion, as in power. Is it not somewhat important to
make up our minds on this matter? Are all these
great men mistaken, or are we? Are Shakespeare and
AEschylus, Dante and Homer, merely dressing dolls
for us; or, worse than dolls, unnatural visions, the realization of which, were it possible, would bring anarchy into all households and ruin into all affections?
Nay, if you could suppose this, -take lastly the evidence
of facts, given by the himan heart itself. In all Christian ages which have been remarkable for their purity
or progress, there has been absolute yielding of obedient devotion by the lover to his mistress.  I say




66


SESAME AND LILIES,


obedient-not merely enthusiastic and worshipping in
imagination, but entirely subject, receiving from the
beloved woman, however young, not only the encouragement, the praise, and the reward of all toil, but,
so far as any choice is open, or any question difficult of
decision, the direction of all toil. That chivalry, to the
abuse and dishonor of which are attributable primarily
whatever is cruel in war, unjust in peace, or corrupt and
ignoble in domestic relations; and to the original purity
and power of which we owe the defence alike of faith, of
law, and of love;-that chivalry, I say, in its very first
conception of honorable life, assumes the subjection of
the young knight to the command —should it even be the
command in caprice-of his lady. It assumes this, because its masters knew that the first and necessary
impulse of every truly taught and knightly heart is
this of blind service to its lady: that where that true
faith and captivity are not, all wayward and wicked
passion must be; and that in this rapturous obedience
to the single love of his youth, is the sanctification of
all man's strength, and the continuance of all his purposes. And this, not because such obedience would
be safe, or honorable, were it ever rendered to the
unworthy; but because it ought to be impossible for
every noble youth-it is impossible for every one
rightly trained-to love any one whose gentle counsel
he cannot trust, or whose prayerful command he can
hesitate to obey.
I do not insist by any farther argument on this, for
I think it should commend itself at once to your
knowledge of what has been and to your feeling of
what should be. You cannot think that the buckling
on of the knight's armor by his lady's hand was a
mere caprice of romantic fashion. It is the type of an
eternal truth-that the soul's armor is never well set
to the heart unless a woman's hand has braced it;
and it is only when she braces it loosely that the honor of manhood fails. Know you not those lovely lines
-I would they were learned by all youthful ladies of
England:



OF Q rUEENS' GA RDENS.


6


"Ah wasteful woman! she who may
On her sweet self set her own price,
Knowing he cannot choose but payHow has she cheapen'd Paradise!
How given for nought her priceless gift,
How spoiled the bread and spill'd the wine,
Which, spent with due, respective thrift,
Had made brutes men, and men divine! " *
Thus much, then, respecting the relations of lovers
I believe you will accept. But what we too often
doubt-is the fitness of the continuance of such a relation throughout the whole of human life. We think
it right in the lover and mistress, not in the husband
and wife. That is to say, we think that a reverent and
tender duty is due to one whose affection we still
doubt, and whose character we as yet do but partially
and distantly discern; and that this reverence and
duty are to be withdrawn when the affection has become wholly and limitlessly our own, and the character has been so sifted and tried that we fear not to
entrust it with the happiness of our lives. Do you not
see how ignoble this is, as well as how unreasonable?
Do you not feel that marriage-when it is marriage at
all,-is only the seal which marks the vowed transition
of temporary into untiring service, andljof fitful into
eternal love?
But how, you will ask, is the idea of this guiding
function of the woman reconcilable with a true wifely
subjection? Simply in that it is a guidinzg, not a determining, function. Let me try to show you briefly
how these powers seem to be rightly distinguishable.
We are foolish, and without excuse foolish, in speaking of the " superiority" of one sex to the other, as if
they could be compared in similar things. Each has
what the other has not: each completes the other, and
is completed by the other: they are in nothing alike,
and the happiness and perfection of both depends on
each asking and receiving from the other what the
other only can give.
Now   their separate characters are briefly these:
* Coventry Patmore.




68


SESAME AND LZLZES.


The man's power is active, progressive, defensive.
He is eminently the doer, the creator, the discoverer,
the defender. His intellect is for speculation and invention; his energy for adventure, for war, and for
conquest, wherever war is just, wherever conquest
necessary. But the woman's power is for rule, not
for battle,-and her intellect is not for invention or
creation, but for sweet ordering, arrangement, and decision. She sees the qualities of things, their claims
and their places. Her great function is Praise: she
enters into no contest, but infallibly judges the
crown of contest.  By her office, and place, she
is protected from all danger and temptation. The
man, in his rough work in open world, must encounter all peril and. trial:-to him, therefore, the failure,
the offence, the inevitable error: often he must be
wounded, or subdued, often misled, and always hardened. But he guards the woman from all this; within his house, as ruled by her, unless she herself has
sought it, need enter no danger, no temptation, no
cause of error or offence. This is the true nature of
home-it is the place of Peace; the shelter, not only
from all injury, but from all terror, doubt, and division.
In so far as it is not this, it is not home; so far as the
anxieties of the outer life penetrate into it, and the inconsistently-minded, unknown, unloved, or hostile society of the outer world is allowed by either husband
or wife to cross the threshold, it ceases to be home; it
is then only a part of that outer world which you
have roofed over, and lighted fire in. But so far as it
is a sacred place, a vestal temple, a temple of the
hearth watched over by Household Gods, before whose
faces none may come but those whom they can receive with love,-so far as it is this, and roof and fire
are types only of a nobler shade and light,-shade as
of the rock in a weary land, and light as of the Pharos
in the stormy sea;-so far it vindicates the name, and
fulfils the praise, of home.
And wherever a true wife comes, this home is always round her. The stars only may be over her
-I




OF QUEENS' GARDENS.


69


head; the glow-worm in the night-cold grass may be
the only fire at her foot: but home is yet wherever
she is; and for a noble woman it stretches far round
her, better than ceiled with cedar, or painted with
vermilion, shedding its quiet light far, for those who
else were homeless.
This, then, I believe to be,-will you not admit it to
be,-the woman's true place and power? But do not
you see that to fulfil this, she must-as far as one can
use such terms of a human creature-be incapable of
error? So far as she rules, all must be right, or nothing is. She must be enduringly, incorruptibly good;
instinctively, infallibly wise-wise, not for self-development, but for self-renunciation: wise, not that she may
set herself above her husband, but that she may never
fail from his side: wise, not with the narrowness of
insolent and loveless pride, but with the passionate
gentleness of an infinitely variable, because infinitely
applicable, modesty of service-the true changefulness
of woman. In that great sense-" La donna e mobile,"
not i" Qual piuim' al vento; " no, nor yet " Variable as
the shade, by the light quivering aspen made; " but
variable as the light, manifold in fair and serene division, that it may take the color of all that it falls
upon, and exalt it.
Ii. I have been trying, thus far, to show what should
be the place, and what the power of woman. Now,
secondly, we ask, What kind of education is to fit her
for these?
And if you indeed think this a true conception of
her office and dignity, it will not be difficult to trace
the course of education which would fit her for the
one, and raise her to the other.
The first of our duties to her-no thoughtful persons now doubt this,-is to secure for her such physical training and exercise as may confirm her health,
and perfect her beauty: the highest refinement of that
beauty being unattainable without splendor of activity
and of delicate strength. To perfect her beauty, I
say, and increase its power; it cannot be too power



70


SESAME AND LILIES.


ful, nor shed its sacred light too far: only remember
that all physical freedom is vain to produce beauty
without a corresponding freedom     of heart.   There
are two passages of that poet who is distinguished, it
seems to me, from all others-not by power, but by
exquisite rzhtness-which point you to the source,
and describe to you, in a few syllables, the completion
of womanly beauty.      I will read the introductory
stanzas, but the last is the one I wish you specially to
notice:
Three years.she grew in sun and shower,
Then Nature said, a lovelier flower
On earth was never sown.
This child I to myself will take;
She shall be mine, and I will make
A lady of my own.
Myself will to my darling be
Both law and impulse; and with me
The girl, in rock and plain,
In earth and heaven, in glade and bower,
Shall feel an overseeing power
To kindle, or restrain.
The floating clouds their state shall lend
To her, for her the willow bend;
Nor shall she fail to see
Even in the motions of the storm,
Grace that shall mould the maiden's form
By silent sympathy.
And vitalfeelings of delight
Shall rear her form to stately height,Her virgin bosom swell.
Such thotghts to Lucy I will give,
While she and I together live,
Here in this happy dell.
"Vizal feelings of delight," observe.    There are
deadly feelings of delight; but the natural ones are
vital, necessary to the very life.
And they must be feelings of delight, if they are to
be vital. Do you think you can make a girl lovely, if
you do not make her happy. There is not one restraint you put on a good girl's nature-there is not
one check you give to her instincts of affection or of
effort-which will not be indelibly written on her




OF QUEENiS' GARDENS.


71


features, with a hardness which is all the more painful because it takes away the brightness from the
eyes of innocence, and the charm from the brow of
virtue.
This for the means: now note the end. Take from
the same poet, in two lines, a perfect description of
womanly beautyA countenance in which did meet
Sweet records, promises as sweet.
The perfect loveliness of a woman's countenance
can only consist in that majestic peace, which is
founded in the memory of happy and useful years,full of sweet records; and from the joining of this
with that yet more majestic childishness, which is still
full of change and promise;-opening always-modest
at once, and bright, with hope of better things to be
won, and to be bestowed. There is no old age where
there is still that promise-it is eternal youth.
Thus, then, you have first to mould her physical
frame, and then, as the strength she gains will permit
you, to fill and temper her mind with all knowledge
and thoughts which tend to confirm its natural instincts
of justice, and refine its natural tact of love.
All such knowledge should be given her as may
enable her to understand, and even to aid, the work
of men: and yet it should be given, not as knowledge,
-nor as if it were, or could be, for her an object to
know; but only to feel, and to judge.  It is of no
moment, as a matter of pride or perfectness in herself,
whether she knows many languages or one, but it is
of the utmost, that she should be able to show kindness to a stranger's tongue. It is of no moment to
her own worth or dignity that she should be acquainted with this science or that; but it is of the
highest that she should be trained in habits of accurate thought; that she should understand the meaning, the inevitableness, and the loveliness of natural
laws, and follow at least some one path of scientific
attainment, as far as to the threshold of that bitter




SESAAME A)D LILIES.


Valley of Humiliation, into which only the wisest and
bravest of men can descend, owning themselves forever children, gathering pebbles on a boundless shore.
It is of little consequence how many positions of cities
she knows, or how many dates of events, or how many
names of celebrated persons-it is not the object of
education to turn a woman into a dictionary; but it
is deeply necessary that she should be taught to enter
with her whole personality into the history she reads;
to picture the passages of it vitally in her own bright
imagination; to apprehend, with her fine instincts,
the pathetic circumstances and dramatic relations,
which the historian too often only eclipses by his reasoning, and disconnects by his arrangement: it is for
her to trace the hidden equities of divine reward, and
catch sight, through the darkness, of the fateful
threads of woven fire that connect error with its retribution. But, chiefly of all, she is to be taught to extend the limits of her sympathy with respect to that
history which is being forever determined, as the
moments pass in which she draws her peaceful breath;
and to the contemporary calamity which, were it but
rightly mourned by her, would recur no more hereafter. She is to exercise herself in imagining what
would be the effects upon her mind and conduct, if
she were daily brought into the presence of the suffering which is not the less real because shut from her
sight. She is to be taught somewhat to understand
the nothingness of the proportion which that little
world in which she lives and loves, bears to the world
in which God lives and loves;-and solemnly she is
to be taught to strive that her thoughts of piety may
not be feeble in proportion to the number they embrace, nor her prayer more languid than it is for the
momentary relief from pain of her husband or her
child, when it is uttered for the multitudes of those
who have none to love them,-and is " for all who are
desolate and oppressed."
Thus far, I think, I have had your concurrence,
perhaps you will not be with me in what I believe is




OF QUEENS' GARDENS.


73


most needful for me to say. There is one dangerous
science for women-one which let them indeed beware
how they profanely touch-that of theology. Strange,
and miserably strange, that while they are modest enough to doubt their powers, and pause at the
threshold of sciences where every step is demonstrable
and sure, they will plunge headlong, and without one
thought of incompetency, into that science in which
the greatest men have trembled, and the wisest erred.
Strange, that they will complacently and pridefully
bind up whatever vice or folly there is in them, whatever arrogance, petulance, or blind incomprehensiveness, into one bitter bundle of consecrated myrrh.
Strange, in creatures born to be Love visible, that where
they can know least they will condemn first, and think
to recommend themselves to their Master by scrambling up the steps of His judgment throne, to divide
it with Him. Most strange, that they should think they
were led by the Spirit of the Comforter into habits of
mind which have become in them the unmixed elements of home discomfort; and that they dare to turn
the Household Gods of Christianity into ugly idols of
their own-spiritual-dolls, for them to dress according
to their caprice: and from which their husbands must
turn away in grieved contempt, lest they should be
shrieked at for breaking them.
I believe, then, with this exception, that a girl's education should be nearly, in its course and material of
study, the same as a boy's; but quite differently directed. A woman, in any rank of life, ought to
know whatever her husband is likely to know, but to
know it in a different way. His command of it
should be foundational and progressive, hers, general
and accomplished for daily and helpful use. Not but
that it would often be wiser in men to learn things in a
womanly sort of way, for present use, and to seek for
the discipline and training of their mental powers
in such branches of study as will be afterwards fittest
for social service; but, speaking broadly, a man ought
to know any language or science he learns, thoroughly,




74


SESAME AND LILIES.


while a woman ought to know the same language, or
science, only so far as may enable. her to sympathize in
her husband's pleasures, and in those of his best
friends.
Yet, observe, with exquisite accuracy as far as she
reaches. There is a wide difference between elementary knowledge and superficial knowledge-between a
firm beginning, and a feeble smattering. A woman
may always help her husband by what she knows, however little; by what she half-knows, or mis-knows, she
will only tease him..
And, indeed, if there were to be any difference between a girl's education and a boy's, I should say
that of the two the girl's should be earlier led, as her
intellect ripens faster, into deep and serious subjects;
and that her range of literature should be, not more,
but less frivolous, calculated to add the qualities of
patience and seriousness to her natural poignancy of
thought and quickness of wit; and also to keep her in
a lofty and pure element of thought. I enter not now
into any question of choice of books; only be sure
that her books are not heaped up in her lap as they
fall out of the package of the circulating library, wet
with the last and lightest spray of the fountain of
folly.
Or even of the fountain of wit; for with respect to
that sore temptation of novel-reading, it is not the badness of a novel that we should dread, but its overwrought interest. The weakest romance is not so
stupefying as the lower forms of religious exciting literature, and the worst romance is hot so corrupting as
false history, false philosophy, or false political essay.
But the best romance becomes dangerous, if, by its
excitement, it renders the ordinary course of life uninteresting, and increases the morbid thirst for useless acquaintance with scenes in which we shall never be
called upon to act.
I speak therefore of good novels only; and our
modern literature is particularly rich in types of such.
Well read, indeed, these books have serious use, being




O] QUEENS' GARDENS.


75


nothing less than treatises on moral anatomy and
chemistry; studies of human nature in the elements
of it. But I attach little weight to this function: they
are hardly ever read with earnestness enough to permit them to fulfil it. The utmost they usually do is to
enlarge somewhat the charity of a kind reader, or the
bitterness of a malicious one; for each will gather,
from the novel, food for her own disposition. Those
wvho are naturally proud and envious will learn from
Thackeray to despise humanity; those who are naturally gentle, to pity it; those who are naturally shallow, to laugh at it. So, also, there might be a serviceable power in novels to bring before us, in vividness, a
human truth which we had before dimly conceived;
but the temptation to picturesqueness of statement is
so great, that often the best writers of fiction cannot
resist it; and our views are rendered so violent and
one-sided, that their vitality is rather a harm than
good.
Without, however, venturing here on any attempt at
decision how much novel-reading should be allowed,
let me at least clearly assert this, that whether novels
or poetry, or history be read, they should be chosen,
not for what is out of them, but for what is in them.
The chance and scattered evil that may here and there
haunt, or hide itself in, a powerful book, never does
any harm to a noble girl; but the emptiness of an author oppresses her, and his amiable folly degrades her.
And if she can have access to a good library of old
and classical books, there need be no choosing at all.
Keep the modern magazine and novel out of your
girl's way: turn her loose into the old library every
wet day, and let her alone, She will find what is good
for her; you cannot: for there is just this difference
between the making of a girl's character and a boy's
-you may chisel a boy into shape, as you would a
rock, or hammer him into it, if he be of a better kind,
as you would a piece of bronze. But you cannot hammer a girl into anything. She grows as a flower does,
-she will wither without sun; she will decay in her




76


SESAME AND LILIES.


sheath, as the narcissus does, if you do not give her
air enough; she may fall, and defile her head in dust,
if you leave her without help at some moments of her
lfe; but you cannot fetter her; she must take her
own fair form and way, if she take any, and in mind
as in body must have always
Her household motions light and free
And steps of virgin liberty.
Let her loose in the library, I say, as you do a fawn in
a field. It knows the bad weeds twenty times better
than you; and the good ones too, and will eat some
bitter and prickly ones, good for it, which you had
not the slightest thought were good.
Then, in art, keep the finest models before her, and
let her practice in all accomplishments be accurate
and thorough, so as to enable her to understand more
than she accomplishes. I say the finest models-that
is to say, the truest, simplest, usefullest. Note those
epithets; they will range through all the arts. Try
them in music, there you might think them the least
applicable. I say the truest, that in which the notes
most closely and faithfully express the meaning of the
words, or the character of intended emotion; again,
the simplest, that in which the meaning and melody
are attained with the fewest and most significant notes
possible; and, finally, the usefullest, that music which
makes the best words most beautiful, which enchants
them in our memories, each with its own glory of sound,
and which applies them closest to the heart at the
moment we need them.
And not only in the material and in the course, but
yet more earnestly in the- spirit of it, let a girl's education be as serious as a boy's. You bring up your girls
as if they were meant for sideboard ornaments, and
then complain of their frivolity. Give them the same
advantages that you give their brothers-appeal to the
same grand instincts of virtue in them; teach tken
also that courage and truth are the pillars of their being: do you think that they would not answer that




OF QUEENS' GARIDENS.


77


appeal, brave and true as they are even now, when
you know that there is hardly a girl's school in this
Christian kingdom where the children's courage or
sincerity would be thought of half so much importance
as their way of coming in at a door; and when the
whole system of society, as respects the mode of establishing them in life, is one rotten plague of cowardice
and imposture,-cowardice, in not daring to let them
live, or love, except as their neighbors choose; and
imposture, in bringing, for the purpose of our own
pride, the full glow of the world's worst vanity upon a
girl's eyes. at the very period when the whole happiness of her future existence depends upon her remaining undazzled?
And give them, lastly, not only noble teachings, but
noble teachers. You consider somewhat, before you
send your boy to school, what kind of a man the master is;-whatsoever kind of man he is, you at least
give him full authority over your son, and show some
respect to him yourself; if he comes to dine with you,
you do not put him at a side table; you know also
that, at his college, your child's immediate tutor will
be under the direction of some still higher tutor, for
whom you have absolute reverence. You do not treat
the Dean of Christ Church or the Master of Trinity as
your inferiors.
But what teachers do you give your girls, and what
reverence do you show to the teachers you have
chosen? Is a girl likely to think her own conduct, or
her own intellect, of much importance, when you
trust the entire formation of her character, moral and
intellectual, to a person whom you let your servants
treat with less respect than they do your housekeeper
(as if the soul of your child were a less charge than
jams and groceries), and whom you yourself think you
confer an honor upon by letting her sometimes sit in
the drawing-room in the evening?
Thus, then, of literature as her help, and thus of art.
There is one more help which she cannot do withoutone which, alone, has sometimes done more than all




73


SESAM~E AND LILIES.


other influences besides,-the help of wild and fair
nature. Hear this of the education of Joan of Arc:
The education of this poor girl was mean according to the present standard; was ineffably grand, according to a purer philosophic standard; and only not good for our age, because for us it
would be unattainable. * * *
Next after her spiritual advantages, she owed most to the advantages of her situation. The fountain of Domremy was on the
brink of a boundless forest; and it was haunted to that degree by
fairies, that the parish priest (curd) was obliged to read mass there
once a year, in order to keep them in any decent bounds..* * *
But the forests of Domremy-those were the glories of the
land; for in them abode mysterious powers and ancient secrets
that towered into tragic strength. " Abbes there were, and abbey
windows,"-" like Moorish temples of the Hindoos," that exercised
even princely power both in Touraine and in the German Diets,
These had their sweet bells that pierced the forests for many a
league at matins or vespers, and each its own dreamy legend.
Few enough, and scattered enough, were these abbeys, so as in no
degree to disturb the deep solitude of the region; yet many
enough to spread a network or awning of Christian sanctity over
what else might have seemed a heathen wilderness.*
Now, you cannot, indeed, have here in England,
woods eighteen miles deep to the centre; but you can,
perhaps, keep a fairy or two for your children yet, if
you wish to keep them. But do you wish it? Suppose you had each, at the back of your houses, a garden, large enough for your children to play in, with
just as much lawn as would give them room to run,
-no more-and that you could not change your
abode; but that, if you choose, you could double
your income, or quadruple it, by digging a coal shaft
in the middle of the lawn, and turning the flower-beds
into heaps of coke. Would you do it? I think not.
I can tell you, you would be wrong if you did, though
it gave you income sixty-fold instead of four-fold.
Yet this is what you are doing with all England.
The whole country is but a little garden, not more than
enough for your children to run on the lawns of, if you
would let them all run there. And this little garden
you will turn into furnace-ground, and fill with heaps
of cinders, if you can; and those children of yours,
* "joan of Arc: in reference to M. Michelet's History of
France." De Quincey's Works. Vol. lli. p. 2I7.




OF QGUEES' G.4A'DEATS.       79


79


not you, will suffer for it. For the fairies wvili not be
all banished; there are fairies of the furnace as of the
wood, and their first gifts seem to be " sharp arrows of
the mighty; " but their last gifts are " coals of juniper."
And yet I cannot-though there is no part of my
subject that I feel more-press this upon you; for we
made so little use of the power of nature while we had
it that we shall hardly feel what we have lost. Just on
the other side of the Mersey you have your Snowdon,
and your Menai Straits, and that mighty granite rock
beyond the moors of Anglesea, splendid in its heathery
crest, and foot planted in the deep sea, once thought
of as sacred-a divine promontory, looking westward;
the Holy Head or Headland, still not without awe
when its red light glares first through storm. These
are the hills, and these the bays and blue inlets, which,
among the Greeks, would have been always loved,
always fateful in influence on the national mind. That
Snowdon is vour Parnassus; but where are its Muses.?
That Holyhead mountain is your Island of iEgina,
but where is its temple to Minerva?
Shall I read you what the Christian Minerva had
achieved under the shadow of- our Parnassus, up to
the year I848?-Here is a little account of a Welsh
school, from page 26i of the Report on Wales, published by the Committee of Council on Education.
This is a school close to a town containing 5ooo persons:
1 then called up a larger class, most of whom had recently
come to the school. Three girls repeatedly declared they had
never heard of Christ, and two that they had never heard of God.
Two out of six thought Christ was on earth now (" they might have
had a worse thought, perhaps"), three knew nothing about the crucifixion. Four out of seven did not know the names of the months,
nor the number of days in a year. They had no notion of addition
beyond two and two, or three and three ' their minds were perfect
blanks.                                   e
o ye women of England! from the Princess of that
Wales to the simplest of you, do not think your own
children can be brought into their true fofd of rest
while these are scattered on the hills, as sheep having




SESAMlE AND LILIES.


no shepherd. And do not think your daughters can
be trained to the truth of their own human beauty,
while the pleasant places, which God made at once
for their school-room and their play-ground, lie desplate and defiled. You cannot baptize them rightly
in those inch-deep fonts of yours, unless you baptize
them also in the sweet waters which the great Lawgiver strikes forth forever from the rocks of your native land-waters which a Pagan would have worshipped in their purity, and you only worship with pollution. You cannot lead your children faithfully to
those narrow axe-hewn church daltars of yours, while
the dark azure altars in heaven-the mountains that
sustain your island throne,-mountains on which a
Pagan would have seen the powers of heaven rest in
every, wreathed cloud-remain for you without inscription; altars built, not to, but by, an Unknown God.
III. Thus far, then, of the nature, thus far of the
teaching, of woman, and thus of her household office,
and queenliness. We come now to our last, our widest question,-What is her queenly office with respect
to the state?
Generally, we are under an impression that a man's
duties are public, and a woman's private. But this is
not altogether so. A man has a personal work or duty,
relating to his own home, and a public work or duty,
which is the expansion of the other, relating to the
state. So a woman has a personal work or duty,
relating to her own home, and a public work and duty,
which is also the expansion of that.
Now the man's work for his own home is, as has been
said, to secure its maintenance, progress, and defence;
the woman's to secure its order,, comfort, and loveli,
ness.
Expand both these functions. The man's duty as a
member of a commonwealth is to assist in the maintenance, in the advance, in the defence of the state.
The woman's duty, as a member of the commonwealth,
is to assist in the ordering, in the comforting, and in
the beautiful a-do-rnme-.t of the sta:te.




OF QUEENS' GARDENS.              8t
What the man is at his own gate, defending it, if need
be, against insult and spoil, that also, not.in a.less, but
in a more devoted measure, he is to be at, the gate of
his country, leaving his home, if neecd be, even to the
spoiler, to do his more incumbent work there.
And, in like manner, what the woman is to be within
her gates, as the centre of order, the balm of distress,
and the mirror of beauty; that she is also to be without her gates, where order is more difficult, distress
more imminent, loveliness more rare:
And as within the human heart there is always set
an instinct for all its real duties,-an instinct which you
cannot quench, but only warp and corrupt if you withdraw it from its true purpose;-as there is the intense
instinct of love; which, rightly disciplined, maintains
all the sanctities of life, and, misdirected, undermines
them; and must do either the pne or the other; so
there is inthe human heart an inextinguishable instinct,
the love, of power, which, rightly directed, maintains
all the majesty of law and life, and misdirected, wrecks
them.
Deep rooted in the innermost life of the heart of man,
and of the heart of woman, God set it there, and God
keeps it there. Vainly, as falsely, you blame or rebuke
the desire of power!-For Heaven's sake, and for
Man's sake, desire it all you can. But what power?
That is all the question. Power to destroy? the lion's
limb, and the dragon's breath? Not so. Power to
heal, to redeem, to guide and to guard. Power of the
sceptre and shield; the power of the royal hand that
heals in touching,-that binds the fiend and looses the
captive; the throne that is founded on the rock of Justice, and descended from only by steps of mercy. Will
you not covet such power as this, and seek such throne
as this, and be no more housewives, but queens?
It is now long since the women of England arrogated,
universally, a title which once belonged to nobility only;
and, having once been in the habit of accepting the
simple title of gentlewoman, as correspondent to that
of gentleman, insisted on the privilege of assuming the
6




82      SESAME AND LILIES.


title of "Lady,"* which properly corresponds only to
the title of " Lord."
I do not blame them for this; but only for their narrow motive in this. I would have them desire and
claim the title of Lady, provided they claim, not merely
the title, but the office and duty signified by it. Lady
means 1 bread-giver " or ( loaf-giver," and Lord means
"maintainer of laws," and both titles have reference,
not to the law which is maintained in the house, nor
to the bread which is given to the household; but to
law maintained for the multitude, and to bread broken
among the multitude.   So that a Lord has legal claim
only to his title in so far as he is the maintainer of the
justice of the Lord of Lords; and a Lady has legal
claim to her title, only so far as she communicates
that help to the poor representatives of her Master,
which women once, ministering to Him of their substance, were permitted to extend to that Master Himself; and when she is known, as He Himself once
was, in breaking of bread.
And this beneficent and legal dominion, this power
of the Dominus, or House Lord, and of the Domina,
or House-Lady, is great and venerable, not in the
number of those through whom it has lineally descended, but in the number of those whom it grasps within
its sway; it is always regarded with reverent worship
whereever its dynasty is founded on its duty, and its ambition co-relative with its beneficence. Your fancy is
pleased with the thought of being noble ladies, with a
train of vassals. Be it so; you cannot be too noble,
and your train cannot be too great; but see to it that
your train is of vassals whom you serve and feed, not
merely of slaves who serve and feed you; and that the
* I wish there were a true order of chivalry instituted for our English youth of certain ranks, in which both boy and girl should receive, at a given age, their knighthood and ladyhood by true title;
attainable only by certain probation and trial both of character and
accomplishment; and to be forfeited, on conviction, by their peers,
of any dishonorable act. Such an institution would be entirely,
and with all noble results, possible, in a nation which loved honor.
That it would not be possible among us, is not to the discredit of
the scheme.




OF QUEENS' GARDENS.


Om


multitude which obeys you is of those whom you have
comforted, not oppressed,-whom you have redeemed,
not led into captivity.
And this, which is true of the lower or household dominion, is equally true of the queenly dominion;-that
highest dignity is open to you, if you will also accept
that highest duty. Rex et Regina-Roi et Reine" Rzig/-doers;" they differ but from the Lady and
Lord, in that their power is supreme over the mind as
over the person-that they not only feed and clothe,
but direct and teach. And whether consciously or not,
you must be, in many a heart, enthroned: there is no
putting by that crown; queens you must always be;
queens to your lovers; queens to your husbands and
your sons; queens of higher mystery to the world beyond, which bows itself, and will forever bow, before
the myrtle crown, and the stainless sceptre, of womanhood. But, alas! you are too often idle and careless
queens, grasping at majesty in the least things, while
you abdicate it in the greatest; and leaving misrule
and violence to worktfieir will among men, in defiance
of the power, which, holding straight in gift from the
Prince of all Peace, tie wicked among you betray, and
the good forget.
" Prince of Peace." Note that name. When kings
rule in that name, and nobles, and the judges of the
earth, they also, in their narrow place, and mortal
measure, receive the power of it. There are.no other
rulers than they: other rule than theirs is but izsrule;
they who govern verily " Dei gratia " are all princes,
yes, or princesses, of peace. There is not a war in the
world, no, nor an injustice, but you women are answerable for it; not in that you have provoked, but in that you
have not hindered. Men, by their nature, are prone to
fight; they will fight for any cause, or for none. ' It is
for you to choose their cause for them, and to forbid
them when there is no cause. There is no suffering,
no injustice, no misery in the earth. but the guilt of it
lies lastly with you. Men can bear the sight of it, but
you should not be able to bear it. Men may tread it




84


SESAME AND LILIES.


down without sympathy in their own struggle; but
men are feeble in sympathy, and contracted in hope;
it is you only who can feel the depths of pain; and
conceive the way of its healing. Instead of trying to
do this, you turn away from it; you shut yourselves
within your park walls and garden gates; and you are
content to know that there is beyond them a whole
world in wilderness-a world of secrets which you
dare not penetrate; and of suffering which you dare
not conceive.
I tell you that this is to me quite the most amazing
among the phenomena of humanity. I am surprised
at no depths to which, when once warped from its honor,
that humanity can be degraded. I do not wonder at
the miser's death, with his hands, as they relax, dropping gold. I do not wonder at the sensualist's life, with
the shroud wrapped about his feet. I do not wonder
at the single-handed murder of a single victim, done
by the assassin in the darkness of the railway, or reedshadow of the marsh. I do not even wonder at the
myriad-handed murder of multitudes, done boastfully
in the daylight, by the frenzy of nations, and the immeasurable, unimaginable guilt, heaped up from hell to
heaven, of their priests, and kings. But this is wonderful to me-oh, how wonderful!-to see the tender
and delicate woman among you, with her child at her
breast, and a power, if she would wield it, over it, and
over its father, purer than the air of heaven, and stronger
than the seas of the earth-nay, a magnitude of blessing which her husband would not part with for all that
earth itself, though it were made of one entire and
perfect chrysolite:-to see her abdicate this majesty to
play at precedence with her next-door neighbor! This
is wonderful-oh, wonderful!-to see her, with every
innocent feeling fresh within her, go out in the morning into her garden to play with the fringes of its
guarded flowers, and lift their heads when they are
dropping, with her happy smile upon her face, and no
cloud upon her brow, because there is a little wall
around her place of peace: and yet she knows, in her




OF QUEENS' GARDENS.              8"
heart, if she would only look for its knowledge, that,
outside of that little rose-covered wall, the wild grass,
to the horizon, is torn up by the agony of men, and
beat level by the drift of their life-blood.
Have you ever considered what a deep under meaning there lies, or at least, may be read, if we choose,
in our custom of strewing flowers before those whom
we think most happy?  Do you suppose it is merely
to deceive them into the hope that happiness is always
to fall thus in showers at their feet?-that wherever
they pass they will tread on herbs of sweet scent, and
that the rough ground will be made smooth for them
by depth of roses.? So surely as they believe that. they
will have, instead, to walk on bitter herbs and thorns;
and the only softness to their feet will be of snow.
But it is not thus intended they should believe there is
a better meaning in that old custom. The path of a
good woman is indeed strewn with flowers; but they
rise behind her steps, not before them.  " Her feet
have touched the meadows, and left the daisies rosy."
You think that only a lover's fancy; -false and vain!
How if it could be true? You think this also, perhaps,
only a poet's fancyEven the light harebell raised its head
Elastic from her airy tread.
But it is little to say of a woman, that she only does
not destroy where she passes. She should revive; the
harebells should bloom, not stoop, as she passes. You
think I am going into wild hyperbole? Pardon me,
not a whit-I mean what I say in calm English, spoken
in resolute truth. You have heard it said-(and I believe there is more than fancy even in that saving, but
let it pass for a fanciful one)-that flowers only flourish rightly in the garden of some one who loves them.
I know you would like that to be true; you would
think it a pleasant magic if you could flush your flowers into brighter bloom by a kind look upon them:
nay, more, if your look had the power, not only to
cheer, but to guard them-if you could bid tIle black




86


SESAME AND LILIES.


blight turn-awav, and the knotted caterpillar spare-if
you could bid the dew fall upon them in the drought,
and say to the south wind, in frost —'Come, thou
south, and breathe upon my garden, that the spices of
it may flow out." This you would think a great thing?
And do you think it not a greater thing, that all this,
(and how much more than this!) you calt do, for fairer
flowers than these-flowers that could bless you for
having blessed them, and will love you for having
loved them;-flowers that have eyes like yours, and
thoughts like yours, and lives like yours; which, once
saved, you save forever? Is this only a little power?
Far among the moorlands and the rocks,-far in the
darkness of the terrible streets,-these feeble florets
are lying, with all their fresh leaves torn, and their
stems broken —will you never go down to them, nor
set them in order in their little fragrant beds, nor fence
them in their shuddering from the fierce wind? Shall
morning follow morning, for you, but not for them;
and the dawn rise to watch, far away, those frantic
Dances of Death; * but no dawn rise to breathe upon
these living banks of wild violet, and woodbine, and
rose; nor call to you, through your casement,-call,
(not giving you the name of the English poet's lady,
but the name of Dante's great Matilda, who, on the
edge of happy Lethe, stood, wreathing flowers with
flowers,) saying:Come into the garden, Maud,
For the black bat, night, has flown,
And the woodbine spices are wafted abroad
And the musk of the roses blown?
Will you not go down among them?-among those
sweet living things, whose new courage, sprung from
the earth with the deep color of heaven upon it, is
starting up in strength of goodly spire; and whose
purity, washed from the dust, is opening, bud by bud,
into the flower of promise;-and still they turn to you,
and for you, " The Larkspur listens-I hear, I hear!
And the Lily whispers-I wait."
* See note, p. 46.




OF QUEENS' GARDENhS.


87


Did you notice that I missed two lines when I read
you that first stanza; and think that I had forgotten
them? Hear them now: —
Come into the garden, Maud,
For the black bat, night, has flown;
Come into the garden, Maud,
I am here at the gate, alone.
Who is it, think you, who stands at the gate of this
sweeter garden, alone, waiting for you? Did you ever
hear, not of a Maude, but a Madeleine, who went down
to her garden in the dawn, and found One waiting at
the gate, whom she supposed to be the gardener?
Have you not sought Him often;-sought Him in vain,
all through the night;-sought Him in vain at the
gate of that old garden where the fiery sword is set?
He is never there; but at the gate of this garden He
is waiting always-waiting to take your hand-ready
to go down to see the fruits of the valley, to see
whether the vine has flourished, and the pomegranate
budded. There you shall see with Him the little tendrils of the vines that His hand is guiding-there you
shall see the pomegranate springing where His hand
cast the sanguine seed;-more: you shall see the
troops of the angel keepers that, with their wings,
wave away the hungry birds from the pathsides where
He has sown, and call to each other between the vineyard rows, " Take us the foxes, the little foxes, that
spoil the vines, for our vines have tender grapes."
Oh-you queens-you queens; among the hills and
happy greenwood of this land of yours, shall the foxes
have holes, and the birds of the air have nests; and,
in your cities, shall the stones cry out against you, that
they are the only pillows where the Son of Man can
lay His head?








LECTURE III.
THE MYSTERY OF LIFE AND ITS ARTS.
Lecture delivered in the theatre of the Royal College of Science,
Dublin, i868.
WHEN I accepted the privilege of addressing you
to-day, I was not aware of a restriction with respect
to the topics of discussion which may be brought before this society *-a restriction which, though entirely
wise and right under the circumstances contemplated
in its introduction, would necessarily have disabled
me, thinking as I think, from preparing any lecture
for you on the subject of art in a form which might
be permanently useful. Pardoh me, therefore, in so
far as I must transgress such limitation; for indeed
my infringement will be of the letter-not of the spirit
-of your commands. In whatever I may say touching the religion which has been the foundation
of art, or the policy which has contributed to its
power, if I offend one, I shall offend all; for I shall
take no note of any separations in creeds, or antagonisms in parties: neither do I fear that ultimately I
shall offend any, by proving-or at least stating as capable of positive proof-the connection of all that is
best in the crafts and arts of man, with the simplicity
of his faith, and the sincerity of his patriotism.
But I speak to you under another disadvantage, by
which I am checked in frankness of utterance, not
here only, but everywhere; namely, that I am never
fully aware how far my audiences are disposed to
give me credit for real knowledge of my subject, or
* That no reference should be made to religious questions.




90


SESAME AND LILIES.


how far they grant me attention only because I have
been sometimes thought an ingenious or pleasant essayist upon it. For I have had what, in many respects, I boldly call the misfortune, to set my words
sometimes prettily together; not without a foolish
vanity in the poor-knack that I had of doing so; until
I was heavily punished for this pride, by finding that
many people thought of the words only, and cared
nothing for their meaning.  Happily, therefore, the
power of using such pleasant language-if indeed it
ever were mine-is passing away from me; and whatever I am now able to say at all, I find myself forced
to say with great plainness. For my thoughts have
changed also, as my words have; and whereas in earlier life, what little influence I obtained was due perhaps chiefly to the -enthusiasm with which I was able
to dwell on the beauty of the physical clouds, and of
their colors in the sky; so all the influence I now desire to retain must be due to the earnestness with
which I am endeavoring to trace the form and beauty
of another kind of cloud than those; the bright cloud
of which it is written" What is your life? It is even as a vapor that appeareth for a little time, and then vanisheth away."
I suppose few people reach the middle or latter
period of their age, without having, at some moment
of change or disappointment, felt the truth of those
bitter words, and been startled by the fading of the
sunshine from the cloud of their life, into the sudden
agony of the knowledge that the fabric of it was as
fragile as a dream, and the endurance of it as transient as the dew. But it is not always that, even at
such times of melancholy surprise, we can enter into
any true perception that this human life shares, in the
nature of it, not only the evanescence, but the mystery
of the cloud; that its avenues are wreathed in darkness, and its forms and courses no less fantastic, than
spectral and obscure; so that not only in the vanity
which we cannot grasp, but in the shadow which we
cannot pierce, it is true of this cloudy life of ours, that




2 YE M YSTER Y OF LIFE.


91


" man walketh in a vain shadow, and disquieteth himself in vain."
And least of all, whatever may have been the eagerness of our passions, or the height of our pride, are
we able to understand in its depth the third and most
solemn character in which our life is like those clouds
of heaven; that to it belongs not only their transience, not only their mystery, but also their power;
that in the cloud of the human soul there is a fire
stronger than the lightning, and a grace more precious than the rain; and that though of the good and
evil it shall one day be said alike, that the place that
knew them knows them no more, there is an infinite
separation between those whose brief presence had
there been a blessing, like the mist of Eden that went
up from the earth to water the garden, and those
whose place knew them only as a drifting and changeful shade, of whom the heavenly sentence is, that they
are '" wells without water; clouds that are carried with
a tempest, to whom the mist of darkness is reserved
forever? "
To those among us, however, who have lived long
enough to form some just estimate of the rate of the
changes which are, hour by hour in accelerating catastrophe, manifesting themselves in the laws, the arts,
and the creeds of men, it seems to me, that now at
least, if never at any former time, the thoughts of the
true nature of our life, and of its powers and responsibilities, should present themselves with absolute sadness and sternness.
And although I know that this feeling is much
deepened in my own mind by disappointment, which,
by chance, has attended the greater number of my
cherished purposes, I do not for that reason distrust
the feeling itself, though I am on my guard against
an exaggerated degree of it: nay, I rather believe that
in periods of new effort and violent change, disappointment is a wholesome medicine; and that in the
secret of it, as in the twilight so beloved by Titian, we
may see the colors of things with deeper truth than in




92


SESAME AND LILIES.


the most dazzling sunshine.  And because these
truths about the works of men, which I want to bring
to-day before you, are most of them sad ones, though
at the same time helpful; and because also I. believe
that your kind Irish hearts will answer more gladly to
the truthful expression of a personal feeling, than to
the exposition of an abstract principle, I will permit
myself so much unreserved speaking of my own
causes of regret, as may enable you to make just allowance for what, according to your sympathies, you
will call either the bitterness, or the insight, of a mind
which has surrendered its best hopes, and been foiled
in its favorite aims.
I spent the ten strongest years of. my life, (from
twenty to thirty,) in endeavoring to show the excellence of the work of the man whom I believed, and
rightly believed, to be the greatest painter of the
schools of England since Reynolds. I had then perfect faith in the power of every great truth or beauty
to prevail ultimately, and take its right place in usefulness and honor; and I strove to bring the painter's
work into this due place, while the painter was yet
alive. But he knew, better than 1, the uselessness of
talking about what people could not see for themselves. He always discouraged me scornfully, even
when he thanked me-and he died before even the
superficial effect of my work was visible. I went on,
however, thinking I could at least be of use to the
public, if not to him, in proving his power. My books
got talked about a little. The prices of modern pictures, generally, rose, and I was beginning to take
some pleasure in a sense of gradual victory, when,
fortunately or unfortunately, an opportunity of perfect
trial undeceived me at once, and forever. The trustees of the National Gallery commissioned me to arrange the Turner drawings there, and permitted me
to prepare three hundred examples of his studies from
nature, for exhibition at Kensington. At Kensington
they were and are, placed for exhibition; but they are




THE MYS TER Y OF LIFE.


93


not exhibited, for the room in which they hang is always empty.
Well-this showed me at once, that those ten years
of my life had been, in their chief purpose, lost. For
that, I did not so much care; I had, at least, learned
my own business thoroughly, and should be able, as I
fondly supposed, after such a lesson, now to use my
knowledge with better effect. But what I did care
for, was the-to me frightful-discovery, that the most
splendid genius in the arts might be permitted by
Providence to labor and perish uselessly; that in the
very fineness of it there might be something rendering
it invisible to ordinary eyes, but, that with this strange
excellence, faults might be mingled which would be as
deadly as its virtues were vain; that the glory of it
was perishable, as well as invisible, and the gift and
grace of it might be to us, as snow in summer, and as
rain in harvest.
That was the first mystery of life to me. But, while
my best energy was given to the study of painting, I had
put collateral effort, more prudent, if less enthusiastic,
into that of architecture; and in this I could not complain of meeting with no sympathy. Among several
personal reasons which caused me to desire that I
might give this, my closing lecture on the subject of art
here, in Ireland, one of the chief was, that in reading it
I should stand near the beautiful building, -the engineers' school of your college,-which was the first realization I had the joy to see, of the principles I had,
until then, been endeavoring to teach; but which alas,
is now, to me, no more than the richly canopied monument of one of the most earnest souls that ever gave
itself to the arts, and one of my truest and most loving
friends, Benjamin Woodward. Nor was it here in
Ireland only that I received the help of Irish sympa-.
thy and genius. When, to another friend, Sir Thomas
Deane, with Mr. Woodward, was entrusted the building of the museum at Oxford, the best details of the
work were executed by sculptors who had been born
and trained here, and the first window of the fagade




94


SESAME AND LILIES.


of the building, in which was inaugurated the study
of natural science in England, in true fellowship with
literature, was carved from my design by an Irish
sculptor.
You may perhaps think that no man ought to speak
of disappointment, to whom, even in one branch of
labor, so much success was granted. Had Mr. Woodward now been beside me, I had not so spoken; but
his gentle and passionate spirit was cut off from the
fulfilment of its purposes, and the work we did together is now become vain. It may not be so in future; but the architecture we endeavored to introduce
is inconsistent alike with the reckless luxury, the deforming mechanism, and the squalid misery of modern
cities; among the formative fashions of the day, aided,
especially in England, by ecclesiastical sentiment, it
indeed obtained notoriety; and sometimes behind an
engine furnace, or a railroad bank, you may detect
the pathetic discord of its momentary grace, and, with
toil, decipher its floral carvings choked with soot. I
felt answerable to the schools I loved, only for their
injury. I perceived that this new portion of my
strength had also been spent in vain; and from amidst
streets of iron, and palaces of crystal, shrank back
at last to the carving of the mountain and color of
the flower.
And still I could tell of failure, and failure repeated
as years went on; but I have trespassed enough on
your patience to show you, in part, the causes of my
discouragement. Now let me more deliberately tell
you its results. You know there is a tendency in the
minds of many men, when they are heavily disappointed in the main purposes of their life, to feel, and
perhaps in warning, perhaps in mockery, to declare,
that life itself is a vanity. Because it has disappointed
them, they think its nature is of disappointment always, or at best, of pleasure that can be grasped by
imagination only; that the cloud of it has no strength
nor fire within; but is a painted cloud only, to be delighted in, yet despised. You know how beautifully




THE MYSTERY OF LIFE.


95


Pope has expressed this particular phase of thought;
"Meanwhile opinion gilds, with varying rays,
These painted clouds that beautify our days;
Each want of happiness by hope supplied,
And each vacuity of sense, by pride.
Hope builds as fast as Knowledge can destroy;
In Folly's cutp, still laughs the bubble joy.
One pleasure past, another still we gain,
And not a vanity is given in vain."
But the effect of failure upon my own mind has been
just the reverse of this. The more that my life disappointed me, the more solemn and wonderful it became to me. It seemed, contrarily to Pope's saying,
that the vanity of it was indeed given in vain; but
that there was something behind the veil of it, which
was not vanity. It became to me not a painted cloud,
but a terrible and impenetrable one: not a mirage,
which vanished as I drew near, but a pillar of darkness, to which I was forbidden to draw near. For I
saw that both my own failure, and such success in
petty things as in its poor triumph seemed to me
worse than failure, came from the want of sufficiently
earnest effort to understand the whole law and meaning of existence, and to bring it to noble and due end;
as, on the other hand, I saw more and more clearly
that all enduring success in the arts, or in any other
occupation, had come from the ruling of lower purposes, not by a conviction of their nothingness, but
by a solemn faith in the advancing power of human
nature, or in the promise, however dimly apprehended,
that the mortal part of it would one day be swallowed
up in immortality; and that, indeed, the arts themselves never had reached any vital strength or honor
but in the effort to proclaim this immortality, and in
the service either of great and just religion, or of
some unselfish patriotism, and law of such national
life as must be the foundation of religion.
Nothing that I have ever said is more true or necessary-nothing has been more misunderstood or misapplied-than my strong assertion, that the arts can




96


SESAME AND LILIES.


never be right themselves, unless their motive is right.
It is misunderstood this way: weak painters, who
have never learned their business, and cannot lay a
true line, continually come to me, crying out-", Look
at this picture of mine: it must be good, I had such a
lovely motive. I have put my whole heart into it, and
taken years to think over its treatment." Well, the
only answer for these people is-if one had the cruelty
to make it-" Sir, you cannot think over anything in
any number of years,-you haven't the head to do it;
and though you had fine motives, strong enough to
make you burn yourself in a slow fire, if only first you
could paint a picture, you can't paint one, nor half an
inch of one; you haven't the hand to do it."
But, far more decisively we have to say to the men
who do know their business, or may know it if they
choose-" Sir, you have this gift and a mighty one;
see that you serve your nation faithfully with it. It is
a greater trust than ships and armies; you might cast
them away, if you were their captain, with less treason
to your people than in casting your own glorious
power away, and serving the devil with it instead of
men. Ships and armies you may replace if they are
lost, but a great intellect, once abused, is a curse to
the earth forever."
* This, then,. meant by saying that the arts must
have noble motive. This also I said respecting them,
that they never had prospered, nor could prosper, but
when they had such true purpose, and were devoted
to the proclamation of divine truth or law. And yet
I saw also that they had always failed in this proclamation-that poetry, and sculpture, and painting,
though only great when they strove to teach us something about the gods, never had taught us anything
trustworthy about the gods, but had always betrayed
their trust in the crisis of it, and, with their powers at
the full reach, became ministers to pride and to lust.
And I felt also, with increasing amazement, the unconquerable apathy in ourselves the hearers, no less
than in these the teachers; and that, while the wis



THE MYSTERY OF LIFE.. 97


dom and rightness of every act and art of life could
only be consistent with a right understanding of the
ends of life, we were all plunged as in a languid
dream-our heart fat, and our eyes heavy, and our
ears closed, lest the inspiration of hand or voice should
reach us-lest we should see with our eyes, and understand with our hearts, and be healed.
This intense apathy in all of us is the first great
mystery of life; it stands in the way of every perception, every virtue. There is no making ourselves
feel enough astonishment at it. That the occupations
or pastimes of life should have no motive, is understandable; but-That life itself should have no motive-that we neither care to find out what it may
lead to, nor to guard against its being forever taken
away from us-here is a mystery indeed. For, just
suppose I were able to call at this moment to any one
in this audience by name, and to tell him positively
that I knew a large estate had been lately left to him
on some curious conditions; but that, though I knew
it was large, I did not know how large, nor even
where it was-whether in the East Indies or the
West, or in England, or at the Antipodes. I only
knew it was a vast estate, and that there was a chance
of his losing it altogether if he did not soon find out on
what terms it had been left to him. Suppose I were
able to say this positively to any single man in this
audience, and he knew that I did not speak without
warrant, do you think that he would rest content with
that vague knowledge, if it were anywise possible to
obtain more? Would he not give every energy to
find some trace of the facts, and never rest till he had
ascertained where this place was, and what it was
like? And suppose he were a young man, and all he
could discover by his best endeavor was, that the estate was never to be his at all, unless he persevered,
during certain years of probation, in an orderly and
industrious life; but that, according to the rightness of his conduct, the portion of the estate assigned
to him would be greater or less, so that it literally de7




SESAME AND ILIIES.


pended on his behavior from day to day whether he
got ten thousand a year or thirty thousand a year, or
nothing whatever-would you not think it strange if
the youth never troubled himself to satisfy the
conditions in any way, nor even to know what
was required of him, but lived exactly as he
chose, and never inquired whether his chances of
the estate were increasing or passing away? Well,
you know that this is actually and literally so with
the greater number of the educated persons now living in Christian countries. Nearly every man and
woman, in any company such as this, outwardly professes to believe-and a large number unquestionably
think they believe-much more than this; not only
that a quite unlimited estate is in prospect for them if
they please the Holder of it, but that the infinite contrary of such a possession-an estate of perpetual
misery, is in store for them if they displease this great
Land-Holder, this great Heaven-Holder. And yet
there is not one in a thousand of these human souls
that cares to think, for ten minutes of the day, where
this estate is, or how beautiful it is, or what kind of
life they are to lead in it, or what kind of life they
must lead to obtain it.
You fancy that you care to know this: so little do
you care that, probably, at this moment many of you
are displeased with me for talking of the matter!
You came to hear about the Art of this world, not
about the Life of the next, and you are provoked with
me for talking of what you can hear any Sunday in
church. But do not be afraid. I will tell you something before you go about pictures, and carvings, and
pottery, and what else you would like better to hear
of than the other world. Nay, perhaps you say, " We
want you to talk of pictures and pottery, because we
are sure that you know something of them, and you
know nothing of the other world." Well-I don't.
That is quite true. But the very strangeness and
mystery of which I urge you to take notice is in thisthat I do not;-nor you either. Can you answer a




THE MYSTERY OF LIFE.


99


single bold question unflinchingly about that other
world-Are you sure there is a heaven? Sure there
is a hell? Sure that men are dropping before your
faces through the pavements of these streets into
eternal fire, or sure that they are not? Sure that at
your own death you are going to be delivered from all
sorrow, to be endowed with all virtue, to be gifted
with all felicity, and raised into perpetual companionship with a King, compared to whom the kings of the
earth are as grasshoppers, and the nations as the dust
of His feet? Are you sure of this?. or, if not sure, do
any of us so much as care to make it sure? and, if
not, how can anything that we do be right-how can
anything we think be wise; what honor can there be
in the arts that amuse us, or what profit in the possessions that please?
Is not this a mystery of life?
But farther, you may, perhaps, think it a beneficent
ordinance for the generality of men that they do not,
with earnestness or anxiety, dwell on such questions
of the future; because the business of the day could
not be done if this kind of thought were taken by all
of us for the morrow. Be it so: but at least we
might anticipate that the greatest and wisest of us,
who were evidently the appointed teachers of the rest,
would set themselves apart to seek out whatever could
be surely known of the future destinies of their race;
and to teach this in no rhetorical or ambiguous manner, but in the plainest and most severely earnest
words.
Now, the highest representatives of men who have
thus endeavored, during the Christian era, to search out
these deep things, and relate them, are Dante and
Milton. There are none who for earnestness of
thought, for mastery of word, can be classed with
these. I am not at present, mind you, speaking of
persons set apart in any priestly or pastoral office, to
deliver creeds to us, or doctrines; but of men w ho try
to discover and set forth, as far as by human intellect
is possible, the facts of the other world. Divines may




100


SESAME AND LILIES.


perhaps teach us how to arrive there, but only these
two poets have in any powerful manner striven to discover, or in any definite words professed to tell, what
we shall see and become there: or how those upper
and nether worlds are, and have been, inhabited.
And what have they told us? Milton's account of
the most important event in his whole system of the
universe, the fall of the angels, is evidently unbelievable to himself; and the more so, that it is wholly
founded on, and in a great part spoiled and degraded
from, Hesiod's account of the decisive war of the
younger gods with the Titans. The rest of his poem
is a picturesque drama, in which every artifice of invention is visibly and consciously employed, not a
single fact being, for an instant conceived as tenable
by any living faith. Dante's conception is far more intense, and, by himself, for the time, not to be escaped
from; it is indeed a vision but a vision only, and that
one of the wildest that ever entranced a soul-a
dream in which every grotesque type or phantasy of
heathen tradition is renewed, and adorned; and the
destinies of the Christian Church, under their most
sacred symbols, become literally subordinate to the
praise, and are only to be understood by the aid of
one dear Florentine maiden.
I tell you truly that, as I strive more with this
strange lethargy and trance in myself, and awake to
the meaning and power of life, it seems daily more
amazing to me that men such as these should dare to
play with the most precious truths (or the most deadly
untruths), by which the whole human race listening
to them could be informed, or deceived;-all the
World their audiences forever, with pleased ear, and
passionate heart;-and yet, to this submissive infinitude
of souls, and evermore succeeding and succeeding
multitude, hungry for bread of life, they do but play
upon sweetly modulated pipes; with pompous nomenclature adorn the councils of hell; touch a troubadour's
guitar to the courses of the suns; and fill the openings
of eternity, before which prophets have veiled their




THE MYSTERY OF LIFE.


101


faces and which angels desire to look into, with idle
puppets of their scholastic imagination, and melancholy lights of frantic faith in their lost mortal love.
Is not this a mystery of life?
But more. We have to remember that these two
great teachers were both of them warped in their
temper, and thwarted in their search for truth. They
were men of intellectual war, unable, through darkness of controversy, or stress of personal grief, to
discern where their own ambition modified their
utterances of the moral law; or their own agony
mingled with their anger at its violation. But greater
men than these have been-innocent-hearted-too
great for contest. Men, like Homer and Shakespeare,
of so unrecognized personality, that it disappears in
future ages, and becomes ghostly, like the tradition of
a lost heathen god. Men, therefore, to whose unoffended, uncondemning sight, the whole of human
nature reveals itself in a pathetic weakness, with
which they will not strive; or in mournful and transitory strength, which they dare not praise. And all
Pagan and Christian civilization thus becomes subject
to them. It does not matter how little, or how much,
any of us have read, either of Homer or Shakespeare;
everything round us, in substance, or in thought, has
been moulded by them. All Greek gentlemen were
educated under Homer. All Roman gentlemen, by
Greek literature. All Italian and French, and English gentlemen, by Roman literature, and by its principles. Of the scope of Shakespeare, I will say only,
that the intellectual measure of every man since born,
in the domains of creative thought, may be assigned
to him, according to the degree in which he has been
taught by Shakespeare. Well, what do these two
men, centres of moral intelligence, deliver to us of
conviction respecting what it most behoves that intelligence to grasp? What is their hope; their crown of
rejoicing? what manner of exhortation have they for
us, or of rebuke? what lies next their own hearts,
and dictates their undying words? Have they any




I02


SESAME AND LLILES.


peace to promise to our unrest-any redemption to
our misery?
Take Homer first, and think if there is any sadder
image of human fate than the great Homeric story.
The main features in the character of Achilles are its
intense desire of justice, and its tenderness of affection. And in that bitter song of the Iliad, this man,
though aided continually by the wisest of the gods,
and burning with the desire of justice in his heart, becomes yet, through ill-governed passion, the most unjust of men: and, full of the deepest tenderness in
his heart, becomes yet, through ill-governed passion,
the most cruel of men. Intense alike in love and in
friendship, he loses, first his mistress, and then his
friend; for the-sake of the one, he surrenders to
death the armies of his own land; for the sake of the
other, he surrenders all. Will a man lay down his
life for his friend? Yea-even for his dead friend,
this Achilles, though goddess-born, and goddesstaught, gives up his kingdom, his country, and his
life-casts alike the innocent and guilty, with himself,
into one gulf of slaughter, and dies at last by the
hand of the basest of his adversaries. Is not this a
mystery of life?
But what, then, is the message to us of our own
poet, and searcher of hearts, after fifteen hundred
years of Christian faith have been numbered over the
graves of men? Are his words more cheerful than
the heathen's-is his hope more near-his trust more
sure-his reading of fate more happy?    Ah, no!
He differs from the Heathen poet chiefly in this-that
he recognizes, for deliverance, no gods nigh at hand;
and that, by petty chance-by momentary folly-by
broken message-by fool's tyranny-or traitor's snare,
the strongest and most righteous are brought to their
ruin, and perish without word of hope. He indeed; as
part of his rendering of character, ascribes the power
and modesty of habitual devotion, to the gentle and
the just. The death-bed of Katharine is bright with a
vision of angels, and the great soldier-king, standing




THE MYSTERY OF LIFE.


r03


by his few dead, acknowledges the presence of the
hand that can save alike by many or by few. But
observe that from those who with deepest spirit, meditate, and with deepest passion, mourn, there are no
such words as these; nor in their hearts are any such.consolations. Instead of the perpetual sense of the
helpful presence of the Deity, which, through all
heathen tradition, is the source of heroic strength, in
battle, in exile, and in the valley of the shadow of
death, we find only in the great Christian poet, the
consciousness of a moral law, through which "Lthe
gods are just, and of our pleasant vices make instruments to scourge us;" and of the resolved arbitration of the destinies, that conclude into precision of
doom what we feebly and blindly began; and force
us, when our indiscretion serves us, and our deepest
plots do pall, to the confession that " there's a divinity
that shapes our ends, rough hew them how we will."
Is not this a mystery of life?
Be it so then. About this human life that is to be,
or that is, the wise religious men tell us nothing that
we can trust; and the wise contemplative men, nothing that can give us peace. But there is yet a third class,
to whom we may turn-the wise practical men. We
have sat at the feet of the poets who sang of heaven,
and thev have told us their dreams. We have listened to the poets who sang of earth, and they have
chanted to us dirges, and words of despair. But
there is one class of men more:-men, not capable of
vision, nor sensitive to sorrow, but firm of purposepractised in business: learned in all that can be, (by
handling,-) known. Men whose hearts and hopes
are wholly in this present world, from whom, therefore, we may surely learn, at least, how, at present,
conveniently to live in it. What will they say to us,
or show us by example? These kings-these councillors-these statesmen and builders of kingdomsthese capitalists and men of business, who weigh the
earth, and the dust of it, in a balance. They know
the whorld, surely; and what is the mystery of life to




1o4


SESAME AND LILIES.


us, is none to them. They can surely show us how to
live, while we live, and to gather out of the present
world what is best.
I think I can best tell you their answer, by telling
you a dream I had once. For though I am no poet, I
have dreams sometimes: I dreamed I was at a
child's May-day party, in which every means of entertainment had been provided for them, by a wise and
kind host. It was in a stately house, with beautiful
gardens attached to it; and the children had been set
free in the-rooms and gardens, with no care whatever
but how to pass their afternoon rejoicingly. They did
not, indeed, know much about what was to happen
next day; and some of them, I thought, were a little
frightened, because there was a chance of their being
sent to a new school where there were examinations;
but they kept the thoughts of that out of their heads
as well as they could, and resolved to enjoy themselves. The house, I said, was in a beautiful garden,
and in the garden were all kinds of flowers; sweet
grassy banks for rest; and smooth lawns for play;
and pleasant streams and woods; and rocky places
for climbing. And the children were happy for a little while, but presently they separated themselves into
parties; and then each party declared, it would have
a piece of the garden for its own, and that none of
the others should have anything to do with that piece.
Next, they quarrelled violently which pieces they
would have; and at last the boys took up the thing, as
boys should do, "practically," and fought in the
flower-beds till there was hardly a flower left standing;
then they trampled down each other's bits of the garden out of spite; and the girls cried till they could cry
no more; and so they all lay down at last breathless
in the ruin, and waited for the time when they were to
be taken home in the evening.*
* I have sometimes been asked what this means. I intended it
to set forth the wisdom of men in war contending for kingdoms,
and what follows to set forth their wisdom in peace, contending
for wealth.




THE MYSTERY OF LIFE.


105


Meanwhile, the children in the house had been making themselves happy also in their manner.  For
them, there had been provided every kind of in-doors
pleasure: there was music for them to dance to; and
the library was open, with all manner of amusing
books; and there was a museum, full of the most curious
shells, and animals, and birds; and there was a workshop, with laths and carpenter's tools, for the ingenious boys; and there were pretty fantastic dresses,
for the girls to dress in; and there were microscopes,
and kaleidoscopes; and whatever toys a child could
fancy; and a table, in the dining-room, loaded with
everything nice to eat.
But, in the midst of all this, it struck two or three
of the more " practical " children, that they would like
some of the brass-headed nails that studded the
chairs; and so they set to work to pull them out.
Presently, the others, who were reading, or looking at
shells, took a fancy to do the like; and, in a little
while, all the children, nearly, were spraining their
fingers, in pulling out brass-headed nails.  With
all that they could pull out, they were not satisfied;
and then, everybody wanted some of somebody else's.
And at last the really practical and sensible ones declared, that nothing was of any real consequence, that
afternoon, except to get plenty of brass-headed nails;
and that the books, and the cakes, and the microscopes were of no use at all in themselves, but only, if
they could be exchanged for nail-heads.  And, at
last, they began to fight for nail-heads, as the others
fought for the bits of garden. Only here and there a
despised one shrank away into a corner, and tried to
get a little quiet with a book, in the midst of the
noise; but all the practical ones thought of nothing
else but counting nail-heads all the afternoon-even
though they knew they would not be allowed to carry
so much as one brass knob away with them. But no
-it was-" who has most nails? I have a hundred,
and you have fifty; or, I have a thousand and you
have two. I must have as many as you before I leave




Io6


SESAME AND LILIES.


the house, or I cannot possibly go home in peace."
At last, they made so much noise that I awoke, and
thought to myself, "What a false dream that is, of
c/z'idren." The child is the father of the man; and
wiser. Children never do such foolish things. Only
men do.
But there is yet one last class of persons to be interrogated. The wise religious men we have asked
in vain; the wise contemplative men, in vain; the
wise worldly men, in vain. But there is another
group yet. In the midst of this vanity of empty religion -of tragic contemplation - of wrathful and
wretched ambition, and dispute for dust, there is yet
one great group of persons, by whom all these disputers live-the persons who have determined, or have
had it by a beneficent Providence determined for them,
that they will do something useful; that whatever
may be prepared for them hereafter, or happen to
them here, they will, at least, deserve the food that
God gives them by winning it honorably; and that,
however fallen from the purity, or far from the peace,
of Eden, they will carry out the duty of human dominion, though they have lost its felicity; and dress
and keep the wilderness, though they no more can
dress or keep the garden.
These,-hewers of wood, and drawers of waterthese bent under burdens, or torn of scourges-these,
that dig and weave-that plant and build; workers in
wood, and in marble, and in iron-by whom all food,
clothing, habitation, furniture, and means of delight
are produced, for themselves, and for all men beside;
men, whose deeds are good, though their words may
be few; men, whose lives are serviceable, be they
never so short, and worthy of honor, be they never so
humble;-from these, surely at least, we may receive
some clear message of teaching: and pierce, for an
instant, into the mystery of life, and of its arts.
Yes; from these, at last, we do receive a lesson.
But I grieve to say, or rather-for that is the deeper
truth of the matter-I rejoice to say-this message of




THE MYSTERY OF LIFE.    1


107


theirs can only be received by joining them-not by
thinking about them.
You sent for me to talk to you of art; and I have
obeyed you in coming. But the main thing I have to
tell you is,-that art must not be talked about. The
fact that there is talk about it at all, signifies that it is ill
done, or cannot be done. No true painter ever speaks,
or ever has spoken, much of his art. The greatest
speak nothing. Even Reynolds is no exception, for
he wrote of all that he could not himself do, and was
utterly silent respecting all that he himself did.
The moment a man can really do his work, he becomes speechless about it. All words become- idle to
him-all theories.
Does a bird need to theorize about building its
nest, or boast of it when built? All good work is essentially done that way-without hesitation, without
difficulty, without boasting; and in the doors of the
best, there is an inner and involuntary power which
approximates literally to the instinct of an animalnay, I am certain that in the most perfect human artists, reason does not supersede instinct, but is added
to an instinct as much more divine than that of the
lower animals as the human body is more beautiful
than theirs; that a great singer sings not with less
instinct than the nightingale, but with more-only
more various, applicable, and governable; that a great
architect does not build with less instinct than the
beaver or the bee, but with more-with an innate cunning of proportion that embraces all beauty, and a
divine ingenuity of skill that improvises all construction. But be that as it may-be the instinct less or
more than that of inferior animals-like or unlike
theirs, still the human art is dependent on that first,
and then upon an amount of practice, of science,and of imagination disciplined by thought, which the
true possessor of it knows to be incommunicable, and
the true critic of it, inexplicable except through long
process of laborious years. That journey of life's
conquest, in which hills over hills, and Alps on Alps




to8


SESAME AND LILIES.


arose, and sank,-do you think you can make another
trace it painlessly, by talking? Why, you cannot
even carry us up an Alp, by talking. You can guide
us up it, step by step, no otherwise-even so, best silently. You girls, who have been among the hills,
know how the bad guide chatters and gesticulates,
and it is " put your foot here," and " mind how you
balance yourself there; " but the good guide walks on
quietly without a word, only with his eyes on you
when need is, and his arm like an iron bar, if need
be.
In that slow way, also, art can be taught-if you
have faith in your guide, and will let his arm be to
you as an iron bar when need is. But in what teacher
of art have you such faith? Certainly not in me; for,
as I told you at first, I know well enough it is only because you think I can talk, not because you think I
know my business, that you let me speak to you at all.
If I were to tell you anything that seemed to you
strange, you would not believe it, and yet it would
only be in telling you strange things that I could be
of use to you. I could be of great use to you-infinite use, with brief saying, if you would believe it; but
you would not, just because the thing that would be
of real use would displease you. You are all wild, for
instance, with admiration of Gustave Dore. Well,
suppose I were to tell you in the strongest terms I
could use, that Gustave Dore's art was bad-bad, not
in weakness, —not in failure,-but bad with dreadful
power-the power of the Furies and the Harpies mingled, enraging, and polluting; that so long as you
looked at it, no perception of pure or beautiful art was
possible for you. Suppose I were to tell you that!
What would be the use? Would you look at Gustave Dore less? Rather more I fancy. On the other
hand, I could soon put you into good humor with me,
if I chose. I know well enough what you like, and
how to praise it to your better liking. I could talk to
you about moonlight, and twilight, and spring flowers,
and autumn leaves, and the Madonnas of Raphael



THE NIYSTER Y OF LIFE.


log)


how motherly! and the Sibyls of Michael Angelo
how majestic! and the Saints of Angelico-how
pious! and the Cherubs of Correggio-how delicious!
Old as I am, I could play you a tune on.the harp yet,
that you would dance to. But neither you nor I
should be a bit the better or wiser; or, if we were,
our increased wisdom could be of no practical effect.
For, indeed, the arts, as regards teachableness, differ
from the sciences also in this, that their power is
founded not merely on facts which can be communicated, but on dispositions which require to be created.
Art is neither to be achieved by effort of thinking, nor
explained by accuracy of speaking. It is the instinctive and necessary result of powers which can only be
developed through the mind of successive generations,
and which finally burst into life under social conditions as slow of growth as the faculties they regulate.
Whole ~eras of mighty history are summed, and the
passions of dead myriads are concentrated, in the existence of a noble art; and if that noble art were
among us, we should feel it and rejoice; not caring
in the least to hear lectures on it; and since it is not
among us, be assured we have to go back to the root
of it, or, at least, to the place where the stock of it is
yet alive, and the branches began to die.
And now, may I have your pardon for pointing
out, partly with reference to matters which are at this
time of greater moment than the arts-that if we undertook such recession to the vital germ of national
arts that have decayed, we should find a more singular arrest of their power in Ireland than in any other
European country. For in the eighth century, Ireland possessed a school of art in her manuscripts and
sculpture, which, in many of its qualities-apparently
in all essential qualities of decorative invention-was
quite without rival; seeming as if it might have advanced to the highest triumphs in architecture and in
painting. But there was one fatal flaw in its nature,
by which it was stayed, and stayed with a conspicuousness of pause to which there is no parallel: so




IIO


SESAME AND LILIES.


that, long agk, in tracing the progress of European
schools from infancy to strength, I chose for the students of Kensington, in a lecture since published, two
characteristic examples of early art, of equal skill; but
in the one case, skill which was progressive-in the
other, skill which was at pause. In the one case, it
was work receptive of correction-hungry for correction-and in the other, work which inherently rejected correction. I chose for them a corrigible Eve,
and an incorrigible Angel, and I grieve to say that
the incorrigible Angel was also an Irish angel! *
And the fatal difference lay wholly in this. In both
pieces of art there was an equal falling short of the
needs of fact; but the Lombardic Eve knew she was
in the wrong, and the Irish Angel thought himself all
right. The eager Lombardic sculptor, though firmly
insisting on his childish idea, yet showed in the irregular
broken touches of the features, and the imperfect
struggle for softer lines in the form, a perception of
beauty and law that he could not render, there was the
strain of effort, under conscious imperfection, in every
line. But the Irish missal-painter had drawn his angel with no sense of failure, in happy complacency,
and put red dots into the palms of each hand, and
rounded the eyes into perfect circles, and, I regret to
say, left the mouth out altogether, with perfect satisfaction to himself.         *
May I without offence ask you to consider whether
this mode of arrest in ancient Irish art may not be indicative of points of character which even yet, in some
measure, arrest your national power? I have seen
much of Irish character, and have watched it closely,
for I have also much loved it. And I think the form
of failure to which it is most liable is this, that being
generous-hearted, and wholly intending always to do
right, it does not attend to the external laws of right,
but thinks it must necessarily do right because it
means to do so, and therefore does wrong without
* See " The Two Paths," p. 27.




THE MIYSTERY OF LIFE.


III


finding it out; and then when the consequences of
its wrong come upon it, or upon others connected
with it, it cannot conceive that the wrong is in anywise of its causing or of its doing, but flies into wrath,
and a strange agony of desire for justice, as feeling
itself wholly innocent, which leads it farther astray,
until there is nothing that it is not capable of doing
with a good conscience.
But mind, I do not mean to say that, in past or
present relations between Ireland and England, you
have been wrong, and we right. Far from that, I believe that in all great questions of principle, and in all
details of administration of law, you have been usually
right, and we wrong; sometimes in misunderstanding
you, sometimes in resolute iniquity to you. Nevertheless, in all disputes between states, though the strongest is nearly always mainly in the wrong, the weaker
is often so in a minor degree; and I think we sometimes admit the possibility of our being in error, and
you never do.
And now, returning to the broader question what
these arts and labors of life have to teach us of its
mystery, this is the first of their lessons-that the
more beautiful the art, the more it is essentially the
work of people who feel themselves wrong:-who are
striving for the fulfilment of a law, and the grasp of a
loveliness, which they have not yet attained, which
they feel even farther and farther from attaining, the
more they strive for it. And yet, in still deeper sense,
it is the work of people who know also that they are
right. The very sense of inevitable error from their
purpose marks the perfectness of that. purpose, and
the continued sense of failure arises from the continued opening of the eyes more clearly to all the
sacredest laws of truth.
This is one lesson. The second is a very plain, and
greatly precious one, namely:-that whenever the arts
and labors of life are fulfilled in this spirit of striving
against misrule, and doing whatever we have to do,
honorably and perfectly, they invariably bring happi



112


SESVAME AND LILIES.


ness, as much as seems possible to the nature of man.
In all other paths, by which that happiness is pursued,
there is disappointment, or destruction; for ambition
and for passion there is no rest-no fruition; the fairest pleasures of youth perish in a darkness greater
than their past light; and the loftiest and purest love
too often does but inflame the cloud of life with endless fire of pain. But, ascending from lowest to highest, through every scale of human industry, that industry worthily followed, gives peace. Ask the laborer in the field, at the forge, or in the mine; ask the
patient, delicate-fingered artisan, or the strong-armed,
fiery-hearted worker in bronze, and in marble, and
with the colors of light; and none of these, who are
true workmen, will ever tell you, that they have found
the law of heaven an unkind one that in the sweat
of their face they should eat bread, till they return to
the ground; nor that they ever found it an unrewarded
obedience, if, indeed, it was rendered faithfully to the
command-" Whatsoever thy hand findeth to do-do
it with thy might."
These are the two great and constant lessons which
our laborers teach us of the mystery of life. But
there is another, and a sadder one, which they cannot
teach us, which we must read on their tombstones.
"Do it with thy might." There have been myriads
upon myriads of human creatures who have obeyed
this law-who have put every breath and nerve of
their being into its toil-who have devoted every hour,
and exhausted every faculty-who have bequeathed
their unaccomplished thoughts at death-who being
dead, have yet spoken, by majesty of memory, and
strength of example. And, at last, what has all this
" Might" of humanity accomplished, in six thousand
years of labor and sorrow? What has it done?
Take the three chief occupations and arts of men, one
by one, and count their achievements. Begin with
the first-the lord of them all-agriculture. Six thousand years have passed since we were set to till the
ground, from which we were taken. How much of it




THE MYSTERY OF LIFE.


113


is tilled? How much of that which is, wisely or well?
In the very centre and chief garden of Europe-where
the two forms of parent Christianity have had their
fortresses-where the noble Catholics of the Forest
Cantons, and the noble Protestants of the Vaudois
valleys, have maintained, for dateless ages, their faiths
and liberties-there the unchecked Alpine rivers yet
run wild in devastation: and the marshes, which a
few hundred men could redeem with a year's labor,
still blast their helpless inhabitants into fevered idiotism. That is so, in the centre of Europe! While, on
the near coast of Africa, once the Garden of the Hesperides, an Arab woman, but a few sunsets since, ate
her child, for famine. And, with all the treasures of
the East at our feet, we, in our own dominion, could
not find a few grains of rice, for a people that asked
of us no more; but stood by, and saw five hundred
thousand of them perish of hunger.
Then, after agriculture, the art of kings, take the
next head of human arts-weaving; the art of queens,
honored of all noble women, in the person of their
virgin goddess-honored of all Hebrew women, by
the word of their wisest king-" She layeth her hands
to the spindle, and her hands hold the distaff; she
stretcheth out her hand to the poor. She is not afraid
of the snow for her household, for all her household
are clothed with scarlet. She maketh herself covering of tapestry, her clothing is silk and purple. She
maketh fine linen, and selleth it, and delivereth girdles
to the merchant." What have we done in all these
thousands of years with this bright art of Greek maid
and Christian matron? Six thousand years of weaving, and have we learned to weave? Might not every
naked wall have been purple with tapestry, and every
feeble breast fenced with sweet colors from the cold?
What have we done? Our fingers are too few, it
seems, to twist together some poor covering for our
bodies. We set our streams to work for us, and
choke the air with fire, to turn our spinning-wheelsand,-are weyet clothed? Are not the streets of the
8




l I4


SESAME AND LILIES.


capitals of Europe foul with the sale of cast clouts
and rotten rags? Is not the beauty of your sweet
children left in wretchedness of disgrace, while, with
better honor, nature clothes the brood of the bird in
its nest, and the suckling of the wolf in her den?
And does not every winter's snow robe what you
have not robed, and shroud what you have not
shrouded; and every winter's wind bear up to heaven
its wasted souls, to witness against you hereafter, by
the voice of their Christ,-" I was naked, and ye
clothed me not? "
Lastly-take the Art of Building-the strongestproudest-most orderly-most enduring of the arts. of
man, that, of which the produce is in the surest manner accumulative, and need not perish, or be replaced;
but if once well done, will stand more strongly than
the unbalanced rocks-more prevalently than the
crumbling hills. The art which is associated with all
civic pride and sacred principle; with which men record their power-satisfy their enthusiasm-make
sure their defence-define and make dear their habitation. And, in six thousand years of building, what
have we done? Of the greater part of all that skill
and strength, no vestige is left, but fallen stones, that
encumber the fields and impede the streams. But,
from this waste of disorder, and of time, and of rage,
what is left to us?  Constructive and progressive
creatures, that we are, with ruling brains, and forming hands, capable of fellowship, and thirsting for
fame, can we not contend, in comfort, with the insects of the forest, or, in achievement, with the worm
of the sea. The white surf rages in vain against the
ramparts built by poor atoms of scarcely nascent life;
but only ridges of formless ruin mark the places
where once dwelt our noblest multitudes. The ant
and the moth have cells for each of their young, but
our little ones lie in festering heaps, in homes that
consume them like graves; and night by night, from
the corners of our streets, rises up the cry of the
homeless-," I was a stranger, and ye took me not in."




THE MYSTERY OF LIFE.


TI5


Must it be always thus? Is our life forever to be
without profit-without possession? Shall the strength
of its generations be as barren as death; or cast away
their labor, as the wild figtree casts her untimely figs?
Is it all a dream then-the desire of the eyes and the
pride of life-or, if it be, might we not live in nobler
dream than this? The poets and prophets, the wise
men and the scribes, though they have told us nothing about a life to come, have told us much about the
life that is now. They have had-they also,-their
dreams, and we have laughed at them. They have
dreamed of mercy, and of justice; they have dreamed
of peace and good-will; they have dreamed of labor
undisappointed, and of rest undisturbed; they have
dreamed of fulness in harvest, and overflowing in
store; they have dreamed of wisdom in council, and
of providence in law; of gladness of parents, and
strength of children, and glory of gray hairs. And at
these visions of theirs we have mocked, and held them
for idle and vain, unreal and unaccomplishable.
What have we accomplished with our realities? Is
this what has come of our worldly wisdom, tried
against their folly? this our mightiest possible,
against their impotent ideal? or have we only wandered among the spectra of a baser felicity and
chased phantoms of the tombs, instead of visions of
the Almighty; and walked after the imaginations of
our evil hearts, instead of after the counsels of Eternity, until our lives-not in the likeness of the cloud
of heaven, but of the smoke of hell-have become " as
a vapor, that appeareth for a little time, and then vanisheth away? "
Does it vanish then? Are you sure of that?-sure,
that the nothingness of the grave will be a rest from
this troubled nothingness; and that the coiling
shadow, which disquiets itself in vain, cannot change
into the smoke of the torment that ascends forever?
Will any answer that they are sure of it, and that
there is no fear, nor hope, nor desire, nor labor,
whither they go? Be it so; will you not, then, make




ii6


SESAME AND LILIES.


as sure of the Life, that now is, as you are of the
Death that is to come? Your hearts are wholly in
this world-will you not give them to it wisely, as
well as perfectly? And see, first of all, that you Iave
hearts, and sound hearts, too, to give. Because you
have no heaven to look for, is that any reason that you
should remain ignorant of this wonderful and infinite
-earth, which is firmly and instantly given you in possession? Although your days are numbered, and the
following darkness sure, is it necessary that you should
share the degradation of the brute, because you are
condemned to its mortality; or live the life of the
moth, and of the worm, because you are to companion
them in the dust? Not so; we may have but a few
thousands of days to spend, perhaps hundreds onlyperhaps tens; nay, the longest of our time and best,
looked back on, will be but as a moment, as the twinkling of an eye; still, we are men, not insects; we are
living spirits, not passing clouds. " He maketh the
winds His messengers; the momentary fire, His minister;" and shall we do less than these 9 Let us do
the work of men while we bear the form of them;
and, as we snatch our narrow portion of time out of
Eternity, snatch also our narrow inheritance of passion out of Immortality-even though our lives be as a
vapor, that appeareth for a little timre, and then vanisheth away.
But there are some of you who believe not thiswho think this cloud of life has no such close-that it
is to float, revealed and illumined, upon the floor
of heaven, in the day when He cometh with clouds,
and every eye shall see Him. Some day, you believe, within these five, or ten, or twenty years, for
every one of us the judgment will be set, and the
books opened. If that be true, far more than that
must be true. Is there but one day of judgment?
Why, for us every day is a day of judgment-every
day is a Dies Irx, and writes its irrevocable verdict in
the flame of its West. Think you that judgment
waits till the doors of the grave are opened? It waits




THE MYSTERY OF LIFE.


11I7


at the doors of your houses-it waits at the corners of
your streets; we are in the midst of judgment-the
insects that we crush are our judges-the moments
we fret away are our judges-the elements that feed
us, judge, as they minister-and the pleasures that
deceive us, judge as they indulge. Let us, for our
lives, do the work of Men while we bear the Form of
them, if indeed those lives are Not as a vapor, and
do Not vanish away.
" The work of men "-and what is that? Well, we
may any of us know very quickly, on the condition of
being wholly ready to do it. But many of us are for
the most part thinking, not of what we are to do, but
of what we are to get; and the best of us are sunk
into the sin of Ananias, and it is a mortal one-we
want to keep back part of the price; and we continually talk of taking up our cross, as if the only harm
in a cross was the wezght of it-as if it was only a
thing to be carried, instead of to be-crucified upon.
" They that are His have crucified the flesh, with the
affections and lusts." Does that mean, think you,
that in time of national distress, of religious trial, of
crisis for every interest and hope of humanity-none
of us will cease jesting, none cease idling, none put
themselves to any wholesome work, none take so
much as a tag of lace off their footman's coats, to save
the world? Or 'does it rather mean, that they are
ready to leave houses, lands, and kindreds-yes, and
life, if need be? Life!-some of us are ready enough
to throw that away, joyless as we have made it. But
"1 station in Life "-how many of us are ready to quit
that? Is it not always the great objection, where
there is question of finding something useful to do"We cannot leave our stations in Life? "
Those of us who really cannot-that is to say, who
can only maintain themselves by continuing in some
business or salaried office, have already something to
do; and all that they have to see to, is that they do it
honestly and with all their might. But with most
people who use that apology, "' remaining in the sta



lr8


SESAME AND LILIES.


tion of life to which Providence has called them,"
means keeping all the carriages, and all the footmen
and large houses they can possibly pay for; and, once
for all, I say that if ever Providence did put them into
stations of that sort-which is not at all a matter of
certainty-Providence is just now very distinctly calling them out again. Levi's station in life was the
receipt of custom; and Peter's, the shore of Galilee;
and Paul's, the antechambers of the High Priest,which " station in life" each had'to leave, with brief
notice.
And, whatever our station in life may be, at this
crisis, those of us who mean to fulfil our duty ought,
first, to live on as little as we can; and, secondly, to
do all the wholesome work for it we can, and to spend
all we can spare in doing all the sure good we can.
And sure good is first in feeding people, then in
dressing people, then in lodging people, and lastly in
rightly pleasing people, with arts, or sciences, or any
other subject of thought.
I say first in feeding; and, once for all, do not let
yourselves be deceived by any of the common talk of
" indiscriminate charity." The order to us is not to
feed the deserving hungry, nor the industrious hungry,
nor the amiable and well-intentioned hungry, but simply to feed the hungry. It is quite true, infallibly true,
that if any man will not work, neither should he eatthink of that, and every time you sit down to your
dinner, ladies and gentlemen, say solemnly, before
you ask a blessing, "How much work have I done today for my dinner?"  But the proper way to enforce
that order on those below you, as well as on yourselves, is not to leave vagabonds and honest people to
starve together, but very distinctly to discern and
seize your vagabond; and shut your vagabond up out
of honest people's way, and very sternly then see that,
until he has worked, he does not eat. But the first
thing is to be sure you have the food to give; and,
therefore, to enforce the organization of vast activities
in agriculture and in commerce, for the production of




THE M YSTER Y OF LIFE.


II9


the wholesomest food, and proper storing and distribution of it, so that no famine shall any more be possible
among civilized beings. There is plenty of work in
this business alone, and at once, for any number of
people who like to engage in it.
Secondly, dressing people-that is to say, urging
every one within reach of your influence to be always
neat and clean, and giving them means of being so.
In so far as they absolutely refuse, you must give up
the effort with respect to them, only taking care that
no children within your sphere of influence shall any
niore be brought up with such habits; and that every
person who is willing to dress with propriety shall
have encouragement to do so. And the first absolutely necessary step towards this is the gradual adoption of a consistent dress for different ranks of persons, so that their rank shall be known by their dress;
and the restriction of the changes of fashion within
certain limits.  All which appears for the present
quite impossible; but it is only so far as even difficult
as it is difficult to conquer our vanity, frivolity, and
desire to appear what we are not. And it is not, nor
ever shall be, creed of mine, that these mean and shallow vices are unconquerable by Christian women.
And then, thirdly, lodging people, which you may
think should have been put first, but I put it third,
because we must feed and clothe people where we
find them, and lodge them afterwards. And providing lodgment for them means a great deal of vigorous
legislation, and cutting down of vested interests that
stand in the way, and after that, or before that, so far
as we can get it, thorough sanitary'and remedial action
in the houses that we have; and then the building of
more, strongly, beautifully, and in groups of limited
extent, kept in proportion to their streams, and walled
round, so that there maybe no festering and wretched
suburb anywhere, but clean and busy street within,
and the open country without, with a belt of beautiful
garden and orchard round the walls, so that from any
part of the city perfectly fresh air and grass, and sight




120


SESAME AND LILIES.


of far horizon might be reachable in a few minutes'
walk. This the final aim; but in immediate action
every minor and possible good to be instantly done,
when, and as, we can; roofs mended that have holes
in them-fences patched that have gaps in themwalls buttressed that totter-and floors propped that
shake; cleanliness and order enforced with our own
hands and eyes, till we are breathless every day. And
all the fine arts will healthily follow. I myself have
washed a flight of stone stairs all down, with bucket
and broom, in a Savoy inn, where they hadn't washed
their stairs since they first went up them? and I never
made a better sketch than that afternoon.
These, then, are the three first needs of civilized
life; and the law for every Christian man and woman
is, that they shall be in direct service towards one of
these three needs, as far as is consistent with their
own special occupation, and if they have no special
business, then wholly in one of these services. And
out of such exertion in plain duty all other good will
come; for in this direct contention with material evil,
you will find out the real nature of all evil, you will
discern by the various kinds of resistance, what is
really the fault and main antagonism to good; also
you will find the most unexpected helps and profound
lessons given, and truths will come thus down to us
which the speculation of all our lives would never have
raised us up to. You will find nearly every educational problem solved, as soon as you truly want to do
something; everybody will become of. use in their
own fittest way, and will learn what is' best for them
to know in that use. Competitive examination will
then, and not till then, be wholesome, because it will
be daily, and calm, and in practice; and on these familiar arts, and minute, but certain and serviceable
knowledges, will be surely edified and sustained the
greater arts and splendid theoretical sciences.
But much more than this. On such holy and sitmple practice will be founded, indeed, at last, an infallible religion. The greatest of all the mysteries of




THE MYSTER Y OF LIFE.


12I


life, and the most terrible, is the corruption of even
the sincerest religion, which is not daily founded on
rational, effective, humble, and helpful action. Helpful action, observe! for there is just one law, which
obeyed, keeps all religions pure-forgotten, makes
them all false. Whenever in any religious faith, dark
or bright, we allow our minds to dwell upon the
points in which we differ from other people, we are
wrong, and in the devil's power. Thatis the essence
of the Pharisee's thanksgiving-" Lord, I thank thee
that I am not as other men are." At every moment
of our lives we should be trying to find out, not in
what we differ with other people, but in what we
agree with them; and the moment we find we can
agree as to anything that should be done, kind or
good, (and who but fools couldn't?) then do it; push
at it together; you can't quarrel in a side-by-side
push; but the moment that even the best men stop
pushing, and begin talking, they mistake their pugnacity for piety, and it's all over. I will not speak of
the crimes which in past times have been committed
in the name of Christ, nor of the follies which are at
this hour held to be consistent with obedience to
Him; but I will speak of the morbid corruption and
waste of vital power in religious sentiment, by which
the pure strength of that which should be the guiding
soul of every nation, the splendor of its youthful
manhood, and spotless light of its maidenhood, is
averted or cast away. You may see continually girls
who have never been taught to do a single useful
thing thoroughly; who cannot sew, who cannot cook,
who cannot cast an account, nor prepare a medicine,
whose whole life has been passed either in play or in
pride; you will find girls like these when they are
earnest-hearted, cast all their innate passion of religious spirit, which was meant by God to support
them through the irksomeness of daily toil, into grievous and vain meditation over the meaning of the
great Book, of which no syllable was ever yet to be
understood but through a deed; all the instinctive




I22


SESAME AND LILIES.


wisdom and mercy of their womanhood made vain,
and the glory of their pure consciences warped into
fruitless agony concerning questions which the laws
of common serviceable life would have either solved
for them in an instant, or kept out of -their way. Give
such a girl any true work that will make her active in
the dawn; and weary at night, with the consciousness
that her fellow-creatures have indeed been the better
for her day. and the powerless sorrow of her enthusiasmn will transform itself into a majesty of radiant
and beneficent peace.
So with our youths. We once taught them to
make Latin verses, and called them educated; now
we teach them to leap and to row, to hit a ball with a
bat, and call them educated. Can they plough, can
they sow, can they plant at the right time, or build
with a steady hand? Is it the effort of their lives to
be chaste, knightly, faithful, holy in thought, lovely
in word and deed? Indeed it is, with some, nay with
many, and the strength of England is in them, and
the hope; but we have to turn their courage from the
toil of war to the toil of mercy; and their intellect
from dispute of words to discernment of things; and
their knighthood from the errantry of adventure to
the state and fidelity of a kingly power. And then, indeed, shall abide, for them, and for us an incorruptible felicity, and an infallible religion; shall abide for
us Faith, no more to be assailed by temptation, no
more to be defended by wrath and by fear;-shall
abide with us Hope, no more to be quenched by the
years that overwhelm, or made ashamed by the
shadows that betray; shall abide for us, and with us,
the greatest of these; the abiding will, the abiding
name, of our Father. For the greatest of these, is
Charity.




A




I




THE
CROWN OF WILD OLIVE.
THREE LECTURES
ON
WORK, TRAFFIC, AND WAR.
BY
JOHN RUSKIN, M.A.
'And indeed it should have been of gold, had not Jupiter beea
so poor.'-ARISTOPHANBS (P/fts).
NEW YORK:
JOHN B. ALDEN, PUBLISHER.
1885.




TROW'S.PRINTING AND BOOKBINDING COMPANY,
NEW YORK.




CONTENTS.
— GE
PREVACE..........................................    5
LECTURE      I.
WORK.........................................         19
LECTURE TI.
TRAFFIC......................................... 48
LECTURE III.
WAR........................................    72




I




PREFACE.
TWENTY years ago, there was no lovelier piece of
lowland scenery in South England, nor any more pathetic in the world, by its expression of sweet human
character and life, than that immediately bordering
on the sources of the Wandle, and including the lower
moors of Addington, and the villages of Beddington
and Carshalton, with all their pools and streams, No
clearer or diviner waters ever sang with constant lips
of the hand which'giveth rain from heaven;' no
pastures ever lightened in spring time with more passionate blossoming; no sweeter homes ever hallowed
the heart of the passer-by with their pride of peaceful
gladness-fain-hidden-yet full-confessed. The place
remains, or, until a few months ago, remained, nearly
unchanged in its larger features; but, with deliberate
mind I say, that I have never seen anything so ghastly
in its inner tragic meaning,-not in Pisan Maremma,
-not by Campagna tomb,-not by the sand-isles of the
Torcellan shore,-as the slow stealing of aspects of
reckless, indolent, animal neglect, over the delicate
sweetness of that English scene: nor is any blasphemy
or impiety-any frantic saying or godless thoughtmore appalling to me, using the best power of judgment I have to discern its sense and scope, than the
insolent defilings of those springs by the human herds
that drink of them. Just where the welling of stainless water, trembling and pure, like a body of light,
enters the pool of Carshalton, cutting itself a radiant
channel down to the gravel, through warp of feathery
weeds, all waving, which it traverses with its deep
threads of clearness, like the chalcedony in moss-agate,




6


PREFA CE.


starred here and there with white grenouillette; just
in the very rush and murmur of the first spreading
currents, the human wretches of the place cast their
street and house foulness; heaps of dust and slime,
and broken shreds of old metal, and rags of putrid
clothes; they having neither energy to cart it away,
nor decency enough to dig it into the ground, thus
shed into the stream, to diffuse what venom of it will
float and melt, far away, in all places where God meant
those waters to bring joy and health. And, in a little
pool, behind some houses farther in the village, where
another spring rises, the shattered stones of the well,
and of the little fretted channel which was long ago
built and traced for it by gentler hands, lie scattered,
each from each, under a ragged bank of mortar, and
scoria; and bricklayers' refuse, on one side, -which
the clean water nevertheless chastises to purity; but
it cannot conquer the dead earth beyond; and there,
circled and coiled under festering scum, the stagnant
edge of the pool effaces itself into a slope of black
slime, the accumulation of indolent years. Half-adozen men, with one day's work, could cleanse those
pools, and trim the flowers about their banks, and
make every breath of summer air above them rich with
cool balm-; and every glittering wave medicinal, as if
it ran, troubled of angels, from the porch of Bethesda.
But that day's work is never given, nor will be; nor
will any joy be possible to heart of man, for evermore,
about those wells of English waters.
When I last left them, I walked up slowly through
the back streets of Croydon, from the old church to
the hospital; and, just on the left, before coming up
to the crossing of the High Street, there was a new
public-house built. And the front of it was built in
so wise manner, that a recess of two feet was left below its front windows, between them and the streetpavement-a recess too narrow for any possible use
(for even if it had been occupied by a seat, as in old
time it might have been, everybody walking along the
street would have fallen over the legs of the reposing




PREFACE.


7


wayfarers). But, by way of making this two feet
depth of freehold land more expressive of the dignity
of an establishment for the sale of spirituous liquors,
it was fenced from the pavement by an imposing iron
railing, having four or five spearheads to the yard of
it, and six feet high; containing as much iron and
iron-work, indeed, as could well be put into the space;
and by this stately arrangement, the little piece of
dead ground within, between wall and street, became
a protective receptacle of refuse; cigar ends, and oyster shells, and the like, such as an open-handed English street-populace habitually scatters from its presence, and was thus left, unsweepable by any ordinary
methods. Now the iron bars which, uselessly (or in
great degree worse than uselessly), enclosed this bit
of ground, and made it pestilent, represented a quantity of work which would have cleansed the Carshalton
pools three times over;-of work, partly cramped and
deadly, in the mine; partly fierce * and exhaustive, at
the furnace, partly foolish and sedentary, of ill-taught
students making bad designs: work from the beginning to the last fruits of it, and in all the branches of
it, venomous, deathful, and miserable. Now, how did
it come to pass that this work was done instead of
the other; that the strength and life of the English
operative were spent in defiling ground, instead of re* ' A fearful occurrence took place a few days since, near Wolverhampton. Thomas Snape, aged nineteen, was on duty as the
" keeper " of a blast furnace at Deepfield, assisted by John Gardner, aged eighteen, and Joseph Swift, aged thirty-seven. The
furnace contained four tons of molten iron, and an equal amount
of cinders, and ought to have been run out at 7.30 P. a.. But Snape
and his mates, engaged in talking and drinking, neglected their
duty, and, in the mean time, the iron rose in the furnace until it
reached a pipe wherein water was contained. Just as the men had
stripped, and were proceeding to tap the furnace, the water in the
pipe, converted into steam, burst down its front and let loose on
them the molten metal, which instantaneously consumed Gardner;
Snape, terribly burnt, and mad with pain, leaped into the canal
and then ran home and fell dead on the threshold; Swift survived
to reach the hospital, where he died too.'
In further illustration of this matter, I beg the reader to look at
the article on the ' Decay of the English Race,' in the Pall-M'all
Gazette of April 17, of this year; and at the articles on the ' Report of the Thames Commission,' in any journals of the same date.




8?PREFA CE.


deeming it; and in producing an entirely (in that
place) valueless piece of metal, which can neither be
eaten nor breathed, instead of medicinal fresh air, and
pure water?
There is but one reason for it, and at present a conclusive one,-that the capitalist can charge percentage
on the work -in the one case, and cannot in the other.
If, having certain funds for supporting labor at my disposal, I pay men merely to keep my ground in order,
my money is, in that function, spent once for all; but
if I pay them to dig iron out of my ground, and work
it, and sell it, I can charge rent for the ground, and
percentage both on the manufacture and the sale, and
make my capital profitable in these three by-ways.
The greater part of the profitable investment of capital,
in the present day, is in operations of this kind, in
which the public is persuaded to buy something of no
use to it, on production, or sale, of which, the capitalist may charge percentage; the said public remaining
all the while under the persuasion that the percentage
thus obtained are real national gains, whereas, they are
merely filchings out of partially light pockets, to swell
heavy ones.
Thus, the Croydon publican buys the iron railing, to
make himself more conspicuous to drunkards. The
public-housekeeper on the other side of the way presently buys another railing, to out-rail him with. Both
are, as to their relative attractiveness to customers of
taste, just where they were before; but they have lost
the price of the railings; which they must either themselves finally lose, or make their aforesaid customers
of taste pay, by raising the price of their beer, or adulterating it. Either the publicans, or their customers,
are thus. poorer by precisely what the capitalist has
gained; and the value of the work itself, meantime,
has been lost, to the nation; the iron bars in that form
and place being wholly useless. It is this mode of taxation of the poor by the rich which is referred to in the
text (page 38), in comparing the modern acquisitive
power of capital with that of the lance and sword; the




PREFACE.


9


only difference being that the levy of black-mail in old
times was by force, and is now by cozening. The old
rider and reiver frankly quartered himself on the publican for the night; the modern one merely makes his
lance into an iron spike, and persuades his host to
buy it. One comes as an open robber, the other as a
cheating pedler; but the result, to the injured person's
pocket, is absolutely the same. Of course many useful industries mingle with, and disguise the useless
ones; and in the habits of energy aroused by the struggle, there is a certain direct good. It is far better to
spend four thousand pounds in making a good gun,
and then to blow it to pieces, than to pass life in idleness. Only do not let it be called 'political economy.'
There is also a confused notion in the minds of many
persons, that the gathering of the property of the poor
into the hands of the rich does no ultimate harm; since,
in whosesoever hands it may be, it must be spent at
last, and thus, they think, return to the poor again.
This fallacy has been again and again exposed; but
grant the plea true, and the same apology may, of
course, be made for black-mail, or any other form of
robbery. It might be (though practically it never is)
as advantageous for the nation that the robber should
have the spending of the money he extorts, as that the
person robbed should have spent it. But this is no excuse for the theft. If I were to put a turnpike on the
road where it passes my own gate, and endeavor to exact a shilling from every passenger, the public would
soon do away with my gate, without listening to any
plea on my part that 'it was as advantageous to them,
in the end, that I should spend their shillings, as that
they themselves should.' But if, instead of out-facing
them with a turnpike, I can only persuade them to
come in and buy stones, or old iron, or any other useless thing, out of my ground, I may rob them to the
same extent, and be, moreover, thanked as a public
benefactor, and promoter of commercial prosperity.
And this main question for the poor of England —for
the poor of all countries-is wholly omitted in every




IO


PRE~FA CE.


common treatise on the subject of wealth. Even by
the laborers themselves, the operation of capital is regarded only in its effect on their immediate interests;
never in the far more terrific power of its appointment
of the kind and the object of labor. It matters little,
ultimately, how much a laborer is paid for making anything; but it matters fearfully what the thing is, which
he is compelled to make. If his labor is so ordered
as to produce food, and fresh air, and fresh water, no
matter that his wages are low;-the food and fresh air
and water will be at last there; and he will at last get
them. But if he is paid to destroy food and fresh air,
or to produce iron bars instead of them,-the food and
air will finally not be there, and he will not get them,
to his great and final inconvenience. So that, conclusively, in political as in household economy, the great
question is, not so much what money you have in your
pocket, as what you will buy with it, and do with it.
I have been long accustomed, as all men engaged in
work of investigation must be, to hear my statements
laughed at for years, before they are examined or believed; and I am generally content to wait the public's
time. But it has not been without displeased surprise
that I have found myself totally unable, as yet, by any
repetition, or illustration, -to force this plain thought
into my readers' heads,-that the Wealth of nations,
as of men, consists in substance, not in ciphers; and
that the real good of all work, and of all commerce,
depends on the final worth of the thing you make, or
get by it. This is a practical enough statement, one
would think: but the English public has been so possessed by its modern school of economists with the
notion that Business is always good, whether it be busy
in mischief or in benefit; and that buying and selling
are always salutary, whatever the intrinsic worth of
what you buy or sell, -that it seems impossible to gain
so much as a patient hearing for any inquiry respecting
the substantial result of our eager modern labors. I
have never felt more checked by the sense of this impossibility than in arranging the heads of the following




PREFA CE.


I I


three lectures, which, though delivered at considerable
intervals of time, and in different places, were not
prepared without reference to each other. Their connection would, however, have been made far more distinct, if I had not been prevented, by what I feel to be
another great difficulty in addressing English audiences,
from enforcing, with any decision, the common, and to
me the most important, part of their subjects.  I
chiefly desired (as I have just said) to question my
hearers-operatives, merchants, and soldiers, as to the
ultimate meaning of the business they had in hand;
and to know from them what they expected or intended
their manufacture to come to, their selling to come
to, and their killing to come to. That appeared the
first point needing determination before I could speak
to them with any real utility or effect. ' You craftsmen
-salesmen-swordsmen,-do but tell me clearly what
you want; then, if I can say anything to help you, I
will; and if not, I will account to you as I best may
for my inability.' But in order to put this question
into any terms, one had first of all to face the difficulty
just spoken of-to me for the present insuperable,the difficulty of knowing whether to address one's
audience as believing, or not believing, in any other
world than this.  For if you address any average
modern English company as believing in an Eternal
life, and endeavor to draw any conclusions, from this
assumed belief, as to their present business, they will
forthwith tell you that what you say is very beautiful,
but it is not practical. If, on the contrary, you frankly
address them as unbelievers in Eternal life, and try to
draw any consequences from that unbelief,-they immediately hold you for an accursed person, and shake
off the dust from their feet at you. And the more I
thought over what I had got to say, the less I found I
could say it, without some reference to this intangible
or intractable part of the subject. It made all the
difference, in asserting any principle of war, whether
one assumed that a discharge of artillery would merely
knead down a certain quantity of red clay into a level




I2


PREFA CE.


line, as in a brick field; or whether, out of every separately Christian-named portion of the ruinous heap,
there went out, into the smoke and dead-fallen air of
battle, some astonished condition of soul, unwillingly
released. It made all the difference, in speaking of
the possible range of commerce, whether one assumed
that all bargains related only to visible property-or
whether property, for the present invisible, but nevertheless real, was elsewhere purchasable on other
terms. It made all the difference, in addressing a
body of men subject to considerable hardship, and
having to find some way out of it-whether one could'
confidently say to them, 'My friends,-you have only
to die, and all will be right;' or whether one had any
secret misgiving that such advice was more blessed to
him that gave, than to him that took it. And therefore the deliberate reader will find, throughout these
lectures, a hesitation in driving points home, and a
pausing short of conclusions which he will feel I would
fain have come to; hesitation which arises wholly from
this uncertainty of my hearers' temper. For I do not
now speak, nor have I ever spoken, since the time of
first forward youth, in any proselyting temper, as
desiring to persuade any one of what, in such matters,
I thought myself; but, whomsoever I venture to address, I take for the time his creed as I find it; and
endeavor to push it into such vital fruit as it seems
capable of. Thus, it is a creed with a great part of
the existing English people, that they are in possession
of a book which tells them, straight from the lips of
God, all they ought to do, and need to know. I have
read that book, with as much care as most of them, for
some forty years; and am thankful that, on those who
trust it, I can- press its pleadings. My endeavor has
been uniformly to make them trust it more deeply
than they do; trust it, not in their own favorite verses
only, but in the sum of all; trust it not as a fetish or
talisman, which they are to be saved by daily repetitions of; but as a Captain's order, to be heard and
obeyed at their peril. I was always encouraged by




PREOA CE.


I3


supposing my hearers to hold such belief. To these,
if to any, I once had hope of addressing, with acceptance, words which insisted on the guilt of pride, and
the futility of avarice; from these, if from any, I once
expected ratification of a political economy, which asserted that the life was more than the meat, and the
body than raiment; and these, it once seemed to me,
I might ask, without accusation of fanaticism, not
merely.in doctrine of the lips, but in the bestowal of
their heart's treasure, to separate themselves from the
crowd of whom it is written,' After all these things do
the Gentiles seek.'
It cannot, however, be assumed, with any semblance
of reason, that a general audience is now wholly, or
even in majority, composed of these religious persons.
A large portion must always consist of men who admit
no such creed; or who, at least, are inaccessible to
appeals founded on it. And as, with' the so-called
Christian, I desired to plead for honest declaration
and fulfilment of his belief in life, —with the so-called
infidel, I desired to plead for an honest declaration and
fulfilment of his belief in death. The dilemma is inevitable. Men must either hereafter live, or hereafter
die; fate may be bravely met, and conduct wisely
ordered, on either expectation; but never in hesitation
between ungrasped hope, and unconfronted fear. We
usually believe in immortality, so far as to avoid preparation for death; and in mortality, so far as to avoid
preparation for anything after death. Whereas, a
wise man will at least hold himself prepared for one
or other of two events, of which one or other is inevitable; and will have all things in order, for his sleep,
or in readiness, for his awakening.
Nor have we any right to call it an ignoble judgment,
if he determine to put them in order, as for sleep. A
brave belief in life is indeed an enviable state of mind,
but, as far as I can discern, an unusual one. I know
few. Christians so convinced of the splendor of the
rooms in their Father's house, as to be happier when
their friends are called to those mansions, than they




14


PREFA CE.


would have been if the Queen had sent for them to
live at court: nor has the Church's most ardent ' desire
to depart, and be with Christ,' ever cured it of the
singular habit of putting on mourning for every person
summoned to such departure.   On the contrary, a
brave belief in death has been assuredly held by many
not ignoble persons, and it is a sign of the last depravity in the Church itself, when it assumes that such
a belief is inconsistent with either purity of character,
or energy of hand. The shortness of life is not, to
any rational person, a conclusive reason for wasting
the space of it which may be granted him; nor does
the anticipation of death to-morrow suggest, to any
one but a drunkard, the expediency of drunkenness today. To teach that there is no device in the grave,
may indeed make the deviceless person more contented
in his dulness; but it will make the deviser only more
earnest in devising: nor is human conduct likely, in
every case, to be purer, under the conviction that all
its evil may in a moment be pardoned, and all its
wrong-doing in a moment redeemed; and that the
sigh of repentance, which purges the guilt of the past,
will waft the soul into a felicity which forgets its pain,
-than it may be under the sterner, and to many not
unwise minds, more probable, apprehension, that ' what
a man soweth that shall he also reap,-or others reap,
-when he, the living seed of pestilence, walketh no
more in darkness, but lies down therein.
But to men whose feebleness of sight, or bitterness
of soul, or the offence given by the conduct of those
who claim higher hope, may have rendered this painful
creed the only possible one, there is an appeal to be
made, more secure in its ground than any which can
be addressed to happier persons.  I would fain, if I
might offencelessly, have spoken to them as if none
others heard; and have said thus: Hear me, you dying men, who will soon be deaf forever.  For these
others, at your right hand and your left, who look forward to a state of infinite existence, in which all their
errors will be overruled, and all their faults forgiven;




PREFA CE.


IS


for these, who, stained and blackened in the battle-smoke of mortality, have but to dip themselves for an
instant in the font of death, and to rise renewed of
plumage, as a dove that is covered with silver, and her
feathers like gold; for these, indeed, it may be permissible to waste their numbered moments, through faith
in a future of innumerable hours; to these, in their
weakness, it maybe conceded that they should tamper
with sin which can only bring forth fruit of righteousness, and profit by the iniquity which, one day, will
be remembered no more. In them, it may be no sign
of hardness of heart to neglect the poor, over whom
they know their Master is watching; and to leave those
to perish temporarily, who cannot perish eternally.
But, for you, there is no such hope, and therefore no
such excuse.  This fate, which you ordain for the
wretched, you believe to be all their inheritance; you
may crush them, before the moth, and they will never
rise to rebuke you;-their breath, which fails for lack
of food, once expiring, will never be recalled to whisper
against you a word of accusing;-they and you, as you
think, shall lie down together in the dust, and the
worms cover you;-and for them there shall be no
consolation, and on you no vengeance,-only the question murmured above your grave: ' Who shall repay
him what he hath done?' Is it therefore easier for
you in your heart to inflict the sorrow for which there
is no remedy? Will you take, wantonly, this little all
of his life from your poor brother, and make his brief
hours long to him with pain? Will you be readier to
the injustice which can never be redressed; and niggardly of mercy which you can bestow but once, and
which, refusing, you refuse forever? I think better of
you, even of the most selfish, than that you would do
this, well understood. And for yourselves, it seems to
me, the question becomes not less grave, in these curt
limits, If your life were but a fever fit,-the madness
of a night, whose follies were all to be forgotten in the
dawn, it might matter little how you fretted away the
sickly hours,- what toys you snatched at, or let fall,



PREFA CE.


what visions you followed wistfully with the deceived
eyes of sleepless phrenzy. Is the earth only an hospital? Play, if you care to play, on the floor of the hospital dens. Knit its straw into what crowns please
you; gather the dust of it for treasure, and die rich in
that, clutching at the black motes in the air with your
dying hands;-and yet, it may be well with you. But
if this life be no dream, and the world no hospital; if
all the peace and power and joy you can ever win,
must be won now; and all fruit of victory gathered
here, or never;-will you still, throughout the puny
totality of your life, weary yourselves in the fire for
vanity? If there is no rest which remaineth for you,
is there none you might presently take? was this
grass of the earth made green for your shroud only,
not for your bed? and can you never lie down Duyon it,
but only under it? The heathen, to whose creed you
have returned, thought not so. They knew that life
brought its contest, but they expected from it also the
crown of all contest: No proud one! no jewelled circlet flaming through Heaven above the height of the
unmerited throne; only some few leaves of wild olive,
cool to the tired brow, through a few years of peace.
It should have been of'gold, they thought; but Jupiter
was poor; this was the best the god could give them.
Seeking a greater than this, they had known it a
mockery. Not in war, not in wealth, not in tyranny,
was there any happiness to be found for them-only
in kindly peace, fruitful and free. The wreath was to
be of wild olive, mark you:-the tree that grows carelessly; tufting the rocks with no vivid bloom, no verdure of branch; only with soft snow of blossom, and
scarcely fulfilled fruit, mixed with gray leaf and thornset stem; no fastening of diadem for you but with
such sharp embroidery! But this, such as it is, you
may win while yet you live; type of gray honor and
sweet rest.* Free-heartedness, and graciousness, and
undisturbed trust, and requited love, and the sight of
*ic^ieaa, /f  y exvev.




PREFACE.                  17
the peace of others, and the ministry to their pain;these, and the blue sky above you, and the sweet
waters and flowers of the earth beneath; and mysteries and presences, innumerable, of living things,-these
may yet be here your riches; untormenting and divine:
serviceable for the life that now is; nor, it may be,
without promise of that which is to come.
2




)~I
~a




LECTURE I.


WORK.
(Delivered before the TWo? king Men's Institute, at Camberuell.)
MY FRIENDS,-I have not come among you to-night
to endeavor to give you an entertaining lecture; but
to tell you a few plain facts, and ask you some plain,
but necessary questions. I have seen and known too
much of the struggle for life among our laboring population, to feel at ease, even under any circumstances,
in inviting them to dwell on the trivialities of my own
studies; but, much more, as I meet to-night, for the
first time, the members of a working Institute established in the district in which I have passed the greater
part of my life, I am desirous that we should at once
understand ea~ch other, on graver matters. I would
fain tell you, with what feelings, and with what hope,
I regard this Institution, as one of many such, now
happily established throughout England, as well as in
other countries;-Institutions which are preparing the
way for a great change in all the circumstances of industrial life; but of which the success must wholly depend upon our clearly understanding the circumstances
and necessary limits of this change. No teacher can
truly promote the cause of education, until he knows
the conditions of the life for which that education is to
prepare his pupil. And the fact that he is called upon
to address you, nominally, as a 'Working Class,' must
compel him, if he is in any wise earnest or thoughtful,
to inquire in the outset, on what you yourselves suppose this class distinction has been founded in the past,
and must be founded in the future. The manner of




20      THE CRO VWN OF WILD OLI VE.
the amusement, and the matter of the teaching, which
any of us can offer you, must. depend wholly on our
first understanding from you, whether you think the
distinction heretofore drawn between working men
and others, is truly or falsely founded. Do you accept
it as it stands? do you wish it to be modified? or do
you think the object of education is to efface it, and
make us forget it forever?
Let me make myself more distinctly understood.
We call this-you and I-a ' Working Men's' Institute,
and our college in London, a' Working Men's' College.
Now, how do you consider that these several institutes
differ, or ought to differ, from 'idle men's' institutes
and 'idle men's' colleges? Or by what other word
than 'idle' shall I distinguish those whom the happiest
and wisest of working men do not object to call the
'Upper Classes?' Are there really upper classes,are there lower? How much should they always be
elevated, how much always depressed? And, gentlemen and ladies-I pray those of you who are here to
forgive me the offence there may be in what I am going to say. It is not I who wish to say it. Bitter
voices say it: voices of battle and of famine through
all the world, which must be heard some day, whoever
keeps silence. Neither is it toyou specially that I say
it. I am sure that most now present know their duties
of kindness, and fulfil them, better perhaps than I do
mine. But I speak to you as representing your whole
class, which errs, I know, chiefly by thoughtlessness,
but not therefore the less terribly. Wilful error is limited by the will, but what limit is there to that of which
we are unconscious?
Bear with me, therefore, while I turn to these workmen, and ask them, also as representing a great multitude, what they think the 'upper classes' are, and
ought to be, in relation to them. Answer, you workmen who are here, as you would among yourselves,
frankly; and tell me how you would have me call
those classes. Am I to call them-would you think
me right in calling them-the idle classes? I think




WOR~.


21


you would feel somewhat uneasy, and as if I were not
treating my subject honestly, or speaking from my
heart, if I went on under the supposition that all rich
people were idle. You would be both unjust and unwise if you allowed me to say that;-not less unjust
than the rich people who say that all the poor are idle,
and will never work if they can help it, or more than
they can help.
For indeed the fact is, that there are idle poor and
idle rich; and there are busy poor and busy rich.
Many a beggar is as lazy as if he had ten thousand a
year; and many a man of large fortune is busier than
his errand-boy, and never would think of stopping in
the street to play marbles. So that, in a large view,
the distinction between workers and idlers, as between
knaves and honest men, runs through the very heart
and innermost economies of men of all ranks and in
all positions. There is a working class-strong and
happy-among both rich and poor; there is an idle
class-weak, wicked, and miserable-among both rich.
and poor. And the worst of the misunderstandings
arising between the two orders come of the unlucky
fact that the wise of one class habitually contemplate
the foolish of the other. If the busy rich people
watched and rebuked the idle rich people, all would be
right; and if the busy poor people watched and rebuked the idle poor people, all would be right. But
each class has a tendency to look for the faults of the
other. A hard-working man of property is particularly offended by an idle beggar; and an orderly, but
poor, workman is naturally intolerant of the licentious
luxury of the rich. And what is severe judgment in
the minds of the just men of either class, becomes
fierce enmity in the unjust-but among the unjust
only. None but the dissolute among the poor look
upon the rich as their natural enemies, or desire to pillage their houses and divide their property. None but
the dissolute among the rich speak in opprobrious
terms of the vices and follies of the poor.
There is, then, no class distinction between idle and




22    TIEE CROWN OF WILD OLIVE.


industrious people; and I am going to-night to speak
only of the industrious. The idle people we will put
out of our thoughts at once —they are mere nuisanceswhat ought to be done with thein, we'll talk of at
another time. But there are class distinctions among
the industrious themselves;-tremendous distinctions,
which rise and fall to every degree in the infinite thermometer of human pain and of human power-distinctions of high and low, of lost and won, to the whole
reach of man's soul and body.
These separations we will study, and-the laws of
them, among energetic men only, who, whether they
work or whether they play, put their strength into the
work, and their strength into the game; being in the
full sense of the word 'industrious,' one way or
another-with a purpose, or without. And these distinctions are mainly four:
I. Between those who work, and those who play.
II. Between those who produce the means of life,
and those who consume them.
III. Between those who work with the head, and
those who work with the hand.,V. Between those who work wisely, and who work
foolishly.
For easier memory, let us say we are going to oppose, in our examination,I. Work to play;
II. Production to consumption;
III. Head to hand; and,
IV. Sense to nonsense.
I. First, then, of the distinction between the classes
who work and the classes who play. Of course we
must agree' upon a definition of these terms,-work
and play,-before going farther. Now, roughly, not
with vain subtlety of definition, but for plain use of
the words,' play' is an exertion of body or mind, made
to please ourselves, and with no determined end; and
work is a thing done because it ought to be done, and
with a determined end. You play, as you call it, at
cricket, for instance. That is as hard work as any



~WORK.


23


thing else; but it amuses you, and it has no result but
the amusement. If it were done as an ordered form
of exercise, for health's sake, it would become work
directly. So, in like manner, whatever we do to please
ourselves, and only for the sake of the pleasure, not
for an ultimate object, is ' play,' the 'pleasing thing,'
not the useful thing. Play may be useful in a secondary sense (nothing is indeed more useful or necessary);
but the use of it depends on its being spontaneous.
Let us, then, inquire together what sort of games
the playing class in England spend their lives in playing at.
The first of all English games is making money.
That is an all-absorbing game; and we knock each
other down oftener in playing at that than at foot-ball,
or any other roughest sport; and it is absolutely without purpose; no one who engages heartily in that
game ever knows why. Ask a great money-maker
what he wants to do with his money-he never knows.
He doesn't hake it to do anything with it. He gets it
only that he may get it. ( What will you' make of
what you have got? ' you ask. ' Well, I'li get more,'
he says. Just as, at cricket, you get more runs.
There's no use in the runs, but to get more of them
than other people is the game. And there's no use in
the money, but to have more of it than other people
is the game. So all that great foul city of London
there,-rattling, growling, smoking, stinking,-a ghastly heap of fermenting brickwork, pouring out poison
at every pore,-you fancy it is a city of work? Not a
street of it! It is a great city of play; very nasty play,
and very hard play, but still play. It is only Lord's
cricket ground without the turf,-a huge billiard table
without the cloth, and with pockets as deep as the
bottomless pit; but mainly a billiard table, after all.
Well, the first great English game is this playing at
counters. It differs from the rest in that it appears
always to be producing money, while every other game
is expensive. But it does not always produce money.
There's a great difference between 'winning' money




24      THE CROVWN OF WILD OLIVE.
and 'making' it; a great difference between getting it
out of another man's pocket into ours, or filling both.
Collecting money is by no means the same thing as making it; the tax-gatherer's house is not the Mint; and
much of the apparent gain (so called), in commerce,
is only a form of taxation on carriage or exchange.
Our next great English game, however, hunting and
shooting, is costly altogether; and how much we are
fined for it annually in land, horses, gamekeepers, and
game laws, and all else that accompanies that beautiful and special English game, I will not endeavor to
count now: but note only that, except for exercise,
this is not merely a useless game, but a deadly one,
to all connected with it. For through horse-racing,
you get every form of what the higher classes everywhere call 'Play,' in distinction from all other plays;
that is-gambling; by no means a beneficial or recreative game: and, through game-preserving, you get
also some curious laying out of ground; that beautiful arrangement of dwelling-house for man and beast,
by which we have grouse and blackcock-so many
brace to the acre, and men and women-so many
brace to the garret. I often wonder what the angelic
builders and surveyors-the angelic builders who build
the 'many mansions'up above there; and the angelic
surveyors, who measured that four-square city with
their measuring reeds-I wonder what they think, or
are supposed to think, of the laying out of ground by
this nation, which has set itself, as it seems, literally to
accomplish, word for word, or rather fact for word, in
the persons of those poor whom its Master left to represent him, what that Master said of himself-that
foxes and birds had homes, but He none.
Then, next to the gentlemen's game of hunting, we
must put the ladies' game of dressing. It is not the
cheapest of games. I saw a brooch at a jeweller's in
Bond Street a fortnight ago, not an inch wide, and
-without any singular 4ewel in it, yet worth 30001.
And I wish I could tell you what this 'play' costs,
altogether, in England, France, and Russia annually.




WORK.                   25
But it is a pretty game, and on certain terms, I like
it; nay, I don't see it played quite as much as I would
fain have it. You ladies like to lead the fashion:-by
all means lead it-lead it thoroughly, lead it far
enough. Dress yourselves nicely, and dress everybody else nicely. Lead the fashions for Ihe poor
first; make them look well, and you yourselves will
look, in ways of which you have now no conception,
all the better. The fashions you have set for some
time among your peasantry are not pretty ones; their
doublets are too irregularly slashed, and the wind
blows too frankly through them.
Then there are other games, wild enough, as I
could show you if I had time.
There's playing at literature, and playing at artvery different, both, from working at literature, or
working at art, but I've no time to speak of these.
I pass to the greatest of all-the play of plays, the
great gentlemen's game, which ladies like them best
to play at,-the game of War. It is entrancingly
pleasant to the imagination; the facts of it, not always
so pleasant. We dress for it, however, more finely
than for any other sport; and go out to it, not merely
in scarlet, as to hunt, but in scarlet and gold, and all
manner of fine colors: of course we could fight better in gray, and without feathers; but all nations have
agreed that it is good to be well dressed at this play.
Then the bats and balls are very costly; our English
and French bats, with the balls and wickets, even
those which we don't make any use of, costing, I suppose, now about fifteen millions of money annually to
each nation; all of which you know is paid for by hard
laborer's work in the furrow and furnace. A costly
game!-not to speak of its consequences; I will say
at present nothing of these. The mere immediate
cost of all these plays is what I want you to consider;
they all cost deadly work somewhere, as many of us
know too well. The jewel-cutter, whose sight fails
over the diamonds; the weaver, whose arm fails over
the web; the iron-forger, whose breath fails before




26   THE CROWNi OF WILD OLIVE.


the furnace-they know what work is- -they, who
have all the work, and none of the play, except a kind
they have named for themselves down in the black
north country, where play' means being laid up by
sickness. It is a pretty example for philologists, of
varying dialect, this change in the sense of the word
'play,' as used in the black country of Birmingham,
and the red and black country of Baden Baden. Yes,
gentlemen, and gentlewomen, of England, who think
'one moment unamused a misery, not made for feeble
man,' this is what you have brought the word ' play ' to
mean, in the heart of merry England! You may
have your fluting and piping; but there are sad children sitting in the market-place, who indeed cannot
say to you, 'We have piped unto you, and ye have
not danced:' but eternally shall say to you, 'We
have mourned unto you, and ye have not lamented.'
This, then, is the first distinction between the' upper
and lower'classes. And this is one which is by no
means necessary; which indeed must, in process of
good time, be by all honest men's consent abolished.
Men will be taught that an existence of play, sustained
by the blood of other creatures, is a good existence
for gnats and sucking fish; but not for men: that
neither days, nor lives, can be made holy by doing
nothing in them: that the best prayer at the beginning
of a day is that swe may not lose its moments; and
the best grace before meat, the consciousness that we
have justly earned our dinner. And when we have
this much of plain Christianity preached to us again,
and enough respect what we regard as inspiration, as
not to think that 'Son, go work to-day in my vine,
yard,' means 'Fool, go play to-day in my vineyard,'
we shall all be workers, in one way or another; and
this much at least of the distinction between 'upper'
and ' lower' forgotten.
II. I pass then to our second distinction; between
the rich and poor, between Dives and Lazarus,-distinction which exists more sternly, I suppose, in this
day, than ever in the world, Pagan or Christian, till




WORK.


27


now.  I will put it sharply before you, to begin with,
merely by reading two paragraphs which 1 cut from
two papers that lay on my breakfast table on the same
morning, the 25th of November, I864. The piece
about the rich Russian at Paris is commonplace
enough, and stupid besides (for fifteen francs,-I2s.
6d.,-is nothing for a rich man to give for a couple of
peaches, out of season). Still, the two paragraphs
printed on the same day are worth putting side by side.
'Such a man is now here. He is a Russian, and,
with your permission, we w ill call him Count Teufelskine. In dress he is sublime; art is considered in
that toilet, the harmony of color respected, the
chiar' oscuro evident in well-selected contrast. In
manners he is dignified-nay, perhaps apathetic;
nothing disturbs the placid serenity of that calm exterior. One day our friend breakfasted chez Bignon.
When the bill came he read, " Two peaches, 15f." He
paid. "A Peaches scarce, I presume " was his sole remark. " No, sir," replied the waiter, "but Teufelskines
are." '-Teegraih, November 15, I864.
' Yesterday morning. at eight o'clock, a woman, passing a dung heap in the stone yard near the recentlyerected almshouses in Shadwvell Gap, High Street,
Shadwell, called the attention of a Thames policeconstable to a man in a sitting position on the dung
heap, and said she was afraid he was dead. Her fears
proved to be true. The wretched creature appeared
to have been dead several hours. He had perished of
cold and wet, and the rain had been beating down
on him all night. The deceased was a bone-picker.
He was in the lowest stage of poverty, poorly clad,
and half-starved. The police had frequently driven
him away from the stone yard, between sunset and
sunrise, and told him to go home. He selected a most
desolate spot for his wretched death. A penny and
some bones were found in his pockets. The deceased
was between fifty and sixty years of age. Inspector
Roberts. of the K division, has given directions for inquiries to be made at the lodging-houses respecting




28      THE CROWN OF WILD OLIVE.
the deceased, to ascertain his identity if possible: -
Mornino Post, November 25, 1864.
You have the separation thus in brief compass; and
I want you to take notice of the 'a penny and some
bones were found in his pockets,' and to compare it
with this third statement, from the Telegra~Ih of January I6th of this year:' Again, the dietary scale for adult and juvenile paupers was drawn up by the most conspicuous political
economists in England. It is low in quantity, but it is
sufficient to support nature; yet within ten years of
the passing of the Poor Law Act, we heard of the
paupers in the Andover Union gnawing the scraps of
putrid flesh and sucking the marrow from the bones
of horses which they were employed to crush.'
You see my reason for thinking that our Lazarus of
Christianity has some advantage over the Jewish one.
Jewish Lazarus expected, or at least prayed, to be fed
with crumbs from the rich man's table; but our Lazarus is fed with crumbs from the dog's table.
Now this distinction between rich and poor rests on
two bases. Within its proper limits, on a basis which
is lawful and everlastingly necessary; beyond them,
on a basis unlawful, and everlastingly corrupting the
frame-work of society. The lawful basis of wealth is,
that a man who works should be paid the fair value of
his work; and if he does not choose to spend it today, he should have free leave to keep it, and spend it
to-morrow. Thus, an industrious man working daily,
and laying by daily, attains at last the possession of
an accumulated sum of wealth, to which he has absolute right. The idle person who will not work, and
the wasteful person who lays nothing by, at the end
of the same time will be doubly poor-poor in possession, and dissolute in moral habit; and he will then
naturally covet the money which the other has saved.
And if he is then allowed to attack the other, and rob
him of his well-earned wealth, there is no more any
motive for saving, or any reward for good conduct;
and all society is thereupon dissolved, or exists only




WORK.                    29
in systems of rapine. Therefore the first necessity of
social life is the clearness of national conscience in enforcing the law-that he should keep who has JUSTLY
EARNED.
That law, I say, is the proper basis of distinction
between rich and poor. But there is also a false basis
of distinction; namely, the power held over those who
earn wealth by those who levy or exact it. There will
be always a number of men who would fain set themselves to the accumulation of wealth as the sole bbject
of their lives. Necessarily, that class of men is an
uneducated class, inferior in intellect, and more or less
cowardly. It is physically impossible for a well-educated, intellectual, or brave man to make money the
chief object of his thoughts; as physically impossible
as it is for him to make his dinner the principal object
of them. All healthy people like their dinners, but
their dinner is not the main object of their lives. So
all healthily minded people like making money-ought
to like it, and to enjoy the sensation of winning it;
but the main object of their life is not money; it is
something better than money. A good soldier, for instance, mainly wishes to do his fighting well. He is
glad of his pay-very properly so, and justly grumbles
when you keep him ten years without it-still, his
main notion of life is to win battles, not to be paid for
winning them. So of clergymen. They like pewrents, and baptismal fees, of course; but yet, if they
are brave and well educated, the pew-rent is not the
sole object of their lives, and the baptismal fee is not
the sole purpose of the baptism; the clergyman's object is essentially to baptize and preach, not to be paid
for preaching. So of doctors. They like fees no
doubt,-ought to like them; yet if they are brave and
well educated, the entire object of their lives is not
fees. They, on the whole, desire to cure the sick; and,
-if they are good doctors, and the choice were fairly
put to them,-would rather cure their patient, and
lose their fee, than kill him, and get it. And so with
all other brave and rightly trained men; their work is
*  *,:
-'u




30    THE CROWN OF WILD OLIVE.


first, their fee second-very important always, but still
second. But in every nation, as I said, there are a
vast class who are ill-educated, cowardly, and more
or less stupid. And with these people, just as certainly the fee is first, and the work second, as with
brave people the work is first and the fee second.
And this is no small distinction. It is the whole distinction in a man; distinction between life and death
in him, between heaven and hell for him. You cannot serve two masters;-you must serve one or other.
If your work is first with you, and your fee second,
work is your master, and the-lord of work, who is God.
But if your fee is first with you, and your work second,
fee is your master, and the lord of fee, who is the
Devil; and not only the Devil, but the lowest of devils
-the 'least erected fiend that fell.' So there you
have it in the briefest terms; Work first-you are
God's servants; Fee first-you are the Fiend's. And
it makes a difference, now and ever, believe me,
whether you serve Him who has on His vesture and
thigh written, 'King of Kings,' and whose service is
perfect freedom; or him on whose vesture and thigh
the name is written, ' Slave of Slaves,' and whose service is perfect slavery.
However, in every nation there are, and must always be a certain number of these Fiend's servants,
who have it principally for the object of their lives to
make money; They are always, as I said, more or
less stupid, and cannot conceive of anything else so
nice as money. Stupidity is always the basis of the
Judas bargain. We do great injustice to Iscariot, in
thinking him wicked above all common wickedness.
He was only a common money-lover, and, like all
money-lovers, didn't understand Christ;-couldn't
make out the worth of Him, or meaning of Him. He
was horror-struck when he found that Christ would be
killed; threw his money away instantly, and hanged
himself. How many of our present money-seekers,
think you, would have the grace to hang themselves,
whoever was killed? But Judas was a common, selfish.




WORK.


31


muddle-headed, pilfering fellow; his hand always in
the bag of the poor, not caring for them. He didn't
understand Christ;-yet believed in Him, much more
than most of us do; had seen Him do miracles, thought
He was quite strong enough to shift for Himself, and
he, Judas, might as well make his own little by-perquisites out of the affair. Christ would come out of
it well enough, and he have his thirty pieces. Now,
that is the money-seeker's idea, all over the world.
He doesn't hate Christ, but can't understand Himdoesn't care for Him-sees no good in that benevolent business; makes his own little job out of it at all
events, come what will. And thus, out of every mass
of men, you have. a certain number of bag-men —your
* fee first' men, whose main object is to make money.
And they do make it-make it in all sorts of unfair
ways, chiefly by the weight and force of money itself,
or what is called the power of capital; that is to say,
the power which money, once obtained, has over the
labor of the poor, so that the capitalist can take all its
produce to himself, except the laborer's food. That is
the modern Judas's way of 'carrying the bag,' and
bearing what is put therein.'
Nay, but (it is asked) how is that an unfair advantage? Has not the man who has worked for the.
money a right to use it as he best can? No; in this
respect, money is now exactly what mountain promontories over public roads were in old times. The barons
fought for them fairly:-the strongest and cunningest
got them; then fortified them; and made every one
who passed below pay toll. Well, capital now is exactly what crags were then. Men fight fairly (we will,
at least, grant so much, though it is more than we
ought) for their money; but, once having got it, the
fortified millionaire can make everybody who passes
below pay toll to his million, and build another tower
of his money castle. And I can tell you, the poor vagrants by the roadside suffer now quite as much from
the bag-baron, as ever they did from the crag-baron.
Bags and crags have just the same result on rags. I




32      THE CROWN OF WILD OLIVE.
have not time, however, to-night to show you in how
many ways the power of capital is unjust; but this one
great principle I have to assert-you will find it quite
indisputably true-that whenever money is the principa! object of life with either man or nation, it is both
got ill, and spent ill; and does harm both in the getting
and spending; but when it is not the principal object,
it and all other things will be well got, and well spent.
And here is the test, with every man, of whether money
is the principal object with him, or not. If in mid-life
he could pause and say, " Now I have enough to live
upon, I'll live upon it; and having well earned it, I will
also well spend it, and go out of the world poor, as I s
came into it," then money is not principal with him;
but if, having enough to live upon in the manner befitting his character and rank, he still wants to make
more, and to die rich, then money is the principal object with him, and it becomes a curse to himself, and
generally to those who spend it after him. For you
know it must be spent some day; the only question is
whether the man who makes it shall spend it, or some
one else. And generally it is better for the maker to
spend it, for he will know best its value and use. This
is the true law of life. And if a man does not choose
thus to spend his money, he must either hoard it or
lend it, and the worst thing he can generally do is to
lend it; for borrowers are nearly always ill-spenders,
and it is with lent money that all evil is mainly done,
and all unjust war protracted.
For observe what the real fact is, respecting loans
to foreign military governments, and how strange it is.
If your little boy came to you to ask for money to spend
in squibs and crackers, you would think twice before
you gave it him; and you would have some idea that
it was wasted, when you saw it fly off in fireworks,
even though.he did no mischief with it. But the Russian children, and Austrian children, come to you, bor- ~
rowing money, not to spend in innocent squibs, but in
cartridges and bayonets to attack you in India with,
and to keep down all noble life in Italy with, and to




WORK.


33


murder Polish women and children with; and that
you will give at once, because they pay you interest
for it. Now, in order to pay you that interest, they
must tax every working peasant in their dominions; and
on that work you live. You therefore at once rob the
Austrian peasant, assassinate or banish the Polish
peasant, and you live on the produce of the theft, and
the bribe for the assassination! That is the broad
fact-that is the practical meaning of your foreign
loans, and of most large interest of money; and then
you quarrel with Bishop Colenso, forsooth, as if he denied the Bible, and you believed it! though, wretches
as you are, every deliberate act of your lives is a new
defiance of its primary orders; and as if, for most of
the rich men of England at this moment, it were not
indeed to be desired, as the best thing at least for them,
that the Bible should not be true, since against them
these words are written in it: ' The rust of your gold
and silver shall be a witness against you, and shall eat
your flesh, as it were fire.'
III. I pass now to our third condition of separation,
between the men who work with the hand, and those
who work with the head.
And here we have at last an inevitable distinction.
There must be work done by the arms, or none of us
could live. There tzmst be work done by the brains,
or the life we get would not be worth having. And
the same men cannot do both. There is rough work
to be done, and rough men must do it; there is gentle
work to be done, and gentlemen must do it: and it is
physically impossible that one class should do, or divide, the work 6f the other. And it is of no use to try
to conceal this sorrowful fact by fine words, and to
talk to the workman about the honorableness of manual labor, and the dignity of humanity. That is a grand
old proverb of Sancho Panza's, ' Fine words butter no
parsnips;' and I can tell- you that, all over England
just now, you workmen are buying a great deal
too much butter at that dairy. Rough work, honorable or not, takes the life out of us; and the man who
3




34      Y1E CROWN OF WILD OLIVE.
has been heaving clay out of a ditch all day, or driving
an express train against the north wind all night, or
holding a collier's helm in a gale on a lee-shore, or
whirling white-hot iron at a furnace mouth, that man
is not the same at the end of his day, or night, as one
who has been sitting in a quiet room, with everything
comfortable about him, reading books, or classing butterflies, or painting pictures. If it is any comfort to
you to be told that the rough work is the more honorable of the two, I should be sorry to take that much
of consolation from you; and in some sense I need
not. The rough work is at all events real, honest, and,
generally, though not always, useful; while the fine
work is, a great deal of it, foolish and false as well as
fine, and therefore dishonorable: but when both kinds
are equally well and worthily done, the head's is the
noble work, and the hand's the ignoble; and of all
hand work whatsoever, necessary for the maintenance
of life, those old words,' In the sweat of thy face thou
shalt eat bread,' indicate that the inherent nature of it
is one of calamity; and that the ground, cursed for our
sake, casts also some shadow of degradation into our
contest with its thorn and its thistle; so that all nations
have held their days honorable, or 'holy,' and constituted them 'holydays' or 'holidays,' by making them
days of rest; and the promise, which, among all our
distant hopes, seems to cast the chief brightness over
death, is that blessing of the dead whb die in the Lord,
that 'they rest from their labors, and their works do
follow them.'
And thus the perpetual question and contest must
arise, who is to do this rough work? and how is the
worker of it to be comforted, redeemed, and rewarded?
and what kind of play should he have, and what rest,
in this world, sometimes, as well as in the next? Well,
my good working friends, these questions will take a
little time to answer yet. They must be answered:
all good men are occupied with them, and all honest
thinkers. There's grand head work doing about them;
but much must be discovered, and much attempted in




[FOf.RA


35


vain, before anything decisive can be told you. Only
note these few particulars, which are already sure.
As to the distribution of the hard work. None of
us, or very few of us, do either hard or soft work because we think we ought; but because we have chanced
to fall into the way of it, and cannot help ourselves.
Now, nobody does anything well that they cannot help
doing: work is only done well when it is done with a
will; and no man has a thoroughly sound will unless
he knows he is doing what he should, and is in his
place. And, depend upon it, all work must be done
at last, not in a disorderly, scrambling, doggish way,
but in an ordered, soldierly, human way-a lawful way.
Men are enlisted for the labor that kills —the labor of
war: they are counted, trained. fed, dressed, and praised
for that. Let them be enlisted also for the labor that
feeds: let them be counted, trained, fed, dressed,
praised for that. Teach the plough exercise as carefully as you do the sword exercise, and let the officers
of troops of life be held as much gentlemen as the officers of troops of death; and all is done: but neither
this, nor any other right thing, can be accomplishedyou can't even see your way to it-unless, first of all,
both servant and master are resolved that, come what
will of it, they will do each other justice. People are
perpetually squabbling about what will be best to do,
or easiest to do, or adviseablest to do, or profitablest
to do; but they never, so far as I hear them talk, ever
ask what it is just to do. And it is the law of heaven
that you shall not be able to judge what is wise or
easy, unless you are first resolved to judge what is just,
and to do it. This is the one thing constantly reiterated by our Master-the order of all others that is
given oftenest-' Do justice and judgment.'  That's
your Bible order; that's the ' Service of God,' not praying rnor psalm-singing. You are told, indeed, to sing
psalms when you are merry, and to pray when you
need anything; and, by the perversion of the Evil
Spirit, we get to think that praying and psalm-singing
are ' service.' If a child finds itself in want of anything,




36      THE CROWiIV OF WILD OLIVE.
it runs in and asks its father for it-does it call that,
doing its father a service?  If it begs for a toy or a
piece of cake-does it call that serving its father?
That, with God, is prayer, and he likes to hear it: He
likes you to ask Him for cake when you want it; but
He doesn't call that 'serving Him.' Begging is not
serving: God likes mere beggars as little as you doHe likes honest servants, not beggars. So when a
child loves its father very much, and is very happy, it
may sing little songs about him; but it doesn't call
that serving its father; neither is singing songs about
God, serving God. It is enjoying ourselves, if it's anything; most probably it is nothing; but if it's anything,
it is serving ourselves, not God. And yet we are impudent enough to call our beggings and chauntings
'Divine Service:' we say ' Divine service will be " performed" ' (that's our word-the form of it gone through)
'at eleven o'clock.' Alas!-unless we perform Divine
service in every willing act of our life, we never perform it at all. The one Divine work-the one ordered
sacrifice-is to do justice; and it is the last we are
ever inclined to do. Anything rather than that! As
much charity as you choose, but no justice. 'Nay,'
you will say, ' charity is greater than justice.' Yes, it
is greater; it is the summit of justice-it is the temple
of which justice is the foundation. But you can't have
the top without the bottom; you cannot build upon
charity. You must build upon justice, for this main
reason, that you have not, at first, charity to build with.
It is the last reward of good work. Do justice to your
brother (you can do that, whether you love him or not),
and you will come to love him. But do injustice to
him, because you don't love him; and you will come
to hate him. It is all very fine to think you can build
upon charity to begin with; but you will find all you
have got to begin with, begins at home, and is essentially love of yourself. You well-to-do people, for instance, who are here to-night, will go to 'Divine service' next Sunday, all nice and tidy, and your little
children will have their tight little Sunday boots on,




WORK.


37


and lovely little Sunday feathers in their hats; and
you'll think, complacently and piously, how lovely they
look! So they do: and you love them heartily, and
you like sticking feathers in their hats.  That's all
right: that is charity; but it is charity beginning at
home. Then you will come to the poor little crossingsweeper, got up also,-it, in its Sunday dress,-the
dirtiest rags it has,-that it may beg the better: we
shall give it a penny, and think how good we are.
That's charity going abroad. But what does Justice
say, walking and watching near us? Christian Justice
has been strangely mute, ancd seemingly blind; and, if
not blind, decrepit, this many a day: she keeps her
accounts still, however-quite steadily-doing them at
nights, carefully, with her bandage off, and through
acutest spectacles (the only modern scientific invention
she cares about). You must put your ear down ever so
close to her lips to hear her speak; and then you will
start at what she first whispers, for it will certainly be,
'Why shouldn't that little crossing-sweeper have a
feather on its head, as well as your own child? ' Then
you may ask Justice in an amazed manner, ' How she
can possibly be so foolish as to think children could
sweep crossings with feathers on their heads? ' Then
you stoop again, and Justice says-still in her dull,
stupid way-' Then, why don't you, every other Sunday, leave your child to sweep the crossing, and take
the little sweeper to church in a hat and feather?'
Mercy on us (you think), what will she say next? And
you answer, of course, that 'you don't, because every
body ought to remain content in the position in which
Providence has placed them.' Ah, my friends, that's
the gist of the whole question. Did Providence put
them in that position, or did you? You knock a man
into a ditch, and then you tell him to remain content
in the 'position in which Providence has placed him.'
That's modern Christianity. You say — We did not
knock him into the ditch.' How do you know what
you have done. or are doing? That's just what we
have all got to know, and what we shall never know,




38      THE CROWN OF WILD OLIVE.
until the question with us every morning, is, not how
to do the gainful thing, blut how to do the just thing;
nor until we are at least so far on the way to being
Christian, as to have understood that maxim of the
poor half-way Mahometan, ' One hour in the execution
of justice is worth seventy ytears of prayer.'
Supposing, then, we have it determined with appropriate justice, who is to do the hand work, the next
questions must be how the hand-workers are to be
paid, and how they are to be refreshed, and what play
they are to have. Now, the possible quantity of play
depends on the possible quantity of pay; and the
quantity of pay is not a matter for consideration to
hand-workers only, but to all workers.  Generally;
good, useful work, whether of the hand or head, is
either ill-paid, or not paid at all. I don't say it should
be so, but it always is so. People, as a rule, only pay
for being amused or being cheated, hot for being
served. Five thousand a year to your talker, and a,
shilling a day to your fighter, digger, and thinker, is
the rule. None of the best head work in art, literature,
or science, is ever paid for. How much do you think
Homer got for his Iliad? or Dante for his Paradise?
only bitter bread and salt, and going up and down
other people's stairs. In science, the man who discovered the telescope, and first saw heaven, was paid with
a dungeon; the man who invented the microscope,
and first saw earth, died of starvation, driven from his
home: it is indeed very clear that God means all
thoroughly good work and talk to be done for nothing. Baruch, the scribe, did not get a penny a line
for writing Jeremiah's second roll for him, I fancy;
and St. Stephen did not get-bishop's pay for that loug '
sermon of his to the Pharisees; nothing but stones.
For indeed that is the world-father's proper payment.
So surely as any of the world's children work for the
world's good, honestly, with head and heart; and come
to it, saying, 'Give us a little bread, just to keep the
life in us,' the world-father answers them, 'No, my
children, not bread; a stone, if you like, or as many




WORK.


39


as you need, to keep you quiet.' But the hand-workers are not so ill off as all this comes to. The worst
that can happen to you is to break stones; not be
broken bythem. And for you there will come a time for
better payment; some day, assuredly, more pence will
be paid to Peter the Fisherman, and fewer to Peter
the Pope; we shall pay people not quite so much for
talking in Parliament and doing nothing, as for holding their tongues out of it and doing something; we
shall pay our ploughman a little more and our lawyer
a little less, and so-on: but, at least, we may even now
take care that whatever work is done shall be fully
paid for; and the man who does it paid for it, not
somebody else; and that it shall be done in an orderly,
soldierly, well-guided, wholesome way, under good captains and lieutenants of labor; and that it shall have
its appointed times of rest, and enough of them; and
that in those times the play shall be wholesome play,
not in theatrical gardens, with tin flowers and gas sunshine, and girls dancing because of their misery; but in
true gardens, with real flowers, and real sunshine,
and children dancing because of their gladness; so that
truly the streets shall be full (the 'streets,' mind you,
not the gutters) of children, playing in the midst
thereof. We may take care that working-men shall
have at least as good books to read as anybody else,
when they've time to read them; and as comfortable
firesides to sit at as anybody else, when they've time
to sit at them. This, I think, can be managed for you,
my working friends, in the good time.
IV. I must go on, however, to our last head, concerning ourselves all, as workers. What is wise work,
and what is foolish work? What the difference between sense and nonsense, in daily occupation?
Well, wise work is, briefly, work with God. Foolish work is work agaiztst God. And work done with
God, which He will help, may be briefly described as
' Putting in Order'-that is, enforcing God's law of
order, spiritual and material, over men and things.
The first thing you have to do, essentially; the real




40      THE CROWN OF WILD OLIVE.
'good work' is, with respect to men, to enforce justice, and with respect to things, to enforce tidiness, and
fruitfulness.  And against these two great human
deeds, justice and order, there are perpetually two
great demons contending,-the devil of iniquity, or inequity, and the devil of disorder, or of death; for death
is only consummation of disorder. You have to fight
these two fiends daily. So far as you don't fight
against the fiend of iniquity, you work for him. You
' work iniquity,' and the judgment upon you, for all
your ' Lord, Lord's,' will be ' Depart from me, ye that
work iniquity.' And so far as you do not resist the
fiend of disorder, you work disorder, and you yourself
do the work of Death, which is sin, and has for its
wages, Death himself.
Observe then, all wise work is mainly threefold in
character. It is honest, useful, and cheerful.
I. It is HONEST. I hardly know anything more
strange than that you recognize honesty in play, and
you do not in work. In your lightest games, you have
always some one to see what you call ' fair-play.' In
boxing, you must hit fair; in racing, start fair. Your
English watchword is fair-play, your English hatred,
foul-play.  Did it ever strike you that you wanted
another watchword also, fair-work, and another hatred
also, foul-work? Your prize-fighter has some honor
in him yet; and so have the men in the ring round him:
they will judge him to lose the match, by foul hitting.
But your prize-merchant gains his match by foul selling, and no one cries out against that. You drive a
gambler out of the gambling-room who loads dice,
but you leave a tradesman in flourishing business, who
loads scales! For observe, all dishonest dealing is
loading scales. What does it matter whether I get
short weight, adulterate substance, or dishonest fabric?
The fault in the fabric is incomparably the worst of
the two. Give me short measure of food, and I only
lose by you; but give me adulterate food, and I die
by you. Here, then, is your chief duty, you workmen
and tradesmen —to be true to yourselves, and to us




WORK.


41


who would help you. We can do nothing for you,
nor you for yourselves, without honesty. Get that,
you get all; without that, your suff rages, your reforms,
your free-trade measures, your institutions of science,
are all in vain. It is useless to put your heads together, if you can't putyour hearts together. Shoulder
to shoulder, right hand to right hand, among yourselves, and no wrong hand to anybody else, and you'll
win the world yet.
II. Then, secondly, wise work is USEFUL. No man
minds, or ought to mind, its being hard, if only it
comes to something; but when it is hard, and comes
to nothing; when all our bees' business turns to
spiders'; and for honey-comb we have only resultant cobweb, blown away by the next breeze-that is
the cruel thing for the worker. Yet do we ever ask
ourselves, personally, or even nationally, whether our
work is coming to anything or not.? We don't care
to keep what has been nobly done; still less do we
care to do nobly what others would keep-; and, least
of all, to make the work itself useful instead of deadly
to the doer, so as to use his life indeed, but not to
waste it. Of all wastes, the greatest waste. that you
can commit is the waste of labor. If you went down
in the morning into your dairy, and you found that
your youngest child had got down before you; and
that he and the cat were at play together, and that he
had poured out all the cream on the floor for the cat to
lap up, you would scold the child, and be sorry the
milk was wasted. But if, instead of wooden bowls
with milk in them, there are golden bowls with human
life in them, and instead of the cat to play with-the
devil to play with; and you yourself the player; and
instead of leaving that golden bowl to be broken by
God at the fountain, you break it in the dust yourself,
and pour the human blood out on the ground for the
fiend to lick up-that is no waste! What! you perhaps think, ' to waste the labor of men is not to kill
them.' Is it not? I should like to know how you
could kill them more utterly-kill them with second




42      THE CROWN7 OF WILL UL JAk.
deaths? It is the slightest way of killing to stop a
man's breath. Nay, the hunger, and the cold, and the
little whistling bullets-our love-messengers between
nation and nation-have brought pleasant messages
from us to many a man before now; orders of sweet
release, and leave at last to go where he will be most
welcome and most happy. At the worst you do but
shorten his life, you do not corrupt his life. But if you
put him to base labor, if you bind his thoughts, if you
blind his eyes, if you blunt his hopes, if you steal his
joys, if you stunt his body, and blast his soul, and at
last leave him not so much as to reap the poor fruit of
his degradation, but gather that for yourself, and dismiss him to the grave, when you have done with him,
having, so far as in you lay, made the walls of that
grave everlasting (though, indeed, I fancy the goodly
bricks of some of our family vaults will hold closer in
the resurrection day than the sod over the laborer's
head), this you think is no waste, and no sin!
III. Then, lastly, wise work is CHEERFUL, as a
child's work is. And now I want you to take one
thought home with you, and let it stay with you.
Everybody in this roonT has been taught to pray
daily, ' Thy kingdom come.' Now, if we hear a man
swear in the streets, we think it very wrong, and say
he ' takes God's name in vain.' But there's a twenty
times worse way of taking His name in vain than that.
It is to ask Godfor what we don't want. He doesn't
like that sort of prayer. If you don't want a thing,.
don't ask for it: such asking is the worst mockery of
your King you can mock Him with; the soldiers striking Him on the head with the reed was nothing to that.
If you do not wish for His kingdom, don't pray for it.
But if you do, you must do more than pray for it; you
must work for it. And, to work for it, you must know
what it is: we have all prayed for it many a day without thinking. Observe, it is a kingdom that is to come
to us; we are not to go to it. Also, it is  otobe -a
kingdom of-the dead, but of th-eliving. Also, it is not
to come all at once, but quietly; nobody knows how.




WORK.


43


' The kingdom of God cometh not with observation.'
Also, it is not to come outside of us, but in the hearts
of us: ' the kingdom of God is within you.' And, being within us, it is not a thing to be seen, but to be
felt; and though it brings all substance of good with
it, it does not consist in that: 'the kingdom of God is
not meat and drink, but righteousness, peace, and joy
in the Holy Ghost:' joy, that is to say, in the holy,
healthful, and helpful Spirit. Now, if we want to work
for this kingdom, and to bring it, and enter into it,
there's just one condition to be first accepted. You
must enter it as children, or not at all; ' Whosoever
will not receive it as a little child shall not enter therein.' And again, ' Suffer little children to come unto
me, and forbid them not, for of such is the kingdom
of heaven.
Of such, observe. Not of children themselves, but
of such as children.  I believe most mothers who
read that text think that all heaven is to be full of
babies. But that's net so. There will be children
there, but the hoary head is the crown.  ' Length of
days, and long life and peace,' that is the blessing, not
to die in babyhood. Children die but for their parents'
sins; God means them to live, but He can't let them
always; then they have their earlier place in heaven:
and the little child of David, vainly prayed for;-the
little child of Jeroboam, killed by its mother's step on
its own threshold,-they will be there. But weary old
David, and weary old Barzillai, having learned children's lessons at last, will be there too: and the one
question for us all, young or old, is, have we learned
our child's lesson? it is the character of children we
want, and must gain at our peril; let us see, briefly,
in what it consists.
" The first character of right childhood is that it is
Modest.   A well-bred child does not think it can
teach itsparents, or that it knows everything. It may
think its father and mother know everything,-perhaps
that all grown-up people know everything; very certainly it is sure that it does not. And it is always




44      THE CROWN OF WILD OLIVE.
asking questions, and wanting to know more. Well,
that is the first character of a good and wise man at
his work. To know that he knows very little;-to
perceive that there are many above him wiser than he;
and to be always asking questions, wanting to learn,
not to teach. No one ever teaches well who wants
to teach, or governs well who wants to govern; it is
an old saying (Plato's, but I know not if his, first),
and as wise as old.
Then, the second character of right childhood is to
be Faithful. Perceiving that its father knows best
what is good for it, and having found always, when it
has tried its own way against his, that he was right
and it was wrong, a noble child trusts him at last
wholly, gives him its hand, and will walk blindfold
with him, if he bids it. And that is the true character
of all good men also, as obedient workers, or soldiers
under captains. They must trust their captains
they are bound for their lives to choose none but
those whom they can trust. Then, they are not
always to be thinking that what seems strange to
them, or wrong in what they are desired to do, is
strange or wrong. They know their captain: where
he leads they must follow, what he bids, they must
do; and without this trust and faith, without this captainship and soldiership, no great deed, no great salvation, is possible to man. Among all the nations it
is only when this faith is attained by them that they
become great: the Jew, the Greek, and the Mahometan, agree at least in testifying to this. It was a deed
of this absolute trust which made Abraham the father
of the faithful; it was the declaration of the power of
God as captain over all men, and the acceptance of a
leader appointed by Him as commander of the faithful, which laid the foundation of whatever national
power yet exists in the East; and the deed of the
Greeks, which has become the type of unselfish and
noble soldiership to all lands, and to all times, was
commemorated, on the'tomb of those who gave their
lives to do it, in the most pathethic, so far as I know,




WORK.


45


or can feel, of all human utterances: ' Oh, stranger,
go and tell our people that we are lying here, having
obeyed their words.'
Then the third character of right childhood is to be
Loving and Generous. Give a little love to a child,
and you get a great deal back. It loves everything
near it, when it is a right kind of child-would hurt
nothing, would give the best it has away, always, if
you need it-does not lay plans for getting everything
in the house for itself, and delights in helping people;
you cannot please it so much as by giving it a chance
of being useful, in ever so little a way.
And because of all these characters, lastly, it is
Cheerful. Putting its trust in its father, it is careful
for nothing-being full of love to every creature, it is
happy always, whether in its play or in its duty.
Well, that's the great worker's character also. Taking ho thought for the morrow; taking thought only
for the duty of the day; trusting somebody else to
take care of to-morrow; knowing indeed what labor
is, but not what sorrow is; and always ready for
play,-beautiful play,-for lovely human play is like
the play of the Sun. There's a worker for you. He,
steady to his time, is set as a strong man to run his
course, but also, he rejoiceth as a strong man to run
his course. See hog _he-plays in the morning, with
the mists below, anhi the clouds above, with a ray here
and a flash there, and a shower of jewels everywhere;
-that's the Sun's play; and great human play is like
his-all various-all full of light and life, and tender,
as the dew of the morning.
So then, you have the child's character in these four
things-Humility, Faith, Charity, and Cheerfulness,
That's what you have got to be converted to. ' Except ye be converted and become as little children'You hear much of conversion now-a-days; but people always seem to think you have got to be made
wretched by conversion,-to be converted to long
faces. No, friends, you have got to be converted to
short ones; you have to repent into childhood, to re



46      THE CRO WA OF WILD OLIVE.
pent into delight, and delightsomeness.  You can't
go into a conventicle but you'll hear plenty of talk of
backsliding. Backsliding, indeed! I can tell you, on
the ways most of us go, the faster we slide back the
better. Slide back into the cradle, if going on is into
the grave-back, I tell you; back-out of your long
faces, and into your long clothes. It is among children only, and as children only, that you will find medicine for your healing and true wisdom for your teaching. There is poison in the counsels of the men of
this world; the words they speak are all bitterness,
' the poison of asps is under their lips,' but, 'the sucking child shall play by the hole of the asp.' There is
death in the looks of men. ' Their eyes are privily
set against the poor;' they are a- the uncharmable
serpent, the cockatrice, which slew by seeing.  But
' the weaned child shall lay his hand on the cockatrice
den.' There is death in the steps of men: ' theirefeet
are swift to shed blood; they have compassed us in
our steps like the lion that is greedy of his prey, and
the young lion lurking in secret places,' but, in that
kingdom, the wolf shall lie down with the lamb, and
the fatling with the lion, and 'a little child shall lead
them.' There 'is death in the thoughts of men; the
world is one wide riddle to them, darker and darker
as it draws to a close; but the secret of it is known to
the child and the Lord of heaven and earth is most to
be thanked in that ' He has hidden these things from
the wise and prudent, and has revealed them unto
babes.' Yes, and there is death-infinitude of death
in the principalities and powers of men. As far as
the east is from the west, so far our sins are —not set
from us, but multiplied around us: the Sun himself,
think you he now ' rejoices' to run his course, when
he plunges westward to the horizon, so widely red,
not with clouds, but blood? And it will be red more
widely yet. Whatever drought of the early and latter
rain may be, there will be none of that red rain. You
fortify yourselves against it in vain; the enemy and
avenger will be upon you also, unless you learn that it




WORK.                   47
is not out of the mouths of the knitted gun, or the
smoothed rifle, but ' out of the mouths of babes and
sucklings' that the strength is ordained, which shall
' still the enemy and avenger.'




LECTURE II.


TRAFFIC.
(Delivered in the Town Hall, Bradford.)
MY good Yorkshire friends, you have asked me down
here among your hills that I might talk to you about
this Exchange you are going to build: but earnestly
and seriously asking you to pardon me, I am going to
do nothing of the kind. I cannot talk, or at least can
say very little, about this same Exchange. I must
talk of quite other things, though not unwillingly;-I
could not deserve your pardon, if when you invited me
to speak on one subject, I wilfully spoke on another.
But I cannot speak, to purpose, of anything about
which I do not care; and most simply and sorrowfully
I have to tell you, in the outset, that I do not care about
this Exchange of yours.
If, however, when you sent me your invitation, I had
answered, I I won't come, I don't care about the Exchange of Bradford,' you would have been justly offended with me, not knowing the season of so blunt a
carelessness. So I have come down, hoping that you
will patiently let me tell you why, on this, and many
other such occasions, I now remain silent, when formerly I should have caught at the opportunity of
speaking to a gracious audience.
In a word, then, I do not care about this Exchange,
-because you don't; and because you know perfectly
well I cannot make you. Look at the essential circumstances of the case, which you, as business men, know
perfectly well, though perhaps you think I forget them.




TRAFFIC.


49


You are going to spend 3o,ooo000/., which to you, collectively, is nothing; the buying a new coat is, as to the
cost of it, a much more important matter of consideration to me than building a new Exchange is to you.
But you think you may as well have the right thing for
your money. You know there are a great many odd
styles of architecture about; you don't want to do anything ridiculous; you hear of me, among others, as a respectable architectural man-milliner: and you send
for me, that I may tell you the leading fashion; and
what is, in our shops, for the moment, the newest and
sweetest thing in pinnacles.
Now, pardon me for telling you frankly, you cannot
have good architecture merely by asking people's advice
on occasion. All good architecture is the expression
of national life and character; and it is produced by a
prevalent and eager national taste, or desire for beauty.
And I want you to think a little of the deep significance of this word ' taste;' for no statement of mine
has been more earnestly or oftener controverted than
that good taste is essentially a moral quality. ' No,'
say many of my antagonists, 'taste is one thing, morality is another. Tell us what is pretty; we shall be
glad to know that; but preach no sermons to us.'
Permit me, therefore, to fortify this old dogma of
mine somewhat. Taste is not only a part and an index of morality-it is the ONLY morality. The first,
and last, and closest trial question to any living creature is.' What do you like?' Tell me what you like,
and I'll tell you what you are. Go out into the street,
and ask the first man or woman you meet, what their
' taste' is, and if they answer candidly, you know them,
body and soul. ' You, my friend in the rags, with the
unsteady gait, what do you like? ' ' A pipe and a quartern of gin,' I know you. 'You, my good woman,
with the quick step and tidy bonnet, what do you like? '
'A swept hearth and a clean tea-table, and my husband opposite me, and a baby at my breast.' Good, I
know you also. * You, little girl with the golden hair
and soft eyes, what do you like?' 'My canary, and a
4




o5      THE CROWiV OF WILD OLIVE.
run among the wood hyacinths.' 'You, little boy with
the dirty hands and the low forehead, what do you
like?  ' A shy at the sparrows, and a game at pitchfarthing.' Good; weknow themallnow. What more
need we ask?
'Nay,' perhaps you answer: 'we need rather to ask
what. these people and children do, than what they like.
If they do right, it is no matter that they like what is
wrong; and if they do wrong, it is no matter that' they
like what is right. Doing is the great thing; and it
does not matter that the man likes drinking, so that he
does not drink; nor that the little girl likes to be kind
to her canary, if she will not learn her lessons; nor
that the little boy likes throwing stones at the sparrows,
if he goes to the Sunday school.' Indeed, for a short
time, and in a provisional sense, this is true. For if,
resolutely, people do what is right, in time they come
to like doing it. But they only are in a right moral
state when they have come to like doing it; and as
long as they don't like it, they are still in a vicious state.
The man is not in health of body who is always thirsting for the bottle in the cupboard, though he bravely
bears his thirst; but the man who heartily enjoys water
in the morning and wine in the evening, each in its
proper quantity and time.  And the entire object of
true education is to make people not merely do the
right things, but ez;joy the right things-not merely
industrious, but to love industry-not merely learned,
but to love knowledge-not merely pure, but to love
purity-not merely just, but to hunger and thirst after
justice.
But you may answer or think, 'Is the liking for outside ornaments,-for pictures, for statues, or furniture,
or architecture,-a moral quality? ' Yes, most surely,
if a rightly set liking. Taste for any pictures or statues is not a moral quality, but taste for good ones is.
Only here again we have to define the word 'good.'
I don't mean by 'good,' clever-or learned-or difficult in the doing. Take a picture by Teniers, of sots
quarrelling over their dice: it is an entirely clever pict



TRAFiIC.


ure; so clever that nothing in its kind has ever been
done equal to it; but it is also an entirely base and evil
picture. It is an expression of delight in the prolonged
contemplation of a vile thing, and delight in that is an
'unmannered,' or 'immoral' quality. It is 'bad taste '
in the profoundest sense-it is the taste of the devils.
On the other hand, a picture of Titian's, or a Greek
statue, or a Greek coin, or a Turner landscape, expresses
delight in the perpetual contemplation of a good and
perfect thing. That is an entirely moral quality-it is
the taste of the angels. And all delight in art, and all
love of it, resolve themselves into simple love of that
which deserves love. That deserving is the quality
which we call ' loveliness '-(we ought to have an opposite word, hateliness, to be said of the things which
deserve to be hated); and it is not an indifferent nor
optional thing whether we iove this or that; but it is
just the viral function of all our being. What we like
determines what we are, and is the sign of what we
are; and io teach taste is inevitably to form character.
As I was thinking over this, in walking up Fleet Street
the other day, my eye caught the title of a book standing open in a bookseller's window. It was-' On the
necessity of the diffusion of taste among all classes.'
' Ah,' I thought to myself, ' my classifying friend, when
you have diffused your taste, where will your classes
be? The man who likes what you like, belongs to the
same class with you, I think.  Inevitably so. You
may put him to other work if you choose; but, by the
condition you have brought him into, he will dislike
the other work as much as you would yourself. You get
hold of a scavenger, or a costermonger, who enjoyed
the Newgate Calendar for literature, and " Pop goes
the Weasel" for music. You think you can make him
like Dante Beethoven? I wish you joy of your lessons; but if you do, you have made a gentleman of
him:-he won't like to go back to his costermongering.'
And as completely and unexceptionally is this so, that,
if I had time to-night, I could show you that a nation




-  THE CROWN OF WILD OLIVL.
cannot be affected by any vice, or weakness, without
expressing it, legibly, and forever, either in bad art, or
by want of art; and that there is no national virtue,
small or great, which is not manifestly expressed in all
the art which circumstances enable the people possessing that virtue to produce. Take, for instance,
your great English virtue of enduring and patient
courage. You have at present in England only one
art of any consequence-that is, iron-working. You
know thoroughly well how to cast and hammer iron.
Now, do you think in those masses of lava which you
build volcanic cones to melt, and which you forge at
the mouths of the Infernos you have created; do you
think, on those iron plates, your courage and endurance
are not written forever-not merely with an iron pen,
but on iron parchment? And take also your great English vice-European vice-vice of all the world-vice
of all other worlds that roll or shine in heaven, bearing
with them yet the atmosphere of hell-the vice of jealousy, which brings competition into commerce, treachery into your councils, and dishonor into your warsthat vice which has rendered for you, and for your
next neighboring nation, the daily occupations of existence no longer possible, but with the mail upon your
breasts and the sword loose in its sheath; so that, at
last, you have realized for all the multitudes of the two
great peoples who lead the so-called civilization of the
earth,-you have realized for them all, I say, in person
and in policy, what was once true only of the rough
Border riders of your Cheviot hillsThey carved at the meal
With gloves of steel,
And they drank the red wine through the helmet barr'd;do you think that this national shame and dastardliness
of heart are not written as legibly on every rivet of
your iron armor as the strength of the right hands
that forged it?  Friends, I know not whether this
thing be the more ludicrous or the more melancholy.
It is quite unspeakably both.  Suppose, instead of




TRAFFIC.


53


being now sent for by you, I had been sent for by
some private gentleman, living in a suburban house,
with his garden separated only by a fruit-wall from his
next door neighbor's; and he had called me to consult with him on the furnishing of his drawing-room.
I begin looking about me, and find the walls rather
bare; I think such and such a paper might be desirable
-perhaps a little fresco here and there on the ceiling
-a damask curtain or so at the windows. ' Ah,' says
my employer, 'damask curtains, indeed! That's all
very fine, but you know I can't afford that kind of
thing just now!' ' Yet the world credits you with a
splendid income!' ' Ah, yes,' says my friend,' but do
you know, at present, I am obliged to spend it nearly
all in steel-traps?' ' Steel-traps! for whom?' ' Why,
for that fellow on the other side the wall, you know:
we're very good friends, capital friends; but we are
obliged to keep our traps set on both sides of the wall;
we could not possibly keep on friendly terms without
them, and our spring guns. The worst of it is, we are
both clever fellows enough; and there's never a day
passes that we don't find out a new trap, or a new
gun-barrel, or something; we spend about fifteen millions a year each in our traps, take it all together; and
I don't see how we're to do with less.' A highly comic
state of life for two private gentlemen! but for two
nations, it seems to me, not wholly comic? Bedlam
would be comic, perhaps, if there were only one madman in it; and your Christmas pantomime is comic,
when there is only one clown in it; but when the whole
world turns clown; and paints itself red with its own
heart's blood instead of vermilion, it is something else
than comic, I think.
Mind, I know a great deal of this is play, and willingly allow for that. You don't know what to do
with yourselves for a sensation: fox-hunting and
cricketing will not carry you through the whole of this
unendurably long mortal life; you liked pop-guns
when you were schoolboys, and rifles and Armstrongs
are only the same things better made: but ther the




54      THE CROWN OF WILD OLIVE.
worst of it is, that what was play to you when boys,
was not play to the sparrows; and what is play to you
now, is not play to the small birds of State neither:
and for the black eagles, you are somewhat shy of
taking shots at them, if I mistake not.
I must get back to the matter in hand, however.
Believe me, without farther instance, I could show you,
in all time, that every nation's vice, or virtue, was written in its art: the soldiership of early Greece; the sensuality of late Italy; thevisionary religion of Tuscany;
the splendid human energy and beauty of Venice. I
have no time to do this to-night (I have done it elsewhere before now); but I proceed to apply the principle to ourselves in a more searching manner.
I notice that among all the new buildings that cover
your once wild hills, churches and schools are mixed
in due, that is to say. in large proportion, with your
mills and mansions; and I notice also that the churches
and schools are almost always Gothic, and the mansions
and mills are never Gothic. Will you allow me to ask
precisely the meaning of this? For, remember, it is
peculiarly a modern phenomenon. When Gothic was
invented, houses were Gothic as well as churches? and
when the Italian style- superseded the Gothic, churches
were Italian as well as houses. If there is a Gothic
spire to the cathedral of Antwerp, there is a Gothic
belfry to the Hotel de Ville at Brussels; if Inigo Jones
builds an Italian Whitehall, Sir Christopher Wren
builds an Italian St. Paul's. But now you live under
one school of architecture, and worship under another.
What do you mean by doing this? Am I to understand that you are thinking of changing your architecture back to Gothic; and that you treat your churches
experimentally, because it does not matter what mistakes you make in a church? Or am I to understand
that you consider Gothic a pre-eminently sacred and
beautiful mode of building, which you think, like the
fine frankincense, should be mixed for the tabernacle
only, and reserved for your religious services? For if
this be the feeling, though it may seem at first as if it




7TRAFIC.


55


were graceful and reverent, you will find that, at the
root of the matter, it signifies neither more nor less than
that you have separated your religion from your life.
For consider what a wide significance this fact has;
and remember that it is not you only, but all the people
of England, who are behaving thus just now.
You have all got into the habit of calling the church
'the house of God.' I have seen, over the doors of
many churches, the legend actually carved, 'This is
the house of God, and this is the gate of heaven.'
Now, note where that legend comes from, and of what
place it was first spoken. A boy leaves his father's
house to go on a long journey on foot, to visit his
uncle; he has to cross a wild hill-desert, just as if one
of your own boys had to cross the wolds of Westmoreland, to visit an uncle at Carlisle. The second or third
day your boy finds himself somewhere between Hawes
and Brough, in the midst of the moors, at sunset. It
is stony ground, and boggy; he cannot go one foot
farther that night. Down he lies, to sleep, on Wharnside, where best he may, gathering a few of the stones
together to put under his head;-so wild the place is,
he cannot get anything but stones. And there, lying
under the broad night, he has a dream; and he sees a
ladder set up on the earth, and the top of it reaches
to heaven, and the angels of God are ascending and
descending upon it. And when he wakes out of his
sleep, he says, ' How dreadful is this place; surely, this
is none other than the house of God, and this is the
gate of heaven.'  This PLACE, observe; not this
church; not this city; not this stone, even, which he
puts up for a memorial-the piece of flint on which
his head has lain. But this place this windy slope of
Wharnside; this moorland hollow, torrent-bitten, snowblighted; this any place where God lets down the ladder. And how are you to know where that will be?
or how are you to determine where it may be, but by
being ready for it always? Do you know where the
lightning is to fall next? You do know that, partly;
you can guide the lightning; but you cannot guide the




56      THE CROWN OF WILD OLIVB.
going forth of the Spirit, which is that lightning when
it shines from the east to the west.
But the perpetual and insolent warping of that
strong verse to serve a merely ecclesiastical purpose,
is only one of the thousand instances in which we sink
back into gross Judaism.  We call our churches
'temples.' Now, you know, or ought to know, they
are not temples.  They have never had, never can
have, anything whatever to do with temples. They
are ' synagogues '-' gathering places '-where you
gather yourselves together as an assembly; and by not
calling them so, you again miss the force of another
mighty text-' Thou, when thou prayest, shalt not be
as the hypocrites are; for they love to pray standing
in the churches' [we should translate it], 'that they
may be seen of men. But thou, when thou prayest,
enter into thy closet, and when thou hast shut thy
door, pray to thy Father,'-which is, not in chancel
nor in aisle, but 'in secret.'
Now, you feel, as I say this to you-I know you
feel-as if I were trying to take away the honor of
your churches. Not so; I am trying to prove to you
the honor of your houses and your hills; I am trying
to show you-not that the Church is not sacred-but
that the whole Earth IS. I would have you feel, what
careless, what constant, what infectious sin there is in
all modes of thought, whereby, in calling your churches
only ' holy,' you call your hearths and homes profane;
and have separated yourselves from the heathen by
casting all your household gods to the ground, instead
of recognizing, in the place of their many and feeble
Lares, the presence of your One and Mighty Lord and
Lar.
'But what has all this to do with our Exchange?'
you ask me, impatiently. My dear friends, it has just
everything to do with it; on these inner and great
questions depend all the outer and little ones; and if
you have asked me down here to speak to you, because
you had before been interested in anything I have
written, you must know that all I have yet-said 'about




TRA FFI C.


5/


architecture was to show this. The book I called
' The Seven Lamps' was to show that certain right
states of temper and moral feeling were the magic
powers by which all good architecture, without exception, had been produced. 'The Stones of Venice'
had, from beginning to end, no other aim than to
show that the Gothic architecture of Venice had arisen
out of, and indicated in all its features, a state of pure
national faith, and of domestic virtue; and-that its
Renaissance architecture had arisen out of, and in all
its features indicate-,a -state-o-concealed nationafinfidelity, and of domestic corruption. And now, you
ask me what style is best to build in; and how can I
answer, knowing the meaning of the two styles. but
by another question-do you mean to build as Christians or as Infidels? And still more-do you mean to
build as honest Christians or as ho6 —stfnfidls? as
thoroughly and confessedly either one or the other?
You don't like to be asked such rude questions. I
cannot help it; they are of much more importance
than this Exchange business; and if they can be at
once answered, the Exchange business settles itself
in a moment. But, before I press them farther, I
must ask leave to explain one pcint clearly. In all
my past work, my endeavor has been to show that
good architecture is essentially religious-the production of a faithful and virtuous, not of an infidel and
corrupted people. But in the course of doing this, I
have had also to show that good architecture is not
ecclesiastical. People are so apt to look upon religion
as the business of the clergy, not their own, that the
moment they hear of anything depending on 'religion,'
they think it must also hhve depended on the priesthood; and I have had to take what place was to be
occupied between these two errors, and fight both,
often with seeming contradiction. Good architecture
is the work of good and believing men; therefore, you
say, at least some people say, ' Good architecture must
essentially have been the work of the clergy, not of
the laity.' No-a thousand times no; good architect



58 s    THEc CROWNl OF WILD OLIVE.
tire has always been the work of the commonalty, not
of the clergy. What, you say, those glorious cathedrals-the pride of Europe-did their builders not
form Gothic architecture? No; they corrupted Gothic
architecture. Gothic was formed in the baron's castle,
and the burgher's street. It was formed by the
thoughts, and hands, and powers of free citizens and
soldier kings. By the monk it was used as an instrument for the aid of his superstition; when that superstition became a beautiful madness, and the best
hearts of Europe vainly dreamed and pined in the
cloister, and vainly raged and perished in the crusade
-through that fury of perverted faith and wasted war,
the Gothic rose also to its loveliest, most fantastic,
and, finally, most foolish dreams; and, in those dreams,
was lost.
I hope, now, that there is no risk of your misunderstanding me when I come to the gist of what I want
to say to-night-when I repeat, that every great national architecture has been the result and exponent
of a great national religion. You can't have bits of it
here, bits there-you must have it everywhere, or nowhere. It is not the monopoly of a clerical company
-it is not the exponent of a theological dogma
-it is not the hieroglyphic writing of an initiated
priesthood; it is the manly language of a people inspired by resolute and common purpose, and rendering resolute and common fidelity to the legible laws
of an undoubted God.
Now, there have as yet been three distinct schools
of European architecture. I say, European, because
Asiatic and African architectures belong so entirely to
other races and climates, that there is no question of
them here; only, in passing, I will simply assure you that
whatever is good or great in Egypt, and Syria, and
India, is just good or great for the same reasons as
the buildings on our side of the Bosphorus. We
Europeans, then, have had three great religions; the
Greek, which was the worship of the God of Wisdom
and Power; the Mediaeval, which was the Worship of




' TRAFFIC.


59


the God of Judgment and Consolation; the Renaissance, which was the worship of the God of Pride
and Beauty; these three we have had-they are past,
-and now, at last, we English have got a fourth religion, and a God of our own, about which I want to
ask you. But I must explain these three old ones first.
I repeat, first, the Greeks essentially worshipped the
God of Wisdom; so that whatever contended against
their religion,-to the Jews a stumbling block,-was,
to the Greeks-Foolishness.
The first Greek idea of Deity was that expressed
in the word, of which we keep the remnant in our
words, ' Di-urnal' and ' Di-vine'-the god of Day,
Jupiter the revealer. Athena is his daughter, but especially daughter of the Intellect, springing armed
from the head. We are only with the help of recent
investigation beginning to penetrate the depth of
meaning couched under the Athenaic symbols but I
may note rapidly, that her aegis the mantle with the
serpent fringes, in which she often, in the best statues,
is represented as folding up her left hand for better
guard, and the Gorgon on her shield, are both representative mainly of the chilling horror and sadness
(turning men to stone, as it were), of the outmost and
superficial spheres of knowledge-that knowledge
which separates, in bitterness, hardness, and sorrow,
the heart of the full-grown man from the heart of the
child. For out of imperfect knowledge spring terror,
dissension, danger, and disdain; but from perfect
knowledge, given by the full-revealed Athena, strength
and peace, in sign of which she is crowned with the
olive spray, and bears the resistless spear.
This, then, was the Greek conception of purest
Deity, and every habit of life, and every form of his
art developed themselves from the seeking this bright,
serene, resistless wisdom; and setting himself, as a
man, to do things evermore rightly and strongly;;
* It is an error to suppose that the Greek worship, or seeking,
was chiefly of Beauty. It was essentially of Rightness and Strength
founded on Forethought; the principal character of Greek art iS
not Beauty, but design: and the Dorian Apollo-worship and Athen.




6o       THE CROWN OF WILD OLIVE.
not with any ardent affection or ultimate hope; b.u
with a resolute and contingent energy of will, as
knowing that for failure there was no consolation,
and for sin there was no remission. And the Greek
architecture rose unerring, bright, clearly defined, and
self-contained.
Next followed in Europe the great Christian faith,
which was essentially the religion of Comfort. Its
great doctrine is the remission of sins; for which
cause it happens, too often, in certain phases of Christianity, that sin and sickness themselves are partly
glorified, as if, the more you had to be healed of, the
more divine was the healing. The practical result of
this doctrine, in art, is a continual contemplation of
sin and disease, and of imaginary states of purification
from them; thus we have an architecture conceived
in a mingled sentiment of melancholy and aspiration,
partly severe, partly luxuriant, which will bend itself
to every one of our needs, and every one of our fancies, and be strong or weak with us, as we are strong
or weak ourselves. It is, of all architecture, the basest, when base people build it-of all, the noblest,
when built by the noble.
And now note that both these religions-Greek and
Mediaeval-perished by falsehood in their own main
purpose. The Greek religion of Wisdom perished in
a false philosophy —' Oppositions of science, falsely so
called.' The Mediaeval religion of Consolation perished in false comfort; in remission of sins given lyingly. It was the selling of absolution that ended the
Mediaeval faith; and I can tell you more, it is the selling of absolution which, to the end of time, will mark
false Christianity. Pure Christianity gives her remis.
sion of sins only by eznding them; but false Christianity gets her remission of sins by compnounding for
ian Virgin-worship are both expressions of adoration of divine
Wisdom and Purity. Next to these great deities rank, in power
over tne national mind, Dionysus and Ceres, the givers of human
strength and life; then, for heroic example, Hercules. There is
no Venus-worship among the Greeks in the great times: and the
Muses are essentially teachers of Truth, and of its harmonies.




TRAFFIC.


them. And there are many ways of compounding for
them. We English have beautiful little quiet ways of
buying absolution, whether in low Church or high, far
more cunning than any of Tetzel's trading.
Then, thirdly, there followed the religion of Pleasure, in which all Europe gave itself to luxury, ending
in death. First, bals masquZs in every saloon, and
then guillotines in every square. And all these three
worships issue-in tiast temple building. Your Greek
worshipped Wisdom, and built you the Parthenonthe Virgin's temple. The Mediaeval worshipped Consolation, and built you Virgin temples also-but to our
Lady of Salvation. Then the Revivalist worshipped
beauty, of a sort, and built you Versailles, and the Vatican. Now, lastly, will you tell me what we worship,
and what we build?
You know we are speaking always of the real, active, continual, national worship; that by which men
act while they live; not that which they talk of when
they die. Now, we have, indeed, a nominal religion,
to which we pay tithes of property and sevenths of
time; but we have also a practical and earnest religion,
to which we devote nine-tenths of our property and
sixth-sevenths of our time. And we dispute a great
deal about the nominal religion; but we are all unanimous about this practical one, of which I think you
will admit that the ruling goddess may be best generally described as the 'Goddess of Getting-on,' or
'Britannia of the Market.' The Athenians had an
'Athena Agoraia,' or Minerva of the Market; but she
was a subordinate type of their goddess, while our
Britannia Agoraia is the principal type of ours. And
all your great architectural works, are, of course, built
to her. It is long since you built a great cathedral;
and how you would laugh at me, if I proposed building a cathedral on the top of one of these hills of yours,
taking it for an Acropolis! But your railroad mounds,
prolonged masses of Acropolis; your railroad stations,
vaster than the Parthenon, and innumerable; your
-himneys, how much more mighty and costly than




62      THE CROWN OF' WILD OLIVE.
cathedral spires! your harbor-piers; your warehouses; your exchanges!-all these are built to yourgreat Goddess of ' Getting-on;' and she has formed,
and will continue to form, your architecture, as long
as you worship her; and it is quite vain to ask me to
tell you how to build to her; you know far better
than I.
There might indeed, on some theories, be a conceivably good architecture for Exchanges-that is to say
if there were any heroism in the fact or deed of exchange, which might be typically carved on the outside
of your building. For, you know, all beautiful architecture must be adorned with sculpture or painting;
and for sculpture or painting, you must have a subject.
And hitherto it has been a received opinion among
the nations of the world that the only right subjects
for either, were heroisms of some sort. Even on his
pots and his flagons, the Greek put a Hercules slaying
lions, or an Apollo slaying serpents, or Bacchus slaying melancholy giants, and earth-born despondencies.
On his temples, the Greek put contests of great warriors in founding states, or of gods with evil spirits.
On his houses and temples alike, the Christian put
carvings of angels conquering devils; or of hero-martyrs exchanging this world for another; subject inappropriate, I think, to our manner of exchange here.
And the Master of Christians not only left his followers without any orders as to the sculpture of affairs of
exchange on the outside of buildings, but gave some
strong evidence of his dislike of affairs of exchange
Within them. And yet there might surely be a heroIsmn jan mLwCh affairs; and all commerce become a kind
pf selling of dp~ps, not impious. The wonder has always been great to me, that heroism has never been
supposed to be in anywise consistent with the practice
of supplying people with food, or clothd~; but rather
with tehat of quartering oneself upon them for food,
a0 strpp ing them of their clothes, Spoiling of are
mQr is ait herqcG dec in all ages but the solling of; lothes, o14 or ne, has nP g  taken any qolor of mag=




TR AFFIC.


63


nanimity. Yet one does not see why feeding the hungry and clothing the naked should ever become base
Lasinesses, even when engaged in on a large scale. If
one could contrive to attach the notion of conquest to
them anyhow? so that, supposing there were anywhere an obstinate race, who refused to be comforted,
one might take some pride in giving them compulsory
comfort; and as it were, 'occupying a country' with
one's gifts, instead of one's armies? If one could only
consider it as much a victory to get a barren field sown,
as to get an eared field stripped; and contend who
should build villages, instead of who should 'carry'
them. Are not all forms of heroism conceivable in
doing these serviceable deeds?  You doubt who is
strongest? It might be ascertained by push of spade,
as well as push of sword. Who is wisest? There are
witty things to be thought of in planning other business than campaigns. Who is bravest? There are
always the elements-to fight with, stronger than men;
and nearly as merciless. The only absolutely and unapproachably heroic element in the soldier's work
seems to be-that he is paid little for it-and regularly:
while you traffickers, and exchangers, and others occupied in presumably benevolent business, like to be
paid much for it-and by chance. I never can make
out how it is that a knight-errant does not expect to
be paid for his trouble. but a pedler-errant always
does;-that people are willing to take hard knocks for
nothing, but never to sell ribbons cheap;-that they
are ready to go on fervent crusades to recover the
tomb of a buried God; never on any travels to fulfil
the orders of a living God;-that they will go anywhere barefoot to preach their faith, but must be well
bribed to practise it, and are perfectly ready to give
the Gospel gratis, but never the loaves and fishes. If
you chose to take the matter up on any such soldierly
principle, to do your commerce, and your feeding of
nations, for fixed salaries; and to be as particular
about giving people the best food, and the best cloth,
as soldiers are about giving them the best gunpowder,




64      THE CROWN OF WILD OLIVE.
I could carve something for you on your exchange
worth looking at. But I can only at present suggest
decorating its frieze with pendant purses; and making
its pillars broad at the base, for the sticking of bills.
And in the innermost chambers. of it there might be a
statue of Britannia of the Market, who may have, perhaps advisably, a partridge for her crest, typical at
once of her courage in fighting for noble ideas; and
of her interest in game; and round its neck the inscription in golden letters, I Perdix fovit quae non peperit.' * Then, for. her spear, she might have a weaver's beam; and on her shield, instead of her Cross,
the Milanese boar, semi-fleeced, Mvith the town of Gennesaret proper, in the field and tne legend  In the
best market,' and her corslet, of leather, folded over
her heart in the shape of a purse, with thirty slits in it
for a piece of money to go in at, on each day of the
month. And I doubt not but that people would come
to see your exchange, and its goddess, with applause.
Nevertheless, I want to point out to you certain
strange characters in this goddess of yours. She differs from the great Greek and Mediaeval deities essentially in two things-first, as to the continuance of her
presumed power; secondly, as to the extent of it.
ist, as to the Continuance.
The Greek Goddess of Wisdom gave continual increase of wisdom, as the Christian Spirit of Comfort
(or Comforter) continual increase of comfort. There
was no question, with these, of any limit or cessation
of. function. But with your Agora Goddess, that is
just the most important question. Getting on-but
where to? Gathering together-but how much? Do
you mean to gather always-never to spend? If so,
I wish you joy of your goddess, for I am just as well
off as you, without the trouble of worshipping her at all.
But if you do not spend, somebody else will-somebody else must. And it is because of this (among
*Jerem. xvii. ri (best in Septuagint and Vulgate). 'As the partridge, fostering what she brought not forth, so he that getteth
riches, not by right, shall leave them in the mfiidst of his days, and
at his end shall be a fool.'




WTAEFFC.


many other such errors) that I have fearlessly declared
your so-called science of Political Economy to be no
science; because, namely, it has omitted the [study of
exactly the most important branch of the businessthe study of spending. For spend you must, and as
much as you make, ultimately. You gather corn:will you bury England under a heap of grain; or will
you, when you have gathered, finally eat?  You
gather gold:-will you make your house-roofs of it, or
pave your streets with it? That is still one way of
spending it. But if you keep it, you may get more,
I'll give you more; I'll give you all the gold you want
-all you can imagine-if you can tell me what you'll
do with it. You shall have thousands of gold pieces;
-thousands of thousands-millions-mountains, of
gold: where will you keep them? Will you put an
Olympus of silver upon a golden Pelion-make Ossa
like a wart? Do you think the rain and dew would
then come down to you, in the streams from such
mountains, more blessedly than they will down the
mountains which God has made for you, of moss and
whinstone? But it is not gold that you want to
gather! What is it? greenbacks? No; iot those
neither. What is it then —is it ciphers after a capital
I? Cannot you practise writing ciphers, and write as
many as you want? Write ciphers for an hour every
morning, in a big book, and say every evening, I am
worth all those noughts more than I was yesterday.
Won't that do? Well, what in the name of Plutus is
it you want? Not gold, not greenbacks, not ciphers
after a capital I? You will have to answer, after all,
'No; we want, somehow or other, money's worth.'
Well, what is that? Let your Goddess of Getting-on
discover it, and let her learn to stay therein.
II. But there is another question to be asked respecting this Goddess of Getting-on. The first was of
the continuance of her power; the second is of its extent.
Pallas and the Madonna were supposed to be all
the world's Pallas, and all the world's Madonna.
5




66    THE CROWN OF WILD OLIVE.


They could teach all men, and they could comfort all
men. But, look strictly into the nature of the power
of your Goddess of Getting-on; and you will find she
is the Goddess-not of everybody's getting on-but
only of somebody's getting on. This is a vital, or
rather deathful, distinction. Examine it in your own
ideal of the state of national life which this Goddess is
to evoke and maintain. I asked you what it was,
when I was last here;*-you have never told me.
Now, shall I try to tell you?
Your ideal of human life then is, I think, that it
should be passed in a pleasant undulating world, with
iron and coal everywhere underneath it. On each
pleasant bank of this world is to be a beautiful mansion, with two wings; and stables, and coach-houses;
a moderately sized park; a large garden and hothouses; and pleasant carriage drives through the
shrubberies. In this mansion are to live the favored
votaries of the Goddess; the English gentleman, with
his gracious wife, and his beautiful family; always
able to have the boudoir and the jewels for the wife,
and the beautiful ball-dresses for the daughters, and
hunters for the sons, and a shooting in the Highlands
for himself. At the bottom of the bank, is to be the
mill; not less than a quarter of a mile long, with a
steam engine at each end, and two in the middle, and a
chimney three hundred feet high. In this mill are to
be in constant employment from eght hundred to a
thousand workers, who never drink, never strike, always go to church on Sunday and always express
themselves in respectful language.
Is not that, broadly, and in the main features, the
kind of thing you propose to yourselves? It is very
pretty indeed seen from above; not at all so pretty,
seen from below. For, observe, while to one family
this deity is indeed the Goddess of Getting-on, to a
thousand families she is the Goddess of not Gettingon. 'Nay,' you say, 'they have all their chance.'
Yes, so has every one in a lottery, but there must al* Two Paths, p. 98.




TRA FFIC.


67


ways be the same number of blanks. ' Ah! but in a
lottery it is not skill and intelligence which take the
lead, but blind chance.' What then! do you think
the old practice, that ' they should take who have the
power, and they should keep who can,' is less iniquitous, when the power has become power of brains
instead of fist? and that, though we may not take advantage of a child's or a woman's weakness, we may
of a man's foolishness? ' Nay, but finally, work must
be done, and some one must be at the top, some one
at the bottom.' Granted, my friends. Work must
always be; and captains of work must always be; and
if you in the least remember the tone of any of my
writings, you must know that they are thought unfit
for this age, because they are insisting on need of
government, and speaking with scorn of liberty. But
I beg you to observe that there is a wide difference
between being captains or governors of work, and
taking the profits of it. It does not follow, because
you are general of an army, that you are to take all
the treasure, or land, it wins (if it fight for treasure or
land); neither, because you are king of a nation, that
you are to consume all the profits of the nation's work.
Real kings, on the contrary, are known invariably by
their doing quite the reverse of this,-by their taking
the least possible quantity of the nation's work for
themselves. There is no test of real knighthood so
infallible as that. Does the crowned creature live
simply, bravely, unostentatiously? probably he is a
King. Does he cover his body with jewels, and his
table with delicates? in all probability he is not a King.
It is possible he may be, as Solomon was; but that is
when the nation shares his splendor with him. Solomon made gold, not only to be in his own palace as
stones, but to be in Jerusalem as stones. But even so,
for the most part, these splendid kinghoods expire in
ruin, and only the true kinghoods live, which are of
royal laborers; who, both leading rough lives, establish the true dynasties. Conclusively you will find
that because you are king of a nation, it does not fol



8       7TIlE CROWN OF WILD OLIVE.
low that you are to gather for yourself all the wealth
of that nation; neither, because you are king of a
small part of the nation, and lord over the means of
its maintenance-over field, or mill, or mine, are you
to take all the produce of that piece of the foundation
of national existence for yourself.
You will tell me I need not preach against these
things, for I cannot mend them. No, good friends, I
cannot; but you can, and you will; or something else
can and will. Do you think these phenomena are to
stay always in their present power or aspect? All
history shows, on the contrary, that to be the exact
thing they never can do. Change must come; but it
is ours to determine whether change of growth, or
change of death. Shall the Parthenon be in ruins on
its rock, and Bolton priory in its meadow, but these
mills of yours be the consummation of the buildings
of the earth, and their wheels be as the wheels of
eternity? Think you that I men may come, and men
may go,' but-mills-go on forever? Not so; out of
these, better or worse shall come; and it is for you to
choose which.
I know that none of this wrong is done with deliberate purpose. I know, on the contrary, that you wish
your workmen well; that you do much for them, and
that you desire to do more for them, if you saw your
way to it safely. I know that many of you have done,
and are every day doing, whatever you feel to be in
your power; and that even all this wrong and misery
are brought about by a warped sense of duty, each of
you striving to do his best, without noticing that this
best is essentially and centrally the best for himself,
not for others. And all this has come of the spreading of that thrice accursed, thrice impious doctrine of
the modern economist, that ' To do the best for yourself, is finally to do the best for others.' Friends, our
great Master ~said not so; and most absolutely we
shall find this world is not made so. Indeed, to do
the best for others, is finally to do the best for ourselves; but it will not do to have our eyes fixed on




TRA FF;C.


09


that issue. The Pagans had got beyond that. Hear
what a Pagan says of this matter; hear what were,
perhaps, the last written words of Plato,-if not the
last actually written (for this we cannot know), yet
assuredly in fact and power his parting words-in
which, endeavoring to give full crowning and harmonious close to all his thoughts, and to speak the sum
of them by the imagined sentence of the Great Spirit,
his strength and his heart fail him, and the words
cease, broken off forever. It is the close of the dialogue called 'Critias,' in which he describes, partly
from real tradition, partly in ideal dream, the early
state of Athens; and the genesis, and order, and religion, of the fabled isle of Atlantis; in which genesis
he conceives the same first perfection and final degeneracy of man, which in our own Scriptural tradition is
expressed by saying that the Sons of God intermarried
with the daughters of men, for he supposes the earliest race to have been indeed the children of God; and
to have corrupted themselves, until ' their spot was not
the spot of his children.' And this, he says, was the
end; that indeed ' through many generations, so long
as the God's nature in them vet. was full, they were
submissive to the sacred laws, and carried themselves
lovingly to all that had kindred with them in divineness: for their uttermost spirit was faithful and true,
and in every wise great; so that, in all meekness of
wisdom, they dealt with each other, and took all the
chances of life; and despising all things except virtue,
they cared little what happened day by day, and bore
lzghtly fhe burden of gold and of possessions; for they
saw that, if only their common love and virtue increased, all these things would be increased together
with them; but to set their esteem. and ardent pursuit
upon material possession would be to lose that first,
and their virtue and affection together with it. And
by such reasoning, and what of the divine nature remained in them, they gained all this greatness of
which we have already told; but when the God's
part of them faded and became extinct, being mixed




70      TIHE CROWN OF' WILD OLIVE.
again and again, and effaced by the prevalent mortality; and the human nature at last exceeded, they
then became unable to endure the courses of fortune;
and fell into shapelessness of life, and baseness in the
sight of him who could see, having lost everything that
was fairest of their honor; while to the blind hearts
which could not discern the true life, tending to happiness, it seemed that they were then chiefly noble and
happy, being filled with all iniquity of inordinate possession and power. Whereupon, the God of Gods,
whose Kingdom is in laws, beholding a once just nation thus cast into misery, and desiring to lay such
punishment upon them as might make them repent
into restraining, gathered together all the gods into
his dwelling-place, which from heaven's centre overlooks whatever has part in creation; and having assembled them, he said'The rest is silence. So ended are the last words of
the chief wisdom of the heathen, spoken of this idol of
riches; this idol of yours; this golden image high
by measureless cubits, set up where your green fields
of England are furnace-burnt into the likeness of the
plain of Dura: this. idol, forbidden to us, first of all
idols, by your own Master and faith; forbidden to us
also by every human lip that has ever, in any age or
people, been accounted of as able to speak according
to the purposes of God. Continue to make that forbidden deity your principal one, and soon no more art,
no more science, no more pleasure will be possible.
Catastrophe will come; or worse than catastrophe,
slow mouldering and withering into Hades. But if
you can fix some conception of a true human state of
life to be striven for-life for all men as for yourselves
-if you can determine some honest and simple order
of existence; following those trodden ways of wisdom,
which are pleasantness, and seeking her quiet and withdrawn paths, which are peace;-then, and so sanctifying wealth into ' commonwealth,' all your art, your literature, your daily labors, your domestic affection, and
citizen's duty, will join and increase into one magnifi



TRAFFIC.                 71
cent harmony. You will know then how to build,
well enough; you will build with stone well, but with
flesh better; temples not made with hands, but riveted of hearts; and that kind of marble, crimson-veined,
is indeed eternal.




LECTURE Ill.
WAR.
(Delivered at the Royal Military Academy, Woolwic,.)
YOUNG SOLDIERS, I do not doubt but that many of
you canie unwillingly to-night, and many in merely
contemptuous curiosity, to hear what a writer on painting could possibly say, or would venture to say, respecting your great art of war. You may well think
within yourselves, that a painter might, perhaps without immodesty, lecture younger painters upon painting, but not young lawyers upon law, nor young physicians upon medicine-least of all, it may seem to you,
young warriors upon war. And, indeed, when I was
asked to address you, I declined at first, and declined
long; for I felt that you would not be interested in my
special business, and would certainly think there was
small need for me to come to teach you yours. Nay,
I knew that there ought to be no such need, for the
great veteran soldiers of England are now men every
way so thoughtful, so noble, and so good, that no
other teaching than their knightly example, and their
few words of grave and tried counsel should be either
necessary for you, or even, without assurance of due
modesty in the offerer, enduredbyv you.
But being asked, not once nor twice, I have not ventured persistently to refuse; and I will try, in very few
words, to lay before.you some reason why you should
accept my excuse "and hear me patiently. You may imagine that your work is wholly foreign to, and separate
from mine. So far from that, all the pure and noble




WAR.


13


arts of peace are founded on war; no great art ever
yet rose on earth, but among a nation of soldiers.
There is no art among a shepherd people, if it remains
at peace. There is no art among an agricultural people, if it remains at peace. Commerce is barely consistent with fine art; but cannot produce it. Manufacture not only is unable to produce it, but invariably
destroys whatever seeds of it exist. There is no great
art possible to a nation but that which is based on battle.
Now, though I hope you love fighting for its own
sake, you must, I imagine, be surprised at my assertion that there is any such good fruit of fighting. You
supposed, probably, that your office was to defend the
works of peace, but certainly not to found them: nay,
the common course of war, you may have thought,
was only to destroy them. And truly, I who tell you
this of the use of war, should have been the last of men
to tell you so, had I trusted my own experience only.
Hear why: I have given a considerable part of my life
to the investigation of Venetian painting; and the result of that inquiry was my fixing upon one man as
the greatest of all Venetians, and-therefore, as I believed, of all painters whatsoever. I formed this faith,
(whether right or wrong matters at present nothing,)
in the supremacy of the painter Tintoret, under a roof
covered with his pictures; and of those pictures, three
of the noblest were then in the form of ragged canvas,
mixed up with the laths of the roof, rent through by
three Austrian shells.  Now it is not every lecturer
who coldd tell you that he had seen three of his favorite pictures torn to rags by bombshells. And after
such a sight, it is not every lecturer who would tell
you that, nevertheless, war was the foundation of all
great art.
Yet the conclusion is inevitable, from any careful
comparison of the states of great historic races at different periods. Mcrely to show you what I mean, I
will sketch for you, very briefly, the broad steps of the
advance of the best art of the world. The first dawn




74      THE CROWW OF WILD OLIVE.
of it is in Egypt; and the power of it is founded on
the perpetual contemplation of death, and of future
judgment, by the mind of a nation of which the ruling,
caste were priests, and the second, soldiers. The
greatest works produced by them are sculptures of
their kings going out to battle, or receiving the homage
of conquered armies. And you must remember also,
as one of the great keys to the splendor of the Egyptian nation, that the priests were not occupied in theology only. Their theology was the basis of practical
government and law; so that they were not so much
priests as religious judges: the office of Samuel, among
the Jews, being as nearly as possible correspondent to'
theirs.
All the rudiments of art then, and much more than
the rudiments of all science, are laid first by this great
warrior-nation, which held in contempt all mechanical
trades, and in absolute hatred the peaceful life of shep-'
herds. From Egypt art passes directly into Greece,'
where all poetry, and all painting, are nothing else than
the description, praise, or dramatic representation of
war, or of the exercises which prepare for it, in their
connection with offices of religion. All Greek institutions had first respect to war; and their conception of
it, as one necessary office of all human and divine life,
is expressed simply by the images of their guiding gods.
Apollo is the god of all wisdom of the intellect; he
bears the arrow and the bow, before he bears the lyre.
Again, Athena is the goddess of all wisdom in conduct.
It is by the helmet and the shield, oftener than by the'
shuttle, that she is distinguished from other deities.
There were, however, two great differences in principle between the Greek and the Egyptian theories of
policy. In Greece there was no soldier caste; every
citizen was necessarily a soldier. And, again, while
the Greeks rightly despised mechanical arts as much
as the Eyptians, they did not make the fatal mistake
of despising agricultural and pastoral life; but perfectly honored both. These two conditions of truer
thought raise them quite into the highest rank of wise




WAPR.


75


manhood that has yet been reached; for all our great
arts, and nearly all our great thoughts, have been borrowed or derived from them. Take away from us
what they have given; and I hardly can imagine how
- low the modern European would stand.
Now, you are to remember, in passing to the next
phase of history, that though you must have war to
produce art-you must also have much more than war;
namely, an art-instinct or genius in the people; and
that, though all the talent for painting in the world
won't make painters of you, unless you have a gift for
fighting, and none for painting. Now, in the next
great dynasty of soldiers, the art-instinct is wholly
wanting. Ihave not yet investigated the Roman character enough to tell you the causes of this; but I believe, paradoxical as it may seem to you, that, however
truly the Roman might say of himself that he was born
of Mars, and suckled by the wolf, he'was nevertheless,
at heart, more of a farmer than a soldier. The exercises of war were with him practical, not poetical; his
poetry was in domestic life only, and the object of battle, 'pacis imponere morem.' And the arts are extinguished in his hands, and do not rise again, until, with
Gothic chivalry, there comes back into the mind of
Europe a passionate delight in war itself, for the sake
of war. And then, with the romantic knighthood
whch can imagine no other noble employment,-under
the fighting kings of France, England, and Spain; and
under the fighting dukeships and citizenships of Italy,
art is born again, and rises to her height in the great
valleys of Lombardy and Tuscany, through which there
flows not a single stream, from all their Alps or Apennines, that did not once run dark red from battle: and
it reaches its culminating glory in the city which gave
to history the most intense type of soldiership yet seen
among men;-the city whose armies were led in their
assault by their king, led through it to victory by their
king, and so led, though that king of theirs was blind,
and in the extremity of his age.
And from this time forward, as peace is established




76      THIE CROWN OF WILD OLITE.
or extended in Europe, the arts decline. They reach
an unparalleled piteh of costliness, but lose their life,
enlist themselves at last on. the side of luxury and various corruption, and, among wholly tranquil nations,
wither utterly away; remaining only in partial practice
among races who, like the French and us, have still the
minds, though we cannot all live the lives, of soldiers.
' It may be so,' I can suppose that a philanthropist
might exclaim. ' Perish then the arts, if they can flourish only at such a cost. What worth is there in toys
of canvas and stone, if compared to the joy and peace
of artless domestic life?'. And the answer is-truly,
in themselves, none. But as expressions of the highest
state of the human spirit, their worth is infinite. As
results they may be worthless, but, as signs, they are
above price. For it is an assured truth that, whenever
the faculties of men are at their fulness, thev mu7st express themselves by art; and to say that a state is without such expression, is to say that it is sunk from its
proper level of manly nature. So that, when I tell you
that war is the foundation of all the arts, I mean also
that it is the foundation of all the high virtues and
faculties of men.
It was very strange to me to discover this; and very
dreadful-but I saw it to be quite an undeniable fact.
The common notion that peace and the virtues of civil
life flourished together, I found to be wholly untenable. Peace and the vices of civil life only flourish together. We talk of peace and learning, and of peace
and plenty, and of peace and civilization; but I found
that those were not the words which the Muse of History coupled together: that on her lips, the words were
-peace and sensuality, peace and selfishness, peace
and corruption, peace and death. I found, in brief,
that all great nations learned their truth of word, and
strength of thought, in war; that they were nourished
in war, and wasted by peace; taught by war, and deceived by peace; trained by war, and betrayed by
peace;-in a word, that they were born in war, and
expired in peace.




WAR.


77


Yet now note carefully, in the second place, it is not
all war of which this can be said-nor all' dragon's
teeth, which, sown, will start up into men. It is not
the ravage of a barbarian; wolf-flock, as under Genseric
or Suwarrow; nor the habitual restlessness and rapine
of mountaineers, as on the old borders of Scotland;
nor the occasional struggle of a strong peaceful nation
for its life, as in the wars of the Swiss with Austria;
nor the contest of merely ambitious nations for extent
of power, as in the wars of France under Napoleon,
or the just terminated war in America. None of these
forms of war build anything but tombs. But the creative or foundational war is that in which the natural
restlessness and love of contest among men are disciplined, by consent, into modes of beautiful-though it
may be fatal-play: in which the natural ambition and
love of power of men are disciplined into the aggressive conquest of surrounding evil: and in which the
natural instincts of self-defence are sanctified by the
nobleness of the institutions, and purity of the households, which they are appointed to defend. To such
war as this all men are born; in such war as this any
man may happily die; and forth from such war as this
have arisen throughout the extent of past ages, all the
highest sanctities and virtues of humanity.
I shall therefore divide the war of which I would
speak to you into three heads. War for exercise or
play; war for dominion; and, war for defence.
I. And first, of war for exercise or play. I speak of
it primarily in this light, because, through all past
history, manly war has been more an exercise than
anything else, among the classes who cause, and proclaim it. It is not a game to the conscript, or the
pressed sailor; but neither of these are the causers of
it. To the governor who determines that war shall
be, and to the youths who voluntarily adopt it as their
profession, it has always been a grand pastime; and
chiefly pursued because they had nothing else to do.
And this is true without any exception.  No king
whose mind was fully occupied with the development




78      THE CROWN OF WILD OLIVE.
of the inner resources of his kingdom, or with any
other sufficing subject of thought, ever entered into
war but on compulsion. No youth who was earnestly busy with any peaceful subject of study, or set
on any serviceable course of action, ever voluntarily
became a soldier. Occupy him early, and wisely, in
agriculture or business, in science or in literature, and
he will never think of war otherwise than as a calamity.
But leave him idle; and, the moie brave and active
and capable he is by nature, the more he will thirst
for some appointed field for action; and find, in the
passion and peril of battle, the only satisfying fulfilment of his unoccupied being. And from the earliest
incipient civilization until now, the population of the
earth divides itself, when you look at it widely, into
two races; one of workers, and the other of players —
one tilling the ground, manufacturing, building, and
otherwise providing for the necessities of life;-the
other part proudly idle, and continually therefore
needing recreation, in which they use the productive
and laborious orders partly as their cattle, and partly
as their puppets or pieces in the game of death.
Now, remember, whatever virtue or goodliryess
there may be in this game of war, rightly played,
there is none when you thus play it with a multitude
of small human pawns.
If you, the gentlemen of this or any other kingdom,
choose to make your pastime of contest, do so, and
welcome; but set not up these unhappy peasantpieces upon the green fielded board. If the wager is
to be of death, lay it on your own heads, not theirs.
A goodly struggle in the Olympic dust, though it be
the dust of the grave, the gods will look upon, and be
with you in; but they will not be with you, if you sit
on the sides of the amphitheatre, whose steps are the
mountains of earth, whose arena its valleys, to urge
your peasant millions into gladiatorial war. You also,
you tender and delicate women, for whom, and by
whose command, all true battle has been, and must
ever be; you would perhaps shrink now, though you




WAR.


79


need not, from the thought of sitting as queens above
set lists where the jousting game might be mortal.
How much more, then, ought you to shrink from the
thought of sitting above a theatre pit in which even a
few condemned slaves were slaying each other only for
your delight. And do you not shrink from the fact of
sitting above a theatre pit, where,-not condemned
slaves,-but the best and bravest of the poor sons of your
people, slay each other,-not man to man,-as the
coupled gladiators; but race to race, in duel of generations?  You would tell me, perhaps, that you do
not sit to see this; and it is indeed true, that the women of Europe-those who have no heart-interest of,
their own at peril in the contest-draw the curtains of
their boxes, and muffle the openings; so that from
the pit of the circus of slaughter there may reach them
only at intervals a half-heard cry and a murmur as of
the wind's sighing, when myriads of souls expire.
They shut out the death-cries; and are happy, and
talk wittily among themselves.  That is the utter
literal fact of what our ladies do in their pleasant lives.
Nay, you might answer, speaking for them-' We
do not let these wars come to pass for our play, nor
by our carelessness; we cannot help them. How can
any final quarrel of nations be settled otherwise than
by war?' I cannot now delay, to tell you how political quarrels might be otherwise settled. But grant
that they cannot. Grant that no law of reason can be
understood by nations; no law of justice submitted
to by them: and that, while questions of a few acres,
and of petty cash, can be determined by truth and
equity, the questions which are to issue in the perishing or saving of kingdoms can be determined only
by the truth of the sword, and the equity of the rifle.
Grant this, and even then, judge if it will always be
necessary for you to put your quarrel into the hearts
of your poor, and sign your treaties with peasants'
blood. You would be ashamed to do this in your own
private position and power. Why should you not be
ashamed also to do it in public place and power? If




80        THE CR7RO 7N OF WILD OLIVE.
you quarrel with your neighbor, and the quarrel be
indeterminable bylaw, and mortal, you and he do not
send your footmen to Battersea fields to fight it out;
nor do you set fire to his tenants' cottages, nor spoil
their goods. You fight out your quarrel yourselves,
and at your own danger, if at all. And you do not
think it materially affects the arbitrement that one of
you has a larger household than the other; so that,
if the servants or tenants were brought into the field
with their masters, the issue of the contest could not
be doubtful? You either refuse the private duel, or
you practise it under laws of honor, not of physical
force; that so it may be, in a manner, justly concluded.
Now the just or unjust conclusion of the private feud
is of little moment, while the just or unjust conclusion
of the public feud is of eternal moment: and yet, inr
this public quarrel, you take your servants' sons from
their arms to fight for it, and your servants' food from
their lips to support it; and the black seals on the
parchment of your treaties of peace are the deserted
hearth and the fruitless field.   There is a ghastly
ludicrousness in this, as there is mostly in these wide
and universal crimes. Hear the statement of the very
fact of it in the most literal words of the greatest of
our English thinkers:
'What, speaking in quite unofficial language, is the net-purport
and upshot of war? To my own knowledge, for example, there dwell
and toil, in the British village of Dumdrudge, usually some five
hundred souls. From these, by certain " natural enemies " of the
French, there are successively selected, during the French war,
say thirty able-bodied men. Dumdrudge, at her own expense, has
suckled and nursed them  she has, not without difficulty and sorrow, fed them up to manhood, and ever trained them to crafts, so
that one can weave, another build, another hammer, and the
weakest can stand under thirty stone avoirdupois. Nevertheless,
amid much weeping and swearing, they are selected; all dressed
in red; and shipped away, at the public charges, some two thousand miles, or say only to the south of Spain; and fed there till
wanted.
' And now to that same spot in the south of Spain are thirty similar French artisans, from a French Dumdrudge, in like manner
wending; till at length, after infinite effort, the two parties come
into actual juxtaposition; and Thirty stands fronting Thirty, each
with a gun in his hand.
'Straightway the word " Fire! " is given, and they blow the




WAR.


8I


souls out of one another, and in place of sixty brisk useful craftsmen, the world has sixty dead carcases, which it must bury, and
anon shed tears for. Had these men any quarrel? Busy as the
devil is, not the smallest! They lived far enough apart; were the
entirest strangers; nay, in so wide a universe, there was even,
unconsciously, by commerce, some mutual helpfulness between
them. How then? Simpleton! their governors had fallen out;
and instead of shooting one another, had the cunning to make
these poor blockheads shoot.' (Sartor Resartus.)
Positively, then, gentlemen, the game of battle
must not, and shall not, ultimately be played this way.
But should it be played any way? Should it, if not
by your servants, be practised by yourselves? I think,
yes. Both history and human instinct seem alike to
say, yes. All healthy men like fighting, and like the
sense of danger; all brave women like to hear of
their fighting, and of their facing danger. This is a
fixed instinct in the fine race of them; and I cannot
help fancying that fair fight is the best play for them;
and that atournament was a better game than a steeplechase. The time may perhaps come in France as
well as here, for universal hurdle-races and cricketing:
but I do not think universal ' crickets' will bring out
the best qualities of the nobles of either country. I
use, in such question, the test which I have adopted,
of the connection of war with other arts; and I reflect
how, as a sculptor, I should feel, if I were asked to design a monument for a dead knight, in Westminster
Abbey, with a carving of a bat at one end, and a ball
at the other. It may be the remains in me only of
savage Gothic prejudice; but I had rather carve it
with a shield at one end, and a sword at the other.
And this, observe, with no reference whatever to any
story of duty done, or cause defended. Assume the
knight merely to have ridden out occasionally to fight
his neighbor for exercise; assume him even a soldier
of fortune, and to have gained his bread, and filled his
purse, at the sword's point. Still, I feel as if it were,
somehow, grander and worthier in him to have made
his bread by sword play than any other play; I had
rather he had made it by thrusting than batting;much more, than by betting. Much rather that he
6




82      THE CR OWN OF WILD OLIVE.
should ride war horses, than back race horse's; andI say it sternly and deliberately-much rather would
I have him slay his neighbor, than cheat him.
But remember, so far as this may be true, the game
of war is only that in which thefuitiersonaZfpower oJ
the humant creature is brought out in management of
its weapons. And this for three reasons:First, the great justification of this game is that it
truly when well played, determines who is the best
man;-who is the highest bred, the most self-denying,
the most fearless, the coolest of nerve, the swiftest of
eye and hand. You cannot test these qualities wholly,
unless there is a clear possibility of the struggle's ending in death. It is only in the fronting of that condition
that the full trial of the man, soul and body, comes
out. You may go to your game of wickets, or of
hurdles, or of cards, and any knavery that is in you
may stay unchallenged all the while. But if the play
may be ended at any moment by a lance-thrust, a man
will probably make up his accounts a little before he
enters it. Whatever is rotten and evil in him will
weaken his hand more in holding a sword hilt, than in
balancing a billiard cue; and on the whole, the habit
of living lightly hearted, in daily presence of death,
always has had, and must have, a tendency both to
the making and testing of honest men. But for the
final testing, observe, you must make the issue of
battle strictly dependent on fineness of frame, and
firmness of hand. You must not make it the question,
which of the combatants has the longest gun, or which
has got behind the biggest tree, or which has the wind
in his face; or which has gunpowder made by best
chemists, or iron smelted with the best coal, or the
angriest mob at his back. Decide your battle, whether
of nations, or individuals, on those terms;-aind you
have only multiplied confusion, and added slaughter
to iniquity. But decide your battle by pure trial which
has the strongest arm, and steadiest heart,-and you
have gone far to decide a great many matters besides,
and to decide them rightly.




WAR.


S3


And the other reasons for this mode of decision of
cause, are the diminution both of the material destructiveness, or cost, and of the physical distress of war.
For you must not think that in speaking to you in this
(as you may imagine), fantastic praise of battle, I have
overlooked the conditions weighing against me. I
pray all of you, who have not read, to read with the
most earnest attention, Mr. Helps's two essays on War
and Government, in the first volume of the last series
of ' Friends in Council.' Everything that can be urged
against war is there simply, exhaustively, and most1
graphically stated. And all, there urged, is true. But
the two great counts of evil alleged against war by
that most thoughtful writer, hold only against modern
war. If you have to take away masses of men from
all industrial employment,-to feed them by the labor
of others,-to move them and provide them with de-i
structive machines, varied daily in national rivalship of
inventive cost; if you have to ravage the country which
you attack,-to destroy for a score of future years, its
roads, its woods, its cities, and its harbors;-and if,
finally, having brought masses of men, counted by
hundreds of thousands, face to face, you tear those
masses to pieces with jagged shot, and leave the fragments of living creatures, countlessly beyond all help of
surgery, to starve and parch, through days of torture,
I down into clots of clay-what book of accounts shall
record the cost of your work;-What book of judgment
sentence the guilt of it?
That, I say, is modern war,-scientific war,-chemical and mechanic war, worse even than the savage's
poisoned arrow. And yet you will tell me, perhaps,
that any other war than this is impossible now. It/
may be so; the progress of science cannot, perhaps, i
be otherwise registered than by new facilities of t
destruction; and the brotherly love of our enlarging
Christianity be only proved by multiplication of murder. y
Yet hear, for a moment, what war was, in Pagan andf
ignorant days; —what war might yet be, if we could
extinguish our science in darkness, and join the heathen's




84      YHE CROWN OF WILD OLIVE.
practice to the Christian's theory. I read you this from
a book which probably most of you know well, and all
ought to know-Muller's 'Dorians;'-but I have put
the points I wish you to remember in closer connection
than in his text.
'The chief characteristic of the warriors of Sparta
was great composure and subdued strength; the violence (o7v'aa) of Aristodemus and Isadas being considered as deserving rather of blame than praise; and
these qualities in general distinguished the Greeks from
the northern Barbarians, whose boldness always consisted in noise and tumult. For the same reason the
Spartans sacrzficed to the Muses before an action;
these goddesses being expected to produce regularity
and order in battle; as they sacrificed on the same occasion in Crete to the god of love, as the confirmer of
mutual esteem and shame. Every man put on a
crown, when the band of flute-players gave the signal
for attack; all the shields of the line glittered with their
high polish, and mingled their splendor with the dark
red of the purple mantles, which were meant both to
adorn the combatant, and to conceal the blood of the
wounded; to fall well and decorously being an incentive the more to the most heroic valor. The conduct
of the Spartans in battle denotes a high and noble
disposition, which rejected all the extremes of brutal
rage.  The pursuit of the enemy ceased when the
victory was completed; and after the signal for retreat
had been given, all hostilities ceased. The spoiling of
arms, at least during the battle, was also interdicted;
and the consecration of the spoils of slain enemies to
the gods, as, in general, all rejoicings for victory, were
considered as ill-omened.'
Such was the war of the greatest soldiers who
prayed to heathen gods.  What Christian war is,
preached by Christian ministers, let any one tell you,
who saw the sacred crowning, and heard the sacred
flute-playing, and was inspired and sanctified by the
divinely-measured and musical language, of any North
American regiment preparing for its charge.  And




WAR.


what is the relative cost of life in pagan and Christian
wars, let this one fact tell you:-the Spartans won the
decisive battle of Corinth with the loss of eight men;
the victors at indecisive Gettysburg confess to the loss
of 30,000.
II. I pass now to our second order of war, the commonest among men, that undertaken in desire of dominion. And let me ask you to think for a few
moments what the real meaning of this desire of dominion is-first in the minds of kings-then in that of
nations.
Now, mind you this first,-that I speak either about
kings, or masses of men, with a fixed conviction that
human nature is a noble and beautiful thing; not a
foul nor a base. thing. All the sin of men I esteem as
their disease, not their nature; as a folly which may
be prevented, not a necessity which must be accepted.
And my wonder, even when things are at their worst,
is always at the height which this human nature can
attain. Thinking it high, I find it always a higher
thing than I thought it; while those who think it low, /
find it, and will find it, always lower than they thought
it: the fact being, that it is infinite, and capable of
infinite height and infinite fall; but the nature of itand here is the faith which I would have you hold with
me-the nature of it is in the nobleness, not in the
catastrophe.
Take the faith in its utmost terms. When the captain of the ' London' shook hands with his mate,
saying ' God speed you! I will go down with my passengers,' that I believe to be 'human nature.' He
does not do it from any religious motive-from any
hope of reward, or any fear of punishment; he does it
because he is a man. But when a mother, living
among the fair fields of merry England, gives her twoyear-old child to be'suffocated under a mattress in her
inner room, while the said mother waits and talks outside; that I believe to be not human nature. You
have the two extremes there, shortly. And you, men,
and mothers, who are here face to face with me to



86      THE CROW 0    OF WILD OLIVE.
night, I call upon you to say which of these is human,
and which inhuman-which 'natural' and which ' unnatural?' Choose your creed at once, I beseech you:
-choose it with unshaken choice-choose it forever.
Will you take, for foundation of act and hope, the faith
that this man was such as God made him, or that this
woman was such as God made her? Which of them
has failed from their nature-from their present, possible, actual nature;-not their nature of long ago, but
their nature of now? Which has betrayed it-falsified
it? Did the guardian who died in his trust, die inhumanly, and as a fool; and did the murderess of her
child fulfil the law of her being? Choose, I say; infinitude of choices hang upon this. You have had
false prophets among you-for centuries you have had
them-solemnly warned against them though you were-;
false prophets, who have told you that all men are.
nothing but fiends or wolves, half beast, half devil.
Believe that, and indeed you may sink to that. But
refuse that, and have faith that God' made you upright,'
thoughyouz have sought out many inventions; so, you
will strive daily to become more what your Maker
meant and means you to be, and daily gives you also
the power to be-and you will cling more and more to
the nobleness and virtue that is in you, saying, 'My
righteousness I hold fast, and will not let it go.'
I have put this to you as a choice, as if you might
hold either of these creeds you liked best. But there
is in reality no choice for you; the facts being quite
easily ascertainable. You have no business to think
about this matter, or to choose in it. The broad fact
is, that a human creature of the highest race, and most
perfect as a human thing, is invariably both kind and
true; and that as you lower the race, you get cruelty
and falseness, as you get deformity.: and this so steadily and assuredly, that the two great words which, in
their first use, meant only perfection of race, have
i come, by consequence of the invariable connection of
virtue with the fine human nature, both to signify
benevolence of disposition. The word generous, and




AWlfA.


the word gentle, both, in their origin, meant only ' of
pure race,' but because charity and tenderness are
inseparable from this purity of blood, the words which
once stood only for pride, now stand as synonyms for
virtue.
Now, this being the true power of our inherent
humanity, and seeing that all the aim of education
should be to develop this;-and seeing also what magnificent self sacrifice the higher classes of men are
capable of, for any cause that they understand or feel,
-it is wholly inconceivable to me how well-educated
princes, who ought to be of all gentlemen the gentlest,
and of all nobles the most generous, and whose title
of royalty means only their function of doing every
man 'rzght '-how these, I say, throughout history,
should so rarely pronounce themselves on the side of
the poor and of justice, but continually maintain themselves and their own interests by oppression of the poor,
and by wresting of justice; and how this should be
accepted as so natural, that the word loyalty, which
means faithfulness to law, is used as if it were only the
duty of a people to be loyal to their king, and not the
duty of a king to be infinitely more loyal to his people.
How comes it to pass that a captain will die with his
passengers, and lean over the gunwale to give the
parting boat its course; but that a king will not usually
die with, much less for, his passengers,-thinks it
rather incumbent on his passengers, in any number, to
die for hizm?  Think, I beseech you, of the wonder of
this. The sea captain, not captain by divine right, but
only by company's appointment;-not a man of royal
descent, but only a plebeian who can steer;-not with
the eyes of the world upon him, but with feeble chance,
depending on one poor boat, of his name being ever
heard above the wash of the fatal waves;-not with
the cause of a nation resting on his act, but helpless to
save so much as a child from among the lost crowd
with whom he resolves to be lost,-yet goes down
quietly to his grave, rather than break his faith to these
few emigrants. But your captain by divine right, —




88    THE CeROWN OF WILD OLIVE.


your captain with the hues of a hundred shields of
kings upon his breast,-your captain whose every deed,
brave or base, will be illuminated or branded forever
before unescapable eyes of men,-your captain whose
every thought and act are beneficent, or fatal, from
sunrising to setting, blessing as the sunshine, or shadowing as the night,-this captain, as you find him in
history, for the most part thinks only how he may tax
his passengers, and sit at most ease in his state cabin!
For observe, if there had been indeed in the hearts
of the rulers of great multitudes of men any such conception of work for the good of those under their command, as there is in the good and thoughtful masters
of any small company of men, not only wars for the
sake of mere increase of power could never take place,
but our idea of power itself would be entirely altered.
Do you suppose that to think and act even for a million of men, to hear their complaint, watch their weaknesses, restrain their vices, make laws for them, lead
them, day by day, to purer life, is not enough for one
man's work? If any of us were absolute lord only of
a district of a hundred miles square, and were resolved
on doing our utmost for it; making it feed as large
a number of people as possible; making every clod
productive, and every rock defensive, and every human'
being happy; should we not have enough on our hands
think you? But if the ruler has any other aim thanthis; if, careless of the result of his interference, he
desire only the authority to interfere; and, regardless
of what is ill-done or well-done, cares only that it shall
be done at his bidding;-if he would rather do two
hundred miles' space of mischief, than one hundred
miles' space of good, of course he will try to add to his
territory; and to add illimitably. But does he add to
\   his power? Do you call it power in a child, if he is
allowed to play with the wheels and bands of some vast
engine, pleased with their murmur and whirl, till his
unwise touch, wandering where it ought not, scatters
beam and wheel into ruin? Yet what machine is so
vast, so incognizable, as the working of the mind of a




WAR.


89


nation; what child's touch so wanton, as the word ol
a selfish king? And yet, how long have we allowed
the historian to speak of the extent of the calamity a
man causes, as a just ground for his pride; and to ex,
tol him as the greatest prince, who is only the centre of
the widest error. Follow out this thought by yourselves; and you will find that all power, properly so
called, is wise and benevolent. There may be capacity
in a drifting fire-ship to destroy a fleet; there may be
venom enough in a dead body to infect a nation:-but
which of you, the most ambitious, would desire a drifting kinghood, robed in consuming fire, or a poisondipped sceptre whose touch was mortal? There is no
true potency, remember, but that of help; nor true
ambition, but ambition to save.
And then, observe farther, this true power, the power
of saving, depends neither on multitude of men, nor
on extent of territory. We are continually assuming
that nations become strong according to their numbers.
They indeed become so, if those numbers can be made
of one mind; but how are you sure you can stay them
in one mind, and keep them from having north and
south minds? Grant them unanimous, how know you
they will be unanimous in right? If they are unanimous in wrong, the more they are, essentially the
weaker they are. Or, suppose that they can neither be
of one mind, nor of two minds, but can only be of no
mind? Suppose they are a mere helpless meo' tottering into precipitant catastrophe, like a wtagon load
of stones when the wheel comes off. Dangerous
enough for their neighbors, certainly, but not ' powerful.'
Neither does strength depend on extent of territory,
any more than upon number of population. Take up
your maps when you go home this evening, —put the
cluster of British Isles beside the mass of South America; and then consider whether any race of men need
care how much ground they stand upon. The strength
is in the men, and in their unity and virtue, not in their
standing room: a little group of wise hearts is bettef




93      THE CROWN OF W'IfLD OLIVE.
than a wilderness full of fools; and only that nation
gains true territory, which gains itself.
And now for the brief practical outcome of all this.
Remember, no government is ultimately strong, but
in proportion to its kindness and justice; and that a
nation does not strengthen, by merely multiplying and
diffusing itself. We have not strengthened as yet, by
multiplying into America. Nay, even when it has not
to encounter the separating conditions of emigration,
a nation need not boast itself of multiplying on its own
ground, if it multiplies only as flies or locusts do, with
the god of flies for its god. It multiplies its strength
only by increasing as one great family, in perfect fellowship and brotherhood.  And lastly, it does not
strengthen itself by seizing dominion over races whorn
it cannot benefit.  Austria is not strengthened, but
weakened, by her grasp of Lombardy; and whatever
apparent increase of majesty and of wealth may have
accrued to us from the possession of India, whether
these prove to us ultimately power or weakness, depends wholly on the degree in which our influence on
the native race shall be benevolent and exalting. But,
as it is at their own peril that any race extends their
dominion in mere desire of power, so it is at their own
still greater peril that they refuse to undertake aggressive war, according to their force, whenever they are1
assured that their authority would be helpful and pro-'
tective. Nor need you listen to any sophistical objection of the impossibility of knowing when a people's
help is needed, or when not. Make your national con- [
science clean, and your national eyes will soon be clear.
No man who is truly ready to take part in a noble
quarrel will ever stand long in doubt by whom, or in
what cause, his aid is needed. I hold it my duty to
make no political statement of any special bearing in
this presence; but I tell you broadly and boldly, that,;
within these last ten years, we English have, as a
knightly nation, lost our spurs: we have fought where
we should not have fought, for gain; and we have
been passive where we should not have been passive,




WAR.


91


for fear. I tell you that the principle of non-intervention, as now preached among us, is as selfish and cruel
as the worst frenzy of conquest, and differs from it'
only by being not only malignant, but dastardly.
I know, however, that my opinions on this subject
differ too widely from those ordinarily held, to be any
farther intruded upon you; and therefore I pass lastly '~
to examine the conditions of the third kind of noble
war;-war waged simply for the defence of the country in which we were born, and for the maintenance
and execution of her laws, by whomsoever threatened
or defied. It is to this duty that I suppose most men
entering the army consider themselves in reality to be
bound, and I want you now to reflect what the laws
of mere defence ar.; and what the soldier's duty, as
now understood, or supposed to be understood. You
have solemnly devoted yourselves to be English soldiers, for the guardianship of England. I want you to
feel what this vow of yours indeed means, or is gradually coming to mean. You take it upon you, first,
while you are sentimental schoolboys; you go into
your military convent, or barracks, just as a girl goes
into her convent while she is a sentimental schoolgirl;
neither of you then know what you are about, though
both the good soldiers and good nuns make the best
of it afterwards. You don't understand perhaps why
I call you ' sentimental' schoolboys, when you go into
the army? Because, on the whole, it is love of adventure, of excitement, of fine dress and of the pride of
fame, all which are sentimental motives, which chiefly
make a boy like going into the Guards better than into
a counting-house. You fancy, perhaps, that there is a
severe sense of duty mixed with these peacocky motives? And in the best of you, there is; but do not
think that it is principal. If you cared to do your duty
to your country in a prosaic and unsentimental wag,'
depend upon it, there is now truer duty to be done in
raising harvests, than i1 burning them; more in building houses, than in selling them-more in winning
money by your own work, wherewith to help ren, than




9z      TIE CROWN OF WILD OLIVE.
in taxing other people's work, for money wherewith to
slay men; more duty finally, in honest and unselfish
living than in honest and unselfish dying, though that
seems to your boys' eyes the bravest. So far then, as
for your own honor and the honor of your families,
you choose brave death in a red coat before brave life
in a black one, you are sentimental; and now see
what this passionate vow of yours comes to. For a
little while you ride, and you hunt tigers or savages,
you shoot, and are shot; you are happy, and proud,
always, and honored and wept if you die; and you are
satisfied with your life, and with the end of it; believing, on the whole, that good rather than harm of it
comes to others, and much pleasure to you. But as
the sense of duty enters into your forming minds, the
vow takes another aspect. You find that you have
put yourselves into the hand of your country as a
weapon. You have vowed to strike, when she bids
you, and to stay scabbarded when she bids you; al{
that you need answer for is, that you fail not in her
grasp. And there is goodness in this, and greatness,
if you can trust the hand and heart of the Britomart.
who has braced you to her side, and are assured that
when she leaves you sheathed in darkness, there is no
need for your flash to the sun. But remember, good
and noble as this state may be, it is a state of slavery.
There are different kinds of slaves and different masters. Some slaves are scourged to their work by whips,
others are scourged to it by restlessness or ambition.
It does not matter what the whip is; it is none the less
a whip, because you have cut thongs for it out of your
own souls: the fact, so far, of slavery, is in being
driven to your work without thought, at another's bidding.  Again, some slaves are bought with money,
and others with praise. It matters not what the purchase-money is. The distinguishing sign of slavery is
to have a price, and be bought for it. Again, it matlers not what kind of work you are set on; some
slaves are set to forced diggings, others to forced
marches; some dig furrows, others field-work, and




WARk.


93


others graves. Some press the juice of reeds, and
some the juice of vines, and some the bloodof men.
The fact of the captivity is the same whatever work
we are set upon, though the fruits of the toil may be
different. But, remember, in thus vowing ourselves
to be the slaves of any master, it ought to be some
subject of forethought with us, what work he is likely
to put us upon. You may think that the whole duty
of a soldier is to be passive, that it is the country you
have left behind who is to command, and you have
only to obey. But are you sure that you have left all
your country behind, or that the part of it you have so
left is indeed the best part of it? Suppose-and, remember, it is quite conceivable-that you yourselves
are indeed the best part of England; that you, who
have become the'slaves, ought to have been the masters; and that those who are the masters, ought to
have been the slaves! If it is a noble and whole-hearted England, whose bidding you are bound to do, it is
well; but if you are yourselves the best of her heart,
and the England you have left be but a half-hearted
England, how say you of your obedience? You were
too proud to become shopkeepers: are you satisfied
then to become servants of shopkeepers? You were
too proud to become merchants or farmers yourselves:
will you have merchants or farmers then for your field
marshals? You had no gifts of special grace for Exeter Hall: will you have some gifted person thereat
for your commander-in-chief, to judge of your work, I
and reward? You imagine yourselves to be the army
of England: how if you should find yourselves, at last,
only the police of her manufacturing towns, and the
beadles of her little Bethels?
It is not so yet, nor will be so, I trust, forever;
but what I want you to see, and to be assured of, is,
that the ideal of soldiership is not mere passive obedience and bravery; that, so far from this, no country
is in a healthy state which has separated, even in a
small degree, her civil from her military power. All
states of the world, however great, fall at once when




94      THE CROWN OF WILD OLIVE.
they use mercenary armies; and although it is a less
instant. form of error (because involving no national
taint of cowardice), it is yet an error no less ultimately fatal-it is the error especially of modern
times, of which we cannot yet know all the calamitous
consequences-to take away the best blood and
strength of the nation, all the soul-substance of it that
is brave, and careless of reward, and scornful of pain,
and faithful in trust; and to cast that into steel, and
make a mere sword of it; taking away its voiceland will;
but to keep the worst part of the nation-whatever is
cowardly, avaricious, sensual, and faithless-and to
give to this the voice, to this the authority, to this the
chief privilege, where there is least capacity, of
thought. The fulfilment of your vow for the defence
of England will by no means consist in carrying out
such a system. You are not true soldiers, if you only
mean to stand at a shop door, to protect shop-boys
who are cheating inside. A soldier's vow to his
country is that he will die for the guardianship of her
domestic virtue, of her righteous laws, and of her anyway challenged or endangered honor. A state without virtue, without laws, and without honor, he is
bound not to defend; nay, bound to redress by his
own right hand that which he sees to be base in her.
So sternly is ths law of Nature and life, that a nation
once utterly corrupt can only be redeemed by a military despotism-never by talking, nor by its free effort.
And the health of any state consists simply in this;
that in it, those who are wisest shall also be strongest;
its rulers should be also its soldiers; or, rather, by
force of intellect more than of sword, its soldiers its
rulers. Whatever the hold which the aristocracy of
England has on the heart of England, in that they are
still always in front of her battles, this hold will not be
enough, unless they are also in front of her thoughts.
And truly her thoughts need good captain's reading
now, if ever! Do you know what, by this beautiful
division of labor (her brave men fighting, and her cowards thinking), she has come at last to think? Here




WAR.


is a bit of paper in my hand,* a good one too, and an
honest one; quite representative of the best common
public thought of England at this moment; and it is
holding forth in one of its leaders upon our 'social
welfare,'-upon our 'vivid life'-upon the 'political
supremacy of Great Britain.' And what do you think
all these are owing to? To what our English sires
have done for us, and taught us, age after age? No:
not to that. To our honesty of heart, or coolness of
head, or steadiness of will? No: not to these. To our
thinkers, or our statesmen, or our poets, or our captains,
or our martyrs, or the patient labor of our poor? No:
not to these; or at least not to these in any chief measure.
Nay, says the journal, 'more than any agency, it is the
cheapness and abundance of our coal which have made
us what we are.' If it be so, then' ashes to ashes'
be our epitaph! and the sooner the better. I tell you,
gentlemen of England, if ever you would have your
country breathe the pure breath of heaven again, and\
receive again a soul into her body, instead of rotting into I
a carcase, blown up in the belly with carbonic acid (and
great t/at way), you must think, and feel, for your
England, as well as fight for her: you must teach her
that all the true greatness she ever had, or ever can
have, she won while her fields were green and he;/
faces ruddy;-that greatness is still possible for Englishmen, even though the ground be not hollow under
their feet, nor the sky black over their heads;-and
that, when the day comes for their country to lay her
* I do not care to refer to the journal quoted, because the article
was unworthy of its general tone, though in order to enable the
audience to verify the quoted sentence, I left the number containing it on the table, when I delivered this lecture. But a saying of
Baron Liebig's, quoted at the head of a leader on the same subject
in the Daily Telegraph of January i, i866, summarily digests and
presents the maximum folly of modern thought in this respect.
Civilization ' says the Baron, 'is the economy of power, and English power is coal.' Not altogetherso,my chemical friend. Civilization is the -making of civil persons, which is a kind of distillation
of which alembics are incapable, and does not at all imply the
turning of a small company of gentlemen into a large company of
ironmongers. And English power (what little of it may be left), is
by no means coal, but, indeed, of that which, 'when the whole
world turns to coal, then chiefly lives.'  O




96    THE CROWN OF WILD OLIVE.


honors in the dust, her crest will not rise from it more
loftily because it is dust of coal. Gentlemen, I tell
you, solemnly, that the day is coming when the
soldiers of England must be her tutors; and the
captains of her army, captains also of her mind.
And now, remember, you soldier youths, who are
thus in all ways the hope of your country; or must be,
if she have any hope: remember that your fitness for
all future trust depends upon what you are now. No
good soldier in his old age was ever careless or indolent in his youth. Many a giddy and thoughtless boy
has become a good bishop, or a good lawyer, or a
good merchant; but no such an one ever became a
good general. I challenge you, in all history, to find
a record of a good soldier who was not grave and
earnest in his youth. And, in general, I have no patience with people who talk about 'the thoughtlessness of youth' indulgently. I had infinitely rather
hear. of thoughtless old age, and the indulgence due to
tha/. When a man has done his work, and nothing
can any way be materially altered in his fate, let him
forget his toil, and jest with his fate, if he will; but
what excuse can you find for wilfulness of thought,
at the very time when every crisis of future fortune.hangs on your decisions? A youth thoughtless!
when all the happiness of his home forever depends
on the chances, or the passions, of an hour! A youth
thoughtless! when the career of all his days depends
on the opportunity of a moment! A youth thought-.
less! when his every act is a foundation-stone of future conduct, and every imagination a fountain of life
or death! Be thoughtless in anay after years, rather
than now-though, indeed, there is only one place
where a man may be nobly thoughtless,-his death-.
Ibed. No thinking should ever be left to be done/
'there.
Having, then, resolved that you will not waste recklessly, but earnestly use, these early days of yours,
remember that all the duties of her children to England may basummed in two words-industry, and




97


honor. I say first, industry, for it is it.:  that soldier youth are especially tempted to fai.. Yet, surely,
there is no reason, because your life may possibly or
probably be shorter than other men's, that you should
therefore waste more recklessly the portion of it that
is granted you; neither do the duties of your piofession, which require you to keep your bodies strong, in
any wise involve the keeping of your minds weak.
So far from that, the experience, the hardship, and the
activity of a soldier's hfe render his powers of thought
more accurate than those of other men; and while,
for others, all knowledge is often little more than a
means of amusement, there is no form of science
which a soldier may not at some time or other find
bearing on business of life and death. A young mathematician may be excused for languor in studying
curves to be described only with a pencil; but not in
tracing those which are to be described with a rocket.
Your knowledge of a wholesome herb may involve the
feeding of an army; and acquaintance with an obscure
point of geography, the success of a campaign.
Never waste an instant's time, therefore; the sin of
idleness is a thousand-fold greater in you than in
other youths; for the fates of those who will one day
be under your command hang upon your knowledge;
lost moments now will be lost lives then, and every
instant which you carelessly take for play, you buy
with blood. But there is one way of wasting time, of
all the vilest, because it wastes, not time only, but
the interest and energy of your minds. Of all the ungentlemanly habits into which you can fall, the vilest
is betting, or interesting yourselves in the issues of
betting. It unites nearly every condition of folly and
vice; you concentrate your interest upon a matter of
chance, instead of upon a subject of true knowledge;
and you back opinions which you have no grounds
for forming, merely because they are your own. All
the insolence of egotism is in this; and so far as the
love of excitement is complicated with the hope of
winning money, you turn yourselves into the basest sort
7




M8    7HE CROWN OF WILD OLIVE.


of tradesmen-those who live by speculation. Were
there no other ground for industry, this would be a
sufficient one; that it protected you from the temptation to so scandalous a vice. Work faithfully, and
you will put yourselves in possession of a glorious and
enlarging happiness; not such as can be won by the
speed of a horse, or marred by the obliquity of a ball.
First, then, by industry you must fulfil your vow to
your country; but all industry and earnestness will be
useless unless they are consecrated by your resolution
to be in all things men of honor; not honor in the
common sense only, but in the highest. Rest on the
force of the two main words in the great verse, integer vita, scelerisque,5urus. You have vowed your
life to England; give it her wholly-a bright, stainless, perfect life-a knightly life. Because you have
to fight with machines instead of lances, there may be
a necessity for more ghastly danger, but there is none
for less worthiness of character, than in olden time.
You may be true knights yet, though perhaps not
equiles; you may have to call yourselves Icannonry '
instead of I chivalry,' but that is no reason why you
should not call yourselves true men. So the first
thing you have to see to in becoming soldiers is that
*you make yourselves wholly true. Courage is a mere
matter of course among any ordinarily wnell-born
youths; but neither truth nor gentleness is matter of
course. You must bind them like shields about your
necks; you must write them on the tables of Your
hearts. Though it be not exacted of you, yet exact it
of yourselves, this vow of stainless truth. Your hearts
are, if you leave them unstirred, as tombs in which a
god lies buried. Vow yourselves crusaders to redeem
that sacred sepulchre. And remember, before all
things-for no other memory will be so protective of
you-that the highest law of this knightly truth is that
under which it is vowed to women. Whomsoever
else you deceive, whomsoever you injure, whomsoever,you leave unaided, you inust not deceive, nor injure,
-nor leave unaided, according to your power, any wom



WAR.                   99
an of whatever rank. Believe me, every virtue of
the higher phases of manly character begins in this; —
in truth and modesty before the face of all maidens;
in truth and pity, or truth and reverence, to all womanhood.
And now let me turn for a moment to you,-wives
and maidens, who are the souls of soldiers; to you,mothers, who have devoted your children to the great
hierarchy of war. Let me ask you to consider what
part you have to take for the aid of those who love
you; for if you fail in your part they cannot fulfil
theirs; such absolute helpmates you are that po man
can stand without that help, nor labor in his own
strength.
I know your hearts, and that the truth of them
never fails when an hour of trial comes which you
recognize for such. But you know not when the hour
of trial first finds you, nor when it verily finds you.
You imagine that you are only called upon to wait and
suffer; to surrender and to mourn. You know that
you must not weaken the hearts of your husbands and
lovers, even by the one fear of which those hearts are
capable,-the fear of parting from you, or of causing
you grief. Through weary years of separation;
through fearful expectancies of unknown fate; through
the tenfold bitterness of the sorrow which might so
easily have been joy, and the tenfold yearning for glorious life struck down in its prime-through all these
agonies you fail not, and lever will fail. But your trial
is not in these. To be heroic in danger is little;-you
are Englishwomen. To be heroic in change and sway
of fortune is little;-for do you not love? To be patient through the great chasm and pause.of loss is little; for do you not still love in heaven? But to be'r
heroic in happiness; to bear yourselves gravelyand/
righteously in the dazzling of the sunshine of morning; not to forget the God in whom you trust, when
/ He gives you most; not to fail those who trust you,
when they seem to need you least; this is the difficult
fortitude. It is not in the pining of absence, not in....  -.:
~   ee  i ~* *::
ee   i *




100oo   THE CZ.OWN OF WILD OLIVE.
the peril of battle, not in the wasting of sickness, that
your prayer should be most passionate, or your guardianship most tender. Pray, mothers and maidens, for
your young soldiers in the bloom of their pride; pray
for them, while the only dangers round them are it?
their own wayward wills; watch you, and pray, when
they have to face, not death, butt temptation,. But it
is this fortitude also for which there is the crowning
reward. Believe me, the whole course and character
of your lovers' lives is in your hands; what you would
have them be, they shall be, if you not only desire to
have them so, but deserve to have them so; for they
are but mirrors in which you will see yourselves imaged. If you are frivolous, they will be so also; if
you have no understanding of the scope of their duty,
they also will forget it; they will listen,-they can listen,-to no other interpretation of it than that uttered
from your lips. Bid them be brave;-they will be
brave for you; bid them be cowards; and how noble
soever they be; they will quail for you. Bid them be
wise, and they will be wise for you; mock at their
counsel, and they will be fools for you: such and so
absolute is your rule"over then. You fancy, Derhaps.
as you have been told so often, that a wife's rule should
only be over her husband's house, not over his mind.
Ah, no! the true rule is just the reverse of that; a
true wife, in her husband's house, is his servant; it is
in his heart that she is queen. Whatever of the best
he can conceive, it is her part to be; whatever of
highest he can hope, it is hers to promise; all that
is dark in him she must purge into purity; all that
is failing in him she must strengthen into.truth: from
her, through all 'the world's clamor, he must win his
praise; in her, through all the world's warfare, he
must find his peace.
And, now, but one word more. You may wonder,
perhaps, that I have spoken all this night in praise of
war. Yet, truly, if it might be, I, for one, would fain
join in the cadence of hammer-strokes that should
beat swords into ploughshares: and that this cannot
g.,  w  e.




WAR.


IOI


be, is not the fault of us men. It is your fault.
Wholly yours. Only by your command, or by your
permission, can' any contest take place among us.
And the real, final, reason for all the poverty, mi*ry,
and rage of battle, throughout Europe, is simply that
you women, however good, however religious, however self-sacrificing for those whom you love, are too
selfish and too thoughtless to take pains for any creature out of your own immediate circles. You fancy
that you are sorry for the pain of others. Now I just
tell you this, that if the usual course of war, instead of
unroofing peasants' houses, and ravaging peasants'
fields, merely broke the china upon your own drawingroom tables, no war in civilized countries would last a
week. I tell you more, that at whatever moment you
chose to put a period to war, you could do it with less
trouble than you take any day to go out to dinner.
You know, or at least you might know if you would
think, that every battle you hear of has made many
widows and orphans. We have, none of us, heart
enough truly to mourn with these. But at least
we might put on the outer symbols of mourning
with them. Let but every Christian lady who has
conscience towards God. vow that she will mourn,
at least outwardly, for His killed creatures. Your
praying is useless, and your church-going mere mockery Of God, if you have not plain obedience in you
enough for this. Let every lady in the upper classes
of civilized Europe simply vow that, while any cruel
war proceeds, she will wear black;-a mute's black,with no jewel, no ornament, no excuse for, or evasion
into, prettiness.-I tell you again, no war would last a
week.
And lastly. You women of England are all now
shrieking with one voice,-you and your clergymen
together,-because you hear of your Bibles being attacked. If you choose to obey your Bibles, you will
never care who attacks them. It is just because you
never fulfil a single downright precept of the Book,
that you are so careful for its credit: and just because




102     THE CROWN OF WILD OLIVE.
you don't care to obey its whole words, that you are
so particular about the letters of them. The Bible
tells you to dress plainly,-and you are mad for finery;
the Bible tells you to have pity on the poor,-and you
crush them under your carriage-wheels; the Bible
tells you to do judgment and justice,-and you do not
know, nor care to know, so much as what the Bible
word ' justice' means. Do but learn so much of God's
truth as that comes to; know what He means when He
tells you to be just: and teach your sons, that their
bravery is but a fool's boast, and their deeds but a
fitebrand's tossing, unless they are indeed Just men,
and Perfect in the fear of God; and you will soon
have no more war, unless it be indeed such as is willed
by Him, of whom, though Prince of Peace, it is also
written,' In Righteousness He doth judge, and make
war.'
THE ENDo




I
I








THE


ETHICS OF THE DUST.
TEN LECTURES.I0
LITTLE HOUSEWIVES
ON
THE ELEMENTS OF CRYSTALLIZATION.
BY
JOHN RUSKIN, M.A.


NEW YORK:
JOHN B. ALDEN, PUBLISHER.
i885.




WROW'S
PRINTING AND SOOKWNDING COMPANY3
HIEW YORK.




DEDICATIO A
TO
THE REAL LITTLE HOUSEWIVES,
WHOSE GENTLE LISTENING
AND THOUGHTFUL QUESTIONING
ENABLED THE WRITER TO WRITE THIS BOOK,
IT IS DEDICATED
WITH HIS LOVE,
CHRISTMAS, 1865.




I~iI




CONTENTS.
LECTURE                                          PAGE
I. THE VALLEY OF DIAMONDS..................... 9
II. THE PYRAMID BUILDERS.................... 20
III. THE CRYSTAL LIFE........................   31
IV. THE CRYSTAL ORDERS...................... 44
V. CRYSTAL VIRTUES.......................... 58
VI. CRYSTAL QUARRELS........................ 73
VII. HOME VIRTUES............................. 86
VIII. CRYSTAL CAPRICE.......................... 103
IX. CRYSTAL SORROWS......................... 117
X. THE CRYSTAL REST......................... 132
NOTES.....................................  151




PERSONAE.
OLD LECTURER (of incalculable age).
FLORRIE, on astronomical evidence presumed to be aged 9
ISABEL....................................... " I I
MAY.......................................... " I I
LILY......................................... " 12
KATHLEEN.....................................  "  14
LUCILLA.......................................  15
VIOLET........................................ "   6
DORA (who has the keys and is housekeeper)....    x 17
EGYPT (so called from her dark eyes)............. " I7
JESSIE (who somehow always makes the room look
brighter when she is in it)................... " 18
MARY (of whom everybody, including the Old Lecturer, is in great awe)....................... " 20




PREFACE.
THE following lectures were really given, in substance, at a girl's school (far in the country); which,
in the course of various experiments on the possibility
of introducing some better practice of drawing into
the modern scheme of female education, I visited frequently enough to enable the children to regard me as
a friend. The Lectures always fell more or less into
the form of fragmentary answers to questions; and
they are allowed to retain that form, as, on the whole,
likely to be more interesting than the symmetries of a
continuous treatise. Many children (for the school
was large) took part, at different times, in the conversations; but I have endeavored, without confusedly
multiplying the number of imaginary * speakers, to
represent, as far as I could, the general tone of comment and inquiry among young people.
It will be at once seen that these Lectures were not
intended for an introduction to mineralogy. Their
purpose was merely to awaken in the minds of young
girls, who were ready to work earnestly and systematically, a vital interest in the subject of their study.
No science can be learned in play; but it is often possible, in play, to bring good fruit out of past labor, or
show sufficient reasons for the labor of the future.
The narrowness of this aim does not, indeed, justify
* I do not mean, in saying 'imaginary,' that I have not permitted to myself, in several instances, the affectionate discourtesy of
some reminiscence of personal character; for which I must hope to
be forgiven by my old pupils and their friends, as I could not
otherwise have written the book at all. But only two sentences in
all the dialogues, and the anecdote of 'Dotty,' are literally 'historical.'




8                  PREFACE.
the absence of all reference to many important principles of structure, and many of the most interesting
orders of minerals; but I felt it impossible to go far
into detail without illustrations; and if readers find
this book useful, I may, perhaps, endeavor to supplement it by illustrated notes of the more interesting
phenomena in separate groups of familiar minerals;flints of the chalk;-agates of the basalts;-and the
fantastic and exquisitely beautiful varieties of the veinores of the two commonest metals, lead and iron.
But I have always found that the less we speak of our
intentions, the more chance there is of our realizing
them; and this poor little book will sufficiently have
done its work, for the present, if it engages any of its
young readers in study which may enable them to despise it for its shortcomings.
DENMARK HILL,
Chritmnas, I865.




LECTURE I.


THE VALLEY OF DIAMONDS.
A very idle talk, by the dining-room fire, after raisinand-almond time.
OLD LECTURER; FLORRIE, ISABEL, MAY, LILY, and SIBYL.
OLD LECTURER (L.). Come here, Isabel, and tell
me what the make-believe was, this afternoon.
ISABEL (arranging herself very primly on the footstoo). Such a dreadful one! Florrie and I were lost
in the Valley of Diamonds.
L. What! Sindbad's, which nobody could get out
of?
ISABEL. Yes; but Florrie and I got out of it.
L. So I see. At least, I see you did; but are you
sure Florrie did?
ISABEL. Quite sure.
FLORRIE (pbutting her head roundfrom behind L.'s
sofa-cushion). Quite sure. (Disappears again.)
L. I think I could be made to feel surer about it.
(FLORRIE reappears, gives L. a kiss, and again
exit.)
L. I suppose it's all right; but how did you manage
it?
ISABEL. Well, you know, the eagle that took up
Sindbad was very large-very, very large-the largest
of all the eagles.
L. How large were the others?
ISABEL. I don't know-they were so far off. But
this one was, oh, so big! and it had great wings, as




Io       THE ETHICS OF THE DUST.
wide as-twice over the ceiling. So, when it was
picking up Sindbad, Florrie and I thought it wouldn't
know if we got on its back too: so I got up first, and
then I pulled up Florrie, and we put our arms round
its neck, and away it flew.
L. But why did you want to get out of the valley?
and why haven't you brought me some diamonds?
ISABEL. It was because of the serpents. I couldn't
pick up even the least bit of a diamond, I was so
frightened.
L. You should not have minded the serpents.
ISABEL. Oh, but suppose that they had minded me?
L. We all of us mind you a little too much, Isabel,
I'm afraid.
ISABEL. No-no-no, indeed.
L. I tell you what, Isabel-I don't believe either
Sindbad, or Florrie, or you, ever were in the Valley of
Diamonds.
ISABEL. You naughty! when I tell you we were!
L. Because you say you were frightened at the serpents.
ISABEL. And wouldn't you have been?
L. Not at those serpents. Nobody who really goes
into the valley is ever frightened at them-they are so
beautiful.
ISABEL (suddenly serious). But there's no real Valley of Diamonds, is there?
L. Yes, Isabel; very real indeed.
FLORRIE (reappearing). Oh, where? Tell me about
it.
L. I cannot tell you a great deal about it; only I
know it is very different from Sindbad's. In his valley,
there was only a diamond lying here and there; but,
in the real valley, there are diamonds covering the grass
in showers every morning, instead of dew: and there
are clusters of trees, which look like lilac trees; but,
in spring, all their blossoms are of amethyst.
FLORRIE. But there can't be any serpents there,
then?
L. Why not?




THE VALLEY OF DIAMONDS.


II


FLORRIE. Because they don't come into such beautiful places.
L. I never said it was a beautiful place.
FLORRIE. What! not with diamonds strewed about
it like dew?
L. That's according to your fancy, Florrie.  For
myself, I like dew better.
ISABEL. Oh, but the dew won't stay; it all dries!
L. Yes; and it would be much nicer if the diamonds
dried too, for the people in the valley have to sweep
them off the grass, in heaps, whenever they want to
walk on it; and then the heaps glitter so, they hurt
one's eyes.
FLORRIE. Now you're just playing, you know.
L. So are you, you know.
FLORRIE. Yes, but you mustn't play.
L. That's very hard, Florrie; why mustn't I, if you
may?
FLORRIE. Oh, I may, because I'm little, but you
mustn't, because you're —(hesitates for a delicate expression of magnitude).
L. (rudely taking the first that comes). Because I'm
big? No; that's not the way of it at all, Florrie. Because you're little, you should have very little play; and
because I'm big I should have a great deal.
ISABEL and FLORRIE (both). No-no-no-no.
That isn'tit at all. (ISABEL sola, quotingfiss ngelow.)
'The lambs play always-they know no better.' (Pzutting her head very much on one side.) Ah, nowplease-please-tell us true; we want to know.
L. But why do you want me to tell you true, any
more than the man who wrote the 'Arabian Nights?'
ISABEL. Because-because we like to know about
real things; and you can tell us, and we can't ask the
man who wrote the stories.
L. What do you call real things?
ISABEL. Now, you know! Things that really are.
L. Whether you can see them or not?
ISABEL. Yes, if somebody else saw them.
L. But if nobody has ever seen them?




12       THE ETHICS OF THE DUST.
ISABEL (evadtng the point). Well, but, you know,
if there were a real Valley of Diamonds, somebody
must have seen it.
L. You cannot be so sure of that, Isabel.  Many
people go to real places, and never see them; and many
people pass through this valley, and never see it.
FLORRIE. What stupid people they must be!
L. No, Florrie. They are much wiser than the people who do see it.
MAY. I think I know where it is.
ISABEL. Tell us more about it, and then we'll guess.
L. Well. There's a great broad road, by a riverside, leading up into it.
MAY (gravely cunning, wi/h emfAasis on the Zast
word). Does the road really go up?
L. You think it should go down into a valley? No,
it goes up; this is a valley among the hills, and it is as
high as the clouds, and is often full of them; so that
even the people who most want to see it, cannot, always.
ISABEL. And what is the river beside the road like?
L. It ought to be very beautiful, because it flows
over diamond sand-only the water is thick and red.
ISABEL. Red water?
L. It isn't all water.
MAY. Oh, please never mind that, Isabel, just now?
I want to hear about the valley.
L. So the entrance to it is very wide, under a steep
rock; only such numbers of people are always trying
to get in, that they keep jostling each other, and manage it but slowly. Some weak ones are pushed back,
and never get in at all; and make great moaning as
they go away: but perhaps they are none the worse
in the end.
MAY. And when one gets in, what is it like?
L. It is up and down, broken kind of ground: the
road stops directly; and there are great dark rocks,
covered all over with wild gourds and wild vines; the
gourds, if you cut them, are red, with black seeds, like
vwater-melons, and look ever so nice; and the people




THE VALLEY OF DIAf ONDS.


I3


of the place make a red pottage of them: but you must
take care not to eat any if you ever want to leave the
valley (though I believe putting plenty of meal in it
makes it wholesome). Then the wild vines have clusters of the color of amber; and the people of the country say they are the grape of Eshcol; and sweeter than
honey: but, indeed, if anybody else tastes them, they
are like gall. Then there are thickets of bramble, so
thorny that they would be cut away directly, anywhere
else.; but here they are covered with little cinquefoiled blossoms of pure silver; and, for berries, they
have clusters of rubies. Dark rubies, which you only
see are red after gathering them. But you may fancy
what blackberry parties the children have! Only they
get their frocks and hands sadly torn.
LILY. But rubies can't spot one's frocks, as blackberries do?
L. No; but I'll tell you what spots them-the mulberries. There are great forests of them, all up the
hills, covered with silkworms, some munching the
leaves so loud that it is like mills at work; and some
spinning. But the berries are the blackest you ever
saw; and, wherever they fall, they stain a deep red;
and nothing ever washes it out again. And it is their
juice, soaking through the grass, which makes the river
so red, because all its springs are in this wood. And
the boughs of the trees are twisted, as if in pain, like
old olive branches; and their leaves are dark. And it
is in these forests that the serpents are; but nobody is
afraid of them. They have fine crimson crests, and
they are wreathed about the wild branches, one in every
tree, nearly; and they are singing serpents, for the serpents are, in this forest, what birds are in ours.
FLORRIE. Oh, I don't want to go there at all, now.
L. You would like it very much indeed, Florrie, if
you were there. The serpents would not bite you; the
only fear would be of your turning into one!
FLORRIE. Oh, dear, but that's worse.
L. You wouldn't think so if you really were turned
into one, Florrie; you would be very proud of your




14     THE ETHICS OF THE DUST.


crest. And as long as you were yourself (not that you
could get there if you remained quite the little Florrie
you are now), you would like to hear the serpents sing.
They hiss a little through it, like the cicadas in Italy;
but they keep good time, and sing delightful melodies;
and most of them have seven heads, with throats which
each take a note of the octave; so that they can sing
chords-it is very fine indeed. And the fireflies fly
round the edge of the forests all the night long; you
wade in fireflies, they make the fields look like a lake
trembling with reflection of stars; but you must take
care not to touch them, for they are not like Italian fireflies, but burn, like real sparks.
FLORRIE. I don't like it at all; I'll never go there.
L. I hope not, Florrie; or at least that you will get
out again if you do, And it is very difficult to get out,
for beyond these serpent forests there are great cliffs
of dead gold, which form a labyrinth, winding always
higher and higher, till the gold is all split asunder by
wedges of ice; and glaciers, welded, half of ice seven
times frozen, and half of gold seven times frozen, hang
down from them, and fall in thunder, cleaving into
deadly splinters, like the Cretan arrowheads; and into
a mixed dust of snow and gold, ponderous, yet which
the mountain whirlwinds are able to lift and drive in
wreaths and pillars, hiding the paths with a burial
cloud, fatal at once with wintry chill, and weight of
golden ashes. So the wanderers in the labyrinth fall,
one by one, and are buried there:-yet, over the drifted
graves, those who are spared climb to the last, through
coil on coil of the path;-for at the end of it they see
the king of the valley, sitting on his throne: and beside
him (but it is only a false vision), spectra of creatures
like themselves, set on thrones, from which they seem
to look down on all the kingdoms of the world, and the
glory of them. And on the canopy of his throne there
is an inscription in fiery letters, which they strive to
read, but cannot; for it is written in words which are
like the words of all languages, and yet are of none.
Men say it is more like their own tongue to the Eng



THIE VALLEY OF DIAMONDS.


15


lish than it is to any other nation; but the only record
of it is by an Italian, who heard the king himself cry
it as a war cry, ' Pape Satan, Pape Satan Aleppe.' *
SIBYL. But do they all perish there? You said there
was a way through the valley, and out of it.
L. Yes; but few find it. If any of them keep to the
grass paths, where the diamonds are swept aside; and
hold their hands over their eyes so as not to be dazzled,
the grass paths lead forward gradually to a place
where one sees a little opening in the golden rocks.
You were at Chamouni last year, Sibyl; did your guide
chance to show you the pierced rock of the Aiguille
du Midi?
SIBYL. No, indeed, we only got up from Geneva on
Monday night; and it rained all Tuesday; and we had
to be back at Geneva again, early on Wednesday
morning.
L. Of course. That is the way to see a country in
a Sibylline manner, by inner consciousness: but you
might have seen the pierced rock in your drive up, or
down, if the clouds broke: not that there is much to
see in it; one of the crags of the aiguille-edge, on the
southern slope of it, is struck sharply through, as by
an awl, into a little eyelet hole; which you may see,
seven thousand feet above the valley (as the clouds
flit past behind it, or leave the sky), first white, and
then dark blue. Well, there's just such an eyelet hole
in one of the upper crags of the Diamond Valley; and,
from a distance, you think that it is no bigger than the eye
of a needle. But if you get up to it, they say you may
drive a loaded camel through it, and that there are
fine things on the other side, but I have never spoken
with anybody who had been through.
SIBYL. I think we understand it now. We will try
to write it down, and think of it.
L. Meantime, Florrie, though all that I have been
telling you is very true, yet you must not think the
sort of diamonds that people wear in rings and neck* Dante, Inf. 7. x.




[6       THE ETHICS OF THE DUST.
laces are found lying about on the grass. Would you
like to see how they really are found?
FLORRIE. Oh, yes-yes.
L. Isabel-or Lily run up to my room and fetch
me the little box with a glass lid, out of the top drawer
of the chest of drawers. (Race between LILY and
ISABEL.)
(Re-enter ISABEL with the box, very much out of
breath. LILY behind.)
L. Why, you never can beat Lily in a race on the
stairs, can you, Isabel?
ISABEL (ranting). Lily-beat me-ever so farbut she gave me-the box-to carry in.
L. Take off the lid, then; gently.
FLORRIE (after _5eef5ing in, disat~ointed). There's
only a great ugly brown stone!
L. Not much more than that, certainly, Florrie, if
people were wise. But look, it is not a single stone;
but a knot of pebbles fastened together by gravel: and
in the gravel, or compressed sand, if you look close,
you will see grains of gold glittering everywhere, all
through; and then, do you see these two white beads,
which shine, as if they had been covered with grease?
FLORRIE. May I touch them?
L. Yes; you will find they are not greasy, only very
smooth. Well, those are the fatal jewels; native here
in their dust with gold, so that you may see, cradled
here together, the two great enemies of mankind,the strongest of all malignant physical powers that
have tormented our race.
SIBYL. Is that really so? I know they do great
harm; but do they not also do great good?
L. My dear child; what good? Was any woman,
do you suppose, ever the better for possessing diamonds? but how many have been made base, frivolous, and miserable by desiring them? Was ever
man the better for having coffers full of gold? But
who shall measure the guilt that is incurred to fill
them? Look into the history of any civilized nations;
analyze, with reference to this one cause of crime and




THE VALLEY OF DIAMONDS.


I7


misery, the lives and thoughts of their nobles, priests,
merchants, and men of luxurious life. Every other
temptation is at last concentrated into this; pride, and
lust, and envy, and anger all give up their strength to
avarice. The sin of the whole world is essentially the
sin of Judas. Men do not disbelieve their Christ; but
they sell Him.
SIBYL. But surely that is the fault of human nature? it is not caused by the accident, as it were, of
there being a pretty metal, like gold, to be found by
digging. If people could not find that, would they
not find something else, and quarrel for it instead?
L. No. Wherever legislators have succeeded in
excluding, for a time, jewels and precious metals from
among national possessions, the national spirit has remained healthy. Covetousness is not natural to man
-generosity is; but covetousness must be excited by
a special cause, as a given disease by a given miasma;
and the essential nature of a material for the excitement of covetousness is, that it shall be a beautiful
thing which can be retained without a use. The moment we can use our possessions to any good purpose
ourselves, the instinct of communicating that use to
others rises side by side with our power. If you can
read a book rightly, you will want others to hear it;
if you can enjoy a picture rightly, you will want others
to see it: learn how to manage a horse, a plough, or a
ship, and you will desire to make your subordinates
good horsemen, ploughmen, or sailors; you will never
be able to see the fine instrument you are master of,
abused; but, once fix your desire on anything useless,
and all the purest pride and folly in your heart will
mix with the desire, and make you at last wholly inhuman, a mere ugly lump of stomach and suckers,
like a cuttle-fish.
SIBYL. But surely, these two beautiful things, gold
and diamonds, must have been appointed to some
good purpose?
L. Quite conceivably so, my dear: as also earthquakes and pestilences; but of such ultimate purposes
2




iS       THE ETHICS OF THE. D UST.
we can have no sight. The practical, immediate office
of the earthquake and pestilence is to slay us, like
moths; and, as moths, we shall be wise to live out of
their way. So, the practical, immediate office of gold
and diamonds is the multiplied destruction of souls
(in whatever sense you have been taught to understand that phrase); and the paralysis of wholesome
human effort and thought on the face of God's earth:
and a wise nation will live out of the way of them.
The money which the English habitually spend in cutting diamonds would, in ten years, if it were applied
to cutting rocks instead, leave no dangerous reef nor
difficult harbor round the whole island coast. Great
Britain would be a diamond worth cutting, indeed, a
true piece of regalia. (Leaves this to their thoughts
for a little while.) Then, also, we poor mineralogists
might sometimes have the chance of seeing a fine crystal of diamond unhacked by the jeweller.
SIBYL. Would it be more beautiful uncut?
L. No; but of infinite interest. We might even
come to know something about the making of diamonds.
SIBYL. I thought the chemists could make them already?
L. In very small black crystals, yes; but no one
knows how they are formed where they are found; or
if indeed they are formed there at all. These, in my
hand, look as if they had been swept down with the
gravel and gold; only we can trace the gravel and
gold to their native rocks, but not the diamonds.
Read the account given of the diamond in any good
work on mineralogy;-you will find nothing but lists
of localities of gravel, or conglomerate rock (which is
only an old indurated gravel). Some say it was once
a vegetable gum; but it may have been charred wood;
but what one would like to know is, mainly, why charcoal should make itself into diamonds in India, and
only into blacklead in Borrowdale.
SIBYL. Are they wholly the same, then?
L. There is a little iron mixed with our blacklead;




THE VALLEY OF DIAMHONDS.           x9
but nothing to hinder its crystallization. Your pencils
in fact are all pointed with formless diamond, though
they would be H H H pencils to purpose, if it crystallized.
SIBYL. But what is crystallization?
L. A pleasant question, when one's half asleep, and
it has been tea time these two hours. What thoughtless things girls are!
SIBYL. Yes, we are; but we want to know, for all
that.
L. My dear, it would take a week to tell you.
SIBYL. Well, take it, and tell us.
L. But nobody knows anything about it.
SIBYL. Then tell us something that somebody
knows.
L. Get along with you, and tell Dora to make tea.
(The house rises; but of course the LECTURER
wanted to be firced to lecture again, and
was.)




LECTURE II.
THE PYRAMID BUILDERS.
In the large Schoolroom, to which everybody has been
summoned by rzbzing of thegreat bell.
L. So you have all actually come to hear about crystallization! I cannot conceive why, unless the little
ones think that the discussion may involve some reference to sugar-candy.
(Symptoms of high displeasure among theyounger
members of council. ISABEL frowns severely
at L., and shakes her head violently.)
My dear children, if you knew it, you are yourselves,
at this moment, as you sit in your ranks, nothing, in
the eye of a mineralogist, but a lovely group of rosy
sugar-candy, arranged by atomic forces. And even
admitting you to be something more, you have certainly been crystallizing without knowing it. Did not
I hear a great hurrying and whispering, ten minutes
ago, when you were late in from the playground; and
thought you would not all be quietly seated by the
time I was ready:-besides some discussion about
places-something about 'it's not being fair that the
little ones should always be nearest?' Well, you were
then all being crystallized. When you ran in from the
garden, and against one another in the passages, you
were in what mineralogists would call a state of solution, and gradual confluence; when you got seated in
those orderly rows, each in her proper place, you became crystalline.. That is just what the atoms of a
mineral do, if they can, whenever they get disordered:
they get into order again as soon as may be.




THE PYRAMIfD BUILDERS.


21


I hope you feel inclined to interrupt me, and say,
' But we know our places; how do the atoms know
theirs? And sometimes we dispute about our places;
do the atoms-(and, besides; we don't like being compared to atoms at all)-never dispute about theirs?'
Two wise questions these, if you had a mind to put
them? it was long before I asked them myself, of myself. And I will not call you atoms any more. May I
callyou-let me see-' priinary molecules?' (General
dissent indicaledd in subded but decisive murmurs.)
No! not even, in familiar Saxon, 'dust?'
(Pause, with erxpression on faces of sorrowful
doubt; LILY gives voice to Ihe general sentiment in a timid ' Please don't.')
No, children, I won't call you that; and mind, as
you grow up, that you do not get into an idle and
wicked habit of calling yourselves that.  You are
something better than dust, and have other duties to
do than ever dust can do; and the bonds of affection
you will enter into are better than merely' getting into
order.' But see to it, on the other hand, that you always behave at least as well as ' dust;' remember, it
is only on compulsion, and while it has no free permission to do as it likes, that it ever gets out of order:
but sometimes, with some of us, the compulsion has to
be the other way-hasn't it? (Rezonstratory whispers, expressivze of opinion that the LECTURER is becoming too personal.) I'm not looking at anybody in
particular-indeed I am not. Nay, if you blush so,
Kathleen, how can one help looking? We'll go back
to the atoms.
' How do they know their places?' you asked, or
should have asked. Yes, and they have to do much
more than know them: they have to find their way to
them, and that quietly and at once, without running
against each other.
We may, indeed, state it briefly thus:-Suppose you
have to build a castle, with towers and roofs and buttresses, out of bricks of a given shape, and that these
bricks are all lying in a huge heap at the bottom, in




22       THE ETHICS OF THE DUST.
utter confusion, upset out of carts at random. You
would have to draw a great many plans, and count all
your bricks, and be sure you had enough for this and
that tower, before you began, and then you would
have to lay your foundation, and add layer by layer,
in order, slowly.
But how would you be astonished, in these melancholy days, when children don't read children's books,
nor believe any more in fairies, if suddenly a real benevolent fairy, in a bright britk-red gown, were to rise
in the midst of the red bricks, and to tap the heap of
them with her wand, and say: ' Bricks, bricks, to your
places!' and then you saw in an instant the whole
heap rise in the air, like a swarm of red bees, and —
you have been used to see bees make a honey-comb,
and to think that strange enough, but now you would
see the honeycomb make itself!-You want to ask
something, Florrie, by the look of your eyes.
FLORRIE. Are they turned into real bees, with
stings?
L. No, Florrie; you are only to fancy flying bricks,
as you saw the slates flying from the roof the other
day in the storm; only those slates didn't seem to
know where they were going, and, besides, were going
where they had no business: but my spell-bound
bricks, though they have no wings, and what is worse,
no heads and no eyes, yet find their way in the air just
where they should settle, into towers and roots, each
flying to his place and fastening there at the right moment, so that every other one shall fit to him in his
turn.
LTLY. But who are the fairies, then, who build the
crystals?
L. There is one great fairy, Lily, who builds much
more than crystals; but she builds these also.  I
dreamed that I saw her building a pyramid, the other
day, as she used to do, for the Pharaohs.
ISABEL. But that was only a dream?
L. Some dreams are truer than some wakings, Tsa'
bel; but I won't tell it you unless you like.




THE PYRAMID BUILDERS.


23


ISABEL. Oh, please, please.
L. You are all such wise children, there's no talkIng to you; you won't believe anything.
LILY. No, we are not wise, and we will believe anything, when you say we ought.
L. Well, it came about this way. Sibyl, do you recollect that evening when we had been looking at your
old cave by Cume, and wondering why you didn't
live there still: and thei we wondered how old you
were; and Egypt said you wouldn't tell, and nobody
else could'tell but she; and you laughed-I thought
very gayly for a Sibyl-and said you would harness a
flock of cranes for us, and we might fly over to Egypt
if we liked, and see.
SIBYL. Yes, and you went, and couldn't find out
after all!
L. Why, you know, Egypt had been just doubling
that third pyramid of hers; * and making a new entrance into it; and a fine entrance it was! First, we
had to go through an ante-room, which had both its
doors blocked up with stones; and then we had three
granite portcullises to pull up, one after another; and
the moment we had got under them, Egypt signed to
somebody above; and down they came again behind
us, with a roar like thunder, only louder; then we got
into a passage fit for nobody but rats, and Egpyt
wouldn't go any further herself, but said we might go
on if we liked; and so we came to a hole in the pavement, and then to a granite trap-door-and then we
thought we had gone quite far enough, and came
back, and Egypt laughed at us.
EGYPT. You would not have had me take my
crown off, and stoop all the way down a passage fit
only for rats?
L. It was not the crown, Egypt-vou know that
very well. It was the flounces that would not let you
go any farther. I suppose, however, you wear them
as typical of the inundation of the Nile, so it is all
right.
* Note i.




24       THE E7HICS OF THE DUST.
ISABEL. Why didn't you take mewith you? Where
rats can go, mice can. I wouldn't have come back.
L. No, mousie; you would have gone on by yourself, and you might have waked one of Pasht's cats, *
and it would have eaten you. I was very glad you
were not there. But after all this, I suppose the imagination of the heavy granite blocks and the underground ways had troubled me, and dreams are often
shaped in a strange opposition to the impressions that
have caused them; and from all that we had been
reading in Bunsen about stones that couldn't be lifted
with levers, I began to dream about stones that lifted
themselves with wings.
SIBYL. Now you must just tell us all about it.
L. I dreamed that I was standing beside the lake,
out of whose clay the bricks were made for the great
pyramid of Asychis.t They had just been all finished,
and were lying by the lake margin, in long ridges,
like waves. It was near evening; and as I looked
towards the sunset, I saw a thing like a dark pillar
standing where the rock of the desert stoops to the
Nile valley. I did not know there was a pillar there,
and wondered at it; and it grew larger, and glided
nearer, becoming like the form of a man, but vast,
and it did not move its feet, but glided, like a pillar of
sand. And as it drew nearer, I looked by chance past
it, towards the sun; and saw a silver cloud, which
was of all the clouds closest to the sun (and in one
place crossed it), draw itself back from the sun, suddenly. And it turned, and shot towards the dark pillar; leaping in an arch, like an arrow out of a bow.
And I thought it was lightning; but when it came
near the shadowy pillar, it sank slowly down beside it,
and changed into the shape of a woman, very beautiful, and with a strength of deep calm in her blue eyes.
She was robed to the feet with a white robe; and
above that, to her knees, by the cloud which I had
seen across the sun; but all the golden ripples of it
had become plumes, so that it had changed into two
* Note iii.                    t Note ii.




TIHE PYRAVMID BUILDERS.


25


bright wings like those of a vulture, which wrapped
round her to her knees. She had a weaver's shuttle
hanging over her shoulder, by the thread of it, and in
her left hand, arrows, tipped with fire.
ISABEL (clappZng her hands). Oh! it was Neith, it
was Neith! I know now.
L. Yes; it was Neith herself; and as the two great
spirits came nearer to me, I saw they were the Brother
and Sister-the pillared shadow was the Greater
Pthah.* And I heard them speak, and the sound of
their words was like a distant singing. I could not
understand the words one by one; yet their sense
came to me; and so I knew that Neith had come
down to see her brother's work, and the work that he
had put into the mind of the king to make his servants
do. And she was displeased at it; because she saw
only pieces of dark clay; and no porphyry, nor marble,
nor any fair stone that men might engrave the figures
of the gods upon. And she blamed her brother, and
said, 'Oh, Lord of truth! is this then thy will, that
men should mould only four-square pieces of clay:
and the forms of the gods no more? ' Then the Lord
of truth sighed, and said,' Oh! sister, in truth they do
not love us; why should they set up our images?
Let them do what they may, and not lie-let them
make their clay four-square; and labor; and perish.'
Then Neith's dark blue eyes grew darker, and she
said, 'Oh, Lord of' truth! why should they love us?
their love is vain; or fear us? for their fear is base.
Yet let them testify of us, that they knew we lived forever.'
But the Lord of truth answered, ' They know, and
yet they know not. Let them keep silence; for their
silence only is truth.'
But Neith answered, ' Brother, wilt thou also make
league with Death, because Death is true? Oh! thou
potter, who hast cast these human things from thy
wheel, many to dishonor, and few to honor; wilt thou
* Note iii.




26       THE E7'HICS OF THE DUST.
not let them so much as see my face; but slay them
in slavery?'
But Pthah only answered,' Let them build, sister,
let them build.'
And Neith answered, ' What shall they build, if I
build not with them?'
And Pthah drew with his measuring rod upon the
sand. And I saw suddenly, drawn on the sand, the
outlines of great cities, and of vaults, and domes, and
aqueducts, and bastions, and towers, greater than
obelisks, covered with black clouds. And the wind
blew ripples of sand amidst the lines that Pthah drew,
and the moving sand was like the marching of men.
But I saw that wherever Neith looked at the lines,
they faded, and were effaced.
' Oh, Brother!' she said at last, ' what is this vanity?
If I, who am Lady of wisdom, do not mock the children of men, why shouldst thou mock them, who art
Lord of truth? ' But Pthah answered, 'They thought
to bind me; and they shall be bound. They shall
labor in the fire of vanity.'
And Neith said, looking at the sand, ' Brother, there
is no true labor here-there is only weary life and
wasteful death.'
And Pthah answered, ' Is it not truer labor, sister,
than thy sculpture of dreams? '
Then Neith smiled; and stopped suddenly.
She looked to the sun; its edge touched the horizon-edge of the desert. Then she looked to the long
heaps of pieces of clay, that lay, each with its blue
shadow, by the lake shore.
' Brother,' she said, ' how long will this pyramid of
thine be in building?'
' Thoth will have sealed the scroll of the years ten
times, before the summit is laid.'
' Brother, thou knowest not how to teach thy children to labor,' answered Neith. ' Look! I must follow
Phre beyond Atlas; shall I build your pyramind for
you before he goes down?' And Pthah answered,
' Yea, sister, if thou canst put thy winged shoulders




TWlE PYRAMID BUILDERS.


2-7
j


to such work.' And Neith drew herself to her height;
and I heard a clashing pass through the plumes of
her wings, and the asp stood up on her helmet, and
fire gathered in her eyes. And she took one of the
flaming arrows out of the sheaf in her left hand, and
stretched it out over the heaps of clay. And they
rose up like flights of locusts, and spread themselves
in the air, so that it grew dark in a moment. Then
Neith designed them places with her arrow point;
and they drew into ranks, like dark clouds laid level
at morning. Then Neith pointed with her arrow to
the north, and to the south, and to the east, and to
the west, and the flying motes of earth drew asunder
into four great ranked crowds; and stood, one in the
north, and one in the south, and one in the east, and
one in the west-one against another. Then Neith
spread her wings wide for an instant, and closed them
with a sound like the sound of a rushing sea; and
waved her hand towards the foundation of the pyramid, where it was laid on the brow of the desert.
And the four flocks drew together and sank down,
like sea-birds settling to a level rock; and when they
met, there was a sudden flame, as broad as the pyramid, and as high as the clouds; and it dazzled me;
and I closed my eyes for an instant; and when I
looked again, the pyramid stood on its rock, perfect;
and purple with the light from the edge of the sinking
sun.
THE YOUNGER CHILDREN (variousijbleased). I'm
so glad! How nice! But what did Pthah say?
L. Neith did not wait to hear what he would say.
When I turned back to look at her, she was gone; and
I only saw the level white cloud form itself again, close
to the arch of the sun as it sank. And as the last
edge of the sun disappeared, the form of Pthah faded
into a mighty shadow, and so passed away.
EGYPT. And was Neith's pyramid left?
L. Yes; but you could not think, Egypt, what a
strange feeling of utter loneliness came over me when
the presence of the two gods passed away. It seemed




28       THE ETHICS OF THE DUST.
as if I had never known what it was to be alone before;
and the unbroken line of the desert was terrible.
EGYPT. I used to feel that, when I was queen: sometimes I had to carve gods, for company, all over my
palace. I would fain have seen real ones, if I could.
L. But listen a moment yet, for that was not quite
all my dream. The twilight drew swiftly to the dark,
and I could hardly see the great pyramid; when there
came a heavy murmuring sound in the air; and a
horned beetle, with terrible claws, fell on the sand at
my feet, with a blow like the beat of a hammer. Then
it stood up on its hind claws, and waved its pincers at
me: and its fore claws became strong arms, and hands;
one grasping real iron pincers, and the other a huge
hammer; and it had a helmet on its head, without
any eyelet holes, that I could see. And its two hind
claws became strong crooked legs, with feet bent inwards. And so there stood by me a dwarf, in glossy
black armor, ribbed and embossed like a beetle's back,
leaning on his hammer. And I could not speak for
wonder; but he spoke with a murmur like the dying
away of a beat upon a bell. He said, ' I will make
Neith's great pyramid small. I am the lower Pthah;
and have power over fire. I can wither strong things,
and strengthen the weak; and everything that is great
I can make small, and everything that is little I can
make great.' Then he turned to the angle of the pyramid and limped towards it. And the pyramid grew
deep purple; and then red like blood, and then pale
rose-color, like fire. And I saw that it glowed with
fire from within. And the lower Pthah touched it with
the hand that held the pincers; and it sank down like the
sand in an hour-glass,-then drew itself together, and
sank, still, and became nothing, it seemed to me; but
the armed dwarf stooped down, and took it into his
hand, and brought it to me, saying, ' Everything that
is great I can make like this pyramid; and give into
men's hands to destroy.' And I saw that he had a
little pyramid in his hand, with as many courses in it
as the large one; and built like that,- only so small.




THE PYRAMID BUILDERS.


29


And because it glowed still, I was afraid to touch it;
but Pthah said, 'Touch it-for I have bound the fire
within it, so that it cannot burn.' So I touched it, and
took it into my own hand; and it was cold; only red,
like a ruby. And Pthah laughed, and became like a
beetle again, and buried himself in the sand, fiercely;
throwing it back over his shoulders. And it seemed
to me as if he would draw me down with him into the
sand; and I started back, and woke, holding the little
pyramid so fast in my hand that it hurt me.
EGYPT. Holding WHAT in your hand?
L. The little pyramid.
EGYPT. Neith's pyramid?
L. Neith's, I believe; though not built for Asychis.
I know only that it is a little rosy transparent pyramid,
built of more courses of bricks than I can count, it being made so small. You don't believe me, of course,
Egyptian infidel; but there it is. (Giving crystal of
rose Fluor.)
(Confused examination by crowded audience, over
each other's shoulders and under each other's arms.
Disafipointment begins to manzfest itself.)
SYBIL (not quite knowing why she and others are
disappointed). But you showed us this the other day!
L. Yes; but you would not look at it the other day.
SYBIL. But was all that fine dream only about this?
L. What finer thing could a dream be about than
this? It is small, if you will; but when you begin to
think of things rightly, the ideas of smallness and
largeness pass away. The making of this pyramid
was in reality just as wonderful as the dream I have
been telling you, and just as incomprehensible. It
was not, I suppose, as swift, but quite as grand things
are done as swiftly. When Neith makes crystals of
snow, it needs a great deal more marshalling of the
atoms, by her flaming arrows, than it does to make
crystals like this one; and that is done in a moment.
EGYPT. But how you do puzzle us! Why do you
say Neith does it? You don't mean that she is a real
spirit, do you




30       THE ETHICS OF THE DUST.
L. What I mean, is of little consequence. What
the Egyptians meant, who called her ' Neith,'-or Homer, who called her I Athena,'-or Solomon, who called
her by a word which the Greeks render as ' Sophia,'
you must judge for yourselves. But her testimony is
always the same, and all nations have received it: ' I
was by Him as the one brought up with Him, and I
was daily His delight; rejoicing in the habitable parts
of the earth, and my delights were with the sons of
men.'
MARY. But is not that only a personification?
L. If it be, what will you gain by unpersonifying it,
or what right have you to do so? Cannot you accept
the image given you, in its life; and listen, like children, to the words which chiefly belong to you as
children: ' I love them that love me, and those that seek
me early shall find me?'
(They are all quiet for a minute or two; questions
begin to appear in their eyes.)
I cannot talk to you any more to-day. Take that
rose-crystal away with you, and think.




LECTURE III.


THE CRYSTAL LIFE.
A very dull Lecture, witfully brought upon themselves
by the elder children. ~ Some of the young ones have,
however, managed to get in by mistake. SCENE,
the Schoolroom.
L. So I am to stand up here merely to be asked
questions, to-day, Miss Mary, am I?
MARY. Yes; and you must answer them plainly;
without telling us any more stories. You are quite
spoiling the children: the poor little things' heads are
turning round like kaleidoscopes; and they don't know
in the least what you mean. Nor do we old ones,
either, for that matter: to-day you must really tell us
nothing but facts.
L. I am sworn; but you won't like it, a bit.
MARY. Now, first of all, what do you mean by
'bricks? '-Are the smallest particles of minerals all
of some accurate shape, like bricks?
L. I do not know, Miss Mary; I do not even know
if anybody knows. The smallest atoms which are visibly and practically put together to make large crystals, may better be described as ' limited in fixed directions' than as 'of fixed forms.' But I can tell you
nothing clear about ultimate atoms: you will find the
idea of little bricks, or, perhaps, of little spheres, available for all the uses you will have to put it to.
MARY. Well, it's very provoking; one seems always
to be stopped just when one is coming to the very
thing one wants to know.




3    _   THE ETHICS OF THE DUST.
L. No, Mary, for we should not wish to know anything but what is easily and assuredly knowable.
There's no end to it. If I could show you, or myself,
a group of ultimate atoms, quite clearly, in this magnifying glass, we should both be presently vexed because we could not break them in two pieces, and see
their insides.
MARY. Well then, next, what do you mean by the
flying of the bricks? What is it the atoms do, that is
like flying?
L. When they are dissolved, or uncrystallized, they
are really separated from each other, like a swarm of
gnats in the air, or like a shoal of fish in the sea;
generally at about equal distances. In currents of solutions, or at different depths of them, one part may
be more full of the dissolved atoms than another, but
on the whole, you may think of them as equidistant,
like the spots in the print of your gown. If they are
separated by force of heat only, the substance is said
to be melted; if they are separated by any other substance, as particles of sugar by water, they are said to
be ' dissolved.' Note this distinction carefully, all of
you.
DORA. I will be very particular. When next you
tell me there isn't sugar enough in your tea, I will say,
' It is not yet dissolved, sir.'
L. I tell you what shall be dissolved, Miss Dora;
and that's the present parliament, if the members get
too saucy.
(DORA folds her hands and casts down her eyes.)
L. (proceeds in state). Now, Miss Mary, you know
already, I believe, that nearly everything will melt, under a sufficient heat, like wax. Limestone melts (under pressure); sand melts; granite melts; the lava of
a volcano is a mixed mass of many kinds of rocks,
melted; and any melted substance nearly always, if
not always, crystallizes as it cools; the more slowly
the more perfectly. Water melts at what we call the
freezing, but might just as wisely, though not as conveniently, call the melting, point; and radiates as it




THE CREYSTAL LIFE.


33


cools into the most beautiful of all known crystals.
Glass melts at a greater heat, and will crystallize, if
you let it cool slowly enough, in stars, much like snowGold needs more heat to melt it, but crystallizes also
exquisitely, as I will presently show you. Arsenic and
sulphur crystallize from their vapors. Now in any of
these cases, either of melted, dissolved, or vaporous
bodies, the particles are usually separated from each
other, either by heat, or by an intermediate substance;
and in crystallizing they are both brought nearer to
each other, and packed, so as to fit as closely as possible: the essential part of the business being not the
bringing together, but the packing. Who packed
your trunk for you, last holidays, Isabel?
ISABEL. Lily does, always.
L. And how much can you allow for Lily's good
packing, in guessing what will go into the trunk?
ISABEL. Oh! I bring twice as much as the trunk
holds. Lily always gets everything in.
LILY. Ah! but, Isey, if you only knew what a time
it takes! and since you've had those great hard buttons on your frocks, I can't do anything with them.
Buttons won't go anywhere, you know.
L. Yes, Lily, it would be well if she only knew what
a time it takes; and I wish any of us knew what a
time crystallization takes, for that is consummately
fine packing. The particles of the rock are thrown
down, just as Isabel brings her things-in a heap;
and innumerable Lilies, not of the valley, but of the
rock, come to pack them. But it takes such a
time!
However, the best-out and out the best-way of
understanding the thing, is to crystallize yourselves.
THE AUDIENCE. Ourselves!
L. Yes; not merely as you did the other day, carelessly, on the schoolroom forms; but carefully and
finely, out in the playground. You can play at crystallization there as much as you please.
KATHLEEN and JESSIE. Oh! how?-how?
L. First, you must put yourselves together, as close
3




34       THE ETHICS OF THE DUST.
as you can, in the middle of the grass, and form, for
first practice, any figure you like.
JESSIE. Any dancing figure, do you mean?
L. No; I mean a square, or a cross, or a diamond.
Any figure you like, standing close together. You
had better outline it first on the turf, with sticks, or
pebbles, so as to see that it is rightly drawn; then get
into it and enlarge or diminish it at one side, till you
are all quite in it, and no empty space left.
DORA. Crinoline and all?
L. The crinoline may stand eventually for rough
crystalline surface, unless you pin it in; and then you
may make a polished crystal of yourselves.
LILY. Oh, we'll pin it in-we'll pin it in!
L. Then, when you are all in the figure, let every
one note her place, and who is next her on each side;
and let the outsiders count how many places they
stand from the corners.
KATHLEEN. Yes, yes,-and then?
L. Then you must scatter all over the playgroundright over it from side to side, and end to end; and
put yourselves all at equal distances from each other,
everywhere. You needn't mind doing it very accurately, but so as to be nearly equidistant; not less
than about three yards apart from each other, on
every side.
JESSIE. We can easily cut pieces of string of equal
length, to hold. And then?
L. Then, at a given signal, let everybody walk, at
the same rate, towards the outlined figure in the middle. You had better sing as you walk; that will keep
you- in good time. And as you close in towards it, let
each take her place, and the next comers fit themselves
in beside the first ones, till you are all in the figure
again.
KATHLEEN. Oh! how we shall run against each
other! What fun it will be!
L. No, no, Miss Katie; I can't allow any running
against each other. The atoms never do that, what



TIHE CR YS TAL LIFE.


35


ever human creatures do, You must all know your
places, and find your way to them without jostling.
LILY. But how ever shall we do that?
ISABEL. Mustn't the ones in the middle be the nearest, and the outside ones farther off-when we go
away to scatter, I mean?
L. Yes; you must be very careful to keep your order; you will soon find out how to do it; it is only like
soldiers forming square, except that each must stand
still in her place as she reaches it, and the others come
round her; and you will have much more complicated
figures, afterwards, to form, than squares.
ISABEL. I'll put a stone at my place: then I shall
kndw it.
L. You might each nail a bit of paper to the turf, at
your place, with your name upon it: but it would be
of no use, for if you don't know your places, you will
make a fine piece of business of it, while you are looking for your names. And, Isabel, if with a little head,
and eyes, and a brain (all of them very good and serviceable of their kind, as such things go), you think
you cannot know your place without a stone at it, after
examiniag it well,-how do you think each atom
knows Is place, when it never was there before, and
there's no stone at it?
ISABEL. But does every atom know its place?
L. How else could it get there?
MARY. Are they not attracted into their places?
L. Cover a piece of paper with spots, at equal intervals; and then imagine any kind of attraction you
choose, or any law of attraction, to exist between the
spots, and try how, on that permitted supposition, you
can attract them into the figure of a Maltese cross, in
the middle of the paper.. MARY (having tried it). Yes; I see that I cannot:-one would need all kinds of attractions, in different ways, at different places. But you do not mean
that the atoms are alive?
L. What is it to be alive?




36       THE ETHICS OF THE DUST.
DORA. There now   you're going to be provoking,
I know.
L. I do not see why it should be provoking to be
asked what it is to be alive. Do you think you don't
know whether you are alive or not?
(ISABEL skzis to tohe end of the room and back.)
L. Yes, Isabel, that's all very fine; and you and I
may call that being alive: but a modern philosopher
calls it being in a 'mode of motion.' It requires a
certain quantity of heat to take you to the sideboard;
and exactly the same quantity to bring you back
again. That's all.
ISABEL. No, it isn't. And besides, I'm not hot.
L. I am, sometimes, at the way they talk. 'However, you know, Isabel, you might have been a particle
of a mineral, and yet have been carried round the
room, or anywhere else, by chemical forces, in the liveliest way.
ISABEL. Yes; but I wasn't carried: I carried myself.
L. The fact is, mousie, the difficulty is not so much
to say what makes a thing alive, as what makes it a
Self. As soon as you are shut off from the rest of the
universe into a Self, you begin to be alive.
VIOLET (indzgnant). Oh, surely-surely that cannot be so. Is not all the life of the soul in communion, not separation?
L. There can be no communion where there is no
distinction. But we shall be in an abyss of metaphysics presently, if we don't look out; and besides, we
must not be too grand, to-day, for the younger children. We'll be grand, some day, by ourselves, if we
must. (The younger children are not pleased, and
pfrepkare to remonstrate, but, knowing, by experience,
that all conversations in which the word ' conzminion' occurs, are unintellzizble, think better of it.)
Meantime, for broad answer about the atoms. I do
not think we should use the word 'life,' of any energy
which does not belong to a given form. A seed, or
an egg, or a young animal, are properly called ' alive'




THE CR YSTAL LIFE.


37


with respect to the force belonging to those forms,
which consistently develops that form, and no other.
But the force which crystallizes a mineral appears to
be chiefly external, and it does not produce an entirely
determinate and individual form, limited in size, but
only an aggregation, in which some limiting laws must
be observed.
MARY. But I do not see much difference, that way,
between a crystal and a tree.
L. Add, then, that the mode of the energy in a living thing implies a continual change in its elements;
and a period for its end. So you may define life by
its attached negative, death; and still more by its attached positive, birth. But I won't be plagued any
more about this, just now; if you choose to think the
crystals alive, do, and welcome. Rocks have always
been called I living' in their native place.
MARY. There's one question more; then I've done.
L. Only one?                             v
MARY. Only one.
L. But if it is answered, won't it turn into two?
MARY. No; I think it will remain single, and be
comfortable.
L. Let me hear it.
MARY. You know, we are to crystallize ourselves
out of the whole playground. Now, what playground
have the minerals? Where are they scattered before
they are crystallized; and where are the crystals generally made?
L. That sounds to me more like three questions
than one, Mary. If it is only one, it is a wide one.
MARY. I did not say anything about the width of it.
L. Well, I must keep it within the best compass I
can. When rocks either dry from a moist state, or
cool from a heated state, they necessarily alter in
bulk; and cracks,,. or open spaces, form in them in all
directions. These cracks must be filled up with solid
matter, or the rock would eventually become a ruinous heap. So, sometimes by water, sometimes by vapor, sometimes nobody knows how, crystallizable mat



38       TILE ETHICS OF THE DUST.
ter is brought from somewhere, and fastens itself in
these open spaces, so as to bind the rock together
again, with crystal cement. A vast quantity of hollows are formed in lavas by bubbles of gas, just as
the holes are left in bread well baked. In process of
time these cavities are generally filled with various
crystals.
MARY. But where does the crystallizing substance
come from?
L. Sometimes out of the rock itself; sometimes
from below or above, through the veins. The entire
substance of the contracting rock may be filled with
liquid, pressed into it so as to fill every pore;-or with
mineral vapor;-or it may be so charged at one
place, and empty at another. There's no end to the
'may be's.' But all that you need fancy, for our
present purpose, is that hollows in the rocks, like the
caves in Derbyshire, are traversed by liquids or vapor
containing certain elements in a more or less free or
separate state, which crystallize on the cave walls.
SIBYL. There now; Mary has had all her questions
answered: it's my turn to have mine.
L. Ah, there's a conspiracy among you, I see. I
might have guessed as much.
DORA. I'm sure you ask us questions enough! How
can you have the heart, when you dislike so to be
asked them yourself?
L. My dear child, if people do not answer questions,
it does not matter how many they are asked, because
they've no trouble with them. Now, when I ask you
questions, I never expect to be answered; but when
you ask me, you always do; and it's not fair.
DORA. Very well, we shall understand, next time.
SIBYL. No, but seriously, we all want to ask one
thing more, quite dreadfully.
L. And I don't want to be asked it, quite dreadfully; but you'll have your own way, of course.
SIBYL. We none of us understand about the lower
Pthah. It was not merely yesterday; but in all we
have read about him in Wilkinson, or in any book, we




THE CRYSTA7L LIE.


39


cannot understand what the Egyptians put their god
into that ugly little deformed shape for.
L. Well, I'm glad it's that sort of question; because
I can answer anything I like, to that.
EGYPT. Anything you like will do quite well for us;
we shall be pleased with the answer, if you are.
L. I am not so sure of that, most gracious queen; for
I must begin by the statement that queens seem to
have disliked all sorts of work, in those days, as much
as some queens dislike sewing to-day.
EGYPT. Now, it's too bad! and just when I was
trying to say the civillest thing I could!
L. But, Egypt, why did you tell me you disliked
sewing so?
EGYPT. Did not I show you how the thread cuts
my fingers? and I always get cramp, somehow, in my
neck, if I sew long.
L. Well, I suppose the Egyptian queens thought
everybody got cramp in their neck, if they sewed long;
and that thread always cut people's fingers. At all
events, every kind of manual labor was despised both
by them, and the Greeks; and, while they owned the
real good and fruit of it, they yet held it a degradation
to all who practised it. Also, knowing the laws of
life thoroughly, they perceived that the special practice necessary to bring any manual art to perfection
strengthened the body distortedly; one energy or
member gaining at the expense of the rest. They especially dreaded and despised any kind of work that
had to be done near fire: yet, feeling what they owed
to it in metal-work, as the basis of all other work,
they expressed this mixed reverence and scorn in the
varied types of the lame Hephzestus, and the lower
Pthah.
SIBYL. But what did you mean by making him say
'Everything great I can make small, and everything
small great?'
L. I had my own separate meaning in that. We
have seen in modern times the power of the lower
Pthah developed in a separate way, which no Greek




40       THE ETHICS OF THE DUST.
nor Egyptian could have conceived. It is the character of pure and eyeless manual labor to conceive everything as subjected to it: and, in reality, to disgrace and
diminish all that is so subjected; aggrandizing itself,
and the thought of itself, at the expense of all noble
things. I heard an orator, and a good one too, at the
Working Men's College, the other day, make a great
point in a description of our railroads; saying, with
grandly conducted emphasis, 'They have made man
greater, and the world less.' His working audience
were mightily pleased; they thought it so very fine a
thing to be made bigger themselves; and all the rest
of the world less. I should have enjoyed asking them
(but it would have been a pity-they were so pleased),
how much less they would like to have the world
made;-and whether, at present, those of them really
felt the biggest men, who   lived  in the least
houses.
SIBYL. But then, why did you make Pthah say that
he could make weak things strong, and small things
great?
L. My dear, he is a boaster and self-assertor, by nature; but it is so far true. For instance, we used to
have a fair in our neighborhood-a very fine fair we
thought it. You never saw such an one; but if you
look at the engraving of Turner's 'St. Catherine's
Hill,' you will see what it was like. There were curious booths, carried on poles; and peep-shows; and
music, with plenty of drums and cymbals; and much
barley-sugar and gingerbread, and the like: and in
the alleys of this fair the London populace would enjoy themselves, after their fashion, very thoroughly.
Well, the little Pthah set to work upon it one day; he
made the wooden poles into iron ones, and put them
across, like his own crooked legs, so that you always
fall over them if you don't look where you are going;
and he turned all the canvas into panes of glass, and
out it up on his iron cross-poles; and made all the
ittle booths into one great booth;-and people said it
vas very fine, and a new style of architecture: and




TIlE CRYSTAL LIFE.


41


Mr. Dickens said nothing was ever like it in Fairyland, which was very true. And then the little Pthah
set to work to put fine fairings in it; and he painted
the Nineveh bulls afresh, with the blackest eyes he
could paint (because he had none himself), and he got
the angels down from Lincoln choir, and gilded their
wings like his gingerbread of old times; and he
sent for everything else he could think of, and put it
in his booth. There are the casts of Niobe and her
children; and the Chimpanzee; and the wooden Caffres
and New-Zealanders; and the Shakespeare House;
and Le Grand Blondin, and Le Petit Blondin; and
Handel; and Mozart; and no end of shops, and buns,
and beer; and all the little-Pthah-worshippers say,
never was anything so sublime!
SIBYL. Now, do you mean to say you never go to
these Crystal Palace concerts? They're as good as
good can be.
L. I don't go to the thundering things with a million of bad voices in them. When I want a song, I
get Julia Mannering and Lucy Bertram and Counsellor Pleydell to sing 'We be three poor Mariners' to
me; then I've no headache next morning. But I do
go to the smaller concerts, when I can; for they are
very good, as you say, Sibyl: and I always get a reserved seat somewhere near the orchestra, where I am
sure I can see the kettle-drummer drum.
SIBYL Now do be serious, for one minute.
L. I am serious-never was more so. You know
one can't see the modulation of violinists' fingers, but
one can see the vibration of the drummer's hand; and
it's lovely.
SIBYL. But fancy going to a concert, not to hear,
but to see r
L. Yes, it is very absurd. The quite right thing, I
believe, is to go there to talk. I confess, however,
that in most music, when very well done, the doing of
it is to me the chiefly interesting part of the business.
I'm always thinking how good it would be for the fat,
supercilious people, who care so little for their half



42    THE ETHICS OF THE DUST.


crown's worth, to be set to try and do a half-crown's
worth of anything like it.
MARY. But surely that Crystal Palace is a great
good and help to the people of London?
L. The fresh air of the Norwood hills is, or was, my
dear; but they are spoiling that with smoke as fast as
they can. And the palace (as they call it) is a better
place for them, by much, than the old fair; and it is
always there, instead of for three days only; and it
shuts up at proper hours of night. And good use may
be made of the things in it, if you know how: but as
for its teaching the people, it will teach them nothing
but the lowest of the lower Pthah's work-nothing but
hammer and tongs. I saw a wonderful piece, of his
doing, in the place, only the other day. Some unhappy metal-worker-I am not sure if it was not a
metal-working firm-had taken three years to make a
Golden eagle.
SIBYL. Of real gold?
L. No; of bronze, or copper, or some of their foul
patent metals-it is no matter what. I meant a model
of our chief British eagle. Every feather was made
separately; and every filament of every feather separately, and so joined on; and all the quills modelled of
the right length and right section, and at last the
whole cluster of them fastened together. You know,
children, I don't think much of my own drawing; but
take my proud word for once, that when I go to the
Zoological Gardens, and happen to have a bit of chalk
in my pocket, and the Gray Harpy will sit, without
screwing his head round, for thirty seconds,-I can do
a better thing of him in that time than the three years'
work of this industrious firm. For, during the thirty
scconds, the eagle is my object,-not myself; and
during the three years, the firm's object, in every fibre
of bronze it made, was itself, and not the'eagle. That
is the true meaning of the little Pthah's having no
eyes-he can see only himself. The Egyptian beetle
was not quite the full type of him; our northern ground
beetle is a truer one. It is beautiful to see it at work,




THE CRYSTA.L LIFE.             43
gathering its treasures (such as they are) into little
round balls; and pushing them home with the strong
wrong end of it,-head downmost all the way,-like a
modern political economist with his ball of capital, declaring that a nation can stand on its vices better than
on its virtues. But away with you, children, now, for
I'm getting cross.
DORA. I'm going down stairs; I shall take care, at
any rate, that there are no little Pthahs in the kitchen
cupboards.




LECTURE IV.
THE CRYSTAL ORDERS.
A working Lecture, in the larg'e Schoolroom,  with
experimental Interludes. 7he great bell has rung
unexpectedly.
KATHLEEN (entering disconsolate, though first at
the summons). Oh dear, oh dear, what a day! Was
ever anything so provoking! just when we wanted to
crystallize ourselves;-and I'm sure it's going to rain
all day long.
L. So am I, Kate. The sky has quite an Irish way
with it. But I don't see why Irish girls should also
look so dismal. Fancy that you don't want to crystallize yourselves: you didn't the day before yesterday,
and you were not unhappy when it rained then.
FLORRIE. Ah! but we do want to to-day; and the
rain's so tiresome.
L. That is to say, children, that because you are all
the richer by the expectation of playing at a new game,
you choose to make yourselves unhappier than when
you had nothing to look forward to, but the old ones.
ISABEL. But then, to have to wait-wait-wait;
and before we've tried it;-and perhaps it will rain tomorrow; too!
L. It may also rain the day after to-morrow. We
can make ourselves uncomfortable to any extent with
perhapses, Isabel. You may stick perhapses into your
little minds, like pins, till you are as uncomfortable as
the Lilliputians made Gulliver with their arrows, when
he would not lie quiet.




THE CRYSTAL ORDERS.


45


ISABEL. But what are we to do to-day?
L. To be quiet, for one thing, like Gulliver when he
saw there was nothing better to be done. And to
practise patience. I can tell you children, that requires
nearly as much practising as music; and we are continually losing our lessons when the master comes.
Now, to-day, here's a nice little adagio lesson for us,
if we play it properly.
ISABEL. But I don't like that sort of lesson. I can't
play it properly.
L. Can you play a Mozart sonata yet, Isabel? The
more need to practise. All one's life is a music, if one
touches the notes rightly, and in time. But there
must be no hurry.
KATHLEEN. I'm sure there's no music in stopping
in on a rainy day.
L. There's no music in a 'rest,' Katie, that I know
of: but there's the making of music in it. And people are always missing that part of the life-melody;
and scrambling on without counting-not that it's
easy to count; but nothing on which so much depends
ever is easy. People are always talking of perseverance, and courage, and fortitude; but patience is the
finest and worthiest part of fortitude,-and the rarest,
too. I know twenty persevering girls for one patient
one: but it is only that twenty-first who can do her
work, out and out, or enjoy it. For patience lies at
the root of all pleasure, as well as of all powers.
Hope herself ceases to be happiness, when Impatience
companions her.
(ISABEL and LILY sit down on the floor, andfold
their hands. The others follow their example.)
Good children! but that's not quite the way of it,
neither. Folded hands are not necessarily resigned
ones. The Patience who really smiles at grief usually
stands, or walks, or even runs: she seldom  sits;
though she may sometimes have to do it, for many a
day, poor thing, by monuments; or like Chaucer's,
'with face pale, upon a hill of sand.' But we are not
reduced to that to-day. Suppose we use this calami



46       THE ETHICS OF THE DUST.
tous forenoon to choose the shapes we are to crystallize into? we know nothing about them yet.
(The pictures of resignation rise from-the floor, not
in the jatientest manner. General applause.)
MARY (with one or two others). The very thing we
wanted to ask you about!
LILY. We looked at the books about crystals, but
they are so dreadful.
L. Well, Lily, we must go through a little dreadfulness, that's a fact: no road to any good knowledge is
wholly among the lilies and the grass; there is rough
climbing to be done always. But the crystal-books
are a little too dreadful, most of them, I admit; and
we shall have to be content with very little of their
help. You know, as you cannot stand on each other's
heads, you can only make yourselves into the sections
of crystals,-the figures they show when they are cut
through; and we will choose some that will be quite
easy. You shall make diamonds of yourselvesISABEL. Oh, no, no! we won't be diamonds, please.
L. Yes, you shall, Isabel; they are very pretty
things, if the jewellers, and the kings and queens,
would only let them alone. You shall make diamonds
of yourselves, and rubies of yourselves, and emeralds;
and Irish diamonds; two of those-with Lily in the
middle of one, which will be very orderly, of course;
and Kathleen in the middle of the other, for which we
will hope the best;-and you shall make Derbyshire
spar of yourselves, and Iceland spar, and gold, and
silver, and-Quicksilver there's enough of in you,
without any making.
MARY. Now, you know, the children will be getting
quite wild: we must really get pencils and paper, and
begin properly.
L. Wait a minute, Miss Mary; I think as we've the
schoolroom clear to-day, I'll try to give you some notion of the three great orders or ranks of crystals, into
which all the others seem more or less to fall. We
shall only want one figure a day, in the playground;
and that can be drawn in a minute: but the general




THE CRYSTAL ORDERS.


47


ideas had better be fastened first. I must show you a
great many minerals; so let me have three tables
wheeled into the three windows, that we may keep
our specimens separate;-we will keep the three orders of crystals on separate tables.
(First Interlude, of pushing and pulling, and
spreading of baise.covers.  Violet, not particularly minding what she is about, gets herself
jammed into a corner, and bid to stand out of
the way; on which she devotes herself to meditation.)
VIOLET   (after interval of  meditation). How
strange it is that everything seems to divide into threes!
L. Everything doesn't divide into threes. Ivy won't,
though shamrock will; and daisies won't, though
lilies will.
VIOLET. But all the nicest things seem to divide
into threes.
L. Violets won't.
VIOLET. No; I should think not, indeed! But I
mean the great things.
L. I've always heard the globe had four quarters.
ISABEL. Well; but you know you said it hadn't any
quarters at all. So mayn't it really be divided into
three?
L. If it were divided into no more than three, on
the outside of it, Isabel, it would be a fine world to
live in; and if it were divided into three in the inside
of it, it would soon be no world to live in at all.
DORA. We shall never get to the crystals, at this
rate. (Aside to MARY.) He will get off into political
economy before we know where we are. (Aloud.)
But the crystals are divided into three, then?
L. No; but there are three general notions by which
we may best get hold of them. Then between these
notions there are other notions.
LILY (alarmed). A great many? And shall we
have to learn them all?
L. More than a great many-a quite infinite many.
So you cannot learn them all.




48       THSE ETHBICS OF THE DUST.
LILY (greatly relieved). Then may we only learn
the three?
L. Certainly; unless, when you have got those
three notions, you want to have some more notions;
-which would not surprise me. But we'll try for the
three, first. Katie, you broke your coral necklace
this morning?
KATHLEEN. Oh! who told you? It was in jumping. I'm so sorry!
L. I'm very glad. Can you fetch me the beads of
it?
KATHLEEN. I've lost some; here are the rest in
my pocket, if I can only get them out.
L. You mean to get them out some day, I suppose;
so try now. I want them.
(KATHLEEN    elzpties her pocket on the floor.
The beads disperse. The School dizsperses also.
Second Interlude-huntin2g piece.)
L. (after waitZing atientlyfor a quarter of an hour,
to ISABEL, who comes up from under the table with
her hair all.about her ears, and the last fndable beadsin her hand). Mice are useful little things sometimes.
Now, mousie, I want all those beads crystallized. How
many ways are there of putting them in order?
ISABEL. Well, first one would string them, I suppose?
L. Yes, that's the first way. You cannot string ultimate atoms; but you can put them in a row, and then they
fasten themselves together, somehow, into a long rod
or needle. We will call these 'Aeedle-crystals.' What
would be the next way?
ISABEL. I suppose, as we are to get together in the
playground, when it stops raining, in different shapes?
L. Yes; put the beads together, then, in the simplest
form you can, to begin with. Put them into a square,
and pack them close.
ISABEL (after careful endeavor). I can't get them
closer.
L. That will do. Now you may see, beforehand,
that if you try to throw yourselves into a square in this




THE CRYSTAL ORDERS.


49


confused way, you will never know your places; so you
had better consider every square as made of rods, put
side by side. Take four beads of equal size, first, Isabel; put them into a little square. That, you may consider as made up of two rods of two beads each. Then
you can make, a square a size larger, out of three rods of
three. Then the next square may be a size larger.
How many rods, Lily?
LILY. Four rods of four beads each, I suppose.
L. Yes, and then five rods of five, and so on. But
now, look here; make another square of four beads
again. You see they leave a little opening in the centre.
ISABEL (iushing two oy5oszite ones closer logether).
Now they don't.
L. No; but now it isn't a square; and by pushing the
two together you have pushed the two others farther
apart.
ISABEL. And yet, somehow, they all seem closer
than they were!
L. Yes: for before, each of them only touched two
of the others, but now each of the two in the middle
touches the other three. Take away one of the outsiders, Isabel: now you have three in a triangle-the
smallest triangle you can make out of the beads. Now
put a rod of three beads on at one side. So, you have
a triangle of six beads; but just the shape of the first
one. Next a rod of four on the side of that; and you
have a triangle of ten beads: then a rod of five on the
side of that; and you have a triangle of fifteen. Thus
you have a square with five beads on the side, and a
triangle with five beads on the side; equal-sided, therefore, like the square. So, however few or many you
may be, you may soon learn how to crystallize quickly
into these two figures, which are the foundation- of form
in the commonest, and therefore actually the most important, as well as in the rarest, and therefore, by our
esteem, the most important, minerals of the world.
Look at this in my hand.
VIOLET. Why, it is leaf gold!
L. Yes; but beaten by no man's hammer; or rather,
4




sp       THE ETHICS OF THE DUST.
not beaten at all, but woven. Besides, feel the weight
of it. There is gold enough there to gild the walls and
ceiling, if it were beaten thin.
VIOLET. How beautiful! And it glitters like a leaf
covered with frost.
L. You only think it so beautiful because you know
it is gold. It is not prettier, in reality, than a bit of
brass: for it is Transylvanian gold; and they say there
is a foolish gnome in the mines there, who is always
wanting to live in the moon, and so alloys all the gold
with a little silver. I don't know how that may be:
but the silver always is in the gold; and if he does it,
it's very provoking of him, for no gold is woven so fine
anywhere else.
MARY (who has been lookzizg through Aer magnifying-glass). But this is not woven. This is all made
of little triangles.
L. Say I patched,' then, if you must be so particular.
But if you fancy all those triangles, small as they are
(and many of them are infinitely small), made up again
of rods, and those of grains, as we built our great triangle of the beads, what word will you take for the
manufacture?
MAY. There's no word-it is beyond words.
L. Yes; and that would matter little, were it not
beyond thoughts too. But, at all events, this yellow
leaf of dead gold, shed, not from the ruined woodlands,
but the ruined rocks, will help you to remember the
second kind of crystals, Leaf-crystals, or Foliated crystals; though I show you the form in gold first only to
make a strong impression on you, for gold is not generally, or characteristically, crystallized in leaves; the
real type of foliated crystals is this thing, Mica; which
if you once feel well, and break well, you will always
know again; and you will often have occasion to know
it, for you will find it everywhere, nearly, in hill countries.
KATHLEEN. If we break it well! May we break
it?
L. To powder, if you like.




THE CRYSTAL ORDERS.


5t


(Surrenders plate of brown mica to public investzgation. Third Interlde. Itsustains severely
philosoaplzcal treatment at all hands.)
FLORRIE (to whom the lastfragments have descended). Always leaves, and leaves, and nothing but leaves,
or white dust!
L. That dust itself is nothing but finer leaves.
(Shows them to FLORRIE through magnzjying
glass.)
ISABEL (peeping over FLORRIE'S shoulder). But
then this bit under the glass looks like that bit out of
the glass! If we could break this bit under the glass,
what would it be like?
L. It would be all leaves still.
ISABEL. And then if we broke those again?
L. All less leaves still.
ISABEL (imifatient6. And if we broke them again,
and again, and again, and again, and again?
L. Well, I suppose you would come to a limit, if you
could only see it. Notice that the little flakes already
differ somewhat from the large ones: because I can
bend them up and down, and they stay bent; while
the large flake, though it bent easily a little way, sprang
back when you let it go, and broke, when you tried to
'tend it far. And a large mass would not bend at all.
MARY. Would that leaf gold separate into finer leaves,
1i, the same way?
L. No; and therefore, as I told you, it is not a characteristic specimen of a foliated crystallization. The
little triangles are portions of solid crystals, and so
they are in this, which looks like a black mica; but
you see it is made up of triangles like the gold, and
stands, almost accurately, as an intermediate link, in
crystals, between mica and gold. Yet this is the comtnonest, as gold the rarest, of metals.
MARY. Is it iron? I never saw iron so bright.
L. It is rust of iron, finely crystallized: from its resemblance to mica, it is often called micaceous iron.
KATHLEEN. May we break this, too?
L. No, for I could not easily get such another cryc



52       THE ETHICS OF THE DUST.
tal; besides, it would not break like the mica; it is
much harder. But take the glass again, and look at
the fineness of the jagged edges of the triangles where
they lap over each other. The gold has the same:
but you see them better here, terrace above terrace,
countless, and in successive angles, like superb fortified bastions.
MAY. But all foliated crystals are not made of triangles?
L. Far from it; mica is occasionally so, but usually
of hexagons; and here is a foliated crystal made of
squares, which will show you that the leaves of the
rock-land have their summer green, as well as their
autumnal gold.
FLORRIE. Oh! oh! oh! (Jmznns forjoy).
L. Did you never see a bit of green leaf before,
Florrie?
FLORRIE. Yes, but never so bright as that, and not
in a stone.
L. If you will look at the leaves of the trees in sunshine after a shower, you will find they are much
brighter than that; and surely they are none the worse
for being on stalks instead of in stones?
FLORRIE. Yes, but then there are so many of them,
one never looks, I suppose.
L. Now you have it, Florrie.
VIOLET (sighzing). There are so many beautiful
things we never see!
L. You need not sigh for that, Violet; but I will
tell you what we should all sigh for,-that there are
so many ugly things we never see.
VIOLET. But we don't want to see ugly things!
L. You had better say, 'We don't want to suffer
them.' You ought to be glad in thinking how much
more beauty God has made, than human eyes can
ever see; but not glad in thinking how much more
evil man has made, than his own soul can ever conceive, much more than his hands can ever heal.
VIOLET. I don't understand;-how is that like the
leaves?




THE CRYSTAL ORDERS.


53


L. The same law holds in our neglect of multiplied
pain, as in our neglect of multiplied beauty. Florrie
jumps for joy at sight of half an inch of a green leaf
in a brown sLone; and takes more notice of it than of
all the green in the wood: and you,'or I, or any of us,
would be unhappy it any single human creature beside
us were in sharp pain; hut Hie can read, at breakfast,
day after day, of men being killed, and of women and
children dying of hunger, fister than the leaves strew
the brooks in Vallombrosa;-and theL, go out to play
croquet, as if nothing had happened.
MAY. But we do not see the peopic being killed or
dying.
L. You did not see your brother, when yon got 'he
telegram the other day, saying he was ill, May; utL
you cried for him; and played no croquet. But we
cannot talk of these things now; and what is more,
you must let me talk straight on, for a little while;
and ask no questions till I've done: for we branch
(' exfoliate,' I should say, mineralogically) always into
something else,-though that's my fault more than
yours; but I must go straight on now. You have got
a distinct notion, I hope, of leaf-crystals; and you see
the sort of look they have: you can easily remember
that ' iolium ' is Latin for a leaf, and that the separate
flakes of mica, or any other such stones, are called
' folia;' but, because mica is the most characteristic
of these stones, other things that are like.it in structure are called 'micas;' thus we have Uran-mica,
which is the green leaf I showed you; and Coppermica, which is another like it, made chiefly of copper;
and this foliated iron is called 'micaceous iron.' You
have then these two great orders, Needle-crystals,
made (probably) of grains in rows; and Leaf-crystals,
made (probably) of needles interwoven; now, lastly,
there are crystals of a third order, in heaps, or knots,
or masses, which may be made, either of leaves laid
one upon another, or of needles bound like Roman
fasces; and mica itself, when it is well crystallized,
puts itself into such masses, as if to show us how




54       THE ETHICS OF THE DUST.
others are made. Here is a brown six-sided crystal,
quite as beautifully chiselled at the sides as any castle
tower; but you see it is entirely built of folia of mica,
one laid above another, which break away the moment
I touch the edge with my knife. Now, here is another
hexagonal tower, of just the same size and color,
which I want you to compare with the mica carefully;
but as I cannot wait for you to do it just now, I must
tell you quickly what main differences to look for.
First, you will feel it is far heavier than the mica.
Then, though its surface looks quite micaceous in the
folia of it, when you try them with the knife, you will
find you cannot break them awayKATHLEEN. May I try?
L. Yes, you mistrusting Katie. Here's my strong
knife for you. (Exteriznentalf pause.  KATHLEEN
dozinz her best.) You'll have that knife shutting on
your finger presently, Kate; and I don't know a girl
who would like less to have her hand tied up for a
week.
KATHLEEN (who also does zot like to be beatengiving up the knife des/pondently). What can the
nasty hard thing be?
L. It is nothing but indurated clay, Kate: very
hard set certainly, yet not so hard as it might be. If
it were thoroughly well crystallized, you would see
none of those micaceous fractures,; and the stone
would be quite red and clear, all through.
KATHLEEN. Oh, cannot you show us one?
L. Egypt can, if you ask her; she has a beautiful
one in the clasp of her favorite bracelet.
KATHLEEN. Why, that's a ruby!
L. Well, so is that thing you've been scratching at.
KATHLEEN. My goodness!
(Takes ufi the stone agazi, very delicately, and
drops it. General consternation.)
L. Never mind, Katie; you might drop it from the
top of the house, and do it no harm. But though you
really are a very good girl, and as good-natured as
anybody can possibly be, remember, you have your




THE CRYSTAL ORDERS.


55


faults, like other people; and, if I were you, the next
time I wanted to assert anything energetically, I
would assert it by ' my badness,' not ' my goodness.'
KATHLEEN. Ah, now, it's too bad of you!
L. Well, then, I'll invoke, on occasion, my 'toobadness.' But you may as well pick up the ruby, now
you have dropped it; and look carefully at the beautiful hexagonal lines which gleam on its surface; and
here is a pretty white sapphire (essentially the same
stone as the ruby), in which you will see the same
lovely structure, like the threads of the finest white
cobweb. I do not know what is the exact method of
a ruby's construction; but you see by these lines,
what fine construction there is, even in this hardest
of stones (after the diamond), which usually appears
as a massive lump or knot. There is therefore no real
mineralogical distinction between needle crystals, and
knotted crystals, but, practically, crystallized masses
throw themselves into one of the three groups we
have been examining to-day; and appear either as
Needles, as Folia, or as Knots; when they are in
needles (or fibres), they make the stones or rocks
formed out of them 'fibrous,' when they are in folia,
they make them 'foliated,.' when they are in knots
(or grains), 'granular.' Fibrous rocks are comparatively rare. in mass; but fibrous minerals are innumerable; and it is often a question which really no one
but a young lady could possibly settle, whether one
should call the fibres composing them 'threads' or
' needles.' Here is amianthus, for instance, which is
quite as fine and soft as any cotton thread you ever
sewed with; and here is sulphide of bismuth, with
sharper points and brighter lustre than your finest
needles have; and fastened in white webs of quartz
more delicate than your finest lace; and here is
sulphide of antimony, which looks like mere purple
wool, but it is all of purple needle crystals; and here
is red oxide of copper (you must not breathe on it as
you look, or you may blow some of the films of it off
the stone), which is simply a woven tissue of scarlet




56       THE E THICS OF THE DUST.
silk. However, these finer thread forms are comparatively rare, while the bolder and needle-like crystals
occur constantly; so that, I believe, 'Needle-crystal,'
is the best word (the grand one is, 'Acicular crystal,'
but Sibyl will tell you it is all the same, only less easily
understood; and therefore more scientific). Theo the
Leaf-crystals, as I said, form an immense mass of
foliated rocks; and the Granular crystals, which are
of many kinds, form essentially granular, or granitic
and porphyritic rocks; and it is always a point of
more interest to me (and I think will ultimately be to
you), to consider the causes which force a given
mineral to take any one of these three general forms,
than what the peculiar geometrical limitations are,
belonging to its own crystals.* It is more interesting
to me, for instance, to try and find out why the red
oxide of copper, usually crystallizing in cubes or octahedrons, makes itself exquisitely, out of its cubes, into
this red silk in one particular Cornish mine, than what
are the absolutely necessary angles of the octahedron,
which is its common form. At all events, that mathematical part of crystallography is quite beyond girls'
strength; but these questions of the various tempers
and manners of crystals are not only comprehensible
by you, but full of the most curious teaching for you.
For in the fulfilment, to the best of their power, of
their adopted form under given circumstances, there
are conditions entirely resembling those of human
virtue; and indeed expressible under no term so
proper as that of the Virtue, or Courage of crystals:which, if you are not afraid of the crystals making
you ashamed of yourselves, we will try to get some
notion of, to-morrow. But it will be a by-lecture,
and more about yourselves than the minerals. Don't
come unless you like.
MARY. I'm sure the crystals will make us ashamed
of ourselves; but we'll come, for all that.
L. Meantime, look well and quietly over these needle, or thread crystals, and those on the other two
* Note iv.




THE CRYSTAL ORDERS.             57
tables, with magnifying glasses; and see what
thoughts will come into your little heads about them.
For the best thoughts are generally those which come
without being forced, one does not know how. And
so I hope you will get through your wet day patiently.




LECTURE V.


CRYSTAL VIRTUES.
A quiet talk, in the afternoon, by the sunniest window
of the Drawing-room. Present, FLORRIE, ISABEL,
MAY, LUCILLA, KATHLEEN, DORA, MARY, and
some others, who have saved tinefor the by-Lecture.
L. So you have really come, like good girls, to be
made ashamed of yourselves?
DORA (very meekly). No, we needn't be made so;
we always are.
L. Well, I believe that's truer than most pretty
speeches: but you know, you saucy girl, some people
have more reason to be so than others. Are you sure
everybody is, as well as you?
THE GENERAL VOICE. Yes, yes; everybody.
L. What! Florrie ashamed of herself?
(FLORRIE hides behind the curtain.)
L. And Isabel?
(ISABEL hides under the table.)
L. And May?
(May runs into the corner behind the fiano.)
L. And Lucilla?
(LUCILLA hides her face in her hands.)
L. Dear, dear; but this will never do. I shall have
to tell you of the faults of the crystals, instead of virtues, to put you in heart again.
MAY (comning out of her corner). Oh! have the
crystals faults, like us?
L. Certainly, May. Their best virtues arc shown




CR YSTAL VIR TUES.


59


in fighting their faults. And some have a great many
faults; and some are very naughty crystals indeed.
FLORRIE (from behind her curtain). As naughty
as me?
ISABEL (peepingi from  under the tablecloth). Or
me?
L. Well, I don't know. They never forget their
syntax, children, when once they've been taught it.
But I think some of them are, on the whole, worse
than any of you. Not that it's amiable of you to look
so radiant, all in a minute, on that account.
DORA. Oh! but it's so much more comfortable.
(Everybody seems to recover their spirits. Eclipse
of FLORRIE and ISABEL terninates.)
L. What kindly creatures girls are, after all, to
their neighbors' failings! I think you may be ashamed
of yourselves indeed, now, children! I can tell you,
you shall hear of the highest crystalline merits that I
can think of, to-day: and I wish there were more of
them: but crystals have a limited, though a stern, code
of morals; and their essential virtues are but two;the first is to be pure, and the second to be well shaped.
MARY. Pure! Does that mean clear-transparent?
L. No; unless in the case of a transparent substance.  You cannot have a transparent crystal of
gold; but you may have a perfectly pure one.
ISABEL. But you said it was the shape that made
things be crystals; therefore, oughtn't their shape to
be their first virtue, not their second?
L. Right, you troublesome mousie. But I call their
shape only their second virtue, because it depends on
time and accident, and things which the crystal cannot
help. If it is cooled too quickly, or shaken, it must
take what shape it can; but it seems as if, even then,
it had in itself the power of rejecting impurity, if it has
crystalline life enough. Here is a crystal of quartz,
well enough shaped in its way; but it seems to have
been languid and sick at heart; and some white milky
substance has got into it, and mixed itself up with it,
all through. It makes the quartz quite yellow, if you




60     THE ETHICS OF THE DUST.


hold it up to the light, and a milky blue on the surface. Here is another, broken into a thousand separate facets, and out of all traceable shape; but as pure
as a mountain spring. I like this one best.
THE AUDIENCE. So do I-and I-and I.
MARY. Would a crystallographer?
L. I think so. He would find many more laws
curiously exemplified in the irregularly grouped but
pure crystal. But it is a futile question, this of first
or second.  Purity' is in most cases a prior, if not
a nobler, virtue; at all events it is most convenient to
think about it first.
MARY. But what ought we to think about it? Is
there much to be thought —I mean, much to puzzle
one?
L. I don't know what you call' much.' It is a long
time since I met with anything in which there was little..
There's not much in this, perhaps. The crystal must
be either dirty or clean,-and there's an end. So it is
with one's hands, and with one's heart-only you can
wash your hands without changing them, but not
hearts, nor crystals.  On the whole, while you are
young, it will be as well to take care that your hearts
don't want much washing; for they may perhaps need
wringing also, when they do.
(Audience doubtful and uncomfortable.  LuCILLA at last takes courage.)
LUCILLA. Oh! but surely, sir, we cannot make our
hearts clean?
L. Not easily, Lucilla, so you had better keep ther
so, when they are.
LUCILLA. When they are! But, sir —
L. Well?
LUCILLA. Sir-surely-are we not told that they
are all evil?
L. Wait a little, Lucilla; that is difficult ground you
are getting upon; and we must keep to our crystals,
till at least we understand what their good and evil
consist in; they may help us afterwards to some useful hints about our own. I said that their goodness




CRYST7AL VIRTUES.


6i


consisted chiefly in purity of substance, and perfectness of form: but those are rather the effects of their
goodness, than the goodness itself.  The inherent
virtues of the crystals, resulting in these outer conditions, might really seem to be best described in the
words we should use respecting living creatures'force of heart' and ' steadiness of purpose.' There
seem to be in some crystals, from the beginning, an
unconquerable purity of vital power, and strength of
crystal spirit. Whatever dead substance, unacceptant
of this energy, comes in their way, is either rejected,
or forced to take some beautiful subordinate form;
the purity of the crystal remains unsullied, and every
atom of it bright with coherent energy. Then the
second condition is, that from the beginning of its whole
structure, a fine crystal seems to have determined that
it will be of a certain size and of a certain shape; it
persists in this plan, and completes it. Here is a perfect crystal of quartz for you. It is of an unusual
form, and one which it might seem very difficult to
build-a pyramid with convex sides, composed of
other minor pyramids. But there is not a flaw in its
contour throughout; not one of its myriads of component sides but is as bright as a jeweller's facetted
work (and far finer, if you saw it close). The crystal
points are as sharp as javelins; their edge will cut
glass with a touch. Anything more resolute, consummate, determinate in form, cannot be conceived.
Here, on the other hand, is a crystal of the same substance, in a perfectly simple type of form-a plain sixsided prism; but from its base to its point,-and it is
nine inches long,-it has never for one instant made
up its mind what thickness it will have. It seems to
have begun by making itself as thick as it thought
possible with the quantity of material at command.
Still not being as thick as it would like to be, it has
clumsily glued on more substance at one of its sides.
Then it has thinned itself, in a panic of economy;
then puffed itself out again; then starved one side to
enlarge another; then warped itself quite out of its




62       THE ETHZCS OF THE D US7
first line. Opaque, rough-surfaced, jagged on the
edge, distorted in the spine, it exhibits a quite human
image of decrepitude and dishonor; but the worst of
all the signs of its decay and helplessness, is that halfway up, a parasite crystal, smaller, but just as sickly,
has rooted itself in the side of the larger one, eating
out a cavity round its root, and then growing backwards, or downwards, contrary to the direction of the
main crystal. Yet I cannot trace the least difference in
purity of substance between the first most noble stone,
and this ignoble and dissolute one. The impurity of
the last is in its will, or want of will.
MARY. Oh, if we could but understand the meaning of it all!
L. We can understand all that is good for us. It
is just as true for us, as for the crystal, that the nobleness of life depends on its consistency,-clearness
of purpose,-quiet and ceaseless energy. All doubt,
and repenting, and botching, and retouching, and wondering what it will be best to do next, are vice, as well
as misery.
MARY (much wondering). But must not one repent when one does wrong, and hesitate when one
can't see one's way?
L. You have no business at all to do wrong; nor to
get into any way that you cannot see. Your intelligence should always be far in advance of your act.
Whenever you do not know what you are about, you
are sure to be doing wrong.
KATHLEEN. Oh, dear, but I never know what I am
about!
L. Very true, Katie, but it is a great deal to know,
if you know that. And you find that you have done
wrong afterwards; and perhaps some day you may
begin to know, or at least, think, what you are about.
ISABEL. But surely people can't do very wrong if
they don't know, can they? I mean, they can't be very
naughty. They can be wrong, like Kathleen or me,
when we make mistakes: but not wrong in the dread



CR YSTAL VIRTUES.


63


ful way. I can't express what I mean; but there are
two sorts of wrong, are there not?
L. Yes, Isabel; but you will find that the great difference is between kind and unkind wrongs, not between meant and unmeant wrong. Very few people
really mean to do wrong,-in a deep sense, none.
They only don't know what they are about. Cain did
not mean to do wrong when he killed Abel.
(ISABEL draws a deef breath, and oapens her eyes
very wide.)
L. No, Isabel; and there are countless Cains among
us now, who kill their brothers by the score a day, not
only for less provocation than Cain had, but for no
provocation,-and merely for what they can make of
their bones,-yet do not think they are doing wrong in
the least. Then sometimes you have the business reversed, as over in America these last years, where you
have seen Abel resolutely killing Cain, and not thinking he is doing wrong. The great difficulty is always
to open people's eyes: to touch their feelings, and
break their hearts, is easy; the difficult thing is to
break their heads. What does it matter, as long as
they remain stupid, whether you change their feelings
or not? You cannot be always at their elbow to tell
them what is right: and they may just do as wrong
as before, or worse; and their best intentions merely
make the road smooth for them,-you know where,
children. For it is not the place itself that is paved
with them, as people say so often. You can't pave
the bottomless pit; but you may the road to it.
MAY. Well, but if people do as well as they can see
how, surely that is the right for them, isn't it?
L. No, May, not a bit of it; right is right, and wrong
is wrong. It is only the fool who does wrong, and
says he ' did it for the best.' And if. there's one sort
of person in the world that the Bible speaks harder of
than another, it is fools. Their particular and chief
way of saying ' There is no God' is this, of declaring
that whatever their ' public opinion' may be, is right:
and that God's opinion is of no consequence.




64       THE ETHICS OF THiE DUST.
MAY. But surely nobody can always know what is
right?
L. Yes, you always can, for to-day; and if you do
what you see of it to-day, you will see more of it, and
more clearly, to-morrow.  Here, for instance, you
children are at school, and have to learn French, and
arithmetic, and music, and several other such things.
That is your 'right' for the present; the 'right' for
us, your teachers, is to see that you learn as much as
you can, without spoiling your dinner, your sleep, or
your play; and that what you do learn, you learn well.
You all know when you learn with a will, and when
you dawdle. There's no doubt of conscience about
that, I suppose?
VIOLET. No; but if one wants to read an amusing
book, instead of learning one's lesson?
L. You don't call that a' question,' seriously, Violet?
You are then merely deciding whether you will resolutely do wrong or not.
MARY. But, in after life, how many fearful difficulties may arise, however one tries to know or to do
what is right!
L. You are much too sensible a girl, Mary, to have
felt that, whatever you may have seen. A great many
of young ladies' difficulties arise from their falling in
love with a wrong person: but they have no business
to let themselves fall in love, till they know he is the
right one.
DORA. How many thousands ought he to have a
year?
L. (disdaining rejly). There are, of course, certain crises of fortune when one has to take care of
oneself, and mind shrewdly what one is about. There
is never any real doubt about the path, but you may
have to walk very slowly.
MARY. And if one is forced to do a wrong thing by
some one who has authority over you?
L. My dear, no one can be forced to do a wrong
thing, for the guilt is in the will: but you may any day
be forced to do a fatal thing, as you might be forced




CRYSTAL VIRTE S.


to take poison; the remarkable law of nature in such
cases being, that it is always unfortunate you who are
poisoned, and not the person who gives you the dose.
It is a very strange law, but it is a law. Nature merely
sees to the carrying out of the normal operation of arsenic. She never troubles herself to ask who gave it
you. So also you may be starved to death, morally as
well as physically, by other people's faults. You are,
on the whole, very good children sitting here to-day;do you think that your goodness comes all by your
own contriving? or that you are gentle and kind because your dispositions are naturally more angelic than
those of the poor girls who are playing, with wild eyes,
on the dustheaps in the alleys of our great towns; and
who will one day fill their prisons,-or, better, their
graves?  Heaven only knows where they, and we
who have cast them there, shall stand at last. But
the main judgment question will be, I suppose, for all
of us, ' Did you keep a good heart through it?' What
you were, others may answer for;-what you tried to
be, you must answer for, yourself. Was the heart
pure and true-tell us that?
And so we come back to your sorrowful question,
Lucilla, which I put aside a little ago. You would be
afraid to answer that your heart was pure and true,
would not you?
LUCILLA. Yes, indeed, sir.
L. Because you have been taught that it is all evil'only evil continually.' Somehow, often as people say
that, they never seem, to me, to believe it? Do you
really believe it?
LUCILLA. Yes, sir; I hope so.
L. That you have an entirely bad heart?
LUCILLA (a little u2nconmfortable at the subsitut/ion
of the monosyllable for the dissyllable, nevertheless
5ersiszing in her orthodoxy). Yes, sir.
L. Florrie, I am sure you are tired; I never like you
to stay when you are tired; but, you know, you must
not play with the kitten while we're talking.
5




66       THlE ETHICS 01' THE DUST.
FLORRIE. Oh! but I'm not tired; and I'm only
nursing her. She'll be asleep in my lap, directly.
L. Stop! that puts me in mind of something I had
to show you, about minerals that are like hair. I
want a hair out of Tittie's tail.
FLORIE (quite rude, in her srprfirse, even to the
p5oint of repeating expressions.) Out of Tittie's tail!
L. Yes; a brown one: Lucilla, you can get at the
tip of it nicely, under Florrie's arm; just pull one out
for me.
LUCILLA. Oh! but, sir, it will hurt her so!
L. Never mind; she can't scratch you while Florrie
is holding her. Now that I think of it, you had better
pull out two.
LUCILLA. But then she may scratch Florrie! and it
will hurt her so, sir! if you only want brown hairs,
wouldn't two of mine do?
L. Would you really rather pull out your own than
Tittie's?
LUCILLA Oh, of course, if mine will do.
L. But that's very wicked, Lucilla!
LUCILLA. Wicked, sit?
L. Yes; if your heart was not so bad, you would
much rather pull all the cat's hairs out, than one of your
own.
LUCILLA. Oh! but, sir, I didn't mean bad, like
that.
L. I believe, if the truth were told, Lucilla, you
would like to tie a kettle to Tittie's tail, and hunt her
round the playground.
LUCILLA. Indeed, I should not, sir.
L. That's not true, Lucilla; you know it cannot be.
LUCILLA. Sir?
L. Certainly it is not;-how can you possibly speak
any truth out of such a heart as you have? It is
wholly deceitful.
LUCILLA. Oh! no, no; I don't mean that way; I
don't mean that it makes me tell lies, quite out.
L. Only that it tells lies within you?
LUCILLA. Yes.




CR YSTAL VIR TUES


67


L. Then, outside of it, you know what is true, and
say so; and I may trust the outside of your heart; but
within, it is all foul and false. Is that the way?
LUCILLA. I suppose so: I don't understand it,
quite.
L. There is no occasion for understanding it; but
do you feel it? Are you sure that your heart is deceitful above all things, and desperately wicked?
LUCILLA (znnch relieved by finding herself among
phrases with which she is acquainted). Yes, sir. I'm
sure of that.
L. (fiensively). I'm sorry for it, Lucilla?
LUCILLA. So am I, indeed.
L. What are you sorry with, Lucilla?
LUCILLA. Sorry with, sir?
L. Yes; I mean, where do you feel sorry? in your
feet?
LUCILLA (laughing a little). No, sir, of course.
L. In your shoulders, then?
LUCILLA. No, sir.
L. You are sure of that? Because, I fear, sorrow
in the shoulders would not be worth much.
LUCILLA. I suppose I feel it in my heart, if I really
am sorry.
L. If you really are! Do you mean to say that you
are sure you are utterly wicked, and yet do not care?
LUCILLA. No, indeed; I have cried about it often.
L. Well, then, you are sorry in your heart?
LUCILLA. Yes, when the sorrow is worth anything.
L. Even if it be not, it cannot be anywhere else but
there. It is not the crystalline lens of your eyes which
is sorry, when you cry?
LUCILLA. No, sir, of course.
L. Then, have you two hearts; one of which is
wicked, and the other grieved? or is one side of it
sorry for the other side?
LUCILLA (weary of cross-examination and a little
vexed). Indeed, sir, you know I can't understand it:
but you know how it is written-' another law in my
members, warring against the law of my mind.'




68    THE ETHICS OF THE DUS T.


L. Yes, Lucilla, I know how it is written; but I dt
not see that it will help us to know that, if we' neither
understand what is written, nor feel it. And you willnot get nearer to the meaning of one verse, if, as soon
as you are puzzled by it, you escape to another, introducing three new words-' law,' 'members,' and
'mind'; not one of which you at present know the
meaning of; and respecting which, you probably never
will be much wiser; since.men like Montesquieu and
Locke have spent great part of their lives in endeavoring to explain two of them.
LUCILLA. Oh! please, sir, ask somebody else.
L. If I thought anyone else could answer better than
you, Lucilla, I would: but suppose I try, instead, myself, to explain your feelings to you?
LUCILLA. Oh, yes; please do.
L. Mind, I say your ' feelings,' not your ' belief.'
For I cannot undertake to explain anybody's beliefs.
Still I must try a little, first, to explain the belief -also,
because I want to draw it to some issue. As far as I
understand what you say, or any one else, taught as
you have been taught, says, on this matter,-you think
that there is an external goodness, a whited-sepulchre
kind of goodness, which appears beautiful outwardly,
but it is within full of uncleanness: a deep secret guilt,
of which we ourselves are not sensible; and which can
only be seen by the Maker of us all. (Apfiroving
murmrzurs from audience.)
L. Is it not so with the body as well as the soul?
(Looked notes of inlerrogatzion.)
L. A skull, for instance, is not a beautiful thing?
(Grave faces, sznzfyzing ' Certainly not,' and
' Whal next? ')
L. And if you all could see in each other, with clear
eyes, whatever God sees beneath those fair faces of
yours, you would not like it?
(Murmured' No's.')
L. Nor would it be good for you?
(Silence.)
L. The probability being that what God does not




CRYSTAL VIRTUES.


69


allow you to see, He does not wish you to see; nor
even to think of?
(Silence prolonged.)
L. It would not at all be good for you, for instance,
whenever you were washing your faces, and braiding
your hair, to be thinking of the shapes of the, jawbones, and of the cartilage of the nose, and of the jagged sutures of the scalp?
(Resolutely whispered No's.)
L. Still less, to see through a clear glass the daily
processes of nourishment and decay?
(No.)
L. Still less if instead of merely inferior and preparatory conditions of structure, as in the skeleton,-or
inferior offices of structure, as in operations of life and
death,-there were actual disease in the body; ghastly
and dreadful. You would try to cure it; but having
taken such measures as were necessary, you would
not think the cure likely to be promoted by perpetually
watching the wounds, or thinking of them. On the
contrary, you would be thankful for every moment of
forgetfulness: as, in daily health, you must be thankful that your Maker has veiled whatever is fearful in
your frame under a sweet and manifest beauty; and
has made it your duty, and your only safety, to rejoice
in that, both in yourself and in others:-not indeed
concealing, or refusing to believe in sickness, if it
come; but never dwelling on it.
Now, your wisdom and duty touching soul-sickness
are just the same. Ascertain clearly what is wrong
with you; and so far as you know any means of mending it, take those means, and have done: when you are
examining yourself, never call yourself merely a ' sinner,' that is very cheap abuse; and utterly useless.
You may even get to like it, and be proud of it. But
call yourself a liar, a coward, a sluggard, a glutton, or
an evil-eyed, jealous wretch, if you indeed find yourself to be in any wise any of these. Take steady
means to check yourself in whatever fault you have ascertained, and justly accused yourself of. And as




70       THE ETHICS OF THE DUST
soon as you are in active way of mending, you~will be
no more inclined to moan over an undefined corruption.
For the rest, you will find it less easy to uproot faults,
than to choke them by gaining virtues. Do not think
of your faults; still less of others' faults: in every person who comes near you, look for what is good and
strong: honor that; rejoice in ito and, as you can, try
to imitate it: and your faults will drop off, like dead
leaves, when their time comes. If, on looking back,
your whole life should seem rugged as a palm tree
stem: still, never mind, so long as it has been growing; and has its grand green shade of leaves, and
weight of honied fruit, at top. And even if you cannot find much good in yourself at last, think that it
does not much matter to the universe either what you
were, or are; think how many people are noble, if you
cannot be; and rejoice in their nobleness. An immense quantity of modern confession of sin, even when
honest, is merely a sickly egotism; which will rather
gloat over its own evil, than lose the centralization of
its interest in itself.
MARY. But then, if we ought to forget ourselves so
much, how did the old Greek proverb ' Know thyself'
come to be so highly esteemed?
L. My dear, it is the proverb of proverbs; Apollo's
proverb, and the sun's;-but do you think you can
know yourself by looking into yourself? Never.
You can know what you are, only by looking out of
yourself. Measure your own powers with those of
others; compare your own interests with those of
others; try to understand what you appear to them,
as well as what they appear to you; and judge of
yourselves, in all things, relatively and subordinately;
not positively: starting always with a wholesome conviction of the probability that there is nothing particular about you. For instance, some of you perhaps
think you can write poetry. Dwell on your own feelings and doings:-and you will soon think yourselves
Tenth Muses; but forget your own feelings; and try,
instead, to understand a line or two of Chaucer or




CRYSTAL VIR TUES.


7I


Dante: and you will soon begin to feel yourselves
very foolish girls —which is much like the fact.
So, something which befalls you may seem a great
misfortune;-you meditate over its effects on you
personally; and begin to think that it is a chastisement,
or a warning, or a this or that or the other of profound
significance; and that all the angels in heaven have
left their business for a little while, that they may
watch its effects on your mind. But give up this egotistic indulgence of your fancy; examine a little what
misfortunes, greater a thousandfold, are happening,
every second, to twenty times worthier persons: and
your self-consciousness will change into pity and humility; and you will know yourself, so far as to understand that 'there hath nothing taken thee but what
is common to man.'
Now, Lucilla, these are the practical conclusions
which any person of sense would arrive at, supposing
the texts which relate to the inner evil of the heart
were as many, and as prominent, as they are often
supposed to be by careless readers. But the way in
which common people read their Bibles is just like
the way that the old monks thought hedgehogs ate
grapes. They rolled themselves (it was said), over
and over, where the grapes lay on the ground. What
fruit stuck to their spines, they carried off, and ate.
So your hedgehoggy readers roll themselves over and
over their Bibles, and declare that whatever sticks to
their own spines is Scripture; and that nothing else is.
But you can only get the skins of the texts that way.
If you want their juice, you must press them in cluster. Now, the clustered texts about the human heart,
insist, as a body, not on any inherent corruption in all
hearts, but on the terrific distinction between the bad
and the good ones. 'A good man, out of the good
treasure of his heart, bringeth forth that which is
good; and an evil man, out of the evil treasure, bringeth forth that which is evil.' ' They on the rock are
they which, in an honest and good heart, having heard
the word, keep it.' 'I Delight thyself in the Lord, and




72       THE ETHICS OF THE DUST.
He shall give thee the desires of thine heart.'  fi he
wicked have bent their bow, that they may privily snoot
at him that is upright in heart.' And so on; they are
countless, to the same effect. And, for all of us, the
question is not at all to ascertain how much or how
little corruption there is in human nature; but to ascertain whether, out of all the mass of that nature, we
are of the sheep or the goat breed; whether we are
people of upright heart, being shot at, or people of
crooked heart, shooting. And, of all the texts bearing
on the subject, this, which is a quite simple and practical order, is the one you have chiefly to hold in mind.
' Keep thy heart with all diligence, for out of it are the
issues of life.'
LUCILLA. And yet, how inconsistent the texts
seem!
L. Nonsense, Lucilla! do you think the universe is
bound to look consistent to a girl of fifteen? Look
up at your own room window;-you can just see it
from where you sit. I'm glad that it is left open, as it
ought to be, in so fine a day. But do you see what a
black spot it looks, in the sun-lighted wall?
LUCILLA. Yes, it looks a. black as ink.
L. Yet you know it is a very bright room when you
are inside of it; quite as bright as there is any occasion
for it to be, that its little lady may see to keep it tidy.
Well, it is very probable, also, that if you look into
your heart from the sun's point of view, it might appear a very black hole indeed: nay, the sun may
sometimes think good to tell you that it looks so to
Him; but He will come into it, and make it very
cheerful for you, for all that, if you don't put the shutters up. And the one question for you, remember, is
not ' dark or light?' but' tidy or untidy?' Look well
to your sweeping and garnishing; and be sure it is only
the banished spirit, or some of the seven wickeder ones
at his back, who will still whisper to you that it is all
black.




LECTURE VI.
CRYSTAL QUARRELS.
Full conclave, in Schoolroom. There has been a game
at crystallization in the morning, of which various
account has to be rendered.  In parlicular, everybody has to explain why they were always where
they were not intended to be.
L. (having received and considered the report).
You have got on pretty well, children: but you know
these were easy figures you have been trying. Wait
till I have drawn you out the plans of some crystals of
snow!
MARY. I don't think those will be the most difficult:-they are so beautiful that we shall remember
our places better; and then they are all regular, and in
stars: it is those twisty oblique ones we are afraid of.
L. Read Carlyle's account of the battle of Leuthen,
and learn Friedrich's 'oblique order.' You will 'get
it done for once, I think, provided you can march as a
pair of compasses would.' But remember, when you
can construct the most difficult single figures, you
have only learned half the game-nothing so much as
the half, indeed, as the crystals themselves play it.
MARY. Indeed; what else is there?
L. It is seldom that any mineral crystallizes alone.
Usually two or three, under quite different crystalline
laws, form together. They do this absolutely without
flaw or fault, when they are in fine temper: and
observe what this signifies. It signifies that the two,
or more, minerals of different natures agree, somehow,




74       THE E7T/ICS OF THE DUST
between themselves, how much space each will want;
-agree which of them shall give way to the other at
their junction; or in what measure each will accommodate itself to the other's shape! And then each
takes its permitted shape, and allotted share of space;
yielding, or being yielded to, as it builds, till each crystal has fitted itself perfectly and gracefully to its differently-natured  neighbor.  So that, in order to
practise this, in even the simplest terms, you must
divide into two parties, wearing different colors; each
must choose a different figure to construct; and you
must form one of these figures through the other, both
going on at the same time.
MARY. I thing we may, perhaps, manage it; but I
cannot at all understand how (he crystals do. It
seems to imply so much preconcerting of plan, and so
much giving way to each other, as if they really were
living.
L. Yes, it implies both concurrence and compromise, regulating all wilfulness of design: and,
more curious still, the crystals do nzot always give way
to each other. They show exactly the same varieties
of temper that human creatures might. Sometimes
they yield the required place with perfect grace and
courtesy; forming fantastic, but exquisitely finished
groups: and sometimes they will not yield at all;
but fight furiously for their places, losing all shape
and honor, and even their own likeness, in the contest.
MARY. But is not that wholly wonderful? How is
it that one never sees it spoken of in books?
L. The scientific men are all busv in determining the
constant laws under which the struggle takes place;
these indefinite humors of the elements are of no interest to them. And unscientific people rarely give
themselves the trouble of thinking at all, when they
look at stones. Not that it is of much use to think;
the more one thinks, the more one is puzzled.
MARY. Surely it is more wonderful than anything
in botany?
L. Everything has its own wonders; but, given the




CRYSTAL QUARRELS.


75


nature of the plant, it is easier to understand what a
flower will do, and why it does it, than, given anything
we as yet know of stone-nature, to understand what a
crystal will do, and why it does it. You at once admit a kind of volition and choice, in the flower; but
we are not accustomed to attribute anything of the
kind to the crystal. Yet there is, in reality, more likeness to some conditions of human feeling among stones
than among plants. There is a far greater difference
between kindly-tempered and ill-tempered crystals of
the same mineral, than between any two specimens of
the same flower: and the friendships and wars of
crystals depend more definitely and curiously on their
varities of disposition, than any associations of flowers.
Here, for instance, is a good garnet, living with good
mica; one rich red, and the other silver white: the
mica leaves exactly room enough for the garnet to
crystallize comfortably in; and the garnet lies happily
in its little white house; fitted to it, like a pholas in its
cell. But here are wicked garnets living with wicked
mica. See what ruin they make of each other! You
cannot tell which is which; the garnets look like dull
red stains on the crumbling stone. By the way, I never
could understand, if St. Gothard is a real saint, why he
can't keep his garnets in better order. These are all
under his care; but I suppose there are too many of
them for him to look after. The streets of Airolo are
paved with them.
MAY. Paved with garnets?
L. With mica-slate and garnets; I broke this bit out
of a paving stone. Now garnets and mica are natural
friends, and generally fond of each other; but you see
how they quarrel when they are ill brought up. So it
is always. Good crystals are friendly with almost all
other good crystals, however little they chance to see
of each other, or however opposite their habits may
be; while wicked crystals quarrel with one another,
though they may be exactly alike in habits, and see
each other continually. And of course the wicked
crystals quarrel with the good ones.




76       THE EYZZCS OF THE DUST.
ISABEL. Then do the good ones get angry?
L. No, never: they attend to their own work and
life; and live it as well as they can, though they are always the sufferers. Here, for instance, is a rock-crystal of the purest race and finest temper, who was born,
unhappily for him, in a bad neighborhood, near Beaufort in Savoy; and he has had to fight with vile calcareous mud all his life. See here, when he was but a
child, it came down on him, and nearly buried him; a
weaker crystal would have died in despair; but he only
gathered himself together, like Hercules against the
serpents, and threw a layer of crystal over the clay;
conquered it,-imprisoned it,-and lived on. Then,
when he was a little older, came more clay; and poured
itself upon him here, at the side; and he has laid crystal over that, and lived on, in his purity. Then the
clay came on at his angles, and tried to cover them,
and round them away; but upon that he threw out
buttress-crystals at his angles, all as true to his own
central line as chapels round a cathedral apse; and
clustered them round the clay; and conquered it again.
At last the clay came on at his summit, and tried to
blunt his summit; but he could not endure that for an
instant;. and left his flanks all rough, but pure; and
fought the clay at his crest, and built crest over crest,
and peak over peak, till the clay surrended at last: and
here is his summit, smooth and pure, terminating a
pyramid of alternate clay and crystal, half a foot high!
LILY. Oh, how nice of him! What a dear, brave
crystal! But I can't bear to see his flanks all broken,
and the clay within them.
L. Yes; it was an evil chance for him, the being
born to such contention; there are some enemies so
base that even to hold them captive is a kind of dishonor. But look, here has been quite a different kind
of struggle: the adverse power has been more orderly,
and has fought the pure crystal in ranks as firm as its
own. This is not mere rage and impediment of crowded
evil: here is a disciplined hostility; army against army.
LILY. Oh, but this is much more beautiful!




CRYSZAL QUARRELS.


77


L. Yes, for both the elements have true virtue in
them; it is a pity they are at war, but they war grandly.
MARY. But is this the same clay as in the other
crystal?
L. I used the word clay for shortness. In both, the
enemy is really limestone, but in the first, disordered,
and mixed with true clay; while, here, it is nearly pure,
and crystallizes into its own primitive form, the oblique
six-sided one, which you know: and out of these it
makes regiments; and then squares of the regiments,
and so charges the rock crystal, literally in square
against column.
ISABEL. Please, please, let me see. And what does
the rock crystal do?
L. The rock crystal seems able to do nothing. The
calcite cuts it through at every charge. Look here,and here! The loveliest crystal in the whole group is
hewn fairly into two pieces.
ISABEL. Oh, dear; but is the calcite harder than the
crystal then?
L. No, softer. Very much softer.
MARY. But then, how can it possibly cut the crystal?
L. It did not really cut it, though it passes through it.
The two were formed together, as I told you; but no
one knows how. Still, it is strange that this hard quartz
has in all cases a good-natured way with it, of yielding
to everything else. All sorts of soft things make nests
for themselves in it; and it never makes a nest for itself in anything. It has all the rough outside work;
and every sort of cowardly and weak mineral can shelter itself within it. Look; these are hexagonal plates
of mica; if they were outside of this crystal they would
break, like burnt paper; but they are inside of it,nothing can hurt them,-the crystal has taken them
into its very heart, keeping all their delicate edges as
sharp as if they were under water, instead of bathed
in rock. Here is a piece of branched silver: you can
bend it with a touch of your finger, but the stamp of
its every fibre is on the rock in which it lay, as if the
quartz had been as soft as wool.




78       THE ETHICS OF THE DUST.
LILY. Oh, the good, good quartz! But does it never
get inside of anything?
L. As it is a little Irish girl who asks, I may perhaps
answer, without being laughed at, that it gets inside of
itself sometimes. But I don't remember seeing quartz
make a nest for itself in anything else.
ISABEL. Please, there was something I heard you
talking about, last term, with Miss Mary. I was at
my lessons, but I heard something about nests; and I
thought it was birds' nests; and I couldn't help listening; and then, I remember, it was about 'nests of
quartz in granite.' I remember, because I was so disappointed!
L. Yes, mousie, you remember quite rightly; but I
can't tell you about those nests to-day, nor perhaps
to-morrow: but there's no contradiction between my
saying then, and now; I will show you that there is
not, some day. Will you trust me meanwhile?
ISABEL. Won't I!
L. Well, then, look, lastly, at this piece of courtesy in quartz; it is on a small scale, but wonderfully
pretty. Here is nobly born quartz living with a green
mineral, called epidote; and they are immense friends.
Now, you see, a comparatively large and strong quartzcrystal, and a very weak and slender little one of epidote, have begun to grow, close by each other, and
sloping unluckily towards each other, so that at last
they meet. They cannot go on growing together;
the quartz crystal is five times as thick, and more than
twenty times as strong,* as the epidote; but he stops
at once, just in the very crowning moment of his life,
when he is building his own summit! He lets the
pale little film of epidote grow right past him; stopping his own summit for it; and he never himself
grows any more.
LILY (after some silence of wonder). But is the
quartz never wicked then?
L. Yes, but the wickedest quartz seems good-na* Quartz is not much harder than epidote; the strength is only
supposed to be in some proportion to the squares of the diameters.




CR YSTAL QUARRELS.


79


tured, compared to other things. Here are two very
characteristic examples; one is good quartz, living
with good pearlspar, and the other, wicked quartz, living with wicked pearlspar. In both, the quartz yields
to the soft carbonate of iron: but, in the first place,
the iron takes only what it needs of room; and is inserted into the planes of the rock crystal with such
precision, that you must break it away before you can
tell whether it really penetrates the quartz or not;
while the crystals of iron are perfectly formed, and
have a lovely bloom on their surface besides.  But
here, when the two minerals quarrel, the unhappy
quartz has all its surfaces jagged and torn to pieces;
and there is not a single iron crystal whose shape you
can completely trace. But the quartz has the worst
of it, in both instances.
VIOLET. Might we look at that piece of broken
quartz again, with the weak little film across it? it
seems such a strange lovely thing, like the self-sacrifice of a human being.
L. The self-sacrifice of a human being is not a lovely
thing, Violet. It is often a necessary and noble thing;
but no form  nor degree of suicide can be ever
lovely.
VIOLET. But self-sacrifice is not suicide!
L. What is it then?
VIOLET. Giving up one's self for another.
L. Well; and what do you mean by 'giving up
one's self? '
VIOLET. Giving up one's tastes, one's feelings, one's
time, one's happiness, and so on, to make others
happy.
L. I hope you will never marry anybody, Violet,
who expects you to make him happy in that way.
VIOLET (zhesitatizg). In what way?
L. By giving up your tastes, and sacrificing your
feelings, and happiness.
VIOLET. No, no, I don't mean that; but you know,
for other people, one must.
L. For people who don't love you, and whom you




So       71E ETHYIcS OF THE DUST.
know nothing about? Be -it so; but how does this
'giving up' differ from suicide then?
VIOLET. Why, giving up one's pleasures is not killing one's self?
L. Giving up wrong pleasure is not; neither is it
self-sacrifice, but self-culture. But giving up right
pleasure is. If you surrender the pleasure of walking,
your foot will wither; vou may as well cut it off: if
you surrender the pleasure of seeing, your eyes will
soon be unable to bear the light; you may as well
pluck them out. And to maim yourself is partly to
kill yourself. Do but go on maiming, and you will
soon slay.
VIOLET. But why do you make me think of that
verse then, about the foot and the eye?
L. You are indeed commanded to cut off and to
pluck out, if foot or eye offend you; but why should
they offend you?
VIOLET. I don't know; I never quite understood
that.
L. Yet it is a sharp order; one needing to be well
understood if it is to be well obeyed! When Helen
sprained her ankle the other day, you saw how strongly
it had to be bandaged; that is to say, prevented from
all work, to recover it.  But the bandage was not
'lovely.'
VIOLET. No, indeed.
L. And if her foot had been crushed, or diseased, or
snake-bitten, instead of sprained, it might have been
needful to cut it off. But the amputation would not
have been ' lovely.'
VIOLET. No.
L. Well, if eye and foot are dead already, and betray you;-if the light that is in you be darkness, and
your feet run into mischief, or are taken in the snare,it is indeed time to pluck out, and cut off, I think: but,
so crippled, you can never be what you might have
been otherwise. You enter into life, at best, halt or
maimed; and the sacrifice is not beautiful, though
necessary.




CRYSTAL QUARRELS.


8i


VIOLET (after a pause). But when one sacrifices
one's self for others?
L. Why not rather others for you?
VIOLET. Oh! but I couldn't bear that.
L. Then why should they bear it?
DORA   (bursting in, indignant). And Thermopyla; and Protesilaus, and Marcus Curtius, and Arnold de Winkelried, and Iphigenia, and Jephthah's
daughter?
L. (szustaining the indzgnation unmoved). And
the Samaritan woman's son?
DORA. Which Samaritan woman's?
L. Read 2 Kings vi. 29.
DORA (obeys). How horrid. As if we meant anything like that!
L. You don't seem to me to know in the least what
you do mean, children. What practical difference is
there between 'that,' and what you are talking about?
The Samaritan children had no voice of their own in
the business, it is true; but neither had Iphigenia: the
Greek girl was certainly neither boiled, nor eaten; but
that only makes a difference in the dramatic effect;
not in the principle.
DORA (biting- her lif). Well, then, tell us what we
ought to mean. As if you didn't teach it all to us, and
mean it yourself, at this moment, more than we do, if
you wouldn't be tiresome!
L. I mean, and always have meant, simply this,
Dora;-that the will of God respecting us is that we
shall live by each other's happiness, and life; not by
each other's misery, or death. I made you read that
verse which so shocked you just now, because the relations of parent and child are typical of all beautiful
human help. A child may have to die for its parents;
but the purpose of Heaven is that it shall rather live
for them;-that, not by its sacrifice, but by its strength,
its joy, its force of being, it shall be to them renewal
of strength; and as the arrow in the hand of the giant.
So it is in all other right relations.  Men help each
other by their joy, not by their sorrow. They are not
6




82       THE ETHICS OF THE DUST.
intended to slay themselves for each other, but to
strengthen themselves for each other. And among
the many apparently beautiful things which turn,
through mistaken use, to utter evil, I am not sure but
that the thoughtlessly meek and self-sacrificing spirit
of good men must be named as one of the fatallest.
They have so often been taught -that there is a virtue
in mere suffering, as such; and foolishly to hope that
good may be brought by Heaven out of all on which
Heaven itself has set the stamp of evil, that we may
avoid it,-that they accept pain and defeat as if these
were their appointed portion; never understanding
that their defeat is not the less to be mourned because
it is more fatal to their enemies than to them. The
one thing that a good man has to do, and to see done,
is justice; he is neither to slay himself nor others
causelessly: so far from denying himself, since he is
pleased by good, he is to do his utmost to get his
pleasure accomplished. And I only wish there were
strength, fidelity, and sense enough, among the good
Englishmen of this day, to render it possible for them
to band together in a vowed brotherhood, to enforce,
by strength of heart and hand, the doing of human
justice among all who came within their sphere. And
finally, for your own teaching, observe, although there
may be need for much self-sacrifice and self-denial in
the correction of faults of character, the moment the
character is formed, the self-denial ceases. Nothing
is really well done, which it costs you pain to do.
VIOLET. But surely, sir, you are always pleased
with us when we try to please others, and not ourselves?
L. My dear child, in the daily course and discipline
of right life, we must continually and reciprocally submit and surrender in all kind and courteous and affectionate ways: and these submissions and ministries
to each other, of which you all know (none better) the
practice and the preciousness, are as good for the
yielder as the receiver: they strengthen and perfect
as much as they soften and refine. But the real sacri



CRYSTAL QUA RRELS.


83


fice of all out strength, or life, or happiness to others
(though it may be needed, and though all brave creatures hold their lives in their hand, to be given, when
such need comes, as frankly as a soldier gives his life
in battle), is yet always a mournful and momentary
necessity; not the fulfilment of the continuous law of
being. Self-sacrifice which is sought after, and triumphed in, is usually foolish; and calamitous in its
issue: and by the sentimental proclamation and pursuit of it, good people have not only made most of
their own lives useless, but the whole framework of
their religion so hollow, that at this moment, while the
English nation, with its lips, pretends to teach every
man to ' love his neighbor as himself,' with its hands
and feet it clutches and tramples like a wild beast; and
practically lives, every soul of it that can, on other
people's labor. Briefly, the constant duty of every
man to his fellows is to ascertain his own powers and
special gifts; and to strengthen them for the help
of others. Do you think Titian would have helped
the world better by denying himself, and not painting;
or Casella by denying himself, and not singing? The
real virtue is to be ready to sing the moment people
ask us; as he was, even in purgatory. The very word
' virtue' means not 'conduct' but 'strength,' vital
energy in the heart. Were not you reading about
that group of words beginning with V,-vital, virtuous,
vigorous, and so on,-in Max Muller, the other day,
Sibyl? Can't you tell the others about it?
SIBYL. No, I can't; will you tell us, please?
L. Not now, it is too late. Come to me some idle
time to-morrow, and I'll tell you about it, if all's well.
But the gist of it is, children, that you should at least
know two Latin words; recollect that 'mors' means
death and delaying; and ' vita' means life and growing: and try always, not to mortify yourselves, but
to vivify yourselves.
VIOLET. But, then, are we not to mortify our
earthly affections? and surely we are to sacrifice ourselves, at least in God's service, if not in man's?




84       THE ETHICS OF THE DUST.
L. Really, Violet, we are getting too serious. I've
given you enough ethics for one talk, I think! Do
let us have a little play. Lily, what were you so busy
about, at the ant-hill in the wood, this morning?
LILY. Oh, it was the ants who were busy, not I; I
was only trying to help them a little.
L. And they wouldn't be helped, I suppose?
LILY. No, indeed. I can't think why ants are always so tiresome, when one tries to help them! They
were carrying bits of stick, as fast as they could,
through a piece of grass; and pulling and pushing, so
hard; and tumbling over and over,-it made one quite
pity them; so I took some of the bits of stick, and
carried them forward a little, where I thought they
wanted to put them; but instead of being pleased,
they left them directly, and ran about looking quite
angry and frightened; and at last ever so many of
them got up my sleeves, and bit me all over, and I
had to come away.
L. I couldn't think what you were about. I saw
your French grammar lying on the grass behind you,
and thought perhaps you had gone to ask the ants to
hear you a French verb.
ISABEL. Ah! but you didn't, though!
L. Why not, Isabel? I knew, well enough, Lily
couldn't learn that verb by herself.
ISABEL. No; but the ants couldn't help her.
L. Are you sure the ants could not have helped
you, Lily?
LILY (thinking). I ought to have learned something from them, perhaps.
L. But none of them left their sticks to help you
through the irregular verb?
LILY. No, indeed.  (Laughing, with some others.)
L. What are you laughing at, children? I cannot
see why the ants should not have left their tasks to
help Lily in her's,-since here is Violet thinking she
ought to leave her tasks, to help God in His. Perhaps.
however, she takes Lily's more modest view, and




CRYSTAL QUARRELS.


thinks only that IHe ought to learn something from
her.'
(Tears in VIOLET'S eyes.)
DORA (scarlet). It's too bad-it's a shame:-poor
Violet!
L. My dear children, there's no reason why one
should be so red, and the other so pale, merely because
you are made for a moment to feel the absurdity of a
phrase which you have been taught to use, in common
with half the religious world. There is but one way
in which man can ever help God-that is, by letting
God help him: and there is no way in which his name
is more guiltily taken in vain, than by calling the
abandonment of our own work, the performance of
His.
God is a kind Father. He sets us all in the places
where He wishes us to be employed; and that employment is truly ' our Father's business.' He chooses
work for every creature which will be delightful to
them, if they do it simply and humbly. He gives
us always strength enough, and sense enough, for
what He wants us to do; if we either tire ourselves
or puzzle ourselves, it is our own fault. And we
may always be sure, whatever we are doing, that we
cannot be pleasing Him, if we are not happy ourselves. Now, away with you, children; and be as
happy as you can. And when you cannot, at least
don't plume yourselves upon pouting.




LECTURE VII.
HOME VIRTUES.
By the fireside, in the Drawing-room. Evening.
DORA. Now, the curtains are drawn, and the fire's
bright, and here's your armchair-and you're to tell
us all about what you promised.
L. All about what?
DORA. All about virtue.
KATHLEEN. Yes, and about the words that begin
with V.
L. I heard you singing about a word that begins
with V, in the playground, this morning, Miss Katie.
KATHLEEN. Me singing!
MAY. Oh tell us-tell us.
L. ' Vilikens and his —'
KATHLEEN (stop5fiing his mouth). Oh! please don't.
Where were you?
ISABEL. I'm sure I wish I had known where he was
We lost him among the rhododendrons, and I don't
know where he got to; oh, you naughty-naughty(climbs on his knee).
DORA. Now, Isabel, we really want to talk.
L. I don't.
DORA. Oh, but you must. You promised, you know.
L. Yes, if all was well: but all's ill. I'm tired, and
cross; and I won't.
DORA. You're not a bit tired, and you're not crosser
than two sticks; and we'll make you talk, if you were
crosser than six. Come here, Egypt; and get on the
other side of him.
(EGYPT takes up a commanding position nea#
the hearth brush.)




ROME VIR TUES.


8.7


DoRA (reviewing her forces). Now, Lily, come
and sit on the rug in front.
(LILY does as she is bid.)
L. (seeing he has no chance against the odds).
Well, well; but I'm really tired. Go and dance a little, first; and let me think.
DORA. No; you mustn't think. You will be wanting to make us think next; that will be tiresome.
L. Well, go and dance first, to get quit of thinking:
and then I'll talk as long as you like.
DORA. Oh, but we can't dance to-night. There isn't
time; and we want to hear about virtue.
L. Let me see a little of it first. Dancing is the
first of girl's virtues.
EGYPT. Indeed! And the second?
L. Dressing.
EGYPT. Now, you needn't say that! I mended that
tear the first thing before breakfast this morning.
L. I cannot otherwise express the ethical principle,
Egypt; whether you have mended your gown or not.
DORA. Now don't be tiresome. We really must
hear about virtue, please; seriously.
L. Well. I'm telling you about it, as fast as I can.
DORA. What! the first of girls' virtues is dancing?
L. More accurately, it is wishing to dance, and not
wishing to tease, nor hear about virtue.
DORA (to EGYPT). Isn't he cross?
EGYPT. How many balls must we go to in the
season, to be perfectly virtuous?
L. As many as you can without losing your color.
But I did not say you should wish to go to balls. I
said you should be always wanting to dance.
EGYPT. So we do; but everybody says it is very
wrong.
L. Why, Egypt, I thoughtThere was a lady once,
That would not be a queen,-that would she not,
For all the mud in Egypt.'
You were complaining the other day of having to go
oUt a great deal oftener than you liked.




83    1TE ETHICS OF THE DUST.


EGYPT. Yes, so I was; but then, it isn't to dance.
There's no room to dance: it's-(Pausing to consider
what it is for).
L. It is only to be seen, I suppose. Well, there's
no harm in that. Girls ought to like to be seen.
DORA (her eyesflashingz). Now, you don't mean
that; and you're too provoking; and we won't dance
again, for a month.
L. It will answer every purpose of revenge, Dora,
if you only banish me to the library; and dance by
yourselves; but I don't think Jessie and Lily will
agree to that. You like me to see you dancing, don't
you, Lily?
LILY. Yes, certainly,-when we do it rightly.
L. And besides, Miss Dora, if young ladies really
do not want to be seen, they should take care not to
let their eyes flash when they dislike what people say:
and, more than that, it is all nonsense from beginning
to end, about not wanting to be seen. I don't know
any more tiresome flower in the borders than your
especially 'modest' snowdrop; which one always has
to stoop down and take all sorts of tiresome trouble
with, and nearly break its poor little head off, before
you can see it; and then, half of it is not worth seeing.
Girls should be like daisies; nice and white, with an
edge of red, if you look close; making the ground
bright wherever they are;- knowing simply and quietly
that they do it, and are meant to do it, and that it
would be very wrong if they didn't do it. Not want
to be seen, indeed! How long were you in doing
your back hair, this afternoon, Jessie?
(JESSIE not immediately answering, DORA comes
to her assistance.)
JESSIE (putting herfinger ufi). Now, Dorothy,you
needn't talk, you know!
L. I know she needn't, Jessie; I shall ask her about
those dark plaits presently.  (DORA looks round to
see if there is any way ojpen for retreat.) But never
mind; it was worth the time, whatever it was; and
nobody will ever mistake that golden wreath for a




HOME VIRTUES.


89


chignon: but if you don't want it to be seen, you had
better wear a cap.
JESSIE. Ah, now, are you really going to do nothing but play? And we all have been thinking, and
thinking, all day; and hoping you would tell us things;
and now-!
L. And now I am telling you things, and true things,
and things good for you; and you won't believe me.
You might as well have let me go to sleep at once, as
I wanted to. (Endeavors again to make himself
comfortable.)
ISABEL. Oh, no, no, you sha'n't go to sleep, you
naughty!-Kathleen, come here.
L. (knowzig what he has to expect if KATHLEEN
comes). Get away, Isabel, you're too heavy. (Sitting
up.) What have I been saying?
DoRA. I do believe he has been asleep all the time!
You never heard anything like the things you've been
saying.
L. Perhaps not. If you have heard them, and anything like them, it is all I want.
EGYPT. Yes, but we don't understand, and you
know we don't; and we want to.
L. What did I say first?
DORA. That the first virtue of girls was wanting to
go to balls.
L. I said nothing of the kind.
JESSIE. I Always wanting to dance,' you said.
L. Yes, and that's true. Their first virtue is to be
intensely happy;-so happy that they don't know
what to do with themselves for happiness,-and dance,
instead of walking. Don't you recollect 'Louisa,'
' No fountain from a rocky cave
E'er tripped with foot so free;
She seemed as happy as a wave
That dances on the sea.'
A girl is always like that, when everything's right with
her.
VIOLET. But, surely, one must be sad sometimes?
L. Yes, Violet; and dull sometimes, and stupid




9o       THE E THICS OF THE DUST.
sometimes, and cross sometimes.  What must be,
must; but it is always either our own fault, or somebody else's. The last and worst thing that can be
said of a nation is, that it has made its young girls
sad, and weary.
MAY. But I am sure I have heard a great many
good people speak against dancing?
L. Yes, May; but it does not follow they were wise
as well as good. I suppose they think Jeremiah liked
better to have to write Lamentations for his people,
than to have to write that promise for them, which
everybody seems to hurry past, that they may get on
quickly to the verse about Rachel weeping for her
children; though the verse they pass is the counter
blessing to that one: ' Then shall the virgin rejoice in
the dance; and both young men and old together; and
I will turn their mourning into joy.'
(The children get very serious, but look at each
other, as if pleased.)
MARY. They understand now: but, do you know
what you said next?
L. Yes; I was not more than half asleep. I said
their second virtue was dressing.
MARY. Well! what did you mean by that?
L. What do you mean by dressing?
MARY. Wearing fine clothes.
L. Ah! there's the mistake. I mean wearing plain
ones.
MARY. Yes, I daresay! but that's not what girls
understand by dressing, you know.
L. I can't help that. If they understand by dressing buying dresses, perhaps they understand by drawing, buying pictures. But when I hear them say they
can draw, I understand that they can make a drawing;
and when I hear them say they can dress, I understand
that they can make a dress: and-which is quite as
difficult-wear one.
DORA. I'm not sure about the making; for the wearing, we can all wear them-out, before anybody expects it.




HOME VIR TUES.


9I


EGYPT (aside to L. Ziteously). Indeed I have mended
that torn flounce quite neatly; look if I haven't!
L. (aside, to EGYPT). All right; don't be afraid.
(Aloud, to DORA.) Yes, doubtless; but you know that
is only a slow way of undressing.
DORA. Then, we are all to learn dress-making, are
we?
L. Yes; and always to dress yourselves beautifullynot finely, unless on occasion; but then very finely and
beautifully too. Also, you are to dress as many other
people as you can; and to teach them how to dress, if
they don't know; and to consider every ill-dressed
woman or child whom you see anywhere, as a personal
disgrace; and to get at them, somehow, until everybody is as beautifully dressed as birds.
(Silence; the children drawing their breaths
hard, as if they had come from under a shower bath.)
L. (seeing objections begin to express themselves in
the eyes). Now you needn't say you can't; for you
can: and it's what you were meant to do, always; and to
dress your houses, and your gardens, too; and to do
very little else, I believe, except singing; and dancing,
as we said, of course: and-one thing more.
DORA. Our third and last virtue, I suppose?
L. Yes; on Violet's system of triplicities.
DORA. Well, we are prepared for anything now.
What is it?
L. Cooking.
DORA. Cardinal, indeed! If only Beatrice were
here with her seven handmaids, that she might see
what a fine eighth we had found for her!
MARY. And the interpretation? What does 'cooking' mean?
L. It means the knowledge of Medea, and of Circe,
and of Calypso, and of Helen, and of Rebekah, and of
the Queen of Sheba. It means the knowledge of all
herbs, and fruits, and balms, and spices; and of all
that is healing and sweet in fields and groves, and savory in meats; it means carefulness, and inventive



92       THE ETHICS OF THE DUST.
ness, and watchfulness, and willingness, and readiness
of appliance; it means the economy of your greatgrandmothers, and the science of modern chemists; it
means much tasting, and no wasting; it means English
thoroughness, and French art, and Arabian hospitality; and it means, in fine, that you are to be perfectly
and always, ' ladies '-' loaf-givers;' and, as you are to
see, imperatively, that everybody has something pretty
to put on,-so you are to see, yet more imperatively,
that everybody has something nice to eat.
(Another fiause, and long drawn breath.)
DORA (slowly recovering herself) to EGYPT. We
had better have let him go to sleep, I think, after all!
L. You had better let the younger ones go to sleep
now: for I haven't half done.
ISABEL (f5anic struchk). Oh! please, please! just one
quarter of an hour.
L. No, Isabel; I cannot say what I've got to say in
a quarter of an hour; and it is too hard for you besides:-you would be lying awake, and trying to make
it out, half the night. That will never do.
ISABEL. Oh, please!
L. It would please me exceedingly, mousie: but
there are times when we must both be displeased;
more's the pity. Lily may stay for half an hour, if she
likes.
LILY. I can't; because Isey never goes to sleep, if
she is waiting for me to come.
ISABEL. Oh, yes, Lily, I'll go to sleep to-night, I
will, indeed.
LILY. Yes, it's very likely, Isey, with those fine round
eyes! (To L.) You'll rell me something of what
you've been saying, to-morrow, won't you?
L. No, I won't, Lily. You must choose. It's only
in Miss Edgeworth's novels that one can do right, and
have one's cake and sugar afterwards, as well (not
that I consider the dilemma, to-night, so grave).
(LILY, sighing, takes Isabel's hand.)
Yes, Lily dear, it will be better, in the outcome of
it, so, than it you were to hear all the talks that ever




HOME VIRTUES.                 93
were talked, and all the stories that ever were told.
Good-night.
(The door leading to the condemned cells of the
Dormitory closes -on LILY, ISABEL, FLORIE,
and other diminutive and submissive victims.)
JESSIE (after a pause). Why, I thought you were
so fond of Miss Edgeworth!
L. So I am; and so you all ought to be. I can
read her over and over again, without ever tiring;
there's no one whose every page is so full, and so delightful; no one who brings you into the company of
pleasanter or wiser people; no one who tells you more
truly how to do right. And it is very nice, in the
midst of awild world, to have the very ideal of poetical
justice done always to one's hand:-to have everybody
found out, who tells lies; and everybody decorated
with a red ribbon who doesn't; and to see the good
Laura, who gave away her half sovereign, receiving a
grand ovation from an entire dinner party disturbed
for the purpose; and poor, dear, little Rosamond, who
chooses purple jars instead of new shoes, left at last
without either her shoes or her bottle. But it isn't
life: and, in the way children might easily understand
it, it isn't morals.
JESSIE. How do you mean we might understand
it?
L. You might think Miss Edgeworth meant that
the right was to be done mainly because one was al.
ways rewarded for doing it. It is an injustice to her
to say that: her heroines always do right simply for
its own sake, as they should; and her examples of conduct and motive are wholly admirable. But her representation of events is false and misleading. Her
good characters never are brought into the deadly
trial of goodness,-the doing right, and suffering for
it, quite finally. And that is life, as God arranges it.
' Taking up one's cross' does not at all mean having
ovations at dinner parties, and being put over everybody else's head.
DORA. But what does it mean then? That is just




94       THE ETHICS OF THE DUST.
what we couldn't understand, when you were telling
us about not sacrificing ourselves, yesterday.
L. My dear, it means simply that you are to go the
road which you see to be the straight one; carrying
whatever you find is given you to carry, as well and
stoutly as you can; without making faces, or calling
people to come and look at you. Above all, you are
neither to load, nor unload, yourself; nor cut your
cross to your own liking. Some people think it would
be better for them to have it large; and many, that
they could carry it much faster if it were small; and
even those who like it largest are usually very particular about its being ornamental, and made of the best
ebony. But all that you have really to do is to keep
your back as straight as you can; and not think about
what is upon it-above all, not to boast of what is
upon it. The real and essential meaning of 'virtue'
is in that straightness of back. Yes; you may laugh,
children, but it is. You know I was to tell you about
the words that began with V. Sibyl, what does ' virtue' mean, literally?
SIBYL. Does it mean courage?
L. Yes; but a particular kind of courage. It means
courage of the nerve; vital courage. That first syllable of it, if you look in Max Muller, you will find
really means ' nerve,' and from it come 'vis,' and ' vir,'
and 'virgin' (through vireo), and the connected word
' virga '-' a rod; '-the green rod, or springing bough
of a tree, being the type of perfect human strength,
both in the use of it in the Mosaic story, when it becomes
a serpent, or strikes the rock; or when Aaron bears
its almonds; and in the metaphorical expressions, the
' Rod out of the stem of Jesse,' and the ' Man whose
name is.the Branch,' and so on. And the essential
idea of real virtue is that of a vital human strength,
which instinctively, constantly, and without motive,
does what is right. You must train men to this by
habit, as you would the branch of a tree; and give
them instincts and manners (or morals) of purity, justice, kindness, and courage. Once rightly trained,




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they act as they should, irrespectively of all motive, of
fear, or of reward. It is the blackest sign of putrescence in a national religion, when men speak as if it
were the only safeguard of conduct, and assume that,
but for the fear of being burned, or for the hope of
being rewarded, everybody would pass their lives in
lying, stealing, and murdering. I think quite one of
the notablest historical events of this century (perhaps
the very notablest), was that council of clergymen,
horror-struck at the idea of any diminution in our
dread of hell, at which the last of English clergymen
whom one would have expected to see in such a function, rose as the devil's advocate; to tell us how impossible it was we could get on without him.
VIOLET (after a pause). But, surely, if people
weren't afraid —(hesitates az-ain).
L. They should be afraid of doing wrong, and of
that only, my dear. Otherwise, if they only don't do
wrong for fear of being punished, they have done
wrong in their hearts, already.
VIOLET. Well, but surely, at least one ought to be
afraid of displeasing God; and one's desire to please
Him should be one's first motive?
L. He never would be pleased with us, if it were,
my dear. When a father sends his son out into the
world-suppose as an apprentice-fancy the boy's
coming home at night, and saving, 'Father, I could
have robbed the till to-day; but I didn't, because I
thought you wouldn't like it.' Do you think the
father would be particularly pleased?
(VIOLET is silent.)
He would answer, would he not, if he were wise and
good, 'My boy, though you had no father, you must
not rob tills'? And nothing is ever done so as really
to please our Great Father, unless we would also have
done it, though we had had no Father to know of it.
VIOLET (affer lonsg fpause). But, then, what continual threatenings, and promises of reward there are!
L. And how vain both! with the Jews, and with all
of us. But the fact is, that the threat and promise




96       THE E7H'ICS OF THE DUST.
are simply statements of the Divine law, and of its
consequences. The fact is truly told you,-make
what use you may of it: and as collateral warning, or
encouragement, or comfort, the knowledge of future
consequences may often be helpful to us; but helpful
chiefly to the better state when we can act without
reference to them. And there's no measuring the
poisoned influence of that notion of future reward on
the mind of Christian Europe, in the early ages. Half
the monastic system rose out of that, acting on the
occult pride and ambition of good people (as the other
half of it came of their follies and misfortunes).
There is always a considerable quantity of pride, to
begin with, in what is called ' giving one's self to God.'
As if one had ever belonged to anybody else!
DORA. But, surely, great good has come out of the
monastic system —our books,-our sciences-all saved
by the monks?
L. Saved from what, my dear? From the abyss
of misery and ruin which the false Christianity allowed
the whole active world to live in. When it had become the principal amusement, and the most admired
art, of Christian men, to cut one another's throats,
and burn one another's towns; of course the few
feeble or reasonable persons left, who desired quiet,
safety, and kind fellowship, got into cloisters; and the
gentlest, thoughtfullest, noblest men and women shut
themselves up, precisely where they could be of least
use. They are very fine things, for us painters, now,
-the towers and white arches upon the tops of the
rocks; always in places where it takes a day's climbing to get at them; but the intense tragi-comedy of
the thing, when one thinks of it, is unspeakable. All
the good people-of the world getting themselves hung
up out of the way of mischief, like Bailie Nicol Jarvie;
— poor little lambs, as it were, dangling there for the
sign of the Golden Fleece; or like Socrates in his basket in the ' Clouds'! (I must read you that bit of
Aristophanes again, by the way.) And believe me,
children, I am no warped witness, as far as regards




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97


monasteries; or if I am, it is in their favor. I have
always had a strong leaning that way; and have pensively shivered with Augustines at St. Bernard; and
happily made hay with Franciscans at Fesole; and
sat silent with Carthusians in their little gardens, south
of Florence; and mourned through many a daydream, at Melrose and Bolton. But the wonder is
always to me, not how much, but how little, the monks
have, on the whole, done, with all that leisure, and
all that good-will! What nonsense monks characteristically wrote;-what little progress they made in the
sciences to which they devoted themselves as a duty,
-medicine especially; and, last and worst, what
depths of degradation they can sometimes see one
another, and the population round them, sink into;
without either doubting their system, or reforming it!
(Seeing questions rising to lipzs.) Hold your little
tongues, children; it's very late, and you'll make me
forget what I've to say. Fancy yourselves in pews,
for five minutes. There's one point of possible good
in the conventual system, which is always attractive
to young girls; and the idea is a very dangerous one;
-the notion of a merit, or exalting virtue, consisting
in a habit of meditation on the 'things above,' or
things of the next world. Now it is quite true, that a
person of beautiful mind, dwelling on whatever appears to them most desirable and lovely in a possible
future, will not only pass their time pleasantly, butjwill
even acquire, at last, a vague and wildly gentle
charm of manner and feature, which will give them
an air of peculiar sanctity in the eyes of others.
Whatever real or apparent good there may be in this
result, I want you to observe, children, that we have
no real authority for the reveries to which it is owing.
We are told nothing distinctly of the heavenly world;
except that it will be free from sorrow, and pure from
sin. What is said of pearl gates, golden floors, and
the like, is accepted as merely figurative by religious enthusiasts themselves; and whatever they pass their time
in conceiving, whether of the happiness of risen souls,
7




98       THE ETHICS OF THE DUST.
of their intercourse, or of the appearance and employment of the heavenly powers, is entirely the product of
their own imagination; and as completely and distinctly a work of fiction, or romantic invention, as any
novel of Sir Walter Scott's. That the romance is
founded on religious theory or doctrine;-that no
disagreeable or wicked persons are admitted into the
story;-and that the inventor fervently hopes that
some portion of it may hereafter come true, does not
in the least alter the real nature of the effort or enjoyment.
Now, whatever indulgence may be granted to amiable people for pleasing themselves in this innocent
way, it is beyond question, that to seclude themselves
from the rough duties of life, merely to write religious
romances, or, as in most cases, merely to dream them,
without taking so much trouble as is implied in writing, ought not to be received as an act of heroic virtue.
But, observe, even in admitting thus much, I have assumed that the fancies are just and beautiful, though
fictitious. Now what right have any of us to assume
that our own fancies will assuredly be either the one
or the other? That they delight us, and appear lovely
to us, is no real proof of its not being wasted time to
form them: and we may surely be led somewhat to
distrust our judgment of them by observing what ignoble imaginations have sometimes sufficiently, or
even enthusiastically, occupied the hearts of others.
The principal source of the spirit of religious contemplation is the East; now I have here in my hand a
Byzantine image of Christ, which, if you will look at
it seriously, may, I think, at once and forever render
you cautious in the indulgence of a merely contemplative habit of mind. Observe, it is the fashion to look
at such a thing only as a piece of barbarous art; that
is the smallest part of its interest. What I want you
to see, is the baseness and falseness of a religious
state of enthusiasm, in which such a work could be
dwelt upon with pious pleasure. That a figure, with
two small round black beads for eyes; a gilded face.




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99


deep cut into horrible wrinkles; an open gash for a
mouth, and a distorted skeleton for a body, wrapped
about, to make it fine, with striped enamel of blue and
gold;-that such a figure, I say, should ever have
been thought helpful towards the conception of a Redeeming Deity, may make you, I think, very doubtful, even of the Divine approval,-much more of the
Divine inspiration,-of religious reverie in general.
You feel, doubtless, that your own idea of Christ
would be something very different from this; but in
what does the difference consist? Not in any more
divine authority in your imagination; but in the intellectual work of six intervening centuries; which, simply, by artistic discipline, has refined this crude conception for you, and filled you, partly with an innate
sensation, partly with an acquired knowledge, of
higher forms,-which render this Byzantine crucifix as
horrible to you, as it was pleasing to its maker. More
is required to excite your fancy; but your fancy is of
no more authority than his was: and a point of national art-skill is quite conceivable, in which the best
we can do now will be as offensive to the religious
dreamers of the more highly cultivated time, as this
Byzantine crucifix is to you.
MARY. But surely, Angelico will always retain his
power over everybody?
L. Yes, I should think, always; as the gentle words
of a child will: but you would be much surprised,
Mary, if you thoroughly took the pains to analyze, and
had the perfect means of analyzing, that power of
Angelico,-to discover its real sources. Of course it
is natural, at first, to attribute it to the pure religious
fervor by which he was inspired; but do you suppose
Angelico was really the only monk, in all the Christian world of the middle ages, who labored, in art,
with a sincere religious enthusiasm?
MARY. No, certainly not.
L. Anything more frightful, more destructive of all
religious -faith whatever, than such a supposition,
could not be. And yet, what 'other monk ever pro



I0o      THE ETHICS OF THE DUST.
duced such work? I have myself examined carefully
upwards of two thousand illuminated missals, with especial view to the discovery of any evidence of a similar result upon the art, from the monkish devotion;
and utterly in vain.
MARY. But then, was not Fra Angelico a man of
entirely separate and exalted genius?
L. Unquestionably; and granting him to be that,
the peculiar phenomenon in his art is, to me, not its
loveliness, but its weakness. The effect of ' inspiration,' had it been real, on a man of consummate genius, should have been, one would have thought, to
make everything that he did faultless and strong, no
less than lovely. But of all men, deserving to be
called 'great,' Fra Angelico permits to himself the
least pardonable faults, and the most palpable follies.
There is evidently within him a sense of grace, and
power of invention, as great as Ghiberti's:-we are in
the habit of attributing those high qualities to his religious enthusiasm; but, if they were produced by that enthusiasm in him, they ought to be produced by the same
feelings in others; and we see they are not. Whereas,
comparing him with contemporary great artists, of
equal grace and invention, one peculiar character remains notable in him-which, logically, we ought
therefore to attribute to the religious fervor;-and
that distinctive character is, the contented indulgence
of his own weaknesses, and perseverance in his own
ignorances..MARY. But that's dreadful! And what is the
source of the peculiar charm which we all feel in his
work?
L. There are many sources of it, Mary; united and
seeming like one. You would never feel that charm
but in the work of an entirely good man; be sure of
that; but the goodness is only the recipient and modifying element, not the creative one. Consider carefully
what delights you in any original picture of Angelico's.
You will find, for one minor thing, an exquisite variety
and brightness of ornamental work. That is not An



HOME VIR TUES.


gelico's inspiration. It is the final result of the labor
and thought of millions of artists, of all nations; from
the earliest Egyptian potters downwards-Greeks,
Byzantines, Hindoos, Arabs, Gauls, and Northmenall joining in the toil; and consummating it in Florence, in that century, with such embroidery of robe
and inlaying of armor as had never been seen till
then; nor, probably, ever will be seen more. Angelico
merely takes his share of this inheritance, and applies
it in the tenderest way to subjects which are peculiarly
acceptant of it. But the inspiration, if it exist anywhere, flashes on the knight's shield quite as radiantly
as on the monk's picture. Examining farther into the
sources of your emotion in the Angelico work, you
will find much of the impression of sanctity dependent
on a singular repose and grace of gesture, consummating itself in the floating, flying, and above all, in the
dancing groups. That is not Angelico's inspiration.
It is only a peculiarly tender use of systems of grouping which had been long before developed by Giotto,
Memmi, and Orcagna; and the real root of it all is simply-What do you think, children? The beautiful
dancing of the Florentine maidens!
DORA (indignant again). Now, I wonder what
next! Why not say it all depended on Herodias'
daughter, at once?
L. Yes; it is certainly a great argument against
singing, that there were once sirens.
DORA. Well, it may be all very fine and philosophical; but shouldn't I just like to read you the end of
the second volume of ' Modern Painters'!
L. My dear, do you think any teacher could be worth
your listening to, or anybody else's listening to, who
had learned nothing, and altered his mind in nothing,
from seven and twenty to seven and forty? But that
second volume is very good for you as far as it goes.
It is a great advance, and a thoroughly straight and
swift one, to be led, as it is the main business of that
second volume to lead you, from Dutch cattle-pieces,
and ruffian-pieces, to Fra Angelico. And it is right




102      THE ETHICS OF THE DUST7
for you also, as you grow older, to be strengthened
in the general sense and judgment which may enable
you to distinguish the weaknesses from the virtues of
what you love: else you might come to love both
alike; or even the weaknesses without the virtues.
You might end by liking Overbeck and Cornelius as
well as Angelico. However, I have perhaps been
leaning a little too much to the merely practical side
of things, in to-night's talk; and you are always to
remember, children, that I do not deny, though I cannot affirm, the spiritual advantages resulting, in certain cases, from enthusiastic religious reverie, and
from the other practices of saints and anchorites.
The evidence respecting them has never yet been honestly collected, much less dispassionately examined:
but assuredly, there is in that direction a probability,
and more than a probability, of dangerous error, while
there is none whatever in the practice of an active,
cheerful, and benevolent life. The hope of attaining
a higher religious position, which induces us to encounter, for its exalted alternative, the risk of unhealthy error, is often, as I said, founded more on pride
than piety; and those who, in modest usefulness, have
accepted what seemed to them here the lowliest place
in the kingdom of their Father, are not, I believe, the
least likely to receive hereafter the command, then
unmistakable, ' Friend, go up higher.'




LECTURE VIII.
CRYSTAL CAPRICE.
Formal Lecture in Schoolroom, after some fractical
examination of minerals.
L. WE have seen enough, children, though very little of what might be seen if we had more time, of mineral structures produced by visible opposition, or contest among elements; structures of which the variety,
however great, need not surprise us: for we quarrel,
ourselves, for many and slight causes;-much more,
one should think, may crystals, who can only feel the
antagonism, not argue about it. But there is a yet
more singular mimicry of our human ways in the varieties of form which appear owing to no antagonistic
force; but merely to the variable humor and caprice
of the crystals themselves: and I have asked you all
to come into the schoolroom to-day, because, of course,
this is a part of the crystal mind which must be peculiarly interesting to a feminine audience. (Great symnptoins of disaipproval on the fart of said audience.)
Now, you need not pretend that it will not interest
you; why should it not? It is true that we men are
never capricious; but that only makes us the more
dull and disagreeable. You, who are crystalline in
brightness, as well as in caprice, charm infinitely, by
infinitude of change. (Audible murmurs of' Worse
andworse / ' ' As if we could begot over that way /
etc.  The LECTURER, however, observing the expression of the features to be more conmplacent, proceeds.)
And the most curious mimicry, if not of your changes




104      THE ETHICS OF THE DUST.
of fashion, at least of your various modes (in healthy
periods) of national costume, takes place among the
crystals of different countries. With a little experience,
it is quite possible to say at a glance, in what districts
certain crystals have been found; and although, if we
had knowledge extended and accurate enough, we
might of course ascertain the laws and circumstances
which have necessarily produced the form peculiar to
each locality, this would be just as true of the fancies
of the human mind. If we could know the exact circumstances which affect it, we could foretell what now
seems to us only caprice of thought, as well as what
now seems to us only caprice of crystal: nay, so far
as our knowledge reaches, it is on the whole easier to
find some reason why the peasant girls of Berne should
wear their caps in the shape of butterflies; and the
peasant girls of Munich their's in the shape of shells,
than to say why the rock-crystals of Dauphine should
all have their summits of the shape of lip-pieces of
flageolets, while those of St. Gothard are symmetrical; or why the fluor of Chamouni is rose-colored, and
in octahedrons, while the fluor of Weardale is green,
and in cubes. Still farther removed is the hope, at
present, of accounting for minor differences in modes
of grouping and construction. Take, for instance, the
caprices of this single mineral, quartz;-variations
upon a single theme. It has many forms; but see
what it will make out of this one, the six-sided prism.
For shortness' sake, I shall call the body of the prism
its ' column,' and the pyramid at the extremities its
' cap.' Now, here, first you have a straight column as
long and thin as a stalk of asparagus, with two little
caps at the ends; and here you have a short thick coiumn, as solid as a haystack, with two fat caps at the
ends; and here you have two caps fastened together,
and no column at all between them! Then here is a
crystal with its column fat in the middle, and tapering
io a little cap; and here is one stalked like a mushroom, with a huge cap out on the top of a slender column! T'hen er'- is a column built wholly out of little




CR YSTAL CAPRICE.


I0S


caps, with a large smooth cap at the top. And here
is a column built of columns and caps; the caps all
truncated about half way to their points. And in both
these last, the little crystals are set anyhow, and build
the large one in a disorderly way; but here is a crystal
made of columns and truncated caps, set in regular
terraces all the way up.
MARY. But are not these, groups of crystals, rather
than one crystal?
L. What do you mean by a group, and what by one
crystal?
DORA (audibly aside, to MARY, Who is orogiht to
fause). You know you are never expected to answer,
Mary.
L. I'm sure this is easy enough. What do you mean
by a group of people?
MARY. Three or four together, or a good many together, like the caps in these crystals.
L. But when a great many persons get together,
they don't take the shape of one person?
(MARY still attiause.)
ISABEL. No, because they can't; but, you know the
crystals can; so ivhy shouldn't they?
L. Well, they don't; that is to say, they don't always, nor even often. Look here, Isabel.
ISABEL. What a nasty ugly thing!
L. I'm glad you think it so ugly. Yet it is made of
beautiful crystals; they are a little gray and cold in
color, but most of them are clear.
ISABEL. But they're in such horrid, horrid disorder!
L. Yes; all disorder is horrid, when it is among
things that are naturally orderly. Some little girls'
rooms are naturally disorderly, I suppose; or I don't
know how they could live in them, if they cry out so
when they only see quartz crystals in confusion.
ISABEL. Oh! but how come they to be like that?
L. You may well ask. And yet you will always
hear people talking as if they thought order more wonderful than disorder! It is wonderful-as we have
seen; but to me, as to you: child, the supremely won



xo6    THE E7HZCS OF THE DUST.


derful thing is that nature should ever be ruinous or
wasteful, or deathful! I look at this wild piece of
crystallization with endless astonishment.
MARY. Where does it come from?
L. The Tete Noire of Chamonix. What makes it
more strange is that it should be in a vein of fine
quartz rock. If it were in a mouldering rock, it would
be natural enough; but in the midst of so fine substance, here are the crystals tossed in a heap; some
large, myriads small (almost as small as dust), tumbling over each other like a terrified crowd, and glued
together by the sides, and edges, and backs, and heads;
some warped, and some pushed out and in, and all
spoiled, and each spoiling the rest.
MARY. And how flat they all are!
L. Yes; that's the fashion at the Tate Noire.
MARY. But surely this is ruin, not caprice?
L. I believe it is in great part misfortune; and we
will examine these crystal troubles in next lecture.
But if you want to see the gracefullest and happiest
caprices of which dust is capable, you must go to the
Hartz; not that I ever mean to go there myself, for I
want to retain the romantic feeling about the name;
and I have done myself some harm already by seeing
the monotonous and heavy form of the Brocken from
the suburbs of Brunswick. But whether the mountains be picturesque or not, the tricks which the goblins (as I am told) teach the crystals in them, are incomparably pretty. They work chiefly on the mind of
a docile, bluish-colored, carbonate of lime; which
comes out of a gray limestone. The goblins take the
greatest possible care of its education, and see that
nothing happens to it to hurt its temper; and when it
may be supposed to have arrived at the crisis which
is, to a well brought up mineral, what presentation at
court is to a young lady-after which it is expected to
set fashions-there's no end to its pretty ways of behaving. First it will make itself into pointed darts as
fine as hoar-frost; here, it is changed into a white fur
as fine as silk; here into little crowns and circlets, as




CRYSTAL CAPRICE.


107


bright as silver; as if for the gnome princesses to
wear; here it is in beautiful little plates, for them to
eat off; presently it is in towers which they might be
imprisoned in; presently in caves and cells, where they
may make nun-gnomes of themselves, and no gnome
ever hear of them more; here is some of it in sheaves,
like corn; here, some in drifts, like snow; here, some
in rays, like stars: and, though these are, all of them,
necessarily, shapes that the mineral takes in other
places, they are all taken here with such a grace that
you recognize the high caste and breeding of the crystals wherever you meet them; and know at once they
are Hartz-born.
Of course, such fine things as these are only done by
crystals which are perfectly good, and good-humored;
and of course, also, there are ill-humored crystals who
torment each other, and annoy quieter crystals, yet
without coming to anything like serious war. Here
(for once) is some ill-disposed quartz, tormenting a
peaceable octahedron of fluor, in mere caprice. I looked at it the other night so long, and so wonderingly,
just before putting my candle out, that I fell into another strange dream. But you don't care about dreams.
DORA. No; we didn't, yesterday; but you know we
are made up of caprice; so we do, to-day: and you
must tell it us directly.
L. Well, you see, Neith and her work were still much
in my mind; and then, I had been looking over these
Hartz things for you, and thinking of the sort of grotesque sympathy there seemed to be in them with the
beautiful fringe and pinnacle work of Northern architecture. So, when I fell asleep, I thought I saw Neith
and St. Barbara talking together.
DORA. But what had St. Barbara to do with it? *
L. My dear, I am quite sure St. Barbara is the patroness of good architects: not St. Thomas, whatever
the old builders thought. It might be very fine, according to tke monks' notions, in St. Thomas, to give
all his employer's money away to the poor: but breaches
* Note v.




IO8     TZrE ETHICS 01 THE DUST.
of contract are bad foundations; and I believe, it was
not he, but St. Barbara, who overlooked the work in all
the buildings you and I care about.  However that
may be, it was certainly she whom I saw in my dream
with Neith. Neith was sitting weaving, and I thought
she looked sad, and threw her shuttle slowly; and St.
Barbara was standing at her side, in a stiff little gown,
all ins and outs, and angles; but so bright with embroidery that it dazzled me whenever she moved; the
train of it was just like a heap of broken jewels, it was
so stiff, and full of corners, and so many-colored, and
bright. Her hair fell over her shoulders in long, delicate waves, from under a little three pinnacled crown,
like a tower. She was asking Neith about the laws of
architecture in Egypt and Greece; and when Neith
told her the measures of the pyramids, St. Barbara said
she thought they would have been better three-cornered:
and when Neith told her the measures of the Parthenon, St. Barbara said she thought it ought to have had
two transepts. But she was pleased when Neith told
her of the temple of the dew, and of the Caryan maidens bearing its frieze: and then she thought that perhaps Neith would like to hear what sort of temples she
was building herself, in the French valleys, and on the
crags of the Rhine. So she began gossiping, just as
one of you might to an old lady: and certainly she
talked in the sweetest way in the world to Neith; and
explained to her all about crockets and pinnacles: and
Neith sat, looking very grave; and always graver as
St. Barbara went on; till at last, I'm sorry to say, St.
Barbara lost her temper a little.
MAY (very grave herself ). ' St. Barbara?'
L. Yes, May. Why shouldn't she? It was very
tiresome of Neith to sit looking like that.
MAY. But, then, St. Barbara was a saint!
L. What's that, May.?
MAY. A   saint! A  saint is-I am   sure you
know!
L. If I did, it would not make me sure that you knew
too, May: but I don't.




CRYSTAL CAPRICE.


lo9


VIOLET (expressing the incredulity of the audience). Oh,-sir!
L. That is to say, I know that people are called saints
who are supposed to be better than others: but I don't
know how much better they must be, in order to be
saints; not how nearly anybody may be a saint, and
yet not be quite one; nor whether everybody who is
called a saint was one; nor whether everybody who
isn't called a saint, isn't one.
(General silence, the audience feeling themselves
on the verge of the Infinities, and a little shocked,
andmuch puzzled by so many questions at once.)
L. Besides, did you never hear that verse about being' called to be saints '?
MAY (refpeats Rom. i. 7).
L. Quite right, May. Well, then, who are called to
be that? People in Rome only?
MAY. Everbody, I suppose, whom God loves.
L. What! little girls as well as other people?
MAY. All grown-up people, I mean.
L. Why not little girls? Are they wickeder when
they are little?
MAY. Oh, I hope not.
L. Why not little girls, then?
(Pause.)
LILY. Because, you know, we can't be worth anything if we're ever so good;-I mean, if we try to be
ever so good; and we can't do difficult things-like '
saints.
L. I am afraid, my dear, that old people are not more
able or willing for their difficulties than you children
are for yours. All I can say is, that if ever I see any
of you, when you are seven or eight and twenty, knitting
your brows over any work you want to do or to understand, as I saw you, Lily, knitting your brows over
your slate this morning, I should think you very noble women. But-to come back to my dream-St.
Barbara did lose her temper a little; and I was not
surprised. For you can't think how provoking Neith
looked, sitting there just like a statue of sandstone;




rit      THE ETHICS OF THE DUST.
only going on weaving, like a machine; and never
quickening the cast of her shuttle; while St. Barbara
was telling her so eagerly all about the most beautiful
things, and chattering away, as fast as bells ring on
Christmas Eve, till she saw that Neith didn't care; and
then St. Barbara got as red as a rose, and stopped, just
in time;-or I think she would really have said something naughty.
ISABEL. Oh, please, but didn't Neith say anything
then?
L. Yes. She said, quite quietly, 'It may be very
pretty, my love; but it is all nonsense.'
ISABEL. Oh dear, oh dear; and then?
L. Well; then I was a little angry myself, and hoped
St. Barbara would be quite angry; but she wasn't.
She bit her lips first; and then gave a great sigh-such
a wild, sweet sigh-and then she knelt down and hid
her face on Neith's knees. Then Neith smiled a little,
and was moved.
ISABEL. Oh, I am so glad!
L. And she touched St. Barbara's forehead with a
flower of white lotus; and St. Barbara sobbed once or
twice, and then said: (If you only could see how beautiful it is, and how much it makes people feel what is
good and lovely; and if you could only hear the children singingin the Lady chapels!' And Neith smiled,
-but still sadly,-and said, 'How do-you know what
I have seen, or heard, my love? Do you think all those
vaults and towers of yours have been built without me?
There was not a pillar in your Giotto's Santa Maria del
Fiore which I did not set true by my spearshaft as it rose.
But this pinnacle and flamework which has set your little
heart on fire, is all vanity; and you will soon see what it
will come to, and none will grieve for it more than I.
And then every one will disbelieve your pretty symbols
and types. Men must be spoken simply to, my dear,
if you would guide them kindly, and long.' But St.
Barbara answered, that, ' Indeed she thought every one
liked her work,' and that ' the people of different towns
were as eager about their cathedral towers as about




CRYSTAL CAPRICE.


III


their privileges or their markets;' and then she asked
Neith to come and build something with her, wall
against tower; and 'see whether the people will be as
much pleased with your building as with mine.' But
Neith answered, ' I will not contend with you, my dear.
I strive not with those who love me, and for those who
hate me, it is not well to strive with me, as weaver
Arachne knows. And remember, child, that nothing
is ever done beautifully, which is done in rivalship;
nor nobly, which is done in pride.'
Then St. Barbara hung her head quite down, and
said she was very sorry she had been so foolish; and
kissed Neith; and stood thinking a minute: and then
her eyes got bright again, and she said, she would go
directly and build a chapel with five windows in it;
four for the four cardinal virtues, and one for humility,
in the middle, bigger than the rest. And Neith very
nearly laughed quite out, I thought; certainly her
beautiful lips lost all their sternness for an instant;
then she said, ' Well, love, build it, but do not put so
many colors into your windows as you usually do;
else no one will be able to see to read, inside: and
when it is built, let a poor village priest consecrate it,
and not an archbishop.' St. Barbara started a little,
I thought, and turned as if to say something; but
changed her mind, and gathered up her train, and
went out. And Neith bent herself again to her loom,
in which she was weaving a web of strange dark
colors, I thought; but perhaps it was only after the
glittering of St. Barbara's embroidered train: and I
tried to make out the figures in Neith's web, and confused myself among them, as one always does in
dreams; and then the dream changed altogether, and
I found myself, all at once, among a crowd of little
Gothic and Egyptian spirits, who were quarrelling; at
least the Gothic ones were trying to quarrel; for the
Egyptian ones only sat with their hands on their knees,
and their aprons sticking out very stiffly; and stared.
And after awhile I began to understand what the
matter was. It seemed that some of the troublesome




TI2      THlE ETHICS OF THE DUST.
building imps, who meddle and make continually, even
in the best Gothic work, had been listening to St.
Barbara's talk with Neith; and had made up their
minds that Neith had no workpeople who could build
against them. They were but dull imps, as you may
fancy, by their thinking that; and never had done
much, except disturbing the great Gothic building
angels at their work, and playing tricks to each other;
indeed, of late they had been living years and years, like
bats, up under the cornices of Strasbourg and Cologne
cathedrals, with nothing to do but to make mouths at
the people below. However, they thought they knew
everything about tower building; and those who had
heard what Neith said, told the rest; and they all flew
down directly, chattering in German, like jackdaws, to
show Neith's people what they could do. And they
had found some of Neith's old workpeople somewhere
near Sais, sitting in the sun, with their hands on their
knees; and abused them heartily: and Neith's people
did not mind at first, but, after awhile, they seemed
to get tired of the noise; and one or two rose up
slowly, and laid hold of their measuring rods, and said,
'If St. Barbara's people liked to build with them,
tower against pyramid, they would show them how to
lay stones.' Then the Gothic little spirits threw a
great many double somersaults for joy; and put the
tips of their tongues out slyly to each other, on one
side; and I heard the Egyptians say, ' they must be
some new kind of frog-they didn't think there was
much building in themz.' However, the stiff old workers took their rods, as I said, and measured out a
square space of sand; but as soon as the German
spirits saw that, they declared they wanted exactly
that bit of ground to build on themselves. Then the
Egyptian builders offered to go farther off, and the
German ones said, 'Ja wohl.' But as soon as the
Egyptians had measured out another square, the little
Germans said they must have some of that too. Then
Neith's people laughed; and said, ' they might take as
much as they liked, but they would not move the plan




CR YSTAL CAPRICE.


x13


of their pyramid again.' Then the little Germans
took three pieces, and began to build three spires directly; one large, and two little.  And when the
Egyptians saw they had fairly begun, they laid their
foundation all round, of large square stones: and began to build, so steadily that they had like to have
swallowed up the three little German spires. So when
the Gothic spirits saw that, they built their spires leaning, like the tower of Pisa, that they might stick out
at the side of the pyramid. And Neith's people stared
at them; and thought it very clever, but very wrong;
and on they went, in their own way, and said nothing. Then the little Gothic spirits were terribly provoked because they could not spoil the shape of the
pyramid; and they sat down all along the ledges of it
to make faces; but that did no good. Then they ran
to the corners, and put their elbows on their knees,
and stuck themselves out as far as they could, and
made more faces; but that did no good, neither.
Then they looked up to the sky, and opened their
mouths wide, and gobbled, and said it was too hot for
work, and wondered when it would rain; but that did
no good, neither. And all the while the Egpytian
spirits were laying step above step, patiently. But
when the Gothic ones looked, and saw how high they
had got, they said,' Ach, Himmel!' and flew down
in a great black cluster to the bottom; and swept out
a level spot in the sand with their wings, in no time,
and began building a tower straight up, as fast as
they could. And the Egyptians stood still again to
stare at them; for the Gothic spirits had got quite
into a passion, and were really working very wonderfully. They cut the sandstone into strips as fine as
reeds; and put one reed on the top of another, so that
you could not see wvhere they fitted: and they twisted
them in and out like basket work, and knotted them
into likenesses of ugly faces, and of strange beasts
biting each other; and up they went, and up still, and
they made spiral staircases at the corners, for the
loaded workers to come up by (for I saw they were
o




114      THE ETHICS OF THE DUST.
but weak imps, and could not fly with stones on their
backs), and then they made traceried galleries for them
to run round by; and so' up again; with finer and
finer work, till the Egpytians wondered whether they
meant the thing for a tower or a pillar: and I heard
them saying to one another, ' It was nearly as pretty
as lotos stalks; and if it were not for the ugly faces,
there would be a fine temple, if they were going to
build it all with pillars as big as that!' But in a minute afterwards,,-just as the Gothic spirits had carried
their work as high as the upper course, but three or
four, of the pyramid-the Egpytians called out to them
to ' mind what they were about, for the sand was running away from under one of their tower corners.'
But it was too late to mind what they were about; for,
in another instant, the whole tower sloped aside; and
the Gothic imps rose out of it like a flight of puffins,
in a single cloud; but screaming worse than any
puffins you ever heard: and down came the tower, all
in a piece, like a falling poplar, with its head right on
the flank of the pyramid; against which it snapped
short off. And of course that waked me!
MARY. What a shame of you to have such a dream,
after all you have told us about Gothic architecture.
L. If you have understood anything I ever told you
about it, you know that no architecture was ever corrupted more miserably; or abolished more justly by
the accomplishment of its own follies. Besides, even
in its days of power, it was subject to catastrophes
of this kind. I have stood too often, mourning, by the
grand fragment of the apse of Beauvais, not to have
that fact well burnt into me. Still, you must have
seen, surely, that these imps were of the Flamboyant
school; or, at least, of the German schools correspondent with it in extravagance.
MARY. But, then, where is the crystal about which
you dreamed all this?
L. Here; but I suppose little Pthah has touched it
again, for it is very small. But, you see, here is the




CRYSTAL CAPRICE.


ii5


pyramid, built of great square stones of fluor spar,
straight up; and here are the three little pinnacles of
mischievous quartz, which have set themselves, at the
same time, on the same foundation; only they lean
like the tower of Pisa, and come out obliquely at the
side: and here is one great spire of quartz which
seems as if it had been meant to stand straight up, a
little way off; and then had fallen down against the
pyramid base, breaking its pinnacle away. In reality,
it has crystallized horizontally, and terminated imperfectly: but, then, by what caprice does one crystal
form horizontally, when all the rest stand upright?
But this is nothing to the phantasies of fluor, and
quartz, and some other such companions, when they
get leave to do anything they like. I could show you
fifty specimens, about every one of which you might
fancy a new fairy tale. Not that, in truth, any crystals
get leave to do quite what they like; and many of them
are sadly tried, and have little time for caprices-poor
things!
MARY. I thought they always looked as if they
were-either in play or in mischief! What trials have
they?
L. Trials much like our own. Sickness, and starvation; fevers, and agues, and palsy; oppression; and
old age, and the necessity of passing away in their
time, like all else. If there's any pity in you, you must
come to-morrow, and take some part in these crystal
griefs.
DORA. I am sure we shall cry till our eyes are
red.
L. Ah, you may laugh, Dora: but I've been made
grave, not once, nor twice, to see that even crystals' cannot choose but be old ' at last. It may be but a shallow
proverb of the Justice's; but it is a shrewdly wide
one.
DORA (pensive, for once). I suppose it is very
dreadful to be old f But then (brightening again),
what should we do without our dear old friends, and
our nice old lecturers?




tr6      THE ETHICS OF THE DUST
L..f alt nice old lecturers were minded as little as
one I know of
DORA. And if they all meant as little what they
say, would they not deserve it? But we'll come-we'll
come, and cry.




LECTURE IX.
CRYSTAL SORROWS.
Working Lecture in Schoolroom.
L. WE have been hitherto talking, children, as if
crystals might live, and play, and quarrel, and behave
ill or well, according to their characters, without interruption from anything else. But so far from this being
so, nearly all crystals, whatever their characters, have
to live a hard life of it, and meet Tvith many misfortunes.
If we could see far enough, we should find, indeed,
that, at the root, all their vices were misfortunes: but
to-day I want you to see what sort of troubles the best
crystals have to go through, occasionally, by no fault
of their own.
This black thing, which is one of the prettiest of the
very few pretty black things in the world, is called
' Tourmaline.' It may be transparent, and green, or
red, as well as black; and then no stone can be prettier
(only, all the light that gets into it, I believe, comes out a
good deal the worse; and is not itself again for a long
while). But this is the commonest state of it,-opaque,
and as black as jet.
MARY. What does 'Tourmaline' mean?
L. They say it is Ceylanese, and I don't know Ceylanese; but we may always be thankful for a graceful
word, whatever it means.
MARY. And what is it made of?
L. A little of everything; there's always flint, and
clay, and magnesia in it; and the black is iron, according to its fancy; and there's boracic acid, if you know




118   W-'tiE ETHICS OF THE DUST.


what that is; and if you don't, I cannot tell you today; and it doesn't signify: and there's potash, and
soda; and, on the whole, the chemistry of it is more
like a mediaeval doctor's prescription, than the making
of a respectable mineral: but it may, perhaps, be owing to the strange complexity of its make, that it has
a notable habit which makes it, to me, one of the most
interesting of minerals. You see these two crystals
are broken right across, in many places, just as if they
had been shafts of black marble fallen from a ruinous
temple; and here they lie, imbedded in white quartz,
fragment succeeding fragment, keeping the line of the
original crystal, while the quartz fills up the intervening spaces. Now tourmaline has a trick of doing this,
more than any other mineral I know: here is another
bit which I picked up on the glacier of Macugnaga; it
is broken, like a pillar built of very flat broad stones,
into about thirty joints, and all these are heaved and
warped away from each other sideways, almost into a
line of steps; and then all is filled up with quartz
paste. And here, lastly, is a green Indian piece, in
which the pillar is first disjointed, and then wrung
round into the shape of an S.
MARY. How can this have been done?
L. There are a thousand ways in which it may have
been done; the difficulty is not to account for the doing
of it; but for the showing of it in some crystals, and
not in others. You never by any chance get a quartz
crystal broken or twisted in this way. If it break or
twist at all, which it does sometimes, like the spire of
Dijon, it is by its own will or fault; it never seems to
have been passively crushed. But, for the forces which
cause this passive ruin of the tourmaline,-here is a
stone which will show you multitudes of them in operation at once. It is known as 'brecciated agate,'
beautiful, as you see; and highly valued as a pebble:
yet, so far as I can read or hear, no one has ever looked
at it with the least attention. At the first glance, you
see it is made of very fine red striped agates, which
have ben broken into small pieces, and fastened to



CRYSTAL SORROW S.


I I9


gether again by paste, also of agate. There would
be nothing wonderful in this, if this were all. It is
well known that by the movements of strata, portions
of rock are often shattered to pieces:-well known
also that agate is a deposit of flint by water under certain conditions of heat and pressure: there is, therefore, nothing wonderful in an agate's being broken;
and nothing wonderful in its being mended with the
solution out of which it was itself originally congealed.
And with this explanation, most people, looking at a
brecciated agate, or brecciated anything, seem to be
satisfied. 1 was so myself, for twenty years; but,
lately happening to stay for some time at the Swiss
Baden, where the beach of the Limmat is almost
wholly composed of brecciated limestones, I began to
examine them thoughtfully; and perceived, in the end,
that they were, one and all, knots of as rich mystery
as any poor little human brain was ever lost in. That
piece of agate in your hand, Mary, will show you many
of the common phenomena of breccias; but you need
not knit your brows over it in that way; depend upon
it, neither you nor I shall ever know anything about
the way it was made, as long as we live.
DORA. That does not seem much to depend upon.
L. Pardon me, puss. When once we gain some
real notion of the extent and the unconquerableness of
our ignorance, it is a very broad and restful thing to
depend upon: you can throw yourself upon it at ease,
as on a cloud, to feast with the gods. You do not
thenceforward trouble yourself,-nor any one else,with theories, or the contradiction of theories; you
neither get headache nor heartburning; and you never
more waste your poor little store of strength, or allowance of time.
However, there are certain facts, about this agatemaking, which I can tell you; and then you may look
at it in a pleasant wonder as long as you like; pleasant
wonder is no loss of time.
First, then, it is not broken freely by a blow; it is
slowly wrung, or ground, to pieces. You can only




i20   7THE ETHICS OF TIE DUST.


with extreme dimness conceive the force exerted on
mountains in transitional states of movement. You
have all read a little geology; and you know how coolly
geologists talk of mountains being raised or depressed.
They talk coolly of it, because they are accustomed to
the fact; but the very universality of the fact prevents
us from ever conceiving distinctly the conditions of
force involved. You know I was living last year in
Savoy; my house was on the back of a sloping mountain, which rose gradually for two miles, behind it;
and then fell at once in a great precipice towards Geneva, going down three thousand feet in four or five
cliffs, or steps. Now that whole group of cliffs had
simply been torn away by sheer strength from the
rocks below, as if the whole mass had been as soft as
biscuit. Put four or five captains' biscuits on the floor,
on the top of one another; and try to break them all
in half, not by bending, but by holding one half down,
and tearing the other halves straight up;-of course
you will not be able to do it, but you will feel and
comprehend the sort. of force needed. Then, fancy
each captains' biscuit a bed of rock, six or seven hundred feet thick; and the whole mass torn straight
through; and one half heaved up three thousand feet,
grinding against the other as it rose,-arnd you will
have some idea of the making of the Mont Saleve.
MAY. But it must crush the rocks all to dust!
L. No; for there is no room for dust. The pressure is too great; probably the heat developed also so
great that the rock is made partly ductile; but the
worst of it is, that we never can see these parts of
mountains in the state they were left in at the time
of their elevation; for it is precisely in these rents and
dislocations that the crystalline power principally exerts itself. It is essentially a styptic power, and whereever the earth is torn, it heals and binds; nay, the
torture and grieving of the earth seem necessary to
bring out its full energy; for you only find the crystalline living power fully in action, where the rents and
faults are deep and many.




CRYSTAL SORROWS.


121


DORA. If you please, sir,-would you tell us-what
are ' faults'?
L. You never heard of such things?
DORA. Never in all our lives.
L. When a vein of rock which is going on smoothly,
is interrupted by another troublesome little vein, which
stops it, and puts it out, so that it has to begin again
in another place-that is called a fault. I always
think it ought to be called the fault of the vein that
interrupts it; but the miners always call it the fault of
the vein that is interrupted.
DORA. So it is, if it does not begin again where it
left off.
L. Well, that is certainly the gist of the business:
but, whatever good-natured old lecturers may do, the
rocks have a bad habit, when they are once interrupted,
of never asking ' Where was I?'
DORA. When the two halves of the dining-table
came separate, yesterday, was that a ' fault'?
L. Yes; but not the table's. However, it is not a
bad illustration, Dora. When beds of rock are only interrupted by a fissure, but remain at the same level, like
the two halves of the table, it is not called a fault, but
only a fissure; but if one half of the table be either
tilted higher than the othern or pushed to the side, so
that the two parts will not fit, it is a fault. You had
better read the chapter on faults in Jukes's Geology;
then you will know all about it. And this rent that I
am telling you of in the Saleve, is one only of myriads,
to which are owing the forms of the Alps, as, I believe,
of all great mountain chains. Wherever you see a
precipice on any scale of real magnificence, you will
nearly always find it owing to some dislocation of this
kind; but the point of chief wonder to me, is the
delicacy of the touch by which these gigantic rents
have been apparently accomplished. Note, however,
that we have no clear evidence, hitherto, of the time
taken to produce any of them. We know that a
change of temperature alters the position and the angles of the atoms of crystals, and also the entire bulk




122      THE ETHICS OF THE DUST.               ~
of rocks. We know that in all volcanic, and th
greater part of all subterranean, action, temperature
are continually changing, and therefore masses of rock
must be expanding or contracting, with infinite slowness, but with infinite force. This pressure must result in mechanical strain somewhere, both in their own
substance, and in that of the rocks surrounding them;
and we can form no conception of the result of irresistible pressure, applied so as to rend and raise, with
imperceptible slowness of gradation, masses thousands
of feet in thickness. We want some experiments
tried on masses of iron and stone; and we can't get
them tried, because Christian creatures never will
seriously and suffici'ently spend money, except to find
out the shortest ways of killing each, other. But, besides this slow kind of pressure, there is evidence of
more or less sudden violence, on the same terrific
scale; and, through it all, the wonder, as I said, is
always to me the delicacy of touch. I cut a block, of
the Saleve limestone from the edge of one of the
principal faults which have formed the precipice; it is
a lovely compact limestone, and the fault itself is filled
up with a red breccia, formed of the crushed fragments
of the torn rock, cemented by a rich red crystalline
paste. I have had the piece I cut from it smoothed,
and polished across the the junction; here it is; and
you may now pass your soft little fingers over the surface, without so much as feeling the place where a
rock which all the hills of England might have been
sunk in the body of, and not a summit seen, was torn
asunder through that whole thickness, as a thin dress
is torn when you tread upon it.
(The audience examnine the stone, and touch it
timidly,' but the matter remains inconceivable
to them.)
MARY (struck by the beauty of the stone). But
this is almost marble?
L. It is quite marble. And another singular point
in the business, to my mind, is that these stones, which
men have been cutting into slabs, for thousands of




CRYSTAL SORROWS.


13


years, to ornament their principal buildings with,-and
which, under the general name of ' marble,' have been
the delight of the eyes, and the wealth of architecture,
among all civilized nations,-are precisely those on
which the signs and brands of these earth-agonies
have been chiefly struck; and there is not a purple
vein nor flaming zone in them, which is not the record
of their ancient torture. What a boundless capacity
for sleep, and for serene stupidity, there is in the
human mind! Fancy reflective beings, who cut and
polish stones for three thousand years, for the sake of
the pretty stains upon them; and educate themselves
to an art at last (such as it is), of imitating these veins
by dexterous painting; and never a curious soul of
them, all that while, asks, ' What painted the rocks?'
(The audie nc look dejected, and ashamed of
themselves.)
The fact is, we are all, and always, asleep, through
our lives; and it is only by pinching ourselves very
hard that we ever come to see, or understand, anything. At least, it is not always we who pinch ourselves; sometimes other people pinch us; which I
suppose is very good of them,-or other things, which
I suppose is very proper of them. But it is a sad life:
made up chiefly of naps and pinches.
(Some of the audience, on this, ajfiearing to
think that the others require finching, the
LECTURER changes the subject.)
Now, however, for once, look at a piece of marble
carefully, and think about it. You see this is one
side of the fault; the other side is down or up, nobody
knows where; but, on this side, you can trace the evidence of the dragging and tearing action. All along
the edge of this marble, the ends of the fibres of the
rock are torn, here an inch, and there half an inch
away from each other; and you see the exact places
where they fitted, before they were torn separate; and
you see the rents are now all filled up with the sanguine paste, full of the broken pieces of the rock; the
paste itself seems to have been half melted, and partly




124      THE ETHICS OF THE DUST.
to have also melted the edge of the fragments it contains, and then to have crystallized with them, and
round them. And the brecciated agate I first showed
-you contains exactly the same phenomena; a zoned
crystallization going on amidst the cemented fragments, partly altering the structure of those fragments
themselves, and subject to continual change, either in
the intensity of its own power, or in the nature of the
materials submitted to it;-so that, at one time, gravity acts upon them, and disposes them in horizontal
layers, or causes them to droop in stalactites; and at
another, gravity is entirely defied, and the substances
in solution are crystallized in bands of equal thickness
on every side of the cell. It Would require a course
of lectures longer than these (I have a great mind,you have behaved so saucily-to stay and give them)
to describe to you the phenomena of this kind, in
agates and chalcedonies only;-nay, there is a single
sarcophagus in the British Museum, covered with
grand sculpture of the i8th dynasty, which contains in
the magnificent breccia (agates and jaspers imbedded
in porphyry), out of which it is hewn, material for the
thought of years; and record of the earth-sorrow of
ages in comparison with the duration of which, the
Egyptian letters tell us but the history of the evening
and morning of a day.
Agates, 1 think, of all stones, confess most of their
past history; but all crystallization goes on under, and
partly records, circumstances of this kind-circumstances of infinite variety, but always involving diffi.
culty, interruption, and change of condition at different
times. Observe, first, you have the whole mass of the
rock in motion, either contracting itself, and so grad.
ually widening the cracks; or being compressed, and
thereby closing them, and crushing their edges;-and,
if one part of its substance be softer, at the given temperature, than another, probably squeezing that softer
substance out into the veins. Then the veins themselves, when the rock leaves them open by its contraction, act with various power of suction upon its sub



CR YSTAL SORROWS


I25


stance;-by capillary attraction when they are fine,
by that of pure vacuity when they are larger, or by
changes in the constitution and condensation of the
mixed gases with which they have been originally
filled. Those gases themselves may be supplied in all
variation of volume and power from below; or, slowly,
by the decomposition of the rocks themselves; and, at
changing temperatures, must exert relatively changing
forces of decomposition and combination on the walls
of the veins they fill; while water, at every degree of
heat- and pressure (from beds of everlasting ice, alternate with cliffs of native rock, to volumes of red hot,
or white hot, steam), congeals, and drips, and throbs,
and thrills, from crag to crag; and breathes from
pulse to pulse of foaming or fiery arteries, whose beating is felt through chains of the great islands of the
Indian seas, as your own pulses lift your bracelets, and
makes whole kingdoms of the world quiver in deadly
earthquake, as if they were light as aspen leaves.
And, remember, the poor little crystals have to live
their lives, and mind their own affairs, in the midst of
all this, as best they may. They are wonderfully like
human creatures,-forget all that is going on if they
don't see it, however dreadful; and never think what
is to happen to-morrow. They are spiteful or loving,
and indolent or painstaking, and orderly or licentious,
with no thought whatever of the lava or the flood which
may break over them any day; and evaporate them
into air bubbles, or wash them into a solution of salts.
And you may look at them, once understanding the
surrounding conditions of their fate, with an endless
interest.  You will see crowds of unfortunate little
crystals, who have been forced to constitute themselves
in a hurry, their dissolving element being fiercely
scorched away; you will see them doing their best,
bright and numberless, but tiny. Then you will find
indulged crystals, who have had centuries to form
themselves in, and have changed their mind and ways
continually; and have been tired, and taken heart
again; and have been sick, and gbt well again; and




126    THE ETHICS OF THE DUST.


thought they would try a different diet, and then
thought better of it; and made but a poor use of their
advantages, after all. And others you will see, who
have begun life as wicked crystals; and then have
been impressed by alarming circumstances, and have
become converted crystals, and behaved amazingly
for a little while, and fallen away again, and ended,
but discreditably, perhaps even in decomposition; so
that one doesn't know what will become of them.
And sometimes you will see deceitful crystals, that
look as soft as velvet, and are deadly to all near them;
and sometimes you will see deceitful crystals, that
seem flint-edged,- like our little quartz-crystal of a
housekeeper here, (hush! Dora,) and are endlessly
gentle and true wherever gentleness and truth are
needed.  And sometimes you will see little childcrystals put to school like school-girls, and made to
stand in rows; and taken the greatest care of, and
taught how to hold themselves up, and behave: and
sometimes you will see unhappy little child-crystals
left to lie about in the dirt, and pick up their living,
and learn manners, where they can. And sometimes
you will see fat crystals eating up thin ones, like great
capitalists and little laborers; and politico-economic
crystals teaching the stupid ones how to eat each
other, and cheat each other; and foolish crystals getting in the way of wise ones; and impatient crystals
spoiling the plans of patient ones, irreparably; just
as things go on in the world. And sometimes you
may see hypocritical crystals taking the shape of
others, though they are nothing like in their minds;
and vampire crystals eating out the hearts of others;
and hermit-crab crystals living in the shells of others;
and parasite crystals living on the means of others;
and courtier crystals glittering in attendance upon
others; and all these, besides the two great companies of war and peace, who ally themselves, resolutely to
attack, or resolutely to defend.  And for the close,
you see the broad shadow and deadly force of inevitable fate, above all. this: you see the multitudes of




CRYSTAL SORROWS.


1:27


crystals whose time has come; not a set time, as with
us, but vet a time, sooner or later, when they all must
give up their crystal ghosts:-when the strength by
which they grew, and the breath given them to breathe,
pass away from them; and they fail, and are consumed, and vanish away; and another generation is
brought to life, framed out of their ashes.
MARY. It is very terrible. Is it not the complete
fulfilment, down into the very dust of that verse:
'The whole creation groaneth and travaileth in pain'?
L. I do not know that it is in pain, Mary: at least,
the evidence tends to show that there is much more
pleasure than pain, as soon as sensation becomes possible.
LUCILLA. But then, surely, if we are told that it is
pain, it must be pain?
L. Yes; if we are told; and told in the way you
mean, Lucilla; but nothing is said of the proportion
to pleasure. Unmitigated pain would kill any of us in
a few hours; pain equal to our pleasures would make
us loathe life; the word itself cannot be applied to the
lower conditions of matter, in its ordinary sense. But
wait till to-morrow to ask me about this. To-morrow
is to be kept for questions and difficulties; let us keep
to the plain facts to-day. There is yet one group of
facts connected with this rending of the rocks, which
I especially want you to notice. You know, when you
have mended a very old dress, quite meritoriously,
till it won't mend any moreEGYPT (interri-Jfing). Could not you sometimes
take gentlemen's work to illustrate by?
L. Gentlemen's work is rarely so useful as yours,
Egypt; and when it is useful, girls cannot easily understand it.
DORA. I am sure we should understand it better
than gentlemen understand about sewing.
L. My dear, I hope I always speak modestly, and
under correction, when I touch upon matters of the
kind too high for me; and besides, I never intend to
speak otherwise than respectfully of sewing;-though




128   THE ETHICS OF THE DUST.


you always seem to think I am laughing at you. In
all seriousness, illustrations from sewing are those
which Neith likes me best to use; and which young
ladies ought to like everybody to use. What do you
think the beautiful word ' wife' comes from?
DORA (tossing her head). I don't think it is a particularly beautiful word.
L. Perhaps not. At your ages you may think
' bride' sounds better; but wife's the word for wear,
depend upon it. It is the great word in which the
English and Latin languages conquer the French and
the Greek. I hope the French will some day get a
word for it, yet, instead of their dreadful 'femme.'
But what do you think it comes from?
DORA. I never did think about it!
L. Nor you, Sibyl?
SIBYL. No; I thought it was Saxon, and stopped
there.
L. Yes; but the great good-of Saxon words is, that
they usually do mean something. Wife means
'weaver.' You have all the right to call yourselves
little 'housewives,' when you sew neatly.
DORA. But I don't think we want to call ourselves
' little housewives.'
L. You must either be house-Wives, or house-Moths;
remember that. In the deep sense, you must either
weave men's fortunes, and embroider them; or feed.upon, and bring them to decay. You had better let
me keep my sewing illustration, and help me out with
it.
DORA. Well, we'll hear it, under protest.
L. You have heard it before; but with reference to
other matters. When it said, ' no man putteth a piece
of new cloth on an old garment, else it taketh from the
old,' does it not mean that the new piece tears the old
one away at the sewn edge?
DORA. Yes; certainly.
L. And when you mend a decayed stuff with strong
thread, does not the whole edge come away sometimes, when it tears again?




CRYSTAL SORROWS.


129


DORA. Yes; and then it is of no use toinend it any
more.
L. Well, the rocks don't seem to think that: but
the same thing happens to them continually. I told
you they were full of rents, or veins. Large masses
of mountain are sometimes as full of veins as your
hand is; and of veins nearly as fine (only you know a
rock vein does not mean a tube, but a crack or cleft).
Now these clefts are mended, usually, with the strongest material the rock can find; and often literally
with threads; for the gradually opening rent seems to
draw the substance it is filled with into fibres, which
cross from one side of it to the other, and are partly
crystalline; so that, when the crystals become distinct,
the fissure has often exactly the look of a tear, brought
together with strong cross stitches. Now when this
is completely done, and all has been fastened and
made firm, perhaps some new change of temperature
may occur, and the rock begin to contract again.
Then the old vein must open wider; or else another
open elsewhere. If the old vein widen, it may do so
at its centre; but it constantly happens, with well filled
veins, that the cross stitches are too strong to break;
the walls of the vein, instead, are torn away by them;
and another little supplementary vein-often three or
four successively-will be thus formed at the side of
the first.
MARY. That is really very much like our work.
But what do the mountains use to sew with?
L. Quartz, whenever they can get it: pure limestones are obliged to be content with carbonate of
lime; but most mixed rocks can find some quartz for
themselves. Here is a piece of black slate from the
Buet: it looks merely like dry dark mud;-you could
not think there was any quartz in it; but, you see, its
rents are all stitched together with beautiful white
thread, which is the purest quartz, so close drawn that
you can break it like flint, in the mass; but, where it
has been exposed to the weather, the fine fibrous
structure is shown: and, more than that, you see the
9




130   THE ETHICS OF THE DUST.


threads have been all twisted and pulled aside, this
way and the other, by the warpings and shiftings of
the sides of the vein as it widened.
MARY. Lt is wonderful! But is that going on still:?
Are the mountains being torn and sewn together again
at this moment?
L. Yes, certainly, my dear: but I think, just as certainly (though geologists differ on this matter), not
with.the violence, or on the scale, of their ancient ruin
and renewal. All things seem to be tending towards
a condition of at least temporary rest; and that groaning and travailing of the creation, as, assuredly, not
wholly in pain, is not, in the full sense, 'until"
now.'
MARY. I want so much to ask you about that!
SIBYL. Yes; and we all want to ask you about a
great many other things besides.
L. It seems to me that you have got quite as many
new ideas as are good for any of you at present: and
I should not like to burden you with more; but I must
see that those you have are clear, if I can make them
so, so we will have one more talk, for answer of questions, mainly. Think over all the ground, and make
your difficulties thoroughly presentable. Then we'll
*see what we can make of them.
DORA. They shall all be dressed in their very best;
and courtesy as they come in.
L. No, no, Dora; no courtesies, if you please. I
had enough of them the day you all took a fit of reverence, and courtesied me out of the room.
DORA. But, you know, we cured ourselves of the
fault, at once, by that fit. We have never been the
least respectful since. And the difficulties will only
courtesy. themselves out of the room, I hope;-come
in at one door-vanish at the other.
L. What a pleasant world it would be, if all its
difficulties were taught to behave so! However, one
can generally make something, or (better still) nothing, or at least less, of them, if they thoroughly know
their own minds; and your difficulties-I must say




CRYSTAL SORROWS.             I3
that for you, children,-generally do know their own
minds, as you do yourselves.
DoRA. That is very kindly said for us. Some people would not allow so much as that girls had any
minds to know.
L. They will at least admit that you have minds to
change, Dora.
MARY. You might have left us the last speech,
without a retouch. But we'll put our little minds,
such as they are, in the best trim we can for to-morrow.




LECTURE X.


THE CRYSTAL REST.
Evening, The fireside. L.'s arm-chair in the cornfortablest corner.
L. (pierceiving various arrangements being made
of footstool, cushion, screen, and the like). Yes, yes,
it's all very fine! and I am to sit here to be asked
questions till supper-time, am I?
DORA. I don't think you can have any supper tonight:-we've got so much to ask.
LILY. Oh, Miss Dora! We can fetch it him here,
you know, so nicely!
L. Yes, Lily, that will be pleasant, with competitive
examination going on over one's plate; the competition
being among the examiners. Really, tow that I know
what teasing things girls are, I don't so much wonder
that people used to put up patiently with the dragons
who took themz for supper. But I can't help myself, I
suppose;-no thanks to St. George. Ask away, children, and I'll answer as civilly as may be.
DORA. We don't so much care about being answered
civilly, as about not being asked things back again.
L. 'Ayez seulement la patience que je le parle.'
There shall be no requitals.
DORA. Well, then, first of all-What shall we ask
first, Mary?
MARY. It does not matter. I think all the questions
come into one, at last, nearly.
DORA. You know, you always talk as if the crystals
were alive; and we never understand how much you




THE CRYSTAL REST.


x33


are in play, and how much in earnest. That's the first
thing.
L. Neither do I understand, myself, my dear, how
much I am in earnest. The stones puzzle me as much
as I puzzle you.  They look as if they were alive,
and make me speak as if they were; and I do not in
the least know how much truth there is in the appearance. I'm not to ask things back again to-night, but
all questions of this sort lead necessarily to the one
main question, which we asked before, in vain, ' What
is it to be alive? '
DORA. Yes; but wekant to come back to that: for
we've been reading scientific books about the ' conservation of forces,' and it seems all so grand, and wonderful; and the experiments are so pretty; and I suppose it must be all right: but then the books never
speak as if there were any such thing as ' life.'
L. They mostly omit that part of the subject, certainly, Dora; but they are beautifully right as far as
they go; and life is not a convenient element to deal
with. They seem to have been getting some of it into
and out of bottles, in their ' ozone' and 'antizone'
lately; but they still know little of it: and, certainly, I
know less.
DORA. You promised not to be provoking, tonight.
L. Wait a minute. Though, quite truly, I know less
of the secrets of life than the philosophers do; I yet
know one corner of ground on which we artists can
stand, literally as ' Life Guards' at bay, as steadily as
the Guards at Inkermann; however hard the philosophers push. And you may stand with us, if once you
learn to draw nicely.
DORA. I'm sure we are all trying! but tell us where
we may stand.
L. You may always stand by Form, against Force.
To a painter, the essential character of anything is the
form of. it; and the philosophers cannot touch that.
They come and tell you, for instance, that there is as
much heat, or motion, or calorific energy (or whatever




34        THE ETHICS OF THE DUST.
else they like to call it), in a teakettle as in a Giereagle. Very good; that is so; and it is very interesting. It requires just as much heat as will boil the kettle, to take the Gier-eagle up to his nest; and as much
more to bring him down again on a hare or a partridge.
But we painters, acknowledging the equality and similarity of the kettle and the bird in all scientific respects,
attach, for our part, our principal interest to the difference in their forms. For us, the primarily cognizable
facts, in the two things, are, that the kettle has a spout,
and the eagle a beak; the one a lid on its back, the
other a pair of wings;-not to'speak of the distinction
also of volition, which the philosophers may properly
call merely a form or mode of force;-but then, to an
artist, the form, or mode, is the gist of the business.
The kettle chooses to sit still on the hob; the eagle to
recline on the air. It is the fact of the choice, not the
equal degree of temperature in the fulfilment of it,
which appears to us the more interesting circumstance; though the other is very interesting too. Exceedingly so!  Don't laugh, children; the philosophers have been doing quite splendid work lately, in
their own way: especially, the transformation of force
into light is a great piece of systematized discovery;
and this notion about the sun's being supplied with his
flame by ceaseless meteoric hail is grand, and looks very
likely to be true. Of course, it is only the old gunlock,-flint and steel,-on a large scale: but the order
and majesty of it are sublime. Still, we sculptors and
painters care little about it. ' It is very fine,' we say,
'and very useful, this knocking the light out of the
sun, or into it, by an eternal cataract of planets.
But you may hail away, so, forever, and you will not
knock out what we can. Here is a bit of silver, not
the size of half-a-crown, on which, with a single hammer stroke, one of us, two thousand and odd years ago,
hit out the head of the Apollo of Clazomenae. It is
merely a matter of form; but if any of you philosophers, with your whole planetary system to hammer
with, can hit out such another bit of silver as this,



THE CRYSTAL REST.


I35


we take off our hats to you. For the present, we keep
them on.'
MARY. Yes, I understand; and that is nice; but I
don't think we shall any of us like having only form to
depend upon.
L. It was not neglected in the making of Eve, my
dear.
MARY. It does not seem to separate us from the
dust of the ground. It is that breathing of the life
which we want to understand.
L. So you should: but hold fast to the form, and
defend that first, as distinguished from the mere transition of forces. Discern the moulding hand of the potter commanding the clay, from his merely beating foot,
as it turns the wheel. If you find incense, in the vase,
afterwards,-well; but it is curious how far mere form
will carry you ahead of the philosophers. For instance,
with regard to the most interesting of all their modes
of force-light; they never consider how far the existence of it depends on the putting of certain vitreous
and nervous substances into the formal arrangement
which we call an eye. The German philosophers began the attack, long ago, on the other side, by telling
us, there was no such thing as light at all, unless we
chose to see it: now, German and English, both, have
reversed their engines, and insist that light would be
exactly the same light that it is, though nobody could
ever see it. The fact being that the force must be
there, and the eyes there; and ' light' means the effect
of the one on the other;-and perhaps, also-(Plato
saw farther into that mystery than any one has since,
that I know of),-on something a little way within the
eyes; but we may stand quite safe, close behind the
retina, and defy the philosophers.
SIBYL. But I don't care so much about defying the
philosophers, if only one could get a clear idea of life,
or soul, for one's self.
L. Well, Sibyl, you used to know more about it, in
that cave of yours, than any of us. I was just going
to ask you about inspiration, and the golden bough,




136      TEE ETHICS OF THE DUST.
and the like; only I remembered I was not to ask
anything. But, will not you, at least, tell us whether
the ideas of Life, as the power of putting things together, or ' making' them; and of Death, as the power
of pushing things separate, or 'unmaking' them, may
not be very simply held in balance against each other?
SIBYL. No, I am not in my cave to-night; and cannot tell you anything.
L. I think they may. Modern Philosophy is a great
separator; it is little more than the expansion of Moliere's great sentence,' 11 s'ensuit de la, que tout ce
qu'il y a de beau est dans Jes dictionnaires; il n'y a que
les mots qui sont transposes.' But when you used to
be in your cave, Sibyl, and to be inspired, there was
(and there remains still in some small measure), beyond
the merely formative and sustaining power, another,
which we painters call 'passion '-I don't know what
the philosophers call it; we know it makes people red
or white; and therefore it must be something, itself;
and perhaps it is the most truly 'poetic' or 'making'
force of all, creating a world of its own out of a glance,
or a sigh: and the want of passion is perhaps the truest
death, or ' unmaking' of everything;-even of stones.
By the way, you were all reading about that ascent of
the Aiguille Verte, the other day?
SIBYL. Because you had told us it was so difficult,
you thought it could not be ascended.
L. Yes; I believed the Aiguille Verte would have
held its own. But do you recollect what one of the
climbers exclaimed, when he first felt sure of reaching
the summit.
SIBYL. Yes, it was, ' Oh, Aiguille Verte, vous etes
morte, vous etes morte!'
L. That was true instinct. Real philosophic joy.
Now can you at all fancy the difference between that
feeling of triumph in a mountain's death; and the exultation of your beloved poet, in its life' Quantus Athos, aut quantus Eryx, aut ipse coruscis
Quum fremit ilicibus quantus, gaudetque nivali
Vertice, se attollens pater Apenninus ad auras.'




THE CRYSTAL REST.


x37


DORA. You must translate for us mere house-keepers, please,-whatever the cave-keepers may know
about it.
MARY. Will Dryden do?
L. No. Dryden is a far way worse than nothing,
and nobody will 'do.' You can't translate it. But
this is all you need know, that the lines are full of a
passionate sense of the Apennines' fatherhood, or protecting power over Italy; and of sympathy with their
joy in their snowy strength in heaven; and with the
same joy, shuddering through all the leaves of their
forests.
MARY. Yes, that is a difference indeed! but then,
you know, one can't help feeling that it is fanciful. It
is very delightful to imagine the mountains to be alive;
but then,-are they alive?
L. It seems to me, on the whole, Mary, that the feelings of the purest and most mightily passioned human
souls are likely to be the truest. Not, indeed, if they
do not desire to know the truth, or blind themselves
to it that they may please themselves with passion; for
then they are no longer pure: but if, continually seeking and accepting the truth as far as it is discernible,
they trust their Maker for the integrity of the instincts
He has gifted them with, and rest in the sense of a
higher truth which they cannot demonstrate, I think
they will be most in the right, so.
DORA and JESSIE (clanfping their hands). Then
we really may believe that the mountains are living?
L. You may at least earnestly believe, that the presence of the spirit which culminates in your own life,
shows itself in dawning, wherever the dust of the earth
begins to assume any orderly and lovely state. You
will find it impossible to separate this idea of gradated
manifestation from that of the vital power. Things
are not either wholly alive, or wholly dead. They are
less or more alive. Take the nearest, most easily examined instance-the life of a flower. Notice what a
different degree and kind of life there is in the calyx
and the corolla. The calyx is nothing but the swad



138      THE ETHICS OF THE DUST.
dling clothes of the flower; the child-blossom is bound
up in it, hand and foot; guarded in it, restrained by it,
till the time of birth. The shell is hardly more subordinate to the germ in the egg, than the calyx to. the
blossom. It bursts at last; but it never lives as the
corolla does. It may fall at the moment its task is fulfilled, as in the poppy; or wither gradually, as in the
buttercup; or persist in a ligneous apathy, after the
flower is dead, as in the rose; or harmonize itself so
as to share in the aspect of the real flower, as in the
lily; but it never shares in the corolla's bright passion
of life. And the gradations which thus exist between
the different members of organic creatures, exist no
less between the different ranges of organism. We
know no higher or more energetic life than our own;
but there seems to me this great good in the idea of
gradation of life-it admits the idea of a life above us,
in other creatures, as much nobler than ours, as ours
is nobler than that of the dust.
MARY. I am glad you have said that; for I know
Violet and Lucilla and May want to ask you something; indeed, we all do; only you frightened Violet
so about the ant-hill, that she can't say a word; and
May is afraid of your teasing her, too: but I know they
are wondering why you are always telling them about
heathen gods and goddesses, as if you half believed in
them; and you represent them as good; and then we
see there is really a kind of truth in the stories about
them; and we are all puzzled: and, in this, we cannot
even make our difficulty quite clear to ourselves;-it
would be such a long confused question, if we could
ask you all we should like to know.
L. Nor is it any wonder, Mary; for this is indeed
the longest, and the most wildly confused question
that reason can deal with; but I will try to give you,
quickly, a few clear ideas about the heathen gods,
which you may follow out afterwards, as your knowledge increases.
Every heathen conception of deity in which you are
likely to be interested, has three distinct characters:



THE CRYSTAL REST


139


I. It has a physical character. It represents some
of the great powers or objects of nature-sun or moon,
or heaven, or the winds, or the sea. And the fables
first related about each deity represent, figuratively,
the action of the natural power which it represents;
such as the rising and setting of the sun, the tides of
the sea, and so on.
II. It has an ethical character, and represents, in its
history, the moral dealings of God with man. Thus
Apollo is first, physically, the sun contending with
darkness; but morally, the power of divine life contending with corruption. Athena is, physically, the
air; morally, the breathing of the divine spirit of wisdom. Neptune is, physically, the sea; morally, the
supreme power of agitating passion; and so on.
III. It has, at last, a personal character; and is realized in the minds of its worshippers as a living spirit,
with whom men may speak face to face, as a man
speaks to his friend.
Now it is impossible to define exactly, how far, at
any period of a national religion, these three ideas are
mingled; or how far one prevails over the other. Each
enquirer usually takes up one of these ideas, and pursues it, to the exclusion of the others: no impartial
effort seems to have been made to discern the real state
of the heathen imagination in its successive phases.
For the question is not at all what a mythological figure meant in its origin; but what it became in each
subsequent mental development of the nation inheriting
the thought. Exactly in proportion to the mental and
moral insight of any race, its mythological figures
mean more to it, and become more real. An early
and savage race means nothing more (because it has
nothing more to mean) by its Apollo, than the sun;
while a cultivated Greek means every operation of
divine intellect and justice.' The Neith, of Egypt,
meant, physically, little more than the blue of the air;
but the Greek, in a climate of alternate storm and calm,
represented the wild fringes of the storm-cloud by the
serpents of her aegis; and the lightning and cold of the




140    THE ETHICS OF THE DUST.


highest thunder-clouds, by the Gorgon on her shield:
while morally, the same types represented to him the
mystery and changeful terror of knowledge, as her
spear and helm its ruling and defensive power. And
no study can be more interesting, or more useful to
you, than that of the different meanings which have
been created by great nations, and great poets, out of
mythological figures given them, at first, in utter simplicity. But when we approach them in their third, or
personal, character (and, for its power over the whole
national mind, this is far the leading one), we are met
at once by questions which may well put all of you at
pause. Were they idly imagined to be real beings?
and did they so usurp the place of the true God? Or
were they actually real beings,-evil spirits,-leading
men away from the true God? Or is it conceivable
that they might have been real beings, —good spirits, —
entrusted with some message from the true God?
These were the questions you wanted to ask; were
they not, Lucilla?
LUCILLA. Yes, indeed.
L. Well, Lucilla, the answer will much depend upon
the clearness of your faith in the personality of the
spirits which are described in the book of your own
religion;-their personality, observe, as distinguished
from merely symbolical visions. For instance, when
Jeremiah has the vision of the seething pot with its
mouth to the north; you know that this which he sees
is not a real thing; but merely a significant dream.
Also when Zechariah sees the speckled horses among
the myrtle trees in the bottom, you still may suppose
the vision symbolical; —you do not think of them as
real spirits, like Pegasus, seen inr the form of horses.
But when you are told of the four riders in the Apocalypse, a distinct sense of. personality begins to force
itself upon you. And though you might, in a dull
temper, think that (for one instance of all) the fourth
rider on the pale horse was merely a symbol of the
power of death,-inyour stronger and more earnest
moods you will rather.conceive of him as a real and




THiv CRYSTA L AES'ST.


I41


living angel. And when you look back from the vision of the Apocalypse to the account of the destruction of the Egyptian first-born, and of the army of
Sennacherib, and again to David's vision at the threshing floor of Araunah, the idea of personality in this
death-angel becomes entirely defined, just as in the
appearance of the angels to Abraham, Manoah, or
Mary.
Now, when you have once consented to this idea of
a personal spirit' must not the question instantly follow: ' Does this spirit exercise its functions towards
one race of men only, or towards all men? Was it
an angel of death to the Jew only, or to the Gentile
also?' You find a certain Divine agency made visible
to a King of Israel, as an armed angel, executing
vengeance, of which one special purpose was to lower
his kingly pride. You find another (or perhaps the
same) agency, made visible to a Christian prophet as
an angel standing in the sun, calling to the birds that
fly under heaven to come, that they may eat the flesh
of kings. Is there anything impious in the thought
that the same agency might have been expressed to a
Greek king, or Greek seer, by similar visions?-that
this figure, standing in the sun, and armed with the
sword, or the bow (whose arrows were drunk with
blood), and exercising especially its power in the humiliation of the proud, might, at first, have been called
only ' Destroyer,' and afterwards, 'as the light, or sun, of
justice was recognzied in the chastisement, called also
' Physician 'or 'Healer?' If you feel hesitation in admitting the possibility of such a manifestation, I believe
you will find it is caused, partly indeed by such trivial
things as the difference to your ear between Greek and
English terms; but, far more, by uncertainty in your
own mind respecting the nature and truth of the visions spoken of in the Bible. Have any of you intently
examined the nature of your belief in them? You, for
instance, Lucilla, who think often, and seriously, of
such things?
LUCILLA. No; I never could tell what to believe




142      THE E7HICS OF THE DUST.
about them. I know they must be true in some way
or other; and I like reading about them.
L. Yes; and I like reading about them too, Lucilla;
as I like reading other grand poetry. But, surely, we
ought both to do more than like it? Will God be
satisfied with us, think you, if we read His words,
merely for the sake of an entirely meaningless poetical
sensation?
LUCILLA. But do not the people who give themselves to seek out the meaning of these things, often
get very strange, and extravagant?
L. More than that, Lucilla. They often go mad.
That abandonment of the mind to religious theory, or
contemplation, is the very thing I have been pleading
with you against. I never said you should set yourself to discover the meanings; but you should take
careful pains to understand them, so far as they are
clear; and you should always accurately ascertain the
state of your mind about them. I want you never to
read merely for the pleasure of fancy; still less as a
formal religious duty (else you might as well take to
repeating Paters at once; for it is surely wiser to repeat one thing we understand, than read a thousand
which we cannot). Either, therefore, acknowledge
the passages to be, for the present, unintelligible to
you; or else determine the sense in which you at
present receive them; or, at all events, the different
senses between which you clearly see that you must
choose. Make either your belief, or your difficulty,
definite; but do not go on, all through your life, believing nothing intelligently, and yet supposing that
your having read the words of a divine book must
give you the right to despise every religion but your
own. I assure you, strange as it may seem, our scorn
of Greek tradition depends, not on our belief, but our
disbelief, of our own traditions. We have, as yet, no
sufficient clue to the meaning of either; but you will
always find that, in proportion to the earnestness of
our own faith, its tendency to accept a spiritual personality increases: and that the most vital and beautiful




THE CRYSTAL RES T.


x43


Christian temper rests joyfully in its conviction of the
multitudinous ministry of living angels, infinitely varied
in rank and power. You all know one expression of
the purest and happiest form of such faith, as it exists
in modern times, in Richter's lovely illustrations of the
Lord's Prayer. The real and living death-angel, girt
as a pilgrim for journey, and softly crowned with
flowers, beckons at the dying mother's door; childangels sit talking face to face with mortal children,
among the flowers;-hold them by their little coats,
lest they fall on the stairs;-whisper dreams of heaven
to them, leaning over their pillows; carry the sound
of the church bells for them far through the air; and
even descending lower in service, fill little cups with
honey, to hold out to the weary bee. By the way, Lily,
did you tell the other children that story about your
little sister, and Alice, and the sea?
LILY. I told it to Alice, and to Miss Dora. I don't
think I did to anybody else. I thought it wasn't worth.
L. We shall think it worth a great deal now, Lily,
if you will tell it us. How old is Dotty, again? I
forget.
LILY. She is not quite three; but she has such odd
little old ways, sometimes.
L. And she was very fond of Alice?
LILY. Yes; Alice was so good to her always!
L. And so when Alice went away?
LILY. Oh, it was nothing, you know, to tell about;
only it was strange at the time.
L. Well; but I want you to tell it.
LILY. The morning after Alice had gone, Dotty
was very sad and restless when she got up; and went
about, looking into all the corners, as if she could find
Alice in them, and at last she came to me, and said,
'Is Alie gone over the great sea?' And I said, ' Yes,
she is gone over the great, deep sea, but she will come
back again some day.' Then Dotty looked round the
room; and I had just poured some water out into the
basin; and Dotty ran to it, and got up on a chair, and
dashed her hands through the water, again and again;




144      THE ETHICS OF THE DUST.
and cried, Oh, deep, deep sea! send little Alie back
to me.
L. Isn't that pretty, children? There's a dear little
heathen for you! The whole heart of Greek mythology is in that; the idea of a personal being in the elemental power;-of its being moved by prayer;-and
of it presence everywhere, making the broken diffusion
of the element sacred.
Now, remember, the measure in which we may per~
mit ourselves to think of this trusted and adored
personality, in Greek, or in any other, mythology, as
conceivably a shadow of truth, will depend on the degree in which we hold the Greeks, or other great
nations, equal, or inferior, in privilege and character,
to the Jews, or to ourselves. If we believe that the
great Father would use the imagination of the Jew as
an instrument by which to exalt and lead him; but the
imagination of the Greek only to degrade and mislead
him: if we can suppose that real angels were sent to
minister to the Jews and to punish them; but no angels, or only mocking spectra of angels, or even devils
in the shapes of angels, to lead Lycurgus and Leonidas
from desolate cradle to hopeless grave:-and if we
can think that it was only the influence of spectres, or
the teaching of demons, which issued in the making
of mothers like Cornelia, and of sons like Cleobis and
Bito, we may, of course, reject the heathen Mythology
in our privileged scorn: but, at least, we are bound to
examine strictly by what faults of our own it has come
to pass, that the.ministry of real angels among ourselves is occasionally so ineffectual, as to end in the
production of Cornelias who entrust their child-jewels
to Charlotte Winsors for the better keeping of them;
and of sons like that one who, the other day, in France,
beat his mother to death with a stick; and was brought
in by the jury, ' guilty, with extenuating circumstances.'
MAY. Was that really possible?
L. Yes, my dear. I am not sure that I can lay my
hand on the reference to it (and I should not have
said ' the other day '-it was a year or two ago), but




THE CRYSTAL REST.


145


you may depend on the fact; and I could give you
many like it, if I chose. There was a murder done in
Russia, very lately, on a traveller. The murderess's
little daughter was in the way, and found it out, somehow. Her mother killed her, too, and put her into the
oven. There is a peculiar horror about the relations
between parent and child, which are being now brought
about by our variously degraded forms of European
white slavery. Here is one reference, I see, in my
notes on that story of Cleobis and Bito; though I suppose I marked this chiefly for its quaintness, and the
beautifully Christian names of the sons; but it is a
good instance of the power of the King of the Valley
of Diamonds * among us.
In ' Galignani' of July 21-22, 1862, is reported a
trial of a farmer's son in the department of the Yonne.
The father, two years ago, at Malay le Grand, gave
up his property to his two sons, on condition of being
maintained by them. Simon fulfilled his agreement
but Pierre would not. The tribunal of Sens condemns
Pierre to pay eighty-four francs a year to his father.
Pierre replies, ' he would rather die than pay it.' Actt ually, returning home, he throws himself into the river,
and the body is not found till next day.
MARY. But-but-I can't tell what you would have
us think. Do you seriously mean that the Greeks
were better than we are; and that their gods were
real angels?
L. No, my dear. I mean only that we know, in
reality, less than nothing of the dealings of our Maker
with our fellow-men; and can only reason or conjecture safely about them, when we have sincerely humble thoughts of ourselves and our creeds.
We owe to the Greeks every noble discipline in literature; every radical principle of- art; and every form
of convenient beauty in our household furniture and
daily occupations of life. We are unable, ourselves, to
make rational use of half that we have received from
them: and, of our own, we have nothing but discover+ Note vi.
IO




146      THIE ETHICS OF THE DUST.
ies in science, and fine mechanical adaptations of the
discovered physical powers. On the other hand, the
vice existing among certain classes, both of the rich
and poor, in London, Paris, and Vienna could have
been conceived by a Spartan or Roman of the heroic
ages only as possible in a Tartarus, where fiends were
employed to teach, but not to punish, crime. It little
becomes us to speak contemptuously of the religion of
races to whom we stand in such relations; nor do I
think any man of modesty or thoughtfulness will ever
speak so of any religion, in which God has allowed one
good man to die, trusting.
The more readily we admit the possibility of our
own cherished convictions being mixed with error, the
more vital and helpful whatever is right in them will
become: and no error is so conclusively fatal as the
idea that God will not allow z2s to err, though He has
allowed all other men to do so. There may be doubt
of the meaning of other visions, but there is none respecting that of the dream of St. Peter; and you may
trust the Rock of the Church's Foundation for true
interpreting, when he learned from it that, in every
nation, he that feareth God and worketh righteousness,
is accepted with Him.' See that you understand what
that righteousness means; and set hand to it stoutly:
you will always measure your neighbors' creed kindly,
in proportion to the substantial fruits of your own.
Do not think you will ever get harm by striving to enter into the faith of others, and to sympathize, in imagination, with the guiding principles of their lives.
So only can you justly love them, or pity them, or
praise. By the gracious effort you will double, treble
-nay, indefinitely multiply at once the pleasure, the
reverence, and the intelligence with which you read:
and, believe me, it is' wiser and holier, by the fire of
your own faith to kindle the ashes of expired religions,
than to let your soul shiver and stumble among their
graves, through the gathering darkness, and communicable cold.
MARY (after some bause). We shall all like reading




THE CRYSTAL REST.


I47


Greek history so much better after this! but it has put
everything else out of our heads that we wanted to
ask.
L. I can tell you one of the things; and I might
take credit for generosity in telling you; but I have a
personal reason-Lucilla's verse about the creation.
DORA. Oh, yes-yes; and its 'pain together, until
now.'
L. I call you back to that, because I must warn you
against an old error of my own. Somewhere in the
fourth volume of 'Modern Painters,' I said that the
earth seemed to have passed through its highest state:
and that, after ascending by a series of phases, culminating in its habitation by man, it seems to be now
gradually becoming less fit for that habitation.
MARY. Yes, I remember.
L. I wrote those passages under a very bitter impression of the gradual perishing of beauty from the
loveliest scenes which I knew in the physical world;
-not in any doubtful way, such as I might have attributed to loss of sensation in myself-but by violent
and definite physical action; such as the filling up of
the Lac de Chede by landslips from the Rochers des
Fiz;-the narrowing of the Lake Lucerne by the
gaining delta of the stream of the Muotta-Thal, which,
in the course of years, will cut the lake into two, as
that of Brientz has been divided from that of Thun;
-the steady diminishing of the glaciers north of the
Alps, and still more, of the sheets of snow on their
southern slopes, which supply the refreshing streams
of Lombardy: —the equally steady increase of deadly
maremma round Pisa and Venice; and other such
phenomena, quite measurably traceable within the
limits even of short life, and unaccompanied, as it
seemed, by redeeming or compensatory agencies. I
am still under the same impression respecting the existing phenomena; but I feel more strongly, every
day, that no evidence to be collected within historical
periods can be accepted as any clue to the great tendencies of geological change: but that the great laws


j




148      THE ETHICS OF THE DUST.
which never fail, and to which all change is subordinate, appear such as to accomplish a gradual advance
to lovelier order, and more calmly, yet more deeply,
animated Rest. Nor has this conviction ever fastened
itself upon me more distinctly, than during my endeavor to trace the laws which govern the lowly
framework of the dust. For, through all the phases
of its transition and dissolution, there seems to be a
continual effort to raise itself into a higher state; and
a measured gain, through the fierce revulsion and
slow renewal of the earth's frame, in beauty, and order, and permanence. The soft white sediments of
the sea draw themselves, in process of time, into
smooth knots of sphered symmetry; burdened and
strained under increase of pressure, they pass into a
nascent marble; scorched by fervent heat, they
brighten and blanch into the snowy rock of Paros and
Carrara. The dark drift of the inland river, or stagnant slime of inland pool and lake, divides, or resolves
itself as it dries, into layers of its several elements;
slowly purifying each by the patient withdrawal of it
from the anarchy of the mass in which it was mingled.
Contracted by increasing drought, till it must shatter
into fragments, it infuses continually a finer ichor into
the opening veins, and finds in its weakness the first
rudiments of a perfect strength. Rent at last, rock
from rock, nay, atom from atom, and tormented in
lambent fire, it knits, through the fusion, the fibres of
a perennial endurance; and, during countless subsequent centuries, declining, or, rather let me say, rising,
to repose, finishes the infallible lustre of its crystalline
beauty, under harmonies of law which are wholly
beneficent, because wholly inexorable.
(The children seem pileased. but more inclined
to think over these matters than to talk.)
L. (after giving them a little time). Mary, I
seldom ask you to read anything out of books of
mine; but there is a passage about the Law of Help,
which I want you to read to the children now, because
it is of no use merely to put it in other words




THE CRYSTAL REST.


149


for them. You know the place I mean, do not
you?
MARY. Yes (presently finding it); where shall I
begin?
L. Here; but the elder ones had better look afterwards at the piece which comes just before this.
MARY    (reads):
' A pure or holy state of anything is that in which all its parts are
helpful or consistent. The highest and first law of the universe,
and the other name of life, is therefore, "help." The other name
of death is  separation." Government and co-operation are in all
things, and eternally, the laws of life. Anarchy and competition,
eternally, and in all things, the laws of death.
'Perhaps the best, though the most familiar, example we could
take of the nature and power of consistence, will be that of the possible changes in the dust we tread on.
' Exclusive of animal decay, we can hardly arrive at a more absolute type of impurity, than the mud or slime of a damp, over-trodden path, in the outskirts of a manufacturing town. I do not say
mud of the road, beause that is mixed with animal refuse; but take
merely an ounce or two of the blackest slime of a beaten footpath,
on a rainy day, near a manufacturing town. That slime we shall
find in most cases composed of clay (or brickdust, which is burnt
clay), mixed with soot, a little sand and water. All these elements
are at helpless war with each other, and destroy reciprocally each
other's nature and power: competing and fighting for place at
every tread of your foot; sand squeezing out clay, and clay squeezing
out water, and soot meddling everywhere, and defiling the whole.
Let us suppose that this ounce of mud is left in perfect rest, and
that its elements gather together, like to like, so that their atoms
may get into the closest relations possible.
Let the clay begin. Ridding itself of all foreign substance, it
gradually becomes a white earth, already very beautiful, and fit,
with help of congealing fire, to be made into finest porcelain, and
painted on, and be kept in kings' palaces. But such artificial consistence is not its best. Leave it still quiet, to follow its own instinct
of unity, and it becomes, not only white but clear; not only clear,
but hard; nor only clear and hard, but so set that it can deal with
light in a wonderful way, and gather out of it the loveliest blue
rays only, refusing the rest. We call it then a sapphire.
Such being the consummation of the clay, we give similar permission of quiet to the sand. It also becomes, first, a white earth -
then proceeds to grow clear and hard, and at last arranges itself
in mysterious, infinitely fine parallel lines, which have the power
of reflecting, not merely the blue rays, but the blue, green, purple,
and red rays, in the greatest beauty in which they can be seen
through any hard material whatsoever. We call it then an opal.
'In next order the soot sets to work. It cannot make itself white
at first; but, instead of being discouraged, tries harder and harder;
and comes out clear at last; and the hardest thing in the world:
and for the blackness that it had, obtains in exchange the power
of reflecting all the rays of the sun at once, in the vividest blaze
that any solid thing can shoot. We call it then a diamond.




150       THE ETHICS OF THE DUST.
'Last of all, the water purifies, or unites itself; contented enough
if it only reach the form of a dewdrop; but, if we insist on its proceeding to a more perfect consistence, it crystallizes into the shape
of a star. And, for the ounce of slime which we had by political
economy of competition, we have, by political economy of co-operation, a sapphire, an opal, and a diamond, set in the midst of a
star of snow.'
L. I have asked you to hear that, children, because,
from all that we have seen in the work and play of
these past days, I woulI have you gain at least one
grave and enduring thought. The seeming trouble,the unquestionable degradation,-of the elements of
the physical earth, must passively wait the appointed
time of their repose, or their restoration. It can only
be brought about for them by the agency of external
law. But if, indeed, there be a nobler life in us than
in these strangely moving atoms;-if, indeed, there is
an external difference between the fire which inhabits
them, and that which animates us,-it must be shown,
by each of us in his appointed place, not merely in the
patience, but in the activity of our hope; not merely
by our desire, but our labor, for the time when the
Dust of the generations of men shall be confirmed for
foundations of the gates of the city of God. The human clay, now trampled and despised, will not be,cannot be,-knit into strength and light by accident
or ordinances of unassisted fate. By human cruelty
and iniquity it has been afflicted;-by human mercy
and justice it must raised; and, in all fear or questioning of what is or is not, the real message of creation, or
of revelation, you may assuredly find perfect peace, if
you are resolved to do that which your Lord has
plainly required,-and content that He should indeed
require no more of you,-than to do Justice, to love
Mercy, and to walk humbly with Him.




NOTES.
NOTE I., page 23.-'That thhirdpyra-mid of hers.'
THROUGHOUT the dialogues, it must be observed that
'Sibyl' is addressed (when in play), as having once been the
Cumzean Sibyl; and ' Egypt' as having been queen Nitocris,-the Cinderella, and ' the greatest heroine and beauty'
of Egyptian story. The Egyptians called her 'Neith the
Victorious' (Nitocris) and the Greeks 'Face of the Rose'
(Rhodope). Chaucer's beautiful conception of Cleopatra in
the ' Legend of Good Women,' is much more founded on
the traditions of her than on those of Cleopatra; and, especially in its close, modified by Herodotus's terrible story
of the death of Nitocris, which, however, is mythologically
nothing more than a part of the deep monotonous ancient
dirge for the fulfilment of -the earthly destiny of Beauty;
'She cast herself into a chamber full of ashes.'
I believe this Queen is now sufficiently ascertained to
have either built, or increased to double its former size, the
third pyramid of Gizeh: and the passage following in the
text refers to an imaginary endeavor, by the Old Lecturer
and the children together, to make out the description of
that pyramid in the I67th page of the second volume of
Bunsen's 'Egypt's Place in Universal History'-ideal endeavor,-which ideally terminates as the Old Lecturer's
real endeavors to the same end always have terminated.
There are, however, valuable notes respecting Nitocris at
page 2o1 of the same volume: but the 'Early Egyptian History for the Young,' by the author of Sidney Gray, contains,
in a pleasant form, as much information as young readers
will usually need.
NOTE II., page 24.-'Pyramid of Asychis.'
THIS pyramid, in mythology, divides with the Tower of
Babel the shame, or vain glory, of being presumptuously,




152


NO TES.


and first among great edifices, built with 'brick for stone.'
This was the inscription on it, according to Herodotus:'Despise me not, in comparing me with the pyramids
of stone; for I have the pre-eminence over them, as
far as Jupiter has pre-eminence over the gods.
For, striking with staves into the pool, men gathered the clay which fastened itself to the staff, and
kneaded bricks out pf it, and so made me.'
The word I have translated ' kneaded' is literally' drew;'
in the sense of drawing, for which the Latins used, 'duco;'
and thus gave us our ' ductile' in speaking of dead clay,
and Duke, Doge, or leader, in speaking of living clay. As
the asserted pre-eminence of the edifice is made, in this inscription, to rest merely on the quantity of labor consumed
in it, this pyramid is considered, in the text, as the type,
at once, of the base building, and of the lost labor, of future
ages; so far at least as the spirits of measured and mechanical effort deal with it: but Neith, exercising her
power upon -it, makes it a type of the work of wise and
inspired builders.
NOTE III., page 25. —' The Greater Pthah.'
IT is impossible, as yet, to define with distinctness the
personal agencies of the Egyptian deities. They are continually associated in function, or hold derivative powers,
or are related to each other in mysterious triads; uniting
always symbolism of physical phenomena with real spiritual
power. I have endeavored partly to explain this in the
text -of the tenth Lecture; here, it is only necessary for
the reader to know that the Greater Pthah more or less
represents the formative power of order and measurement:
he always stands on a four-square pedestal, 'the Egyptian
cubit, metaphorically used as the hieroglyphic for truth;'
his limbs are bound together, to signify fixed stability, as
of a pillar; he has a measuring-rod in his hand; and at
Philse, is represented as holding an egg on a potter's wheel;
but I do not know if this symbol occurs in older sculptures. His usual title is the ' Lord of Truth.' Others very
beautiful: 'King of the Two Worlds of Gracious Countenance,' 'Superintendent of the Great Abode,' etc., are
given by Mr. Birch in Arundale's 'Gallery of Antiquities,'




NO TES.


I53


which I suppose is the book of best authority easily acces
sible. For the full titles and utterances of the gods, Rosellini is as yet the only-and I believe, still a very questionable-authority; and Arundale's little book, excellent
in the text, has this great defect, that its drawings give the
statues invariably a ludicrous or ignoble character. Readers who have not access to the originals must be warned
against this frequent fault in modern illustration'(especially existing also in some of the painted casts of Gothic
and Norman work at the Crystal Palace). It is not owing
to any wilful want of veracity: the plates in Arundale's
book are laboriously faithful: but the expressions of both
face and body in a figure depend merely on emphasis of
touch; and, in barbaric art, most draughtsmen emphasize
what they plainly see-the barbarism; and miss conditions
of nobleness, which they must approach the monument in
a different temper before they will discover and draw with
great subtlety before they can express.
The character of the Lower Pthah, or perhaps I ought
rather to say, of Pthah in his lower office, is sufficiently
explained in the text of the third Lecture; only the reader
must be warned that the Egyptian symbolism of him oy
the beetle was not a scornful one; it expressed only the
idea of his presence in the first elements of life. But it
may not unjustly be used, in another sense, by us, who
have seen his power in new development; and, even as it
was, I cannot conceive that the Egyptians should have regarded their beetle-headed image of him (Champollion,
' Pantheon,' pi. 12), without some occult scorn. It is the
most painful of all their types of any beneficent power;
and even among those of evil influences, none can be compared with it, except its opposite, the tortoise-headed demon of indolence.
Pasht (p. 24, line 4) is connected with the Greek Artemis, especially in her offices of judgment and vengeance.
She is usually lioness-headed; sometimes cat-headed; her
attributes seeming often trivial or ludicrous unless their
full meaning is known; but the inquiry is much too wide
to be followed here. The cat was sacred to her; or
rather to the sun, and secondarily to her. She is alluded
to in the text because she is always the companion of Pthah
(called the 'beloved of Pthah,' it may be as Judgment, demanded and longed for by Truth); and it may be well for
young readers to have this fixed in their minds, even by
chance association. There are more statues of Pasht inl




I54


NOTES.


the British Museum than of any other Egyptian deity; several of them fine in workmanship; nearly all in dark stone,
which may be, presumably, to connect her, as the moon,
with the night; and in her office of avenger, with grief.
Thoth (p. 26, line 34), is the Recording Angel of Judgment; and the Greek Hermes. Phre (line 21), is the Sun.
Neith is the Egyptian spirit of divine wisdom; and the
Athena of the Greeks. No sufficient statement of her
many attributes, still less of their meanings, can be shortly
given; but this should be noted respecting the veiling of
the Egyptian image of her by vulture wings-that as she is,
physically, the goddess of the air, this bird, the most powerful creature of the air known to the Egyptians, naturally
became her symbol. It had other significations; but cer.
tainly this, when in connection with Neith. As represent.
ing her, it was the most important sign, next to the winged
sphere, in Egyptian sculpture; and, just as in Homer,
Athena herself guides her heroes into battle, this symbol
of wisdom, giving victory, floats over the heads of the
Egyptian kings. The Greeks, representing the goddess
herself in human form, yet would not lose the power of the
Egyptian symbol, and changed it into an angel of victory.
First seen in loveliness on the early coins of Syracuse and
Leontium, it gradually became the received sign of all
conquest, and the so-called 'Victory' of later times; which,
little by little, loses its truth, and is accepted by the mod.
erns only as a personification of victory itself,-not as an
actual picture of the living Angel who led to victory.
There is a wide difference between these two conceptions,
-all the difference between insincere poetry, and sincere
religion. This I have also endeavored farther to illustrate
in the tenth Lecture; there is however one part of Athena's
character which it would have been irrelevant to dwell
upon there; yet which I must not wholly leave unnoticed.
As the goddess of the air, she physically represents both
its beneficent calm, and necessary tempest: other stormdeities (as Chrysaor and fEolus) being invested with a subordinate and more or less malignant function, which is
exclusively their own, and is related to that of Athena as
the power of Mars is related to hers in war. So also Virgil
makes her able to wield the lightning herself, while Juno
cannot, but must pray for the intervention of AEolus. She
has precisely the correspondent moral authority over calmness of mind, and- just anger. She soothes Achilles, as
she incites Tydides; her physical power over the air being




iVo TES.


I55


always hinted correlatively. She grasps Achilles by his
hair-as the wind would lift it-softly,
It fanned his cheek, it raised his hair,
Like a meadow gale in spring.
She does not merely turn the lance of Mars from Diomed;
but seizes it in both her hands, and casts it aside, with a
sense of making it vain, like chaff in the wind;-to the
shout of Achilles, she adds her own voice of storm in
heaven-but in all cases the moral power is still the principal one-most beautifully in that seizing of Achilles by
the hair, which was the talisman of his life (because he had
vowed it to the Sperchius if he returned in safety), and
which, in giving at Patroclus' tomb, he, knowingly, yields
up the hope of return to his country, and signifies that he
will die with his friend. Achilles and Tydides are, above
all other heroes, aided by her in war, because their prevailing characters are the desire of justice, united in both,
with deep affections; and, in Achilles, with a passionate
tenderness, which is the real root of his passionate anger.
Ulysses is her favorite chiefly in her office as the goddess
of conduct and des:
NOTE IV., page 56. —  Geometrical limitations!
IT is difficult, without a tedious accuracy, or without full
illustration, to express the complete relations of crystalline
structure, which dispose minerals to take. at different
times, fibrous, massive, or foliated forms; and I am afraid
this chapter will be generally skipped by the reader: yet
the arrangement itself will be found useful, if kept broadly
in mind; and the transitions of state are of the highest interest, if the subject is entered upon with any earnestness
It would have been vain to add to the scheme of this little
volume any account of the geometrical forms of crystals
an available one, though still far too difficult and too copious, has been arranged by the Rev. Mr. Mitchell, for Orr's
' Circle of the Sciences'; and, I believe, the ' nets' of crystals, which are therein given to be cut out with scissors
and put prettily together, will be found more conquerable by young ladies than by other students. They should
also, when an opportunity occurs, be shown, at any public
library, the diagram of the crystallization of quartz re



NOTES.


ferred to poles, at p. 8 of Cloizaux's ' Manuel de Mineralogie': that they may know what work is.; and what the
subject is.
With a view to more careful examination of the nascent
states of silica, I have made no allusion in this volume to
the influence of mere segregation, as connected with the
crystalline power. It has only been recently, during the
study of the breccias alluded to in page 19, that I have
fully seen the extent to which this singular force often
modifies rocks in which at first its influence might hardly
have been suspected; many apparent conglomerates being
in reality formed chiefly by segregation, combined with
mysterious brokenly-zoned structures, like those of some
malachites. I hope some day to know more of these and
several other mineral phenomena (especially of those connected with the relative sizes of crystals), which otherwise
I should have endeavored to describe in this volume.
-NOTE V., page 107.-' St Barbara.'
I WOULD have given the legends of St. Barbara, and St.
Thomas, if I had thought it always well for young readers
to have everything at once told them which they may wish
to know. They will remember the stories better after
taking some trouble to find them; and the text is intelligible enough as it stands. The idea of St. Barbara, as there
given, is founded partly on her legend in Peter de Natalibus, partly on the beautiful photograph of Van Eyck's picture of her at Antwerp: which was some time since published at Lille.
NOTE VI., page 145. —'Kingof the Valley of Diamonds.'
ISABEL interrupted the Lecturer here, and was briefly
bid to hold her tongue; which gave rise to some talk,
apart, afterwards, between L. and Sibyl, of which a word
or two may be perhaps advisedly set down.
SIBYL. We shall spoil Isabel, certainly, if we don't
mind: I was glad you stopped her, and yet sorry; for she
wanted so much to ask about the Valley of Diamonds
again, and she has worked so hard at it, and made it nearly
all out by herself. She recollected Elisha's throwing in
the meal, which nobody else did.




NO TES.


157


L. But what did she want to ask?
SIBYL. About the mulberry trees and the serpents; we
are all stopped by that. Won't you tell us what it means?
L. Now, Sibyl, I am sure you, who never explained
yourself, should be the last to expect others to do so. I
hate explaining myself.
SIBYL. And yet how often you complain of other people for not saying what they meant. How I have heard
you growl over the three stone steps to purgatory; for instance!
L. Yes; because Dante's meaning is worth getting at;
but mine matters nothing: at least, if ever I think it is of
any consequence, I speak it as clearly as may be. But you
may make anything you like of the serpent forests. I could
have helped you to find out what they were, by giving a
little more detail, but it would have been tiresome.
SIBYL. It is much more tiresome not to find out. Tell
us, please, as Isabel says, because we feel so stupid.
L. There is no stupidity; you could not possibly do
more than guess at anything so vague. But I think, you,
Sibyl, at least, might have recollected what first dyed the
mulberry?
SIBYL. So I did; but that helped little; I thought of
Dante's forest of suicides, too, but you would not simply
have borrowed that?
L. No. If I had had strength to use it, I should have
stolen it, to beat into another shape; not borrowed it. But
that idea of souls in trees is as old as the world; or at
least, as the world of man. And I did mean that there
were ss i     e souls in those dark branches;-the souls of all those
who had perished in misery through the pursuit of riches;
and that the river was of their blood, gathering gradually, and flowing out of the valley. Then I meant the serpents for the souls of those who had lived carelessly and
wantonly in their riches; and who have all their sins forgiven by the world, because they are rich: and therefore
they have seven crimson-crested heads, for the seven mortal sins; of which they are proud: and these, and the
memory and report of them, are the chief causes of temptation to others, as showing the pleasantness and absolving
power of riches; so that thus they are singing serpents.
And the worms are the souls of the common money-getters
and traffickers, who do nothing but eat and spin: and who
gain habitually by the distress or foolishness of others (as
you see the butchers have been gaining out of the panic at




158                 VNOTES.
the.cattle plague, among the poor),-so they are made to
eat the dark leaves, and spin, and perish.
SIBYL. And the souls of the great, cruel, rich people
who oppress the poor, and lend money to government to
make unjust war, where are they?
L. They change into the ice, I believe, and are knit with
the gold; and make the grave-dust of the valley. I believe
so, at least, for no one ever sees those souls anywhere.
(SIBYL ceases questioning.)
ISABEL (who has crept up to her side without any one's seeing). Oh, Sibyl, please ask him about the fireflies!
L. What, you there, mousie! No; I won't tell either
Sibyl or you about the fireflies; nor a word more about anything else. You ought to be little fireflies yourselves,
and find your way in twilight by your own wits.
ISABEL. But you said they burned, you know?
L. Yes; and you may be fireflies that way too, some of
you, before long, though I did not mean that. Away with
you, children. You have th Aluht enough for to-day.
THE END.




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