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 F)ortu0 Inclusus p # and & # 
 Miscellaneous John Ruskin 
 
 JMernll and Bahcr 
 publtebcre Ntw 
 *^ork 
 

 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
DEDICATED 
 
 WITH GRATEFUL THANKS TO MY DEAR FRIENDS 
 
 PROFESSOR RUSKIN 
 
 AND 
 
 ALBERT FLEMING. 
 
 S. B. 
 

 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 . 
 
 
 
 . 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
CONTENTS, 
 
 Hortus Inclusus. Messages from the Wood to the Gar¬ 
 den, sent in Happy Days to the Sister Ladies of the 
 Thwaite, Coniston,. 
 
 In Montibus Sanctis. Studies of Mountain Form and of 
 ?ps Visible Causes,. 
 
 CtELI EnARRANT. STUDIES OF CLOUD FORM AND OF ITS VlSI 
 ble Causes,. 
 
 Notes on Some of the Principal Pictures Exhibited in 
 the Rooms of the Royal Academy, 1875,. 
 
 Notes by Mr. Ruskin on Samuel Prout and William 
 Hunt, . 
 
 Catalogue of TnE Drawings and Sketches of J. M. W. 
 Turner, R.A.,. 
 
 Guide to the Principal Pictures in the Academy of Fine 
 Arts at Venice,. 
 
 PAGE 
 
 5 
 
 107 
 
 149 
 
 169 
 
 211 
 
 295 
 
 341 
 

 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
HORTUS INCLUSUS 
 
 MESSAGES FROM TH E WOOD TO TIIE GARDEH, 
 
 SENT IN HAPPY DAYS TO THE 
 
 SISTER LADIES OF THE THWAITE, CONISTON, 
 
 BY THEIR THANKFUL FRIEND 
 
 JOHN RUSKIN, LL.D 
 

 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 i 
 
 ' 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
PREFACE. 
 
 The ladies to whom these letters were written have been, 
 throughout their brightly tranquil lives, at once sources and 
 loadstones of all good to the village in which they had their 
 homes, and to all loving people who cared for the village and 
 its vale and secluded lake, and whatever remained in them or 
 around of the former peace, beauty, and pride of English 
 Shepherd Land. 
 
 Sources they have been of good, like one of its mountain 
 springs, ever to be found at need. They did not travel; they 
 did not go up to London in its season; they did not receive idle 
 visitors to jar or waste their leisure in the waning year. The 
 poor and the sick could find them always ; or rather, they 
 watched for and prevented all poverty and pain that care or 
 tenderness could relieve or heal. Loadstones they were, as 
 steadily bringing the light of gentle and wise souls about 
 them as the crest of their guardian mountain gives pause 
 to the morning clouds ; in themselves they were types of 
 perfect womanhood in its constant happiness, queens alike of 
 their own hearts and of a Paradise in which they knew the 
 names and sympathized with the spirits of every living 
 creature that God had made to play therein, or to blossom in 
 its sunshine or shade. 
 
 They had lost their dearly-loved younger sister, Margaret, 
 before I knew them. Mary and Susie, alike in benevolence, 
 serenity, and practical judgment, were yet widely different, 
 nay, almost contrary, in tone and impulse of intellect. Both 
 of them capable of understanding whatever women should 
 know, the elder was yet chiefly interested in the course of 
 
10 
 
 preface. 
 
 immediate English business, policy, and progressive science, 
 while Susie lived an aerial and enchanted life, possessing all 
 the highest joys of imagination, while she yielded to none of 
 its deceits, sicknesses, or errors. She saw and felt, and believed 
 all good, as it had ever been, and was to be, in the reality 
 and eternity of its goodness, with the acceptance and the hope 
 of a child ; the least things were treasures to her, and her 
 moments fuller of joy than some people’s days. 
 
 What she has been to me, in the days and years when other 
 friendship has been failing, and others’ “loving, mere folly,” 
 the reader will enough see from these letters, written certainly 
 for her only, but from which she has permitted my Master of 
 the Rural Industries at Loughrigg, Albert Fleming, to choose 
 what he thinks, among the tendrils of clinging thought, and 
 mossy cups for dew in the Garden of Herbs where Love is, 
 may be trusted to the memorial sympathy of the readers of 
 “ Frondes Agrestes.” 
 
 J. R. 
 
 Brantwood, June, 1887. 
 
 
mTEODUOTIOlsr. 
 
 Often during those visits to the Thwaite which have grown 
 to be the best-spent hours of my later years, I have urged my 
 dear friend, Miss Beever, to open to the larger world the pleas¬ 
 ant paths of this her Garden Enclosed. The inner circle of her 
 friends knew that she had a goodly store of Mr. Ruskin’s let¬ 
 ters, extending over many years. She for her part had long 
 desired to share with others the pleasure these letters had 
 given her, but she shrank from the fatigue of selecting and 
 arranging them. It was, therefore, with no small feeling of 
 satisfaction that I drove home from the Thwaite one day in 
 February last with a parcel containing nearly two thousand 
 of these treasured letters. I was gladdened also by generous 
 permission, both from Brantwood and the Thwaite, to choose 
 what I liked best for publication. The letters themselves are 
 the fruit of the most beautiful friendship I have ever been 
 permitted to witness, a friendship so unique in some aspects 
 of it, so sacred in all, that I may only give it the praise of si¬ 
 lence. I count myself happy to have been allowed to throw 
 open to all wise and quiet souls the portals of this Ar- 
 mida’s Garden, where there are no spells save those woven by 
 love, and no magic save that of grace and kindliness. Here 
 my pleasant share in this little book would have ended, but 
 Mr. Ruskin has desired me to add a few words, giving my 
 own description of Susie, and speaking of my relationship to 
 them both. To him I owe the guidance of my life—all its 
 best impulses, all its worthiest efforts ; to her some of its 
 happiest hours, and the blessings alike of incentive and 
 reproof. In reading over Mr. Ruskin’s Preface, I note that, 
 
12 
 
 INTRODUCTION. 
 
 either by grace of purpose or happy chance, he has left me 
 one point untouched in our dear friend’s character. Her 
 letters inserted here give some evidence of it, but I should like 
 to place on record how her intense delight in sweet and 
 simple things has blossomed into a kind of mental frolic and 
 dainty wit, so that even now, in the calm autumn of her days, 
 her friends are not only lessoned by her ripened wisdom, but 
 cheered and recreated by her quaint and sprightly humor. 
 
 In the Royal Order of Gardens, as Bacon puts it, there was 
 always a quiet resting-place called the Pleasaunce ; there tho 
 daisies grew unchecked, and the grass was ever the greenest. 
 Such a Pleasaunce do these Letters seem to me. Here and 
 there, indeed, there are shadows on the grass, but no shadow 
 ever falls between the two dear friends who walk together 
 hand in hand along its pleasant paths. So may they walk in 
 peace till they stand at the gate of another Garden, where 
 
 “ Co’ fiori eterni, eterno il frutto dura.” 
 
 Neaxjm Crag, 
 
 Loughrigg, 
 
 Ambleside. 
 
 A. F. 
 
HORTUS INOLUSTTS. 
 
 THE SACRISTAN’S CELL. 
 
 Assisi, 14 th April, 1874. 
 
 I got to-day your lovely letter of the 6th, but I never knew 
 my Susie could be such a naughty little girl before; to burn 
 her pretty story * instead of sending it to me. It would have 
 come to me so exactly in the right place here, where St. 
 Francis made the grasshopper (cicada, at least) sing to him 
 upon his hand, and preached to the birds, and made the wolf 
 go its rounds every day as regularly as any Franciscan friar, 
 to ask for a little contribution to its modest dinner. The Bee 
 and Narcissus would have delighted to talk in this enchanted 
 air. 
 
 Yes, that is really very pretty of Dr. John to inscribe your 
 books so, and it’s so like him. How these kind people under¬ 
 stand things! And that bit of his about the child is wholly 
 lovely ; I am so glad you copied it. 
 
 I often think of vou, and of Coniston and Brantwood. 
 You will see, in the May Fors, reflections upon the tempta¬ 
 tions to the life of a Franciscan. 
 
 There are two monks here, one the sacristan who has 
 charge of the entire church, and is responsible for its treas¬ 
 ures ; the other exercising what authority is left to the con¬ 
 vent among the people of the town. They are both so good 
 and innocent and sweet, one can’t pity them enough. For 
 this time in Italy is just like the Reformation in Scotland, with 
 
 * The Bee and Narcissus. 
 
14 
 
 UORTJJS INCLUSUS. 
 
 only the difference that the Reform movement is carried on 
 here simply for the sake of what money can be got by Church 
 confiscation. And these two brothers are living by indul¬ 
 gence, as the Abbot in the Monastery of St. Mary’s in the 
 Regent Moray’s time. 
 
 The people of the village, however, are all true to their 
 faith ; it is only the governing body which is modern-infidel 
 and radical. The population is quite charming—a word of 
 kindness makes them as bright as if you brought them news 
 of a friend. All the same, it does not do to offend them; 
 Monsieur Cavalcasella, who is expecting the Government 
 order to take the Tabernacle from the Sanctuary of St. 
 Francis, cannot, it is said, go out at night with safety. He 
 decamped the day before I came, having some notion, I fancy, 
 that I would make his life a burden to him, if he didn’t, by 
 day, as much as it was in peril by night. I promise myself a 
 month of very happy time here (happy for me, I mean) when 
 I return in May. 
 
 The sacristan gives me my coffee for lunch, in his own little 
 cell, looking out on the olive woods; then he tells me stories 
 of conversions and miracles, and then perhaps we go into the 
 sacristy and have a reverent little poke out of relics. Fancy 
 a great carved cupboard in a vaulted chamber full of most 
 precious things (the box which the Holy Virgin’s veil used to 
 be kept in, to begin with), and leave to rummage in it at will! 
 Things that are only shown twice in the year or so, with 
 fumigation! all the congregation on their knees ; and the 
 sacristan and I having a great heap of them on the table at 
 once, like a dinner service ! I really looked with great respect 
 at St. Francis’s old camel-hair dress. 
 
 I am obliged to go to Rome to-morrow, however, and to 
 Naples on Saturday, My witch of Sicily * expects me this 
 day week, and she’s going to take me such lovely drives, and 
 talks of “excursions ” which I see by the map are thirty miles 
 away. I wonder if she thinks me so horribly old that it’s 
 quite proper. It will be very nice if she does, but not liatter- 
 
 * Mias Amy Yule. See “ Pneterita,” Vol. III., Chap. vii. 
 
nonTUS INOLUSUS. 
 
 15 
 
 ing. I know her mother can’t go with her, I suppose her 
 maid will. If she wants any other chaperone I won’t go. 
 
 She’s really very beautiful, I believe, to some people’s 
 tastes (I shall be horribly disappointed if she isn’t, in her own 
 dark style), and she writes, next to Susie, the loveliest letters 
 I ever get. 
 
 Now, Susie, mind, you’re to be a very good child while I’m 
 away, and never to burn any more stories ; and above all, 
 you’re to write me just what comes into your head, and ever 
 to believe me your loving J. R 
 
 Naples, 2 d May , 1874. 
 
 I heard of your great sorrow * from Joan f six days ago, and 
 have not been able to write since. Nothing silences me so 
 much as sorrow, and for this of yours I have no com¬ 
 fort. I write only that you may know that I am think¬ 
 ing of you, and would help you if I could. And I write to¬ 
 day because your lovely letters and your lovely old age have 
 been forced into my thoughts often by dreadful contrast dur¬ 
 ing these days in Italy. You who are so purely and brightly 
 happy in all natural and simple things, seem now to belong 
 to another and a younger world. And your letters have been 
 to me like the pure air of Yewdale Crags breathed among the 
 Pontine Marshes ; but you must not think I am ungrateful 
 for them when I can’t answer. You can have no idea how 
 impossible it is for me to do all the work necessary even for 
 memory of the things I came here to see; how much escapes 
 me, how much is done in a broken and weary way. I am the 
 only author on art who does the work of illustration with his 
 own hand ; the only one therefore—and I am not insolent in 
 saying this—who has learned his business thoroughly ; but 
 after a day’s drawing I assure you one cannot sit down to 
 write unless it be the merest nonsense to please Joanie. 
 Believe it or not, there is no one of my friends whom I write 
 so scrupulously to as to you. You may be vexed at this, 
 
 * The death of Miss Margaret Beever. 
 f Mrs, Arthur Seyern. 
 
16 
 
 II OUT US INCIUSUS. 
 
 but indeed I can’t but try to write carefully in answer to all 
 your kind words, and so sometimes I can’t at all. I must tell 
 you, however, to-day, wliat 1 saw in the Pompeian frescoes— 
 the great characteristic of falling Rome, in her furious desire 
 of pleasure, and brutal incapability of it. The walls of 
 Pompeii are covered with paintings meant only to give pleas¬ 
 ure, but nothing they represent is beautiful or delightful, and 
 yesterday, among other calumniated and caricatured birds, I 
 saw one of my Susie’s pets, a peacock ; and he had only eleven 
 eyes in his tail. Fancy the feverish wretchedness of the 
 humanity which, in mere pursuit of pleasure or power, had 
 reduced itself to see no more than eleven eyes in a peacock’s 
 tail! What were the Cyclops to this ? 
 
 I hope to get to Rome this evening, and to be there 
 settled for some time, and to have quieter hours for my 
 letters. 
 
 Rome, 23d May , 1874. 
 
 A number of business letters and the increasing instinct 
 for work here as time shortens, have kept me too long from 
 even writing a mere mamma-note to you ; though not without 
 thought of you daily. 
 
 I have your last most lovely lino about your sister—and giv¬ 
 ing me that most touching fact about poor Dr. John Brown, 
 which I am grieved and yet thankful to know, that I may 
 better still reverence his unfailing kindness and quick sym¬ 
 pathy. I have a quite wonderful letter from him about you ; 
 but I will not tell you what he says, only it is so very , very 
 true, and so very, very pretty, you can’t think. 
 
 I have written to my bookseller to find for you, and send, a 
 complete edition of “ Modern Painters,” if findable. If not, I 
 will make my assistant send you down my own fourth and fifth 
 volumes, which you can keep till I come for them in the autumn. 
 
 There is nothing now in the year but autumn and winter. 
 I really begin to think there is some terrible change of climate 
 coming upon the world for its sin, like another deluge. It 
 Mill have its rainbow, I suppose, after its manner—promising 
 not to darken the world again, and then not to drown. 
 
HORTUS INGLUSUS. 
 
 17 
 
 Rome, 24 th May , 1874 ( Whit-Sunday). 
 
 I have to-day, to make tlie day whiter for me, your love¬ 
 ly letter of the 14th, telling me your age. I am so glad it 
 is no more ; you are only thirteen years older than I, and 
 much more able to be my sister than mamma, and I hope you 
 will have many years of youth yet. I think I must tell you 
 in return for this letter what Dr. John Brown said, or part of 
 it at least. He said you had the playfulness of a lamb with¬ 
 out its selfishness. I think that perfect as far as it goes. 
 Of course my Susie’s wise and grave gifts must be told of 
 afterward. There is no one I know, or have known, so well 
 able as you are to be in a degree what my mother was to mo. 
 In this chief way (as well as many other ways) (the puzzle¬ 
 ment I have had to force that sentence into grammar!), that 
 I have had the same certainty of giving you pleasure by a 
 few words and by any little account of what I am doing. 
 But then you know I have just got out of the way of doing 
 as I am bid, and unless you can scold me back into that, you 
 can’t give me the sense of support. 
 
 Tell me more about yourself first, and how those years 
 came to be “ lost.” I am not sure that they were ; though I 
 am very far from holding the empty theory of compensation ; 
 but much of the slighter pleasure you lost then is evidently 
 still open to you, fresh all the more from having been for a 
 time withdrawn. 
 
 The Roman peasants are very gay to-day, with roses in their 
 hair ; legitimately and honorably decorated, and looking 
 lovely. Oh me, if they had a few Susies to take human care 
 of them, what a glorious people they would be ! 
 
 THE LOST CHURCH IN THE CAMPAGNA. 
 
 Rome, 2d June , 1874 . 
 
 Ah, if you were but among the marbles here, though there 
 are none finer than that you so strangely discerned in my 
 study ; but they are as a white company innumerable, ghost 
 after ghost. And how you would rejoice in them and in a 
 2 
 
18 
 
 II OUT US I N CL US US. 
 
 thousand things besides, to which I am dead, from having 
 seen too much or worked too painfully—or, worst of all, lost 
 the hope which gives all life. 
 
 Last Sunday I was in a lost church found again—a church 
 of the second or third century, dug in a green hill of the 
 Campagna, built underground ;—its secret entrance like a 
 sand-martin’s nest. Such the temple of the Lord, as the 
 King Solomon of that time had to build it; not “ the moun¬ 
 tains of the Lord’s house shall be established above the hills,” 
 but the cave of the Lord’s house as the fox’s hole, beneath 
 them. 
 
 And here, now lighted by the sun for the first time (for they 
 are still digging the earth from the steps), are the marbles of 
 those early Christian days ; the first efforts of their new hope 
 to show itself in enduring record, the new hope of a Good 
 Shepherd ;—there they carved Him, with a spring flowing at 
 His feet, and round Him the cattle of the Campagna in which 
 they had dug their church, the very self-same goats which 
 this morning have been trotting past my window through *he 
 most populous streets of Itome, innocently following their 
 shepherd, tinkling their bells, and shaking their long spiral 
 horns and white beards ; the very same dew-lapped cattle 
 which were that Sunday morning feeding on the hillside above, 
 carved on the tomb-marbles sixteen hundred years ago. 
 
 How you would have liked to see it, Susie ! 
 
 And now to-day I am going to work in an eleventh century 
 church of quite proud and victorious Christianity, with its 
 grand bishops and saints lording it over Italy. The bishop’s 
 throne all marble and mosaic of precious colors and of gold, 
 high under the vaulted roof at the end behind the altar ; and 
 line upon line of pillars of massive porphyry and marble, 
 gathered out of the ruins of the temples of the great race who 
 had persecuted them, till they had said to the hills, Cover us, 
 like the wicked. And then their proud time came, and their 
 enthronement on the seven hills; and now, what is to be their 
 fate once more ?—of pope and cardinal and dome, Peter’s or 
 Paul’s by name only,—“My house, no more a house of 
 prayer, but a den of thieves/- 
 
HORTUS INGLUSUS. 
 
 19 
 
 I can’t write any more this morning. Oh me, if one could 
 only write and draw all one wanted, and have our Susies and 
 be young again, oneself and they ! (As if there were two 
 Susies, or could be ! 
 
 Ever my one Susie’s very loving, J. Ruskin. 
 
 I have sent word to my father’s old head-clerk, now a great 
 merchant himself, to send you a little case of that champagne. 
 Please like it. 
 
 REGRETS. 
 
 Assisi, June 9 th. 
 
 Yes, I am a little oppressed just now with overwork, nor is 
 this avoidable. I am obliged to leave all my drawings un¬ 
 finished as the last days come, and the point possible of ap¬ 
 proximate completion fatally contracts, every hour, to a more 
 ludicrous and warped mockery of the hope in which one be¬ 
 gan. It is impossible not to work against time, and that is 
 killing. It is not labor itself, but competitive, anxious, dip* 
 appointed labor that dries one’s soul out. 
 
 But don’t be frightened about me, you sweet Susie. I 
 know when I must stop ; forgive and pity me only, because 
 sometimes, nay often my letter (or word) to Susie must be 
 sacrificed to the last effort on one’s drawing. 
 
 The letter to one’s Susie should be a rest, do you think ? 
 It is always more or less comforting, but not rest; it means 
 further employment of the already extremely strained sensa¬ 
 tional power. What one really wants ! I believe the only 
 true restorative is the natural one, the actual presence of one’s 
 “ helpmeet.” The far worse than absence of mine reverses rest, 
 and what is more, destroys one’s power of receiving from 
 others or giving. 
 
 How much love of mine have others lost, because that poor 
 sick child would not have the part of love that belonged to her ! 
 
 I am very anxious about your eyes too. For any favor 
 don’t write more extracts just now. The books are yours 
 forever and a day—no loan ; enjoy any bits that you find 
 enjoyable, but don’t copy just now. 
 
20 
 
 nORTUS INGLUSUS. 
 
 I left Home yesterday, and am on my way home ; but, 
 alas ! might as well be on my way home from Cochin China, 
 for any chance I have of speedily arriving. Meantime your 
 letters will reach me here with speed, and will be a great 
 comfort to me, if they don’t fatigue you. 
 
 “FRONDES AGRESTES.” 
 
 Perugia, 12 th June. 
 
 I am more and more pleased at the thought of this gathering 
 of yours, and soon expect to tell you what the bookseller says. 
 
 Meantime I want you to think of the form the collection 
 should take with reference to my proposed re-publication. I 
 mean to take the botany, the geology, the Turner defence, and 
 the general art criticism of “ Modern Painters,” as four separate 
 books, cutting out nearly all the preaching, and a good deal 
 of the sentiment. Now what you find pleasant and helpful to 
 you of general maxim or reflection, must be of some value ; 
 and I think therefore that your selection will just do for me 
 what no other reader could have done, least of all I myself ; 
 keep together, that is to say, what may be right and true of 
 those youthful thoughts. I should like you to add anything 
 that specially pleases you, of whatever kind ; but to keep the 
 notion of your book being the didactic one as opposed to the 
 other picturesque and scientific volumes, will I think help you 
 in choosing between passages when one or other is to be 
 rejected. 
 
 HOW I FELL AMONG THIEVES. 
 
 Assisi, 17 th June. 
 
 I have been having a bad time lately, and have no heart to 
 write to you. Very difficult and melancholy work, deciphering 
 what remains of a great painter among stains of ruin and 
 blotches of repair, of five hundred years’ gathering. It makes 
 me sadder than idleness, which is saying much. 
 
 I was greatly flattered and petted by a saying in one of 
 your last letters, about the difficulty I had in unpacking my 
 
nORTUS INGLUSU8 . 
 
 21 
 
 mind. That is true; one of my chief troubles at present is 
 with the quantity of things I want to say at once. But you 
 don’t know how I find things I laid by carefully in it, all 
 mouldy and moth-eaten when I take them out; and what a 
 lot of mending and airing they need, and what a wearisome 
 and bothering business it is compared to the early packing,— 
 one used to be so proud to get things into the corners neatly ! 
 
 I have been failing in my drawings, too, and I’m in a 
 horrible inn kept by a Garibaldian bandit; and the various 
 sorts of disgusting dishes sent up to look like a dinner, and 
 to be charged for, are a daily increasing horror and amaze¬ 
 ment to me. They succeed in getting everything bad ; no 
 exertion, no invention, could produce such badness, I believe, 
 anywhere else. The hills are covered for leagues with olive- 
 trees, and the oil’s bad ; there are no such lovely cattle else¬ 
 where in the world, and the butter’s bad ; half the country 
 people are shepherds, but there’s no mutton; half the old 
 women w’alk about with a pig tied to their waists, but there’s 
 no pork ; the vine grows wild anywhere, and the wine would 
 make my teeth drop out of my head if I took a glass of it ; 
 there are no strawberries, no oranges, no melons, the cherries 
 are as hard as their stones, the beans only good for horses, 
 or Jack and the beanstalk, and this is the size of the biggest 
 asparagus— 
 
 I live here in a narrow street ten feet wide only, winding 
 up a hill, and it was full this morning of sheep as close as 
 they could pack, at least a thousand, as far as the eye could 
 reach,—tinkle tinkle, bleat bleat, for a quarter of an hour. 
 
 IN PARADISE. 
 
 Assisi, Sacristan’s Cell, 
 
 25 th June. 
 
 This letter is all upside dowm, and this first page written 
 last ; for I didn’t like something I had written about myself 
 
 last night when I was tired, and have torn it off. 
 
22 
 
 HORTUS INGLUSUS. 
 
 That star you saw beat like a heart must have been a dog 
 star. A planet would not have twinkled. Far mightier, he, 
 than any planet ; burning with his own planetary host doubt¬ 
 less round him ; and, on some speckiest of the specks of 
 them, evangelical persons thinking our sun was made for 
 them. 
 
 Ah, Susie, I do not pass, unthought of, the many sorrows 
 of which you kindly tell me, to show me—for that is in your 
 heart—how others have suffered also. 
 
 But, Susie, you expect to see your Margaret again, and 
 you will be happy with her in heaven. I wanted my Rosie 
 here. In heaven I mean to go and talk to Pythagoras and 
 Socrates and Valerius Publicola. I shan’t care a bit for Rosie 
 there, she needn’t think it. What will grey eyes and red 
 cheeks be good for there ? 
 
 These pious sentiments are all written in my sacristan’s cell. 
 
 Now, Susie, mind, though you’re only eight years old, you 
 must try to fancy you’re ten or eleven, and attend to what I 
 say. 
 
 This extract book * of yours will be most precious in its 
 help to me, provided it is kept within somewhat narrow limits. 
 As soon as it is done I mean to have it published in a strong 
 and pretty but cheap form, and it must not be too bulky. 
 Consider, therefore, not only what you like, but how far and 
 with whom each bit is likely to find consent and service. 
 You will have to choose perhaps, after a little while, among 
 what you have already chosen. I mean to leave it wholly in 
 your hands ; it is to be Susie’s choice of my writings. 
 
 Don’t get into a flurry of responsibility, but don’t at once 
 write down all you have a mind to ; I know you’ll find a good 
 deal! for you are exactly in sympathy with me in all things. 
 
 Assisi, 9i 'h July , 1874. 
 
 Your lovely letters are always a comfort to me ; and not 
 least when you tell me you are sad. You would be far less in 
 
 * Frondes Agrestea 
 
IIORTUS INCLUSU8. 
 
 23 
 
 sympathy with me if you were not, and in the “ everything 
 right ” humor of some, even of some really good and kind 
 persons, whose own matters are to their mind, and who un¬ 
 derstand by “Providence” the power which particularly takes 
 care of them. This favoritism which goes so sweetly and 
 pleasantly down with so many pious people is the chief of all 
 stumbling-blocks to me. I must pray for everybody or no¬ 
 body, and can’t get into any conceptions of relation between 
 Heaven and me, if not also between Heaven and earth (and 
 why Heaven should allow hairs in pens I can’t think). 
 
 I take great care of myself, be quite sure of that, Susie ; 
 the worst of it is, here in Assisi everybody else wants me to 
 take care of them. 
 
 Catharine brought me up as a great treat yesterday, at 
 dinner, ham dressed with as much garlic as could be stewed 
 into it, and a plate of raw figs, telling me I was to eat them 
 together! 
 
 The sun is changing the entire mountains of Assisi into a 
 hot bottle with no flannel round it; but I can’t get a ripe 
 plum, peach, or cherry. All the milk turns sour, and one 
 has to eat one’s meat as its toughest or the thunder gets into 
 it next day. 
 
 FOAM OF TIBER. 
 
 Perugia, 17 tli July. 
 
 I am made anxious by your sweet letter of the Gth saying 
 you have been ill and are “ not much better.” 
 
 The letter is all like yours, but I suppose however ill you 
 were you would always write prettily, so thats little comfort. 
 
 About the Narcissus, please. I want them for my fishpond 
 stream rather than for the bee-house one. The fishpond stream 
 is very doleful, and wants to dance with daffodils if they 
 would come and teach it. How happy we are in our natb e 
 streams ! A thunder-storm swelled the Tiber yesterday, and 
 it rolled over its mill weirs in heaps, literally, of tossed vatei, 
 the size of haycocks, but black-brown like coffee with the 
 grounds in it, mixed with a very little yellow milk. Iu some 
 
24 
 
 HORTUS INCLUSUS. 
 
 lights the foam flew like cast handfuls of heavy gravel. The 
 chief flowers here are only broom and bindweed, and I begin 
 to weary for my heather and for my Susie ; but, oh dear, the 
 ways are long and the days few. 
 
 Lucca, 29 th July. 
 
 I’m not going to be devoured when I come, by anybody, 
 unless you like to. I shall come to your window with the 
 birds, to be fed myself. 
 
 And please at present always complain to me whenever you 
 like. It is the over-boisterous cheerfulness of common peo¬ 
 ple that hurts me ; your sadness is a help to me. 
 
 You shall have whatever name you like for your book, pro¬ 
 vided you continue to like it after thinking over it long 
 enough. You will not like “ Gleanings,” because you know 
 that one only gleans refuse—dropped ears—that other peo¬ 
 ple don’t care for. You go into the garden and gather 
 with choice the flowers you like best. That is not gleaning! 
 
 Lucca, 10 th August. 
 
 I have been grieved not to write to you ; but the number of 
 things that vex me are so great just now, that unless by false 
 effort I could write you nothing nice. It is very dreadful to 
 live in Italy, and more dreadful to see one’s England and 
 one’s English friends, all but a field or two, and a stream or 
 two, and a one Susie and one Dr. Brown, fast becoming like 
 Italy and the Italians. 
 
 I have too much sympathy with your sorrow to write to you 
 of it. What I have not sympathy with, is your hope ; and 
 how cruel it is to say this ! But I am driven more and more 
 to think there is to be no more good for a time, but a reign 
 of terror of men and the elements alike ; and yet it is so like 
 what is foretold before the coming of the Son of man, that per¬ 
 haps in the extremest evil of it I may some day read the sign 
 that our redemption draws nigh. 
 
 Now, Susie, invent a nice cluster of titles for the book and 
 
II OUT VS INCLUSUS. 
 
 25 
 
 send them to me to choose from, to Hotel de l’Arno, Flor¬ 
 ence. I must get that out before the day of judgment, if I 
 can. I’m so glad of your sweet flatteries in this note received 
 to-day. 
 
 Florence, 25 th August. 
 
 I have not been able to write to you, or anyone lately, whom 
 I don’t want to tease, except Dr. Brown, whom I write to for 
 counsel. My time is passed in a fierce steady struggle to save 
 all I can every day, as a fireman from a smouldering ruin, of 
 history or aspect. To-day, for instance, I’ve been just in time 
 to ascertain the form of the cross of the Emperor, represent¬ 
 ing the power of the State in the greatest political fresco of 
 old times—fourteenth century. By next year, it may be next 
 month, it will have dropped from the wall with the vibration 
 of the railway outside, and be touched up with new gilding 
 for the mob. 
 
 I am keeping well, but am in a terrible spell (literally^ 
 “ spell,” enchanted maze, that I can’t get out of) of work. 
 
 I was a little scandalized at the idea of your calling the 
 book “ word painting.” My dearest Susie, it is the chief 
 provocation of my life to be called a “ word painter ” instead 
 of a thinker. I hope you haven’t filled your book with de¬ 
 scriptions. I thought it was the thoughts you were looking 
 for ? 
 
 “ Posie ” would be pretty. If you ask Joanie she will tell 
 you perhaps too pretty for me, and I can’t think a bit to-night, 
 for instead of robins singing I hear only blaspheming game¬ 
 sters on the other side of the narrow street. 
 
 Florence, September. 
 
 Don’t be in despair about your book. I am sure it will be 
 lovely. I’ll see to it the moment I get home, but I’ve got 
 into an entirely unexpected piece of business here, the inter¬ 
 pretation of a large chapel full of misunderstood, or not at all 
 understood, frescoes ; and I’m terribly afraid of breaking 
 
26 
 
 nonTUS INCLUSUS. 
 
 down, so much drawing has to be done at the same time. It 
 lias stranded botany and everything. 
 
 I was kept awake half of last night by drunken blackguards 
 howling on the bridge of the Holy Trinity in the pure half¬ 
 moonlight. This is the kind of discord I have to bear, cor¬ 
 responding to your uncongenial company. But, alas ! Susie, 
 you ought at ten years old to have more firmness, and to resolve 
 that you won’t be bored. I think I shall try to enforce it on 
 you as a very solemn duty not to lie to people as the vulgar 
 public do. If they bore you, say so, and they’ll go away. 
 That is the right state of things. 
 
 How am I to know that / don’t bore you, when I come, 
 when you’re so civil to people you hate ? 
 
 Pass op Bocchetta, 1st October. 
 
 • ••••• 
 
 All that is lovely and wonderful in the Alps may be seen 
 without the slightest danger, in general, and it is especially 
 good for little girls of eleven, who can’t climb, to know this— 
 all the best views of hills are at the bottom of them. I know 
 one or two places indeed where there is a grand peeping over 
 precipices, one or two where the mountain seclusion and 
 strength are worth climbing to see. But all the entirely beau¬ 
 tiful things I could show you, Susie ; only for the very highest 
 sublime of them sometimes asking you to endure half an hour 
 of chaise d porteur , but mostly from a post-chaise or smooth¬ 
 est of turnpike roads. 
 
 But, Susie, do you know, I’m greatly horrified at the pen¬ 
 wipers of peacock’s feathers ! I always use my left-hand coat¬ 
 tail, indeed, and if only I were a peacock and a pet of yours, 
 how you’d scold me ! 
 
 Sun just coming out over sea (at Sestri), which is sighing 
 in toward the window, within your drive, round before the 
 door’s breadth of it,* seen between two masses of acacia 
 copse and two orange-trees at the side of the inn courtyard. 
 
 * That is, within that distance of the window. 
 
HORTUS INOLUSUS . 
 
 27 
 
 Geneva, Mdth October. 
 
 How I have been neglecting you! Perhaps Joanie may 
 have told you that just at my last gasp of hand-work, I had 
 to write quite an unexpected number of letters. But poor 
 Joanie will think herself neglected now, for I have been 
 stopped among the Alps by a state of their glaciers entirely 
 unexampled, and shall be a week after my “latest possible” 
 day, in getting home. It is eleven years since I was here, 
 and very sad to me to return, yet delightful with a moon¬ 
 light paleness of the past, precious of its kind. 
 
 I shall be at home with Joan in ten days now, God willing. 
 I have much to tell you, which will give you pleasure and 
 pain ; but I don’t know how much it will be—to tell you— 
 for a little while yet, so I don’t begin. 
 
 Oxford, 26 th October. 
 
 Home at last with your lovely, most lovely, letter in my 
 breast pocket, from Joan’s all the way here. 
 
 I am so very grateful to you for not writing on black 
 paper. 
 
 Oh, dear Susie, why should we ever wear black for the 
 guests of God? 
 
 WHARFE IN FLOOD. 
 
 Bolton Abbey, 2477a January , 1875. 
 
 The black rain, much as I growled at it, has let me seo 
 Wharfe in flood ; and I would have borne many days in 
 prison to see that. 
 
 No one need go to the Alps to see wild water. Seldom, 
 unless in the Rhine or Rhone themselves at their rapids, liavo 
 I seen anything much grander. An Alpine stream, besides, 
 nearly always has its bed full of loose stones, and becomes 
 a series of humps and dumps of w T ater wherever it is shallow; 
 while the Wharfe sw r ept round its curves of shore like a black 
 Damascus sabre, coiled into eddies of steel. At the Strid, it 
 had risen eight feet vertical since yesterday, sheeting the flat 
 rocks with foam from side to side, while the treacherous mid- 
 
28 
 
 n OUT US INCLUSUS. 
 
 channel was filled with a succession of boiling domes of 
 water, charged through and through with churning white, 
 and rolling out into the broader stream, each like a vast sea- 
 wave bursting on a beach. 
 
 There is something in the soft and comparatively unbroken 
 slopes of these Yorkshire shales which must give the water a 
 peculiar sweeping power, for I have seen Tay and Tummel and 
 Ness, and many a big stream besides, savage enough, but I 
 don’t remember anything so grim as this. 
 
 I came home to quiet tea and a black kitten called Sweep, 
 who lapped half my cream jugful (and yet I had plenty) 
 sitting on my shoulder—and Life of Sir Walter Scott. I was 
 reading his great Scottish history tour, when he was twenty- 
 three, and got his materials for everything nearly, but es¬ 
 pecially for Waverley, though not used till long afterward. 
 
 Do you recollect Gibbie Gellatly ? I was thinking over that 
 question of yours, “What did I think?” * But, my dear 
 Susie, you might as well ask Gibbie Gellatly what he thought. 
 What does it matter what any of us think ? We are but 
 simpletons, the best of us, and I am a very inconsistent and 
 wayward simpleton. I know how to roast eggs, in the ashes, 
 perhaps—but for the next world ? Why don’t you ask your 
 squirrel what he thinks too ? The great point—the one for 
 all of us—is, not to take false words in our mouths, and to 
 crack our nuts innocently through winter and rough weather. 
 
 I shall post this to-morrow as I pass through Skipton or 
 any post-worthy place on my way to Wakefield. Write to 
 Warwick. Oh, me, what places England had, when she was 
 herself! Now, rail stations mostly. But I never can make 
 out how Warwick Castle got built by that dull bit of river. 
 
 “ FRONDES.” 
 
 Wakefield, 25 th January , 1875. 
 
 Here’s our book in form at last, and it seems to me just a 
 nico siz£, and on the whole very taking. I’ve put a touch or 
 
 * Of tlie things that shall be, hereafter. 
 
IT OUT US TNOLUSUS. 
 
 29 
 
 two more to the preface, and I’m sadly afraid there’s a 
 naughty note somewhere. I hope you won’t find it, and that 
 you will like the order the things are put in. 
 
 Such ill roads as we came over to-day, I never thought to 
 see in England. 
 
 Castleton, 26th January , 1875. 
 
 Here I have your long, dear letter. I am very thankful I 
 can be so much to you. Of all the people I have yet known, 
 you are the only one I can find complete sympathy in ; you 
 are so nice and young, without the hardness of youth, and 
 may be the best of sisters to me. I am not so sure about 
 letting you be an elder one ; I am not going to be lectured 
 when I’m naughty. 
 
 I’ve been so busy at wasps all day coming along, having 
 got a nice book about them. It tells me, too, of a delightful 
 German doctor who kept tame hornets—a whole nest in his 
 study! They knew him perfectly, and would let him do 
 anything with them, even pull bits off their nest to look in 
 at it. 
 
 Wasps, too, my author says, are really much more amiable 
 than bees, and never get angry without cause. All the same, 
 they have a tiresome way of inspecting one, too closely, some¬ 
 times, I think. 
 
 I’m immensely struck with the Peak Cavern, but it was in 
 twilight. 
 
 I’m going to stay here all to-morrow, the place is so en¬ 
 tirely unspoiled. I’ve not seen such a primitive village, rock, 
 or stream, this twenty years ; Langdale is as sophisticated as 
 Pall Mall in comparison. 
 
 Alas, I’ve other letters to write ! 
 
 WASP STINGS. 
 
 Bolton Biudge, Saturday. 
 
 I never was more thankful than for your sweet note, being 
 stopped here by bad weather again ; the worst of posting is 
 
30 
 
 ITOTITUS TNCITTSTTS. 
 
 that one has to think of one’s servant outside, and so lose a 
 day. 
 
 It was bitter wind and snow this morning, too bad to send 
 any human creature to sit idle in. Black enough still, and I, 
 more than usual, because it is just that point of distinction 
 from brutes which I truly say is our only one,* of which I 
 have now so little hold. 
 
 The bee Fors f will be got quickly into proof, but I must 
 add a good deal to it. I can’t get into good humor for natu¬ 
 ral history in this weather. 
 
 I’ve got a good book on wasps which says they are our 
 chief protectors against flies. In Cumberland the wet, cold 
 spring is so bad for the wasps that I partly think this may bo 
 so, and the terrible plague of flies in August might perhaps 
 be checked by our teaching our little Agneses to keep wasps* 
 nests instead of bees. 
 
 Yes, that is a pretty bit of mine about Hamlet, and I think 
 I must surely bo a little pathetic sometimes, in a doggish 
 way. 
 
 “You’re so dreadfully faithful! ” said Arthur Severn to me, 
 fretting over the way I was being ill-treated the other day 
 by R. 
 
 Oh, dear, I wish I were at Brantwood again, now, and 
 could send you my wasp book! It is pathetic, and yet so 
 dreadful—the wasp bringing in the caterpillar for its young 
 wasp, stinging each enough to paralyze, but not to kill, and 
 so laying them up in the cupboard. 
 
 I wonder how the clergymen’s wives will feel after the next 
 Fors or two ! I’ve done a bit to-day which I think will go in 
 with a shiver. Do you recollect the curious thrill there is— 
 the cold tingle of the pang of a nice deep wasp sting ? 
 
 Well, I’m not in a fit temper to write to Susie to-day, 
 clearly. 
 
 * I’ve forgotten what it was, and don’t feel now as if I had ‘ got hold 
 of any one. 
 
 f See Fors Clavigera, Letter LI. 
 
HORTUS INCLUSUS. 
 
 31 
 
 BOLTON STRID. 
 
 I stopped here to see the Strid again—not seen these many 
 years. It is carious that life is embittered to me, now, by its 
 former pleasantness ; while you have of these same places 
 painful recollections, but you could enjoy them now with 
 your whole heart. 
 
 Instead of the drive with the poor over-labored one horse 
 through the long wet day, here, when I was a youth, my father 
 and mother brought me, and let me sketch in the Abbey and 
 ramble in the woods as I chose, only demanding promise that 
 I should not go near the Strid. Pleasant drives, with, on the 
 whole, well paid and pleased drivers, never with over-burdened 
 cattle ; cheerful dinner or tea waiting for me always, on my 
 return from solitary rambles. Everything right and good for 
 me, except only that they never put me through any trials to 
 harden me, or give me decision of character, or make me feel 
 how much they did for me. 
 
 But that error was a fearful one, and cost them and me, 
 Heaven only knows how much. And now, I walk to Strid, 
 and Abbey, and everywhere, with the ghosts of the past days 
 haunting me, and other darker spirits of sorrow and remorse 
 and wonder. Black spirits among the gray, all like a mist 
 between me and the green woods. And I feel like a cater¬ 
 pillar—stung just enough. Foul weather and mist enough, 
 of quite a real kind besides. An hour’s sunshine to-day, 
 broken up speedily, and now veiled utterly. 
 
 Herne Hill, London, 
 
 11 th February , 1875. 
 
 I have your sweet letter with news of Dr. John and his 
 brother. I have been working on the book to-day very hard, 
 after much interruption ; it is two-thirds done now. So glad 
 people are on tiptoe. 
 
 Paddocks are frogs, not toads in that grace.* And why 
 
 * Herrick’s. See Fors Clavigera, Letter XLIII. 
 
32 
 
 II OUT US INOLUSUS. 
 
 should not people smile ? Do you think that God does not 
 like smiling graces ? He only dislikes frowns. But you 
 know when once habitual, the child would be told on a cold 
 day to say “Cold as paddocks,” and everybody would know 
 what was coming. Finally the deep under-meaning, that as 
 the cold hand is lifted, so also the cold heart, and yet accepted, 
 makes it one of the prettiest little hymns I know. 
 
 I cannot tell you how very apposite to my work these two 
 feathers are. I am just going to dwell on the exquisite result 
 of the division into successive leaves, by which nature obtains 
 the glittering look to set off her color ; and you just send me 
 two feathers which havo it more in perfection than any I 
 ever saw, and I think are more vivid in color. 
 
 How these boys must tease you ! but you will be rewarded 
 in the world that good Susies go to. 
 
 You must show me the drawing of the grebe. The moss 
 is getting on. 
 
 Venice, 12 th September, 1876, 
 
 I must just say how thankful it makes me to hear of this 
 true gentleness of English gentlewomen in the midst of the 
 vice and cruelty in which I am forced to live here, where op¬ 
 pression on one side and license on the other rage as two war- 
 wolves in continual havoc. 
 
 It is very characteristic of fallen Venice, as of modern Europe, 
 that hero in the principal rooms of one of the chief palaces, 
 in the very headmost sweep of the Grand Canal, there is not 
 a room for a servant fit to keep a cat or a dog in (as Susie 
 would keep cat or dog, at least). 
 
 Venice, 18M September. 
 
 I never knew such a fight as the good and wicked fairies 
 are having over my poor body and spirit just now. The good 
 fairies havo got down the St. Ursula for me and given her to 
 me all to myself, and sent me fine weather and nice gondoliers, 
 and a good cook, and a pleasant waiter ; and the bad fairies 
 
II OUT US IN UL US US. 
 
 33 
 
 keep putting everything upside down, and putting black in 
 my box when I want white, and making me forget all I want, 
 and find all I don’t, and making the hinges come off my 
 boards, and the leaves out of my books, and driving me as 
 wild as wild can be ; but I’m getting something done in spite 
 of them, only I never can get my letters written. 
 
 Venice, September 29 th. 
 
 I have woful letters telling me you also were woful in say¬ 
 ing good-by. My darling Susie, what is the use of your 
 being so good and dear if you can’t enjoy thinking of heaven, 
 and what fine goings on we shall all have there ? 
 
 All the same, even when I’m at my very piousest, it puts 
 me out if my drawings go wrong. I’m going to draw St. 
 Ursula’s blue slippers to-day, and if I can’t do them nicely 
 shall be in great despair. I’ve just found a little cunning 
 inscription on her bedpost, ‘INFANNTIA.’ The double N 
 puzzled me at first, but Carpaccio spells anyhow. My head 
 is not good enough for a bedpost. . . . Oh me, the sweet 
 
 Grange !—Thwaite, I mean (bedpost again); to think of it in 
 this mass of weeds and ruin ! 
 
 ST. URSULA. 
 
 Venice, 13 th November. 
 
 I have to-day your dear little note, and have desired Joan 
 to send you one just written to her, in which I have given 
 some account of myself, that may partly interest, partly win 
 your pardon for apparent neglect. Coming here, after prac¬ 
 tically an interval of twenty-four years—for I have not seri¬ 
 ously looked at anything during the two hurried visits with 
 Joan—my old unfinished work, and the possibilities of its 
 better completion, rise grievously and beguilingly before me, 
 and I have been stretching my hands to the shadow of old 
 designs and striving to fulfil shortcomings, always painful tc 
 me, but now, for the moment, intolerable. 
 
34 
 
 HOBTUS INCLUSUS . 
 
 I am also approaching the close of the sixth year of Fors, 
 and have plans for the Sabbatical year of it, which make my 
 thoughts active and troubled. I am drawing much, and have 
 got a study of St. Ursula which will give you pleasure ; but 
 the pain of being separate from my friends and of knowing 
 they miss me ! I wonder if you will think you are making 
 me too vain, Susie. Such vanity is a very painful one, for I 
 know that you look out of the window on Sundays now, wist¬ 
 fully, for Joan’s handkerchief. This pain seems always at my 
 heart, with the other which is its own. 
 
 I am thankful, always, you like St. Ursula. One quite fixed 
 plan for the last year of Fors, is that there shall be absolutely 
 no abuse or controversy in it, but things which will either 
 give pleasure or help ; and some clear statements of principle, 
 in language as temperate as hitherto violent; to show, for one 
 thing, that the violence was not for want of self-command. 
 
 I’m going to have a good fling at the Bishops in next Fors 
 to finish with, and then for January !—only I mustn’t be too 
 good, Susie, or something would happen to me. So I shall 
 say naughty things still, but in the mildest way. 
 
 I am very grateful to you for that comparison about my 
 mind being as crisp as a lettuce. I am so thankful you can 
 feel that still. I was beginning to doubt, myself. 
 
 ST. MAUK’S DOVES. 
 
 Venice, 2d December. 
 
 I have been very dismal lately. I hope the next captain of 
 St. Georgo’s Company will be a merrier one and happier, in 
 being of use. I am inherently selfish, and don’t enjoy being 
 of use. I enjoy painting and picking up stones and flirting 
 with Susies and Kathleens ; it’s very odd that I never much 
 care to flirt with any but little girls ! And here I’ve no 
 Susies nor Kathleens nor Diddies, and I’m only doing lots of 
 good, and I’m very miserable. I’ve been going late to bed 
 too. I picked myself up last night and went to bed at nine, 
 and feel cheerful enough to ask Susie how she does, and send 
 
Hour US INCL US US. 
 
 her love from St. Mark’s doves. They’re really tiresome now, 
 among one’s feet in St. Mark’s Place, and I don’t know what 
 it will come to. In old times, when there were not so many 
 idlers about, the doves were used to brisk walkers, and moved 
 away a foot or two in front of one ; but now everybody 
 lounges, or stands talking about the Government, and the 
 doves won’t stir till one just touches them ; and I who walk 
 fast * am always expecting to tread on them, and it’s a nui¬ 
 sance. 
 
 If I only had time I would fain make friends with the sea¬ 
 gulls, who would be quite like angels if they would only stop 
 on one’s balcony. If there were the least bit of truth in Dar¬ 
 winism, Venice would have had her own born seagulls by this 
 time building their nests at her thresholds. 
 
 Now I must get to work. Love to Mary and Miss Rigbye. 
 Now mind you give my message carefully, Susie, because 
 you’re a careless little thing. 
 
 Venice, 11 th December. 
 
 My mouth’s watering so for that Thwaite currant jelly, you 
 can’t think. I haven’t had the least taste of anything of the 
 sort this three months. These wretches of Venetians live on 
 cigars and garlic, and have no taste in their mouths for any¬ 
 thing that God makes nice. 
 
 The little drawing (returned) is nice in color and feeling, 
 but, which surprises me, not at all intelligent in line. It is 
 not weakness of hand but fault of perspective instinct, which 
 spoils so many otherwise good botanical drawings. 
 
 Bright morning. Sickle moon just hiding in a red cloud, 
 and the morning stars just vanished in light. But we’ve had 
 nearly three weeks of dark weather, so we mustn’t think it 
 poor Coniston’s fault—though Coniston has faults. Poor lit¬ 
 tle Susie, it shan’t have any more nasty messages to carry. 
 
 ♦ See Fors Clavigera, Letter LXXXII. 
 
36 
 
 HORTUS INCLUSUS. 
 
 ST. mark’s rest. 
 
 23(2 January, 1877. 
 
 I’ve caught cold and can think of nothing to do me good 
 but making you miserable by telling you so. 
 
 It’s not a very bad one. And it’s a wonder I’ve got so far 
 through the winter without any. 
 
 Things have gone very well for me, hitherto, but I have 
 been depressed by hearing of my poor Kate’s * illness ; and 
 can’t think of Brantwood with any comfort, so I come across 
 the lake to the Thwaite. 
 
 A great many lovely things happened to me this Christmas, 
 but if I were to tell Susie of them I am sure she would be 
 frightened out of her bright little wits, and think I was going 
 to be a Roman Catholic. I’m writing such a Catholic history 
 of Venice, and chiselling all the Protestantism off the old 
 “ Stones ” as they do here the grass off steps. 
 
 All the pigeons of St. Mark’s Place send you their love. 
 St. Ursula adds hers to the eleven thousand bird’s love. And 
 the darlingest old Pope who went a pilgrimage with her, hopes 
 you won’t be too much shocked if he sends his too ! (If you’re 
 not shocked, / am !) 
 
 My new Catholic history of Venice is to be called “St. 
 Mark’s Rest.” 
 
 27th January. 
 
 Joanie tells me you are writing her such sad little letters. 
 How can it be that anyone so good and true as my Susie should 
 be sad ? I am sad, bitterly enough and often, but only with 
 sense of fault and folly and lost opportunity such as you have 
 never fallen into or lost. It is very cruel of Fate, I think, to 
 make us sad, who would fain see everybody cheerful, and 
 (cruel of Fate too) to make so many cheerful who make others 
 wretched. The little history of Venice is well on, and will 
 be clear and interesting, I think—more than most histories of 
 anything. And the stories of saints and nice people will be 
 
 * Then, my head servant; now Kate Raven, of Coniston. 
 
nonTUS INCLUSUS. 
 
 37 
 
 plenty. Oli me, I wonder, Susie dear, whether you and I are 
 saints, or what we are. You know you’re really a little wicked 
 sometimes as w*ell as me, aren’t you ? 
 
 Such moonlight as there is to-night, but nothing to what it 
 is at Coniston! It makes the lagoon water look brown in¬ 
 stead of green, which I never noticed before. 
 
 SAINTS AND FLOWERS. 
 
 Venice, 17 th February. 
 
 It is very grievous to me to hear of your being in that woful 
 weather while I have two days’ sunshine out of three, and 
 starlight or moonlight always ; to-day the whole chain of the 
 Alps from Vicenza to Trieste shining cloudless all day long, 
 and the seagulls floating high in the blue, like little dazzling 
 boys’ kites. 
 
 Yes, St. Francis would have been greatly pleased with you 
 watching pussy drink your milk ; so would St. Theodore, as 
 you will see by next Fors, which I have ordered to be sent 
 you in first proof, for I am eager that you should have it. 
 What wonderful flowers these pinks of St. Ursula’s are, for 
 life! They seem to bloom like everlastings. 
 
 I get my first rosebud and violets of this year from St. 
 Helena’s Island to-day. Howl begin to pity people who have 
 no saints to be good to them ! Who is yours at Coniston ? 
 There must have been some in the country once upon a time. 
 
 With their help I am really getting well on with my history 
 and drawing, and hope for a sweet time at home in the heath¬ 
 ery days, and many a nice afternoon tea at the Thwaite. 
 
 Venice, 8 th March. 
 
 That is entirely new and wonderful to me about the sing¬ 
 ing mouse.* Douglas (was it the Douglas?) saying “he had 
 
 * A pleasant story that a friend sent me from France. I he mouse 
 often came into their sitting-room and actually sang to them, the notes 
 being a little like a canary's.—S. B. 
 
38 
 
 U OUT US INGLUSUS. 
 
 rather hear the lark sing than the mouse squeak ” needs re¬ 
 vision. It is a marvellous fact in natural history. 
 
 The wind is singing a wild tune to-night—cannot be colder 
 on our own heaths—and the waves dash like our Waterhead. 
 Oh me, when I’m walking round it again, how like a sad dream 
 all this Venice will be ! 
 
 Oxford, 2d December. 
 
 I write first to you this morning to tell you that I gave yes¬ 
 terday the twelfth and last of my course of lectures this term, 
 to a room crowded by six hundred people, two-thirds members 
 of the University, and with its door wedged open by those 
 who could not get in ; this interest of theirs being granted to 
 me, I doubt not, because for the first time in Oxford, I have 
 been able to speak to them boldly of immortal life. I intend¬ 
 ed, when I began the course, only to have read “ Modern Paint¬ 
 ers ” to them; but when I began, some of your favorite bits 
 interested the men so much, and brought so much larger a 
 proportion of undergraduates than usual, that I took pains to 
 reinforce and press them home ; and people say I have never 
 given so useful a course yet. But it has taken all my time and 
 strength, and I have not been able even to tell Susie a word 
 about it until now. In one of my lectures I made my text your 
 pretty peacock and the design * of him. But did not venture 
 to say, what really must be true, that his voice is an example of 
 “ the Devil sowed tares,” and of the angels letting both grow 
 together. Joanie was “ wae ” to leave Brantwood and you 
 (and between you and me her letters have been so dull ever 
 since, that I think she has left her wits as well as her heart with 
 you). I am going to see her on Monday week, the 10th, and 
 shall start from home about the 20tli, undertaking (D. V.), 
 at all events, to come on Christmas morning to your ever 
 kindly opening door. 
 
 Love to Mary, and cousin Mary ; how happy it is for me 
 you are all so nice ! 
 
 * Decorative art of his plumage. 
 
UORTUS INCLUSUS. 
 
 39 
 
 My grateful compliments to tlie peacock. And little (but 
 warm) loves to all your little birds. And best of little loves 
 to the squirrels, only you must send them in dream-words, I 
 suppose, up to their nests. 
 
 Herne Hill, Sunday, 16 th December. 
 
 It is a long while since I’ve felt so good for nothing as I do 
 this morning. My very wristbands curl up in a dog’s-eared 
 and disconsolate manner; my little room is all a heap of 
 disorder. I’ve got a hoarseness and wheezing and sneezing 
 and coughing and choking. I can’t speak and I can’t think, 
 I’m miserable in bed and useless out of it; and it seems to 
 me as if I could never venture to open a window or go out of 
 a door any more. I have the dimmest sort of diabolical 
 pleasure in thinking how miserable I shall make Susie by tell¬ 
 ing her all this ; but in other respects I seem entirely devoid 
 of all moral sentiments. I have arrived at this state of things, 
 first by catching cold, and since by trying to “amuse myself ” 
 for three days. I tried to read “ Pickwick,” but found that 
 vulgar, and, besides, I know it all by heart. I sent from town 
 for some chivalric romances, but found them immeasurably 
 stupid. I made Baxter read me the Daily Telegraph , and 
 found that the Home Secretary had been making an absurd 
 speech about art, without any consciousness that such a person 
 as I had ever existed. I read a lot of games of chess out 
 of Mr. Staunton’s handbook, and couldn’t understand any of 
 them. I analyzed the Dock Company’s bill of charges on a box 
 from Venice, and sent them an examination paper on it. I 
 think that did amuse me a little, but the account doesn’t. £1 8.s*. 
 
 for bringing a box two feet square from the Tower Wharf 
 to here ! But the worst of all is, that the doctor keeps me 
 shut up here, and I can’t get my business done ; and now 
 there isn’t the least chance of my getting down to Brantwood 
 for Christmas, nor, as far as I can see, for a fortnight after 
 it. There’s perhaps a little of the diabolical enjoyment again 
 in that estimate; but really the days do go, more like dew 
 
40 
 
 II OUT US INGLUSUS . 
 
 shaken off branches than real sunrisings and settings. But 
 I’ll send you word every day now for a little while how things 
 are going on. 
 
 Corpus Christi College, 
 Oxford, 26^ December. 
 
 I don’t know really whether I ought to be at Brantwood 
 or here on Christmas. Yesterday I had two lovely services 
 in my own cathedral. You know the cathedral of Oxford is 
 the chapel of Christ Church College, and I have my own high 
 seat in the chancel, as an honorary student, besides being 
 bred there, and so one is ever so proud and ever so pious all 
 at once, which is ever so nice, you know ; and my own dean, 
 that’s the Dean of Christ’s Church, who is as big as any 
 bishop, read the services, and the psalms and anthems were 
 lovely ; and then I dined with Henry Acland and his family, 
 where I am an adopted son—all the more wanted yesterday 
 because the favorite son Herbert died this year in Cey¬ 
 lon—the first death out of seven sons. So they were glad to 
 have me. Then I’ve all my Turners here, and shall really 
 enjoy myself a little to-day, I think ; but I do wish I could 
 be at Brantwood too. 
 
 Oh dear, I’ve scribbled this dreadfully. Can you really 
 read my scribble, Susie ? Love, you may always read, how¬ 
 ever scribbled. 
 
 Oxford, 2Wi December. 
 
 Yes, I really think that must be the way of it. I am wholly 
 cattish in that love of teasing. How delighted I used to be 
 if ltosie would ever condescend to be the least bit jealous ! 
 
 By the way, what a shame it is that we keep that word 
 in the second commandment, as if it meant that God w r as 
 jealous of images. It means burning, zealous or full of life, 
 visiting, etc., i.e., necessarily when leaving the father, leaving 
 the child ; necessarily, when giving the father life, giving life 
 to the child, and to thousands of the race of them that love 
 me. 
 
nORTUS INGLUSUS, 
 
 41 
 
 It is very comic the way people have of being so particular 
 about the second and fourth commandments, and breaking 
 all the rest with the greatest comfort. For me, I try to keep 
 all the rest rather carefully, and let the second and fourth 
 take care of themselves. 
 
 Cold quite gone ; now it’s your turn, Susie. I’ve got a 
 love letter in Chinese, and can’t read it! 
 
 Windsor Castle, 2d January , 1878. 
 
 I’m horribly sulky this morning, for I expected to have a 
 room with a view, if the room was ever so little, and I’ve got 
 a great big one looking into the Castle yard, and I feel ex¬ 
 actly as if I was in a big modern county gaol with beautiful 
 turrets of modern Gothic. 
 
 I came to see Prince Leopold, who has been a prisoner to 
 his sofa lately, but I trust he is better ; he is very bright and 
 gentle, under severe and almost continual pain. My dear 
 little Susie, about that rheumatism of yours ? If it wasn’t 
 for that, how happy we both ought to be, living in Thwaites 
 and woods, instead of nasty castles ? Well, about that Shake¬ 
 speare guide ? I cannot, cannot, at all fancy what it is. In 
 and out among the stars ; it sounds like a plan for stringing 
 the stars. I am so very glad you told me of it. 
 
 “ Unwritten books in my brain ? ” Yes, but also in how 
 many other brains of quiet people, books unthought of, “ In 
 the Book and Volume ” wdiich will be read some day in 
 Heaven, aloud, “When saw we thee?” Yes, and “When 
 read we ourselves ? ” 
 
 My dear Susie, if I w r ere to think really lost , what you for 
 instance have new found in your own powers of receiving and 
 giving pleasure, the beautiful faculties you have, scarcely ven¬ 
 turing even to show the consciousness of them, when it 
 awakes in you, what a woful conception I should have of 
 God’s not caring for us. He will gather all the wheat into 
 His garner. 
 
42 
 
 HOETUS INCLUSUS. 
 
 Ingleton, VWi January. 
 
 It’s a charming post here, and brings me my letters the 
 first thing in the morning; and I took care to tell nobody 
 where I was going, except people I wanted to hear from. 
 What a little busy bee of a Susie you’ve been to get all those 
 extracts ready by this time. I’ve got nothing done all the 
 while I’ve been away, but a few mathematical figures, and the 
 less I do the less I find I can do it; and yesterday, for the 
 first time these twenty years at least, I hadn’t so much as 
 a “ plan ” in my head all day. But I had a lot to look at in 
 the moorland flowers and quiet little ancient Yorkshire farm¬ 
 houses, not to speak of Ingleborough, who was, I think, a lit¬ 
 tle depressed because he knew you were only going to send 
 your remembrances, and not your love to him. The clouds 
 gathered on his brow occasionally in a fretful manner, but 
 toward evening he resumed his peace of mind and sends 
 you his “ remembrances ” and his “blessing.” I believe he 
 saves both you and me from a great deal of east wind. 
 
 Well, I’ve got a plan in my head this morning for the new 
 extracts. Shall we call them “Lapides (or “Marmora”) 
 Portici; ” and put a little preface to them about the pave¬ 
 ment of St. Mark’s porch and its symbolism of what the edu¬ 
 cation of a good man’s early days must be to him ? I think 
 I can write something a little true and trustworthy about it. 
 Love to Mary and singing little Joan. You are very right 
 about it’s not being good for me to be alone, but I had some 
 nice little times in London with Mary Gladstone, or I shouldn’t 
 have known what to do. And now I’m coming home as fast 
 as I can. 
 
 2 6th November. 
 
 I have entirely resigned all hope of ever thanking you 
 rightly for bread, sweet odors, roses and pearls, and must just 
 allow myself to be fed, scented, rose-garlanded and bepearled 
 as if I were a poor little pet dog or pet pig. But my cold is 
 better, and I am getting on with this botany ; but it is really 
 too important a work to be pushed for a week or a fortnight. 
 And Mary and you will bo pleased at last, I am sure. 
 
II OUT US WCLUSIIS . 
 
 43 
 
 I have only to-day got my four families, Clarissa, Lychnis, 
 Scintilla, and Mica, perfectly and simply defined. See how 
 nicely they come. 
 
 A. Clarissa changed from Dianthus, which is bad Greek (and all 
 
 my pretty flowers have names of girls). Petal jagged at the 
 outside. 
 
 B. Lychnis. Petal divided in two at the outside, and the fringe re¬ 
 
 tired to the top of the limb. 
 
 C. Scintilla (changed from Stellaria, because I want Stella for 
 
 the house leeks). Petal formed by the two lobes of Lychnis 
 without the retired fringe. 
 
 D. Mica. Single lobed petal. 
 
 When once these four families are well understood in typi¬ 
 cal examples, how easy it will be to attach either subordinate 
 groups or specialties of habitat, as in America, to some kinds 
 of them ! The entire order, for their purity and wildness, aro 
 to be named, from Artemis, “ Artemides,” instead of Caryo- 
 phyllaceae; and next them come the Vestals (mints, lavenders, 
 etc.) ; and then the Cytheride Viola, Veronica, Giulietta, the 
 last changed from Polygala. 
 
 That third herb Robert one is just the drawing that no¬ 
 body but me (never mind grammar) could have made. No¬ 
 body ! because it means ever so much careful watching of the 
 ways of the leaf, and a lot of work in cramp perspective be¬ 
 sides. It is not quite right yet, but it is nice. 
 
 It is so nice to be able to find anything that is in the least 
 new to you , and interesting; my rocks are quite proud of 
 rooting that little saxifrage. 
 
 I’m scarcely able to look at one flower because of the two 
 on each side, in my garden just now. I want to have bees’ 
 eyes, there are so many lovely things. 
 
 I must tell you, interrupting my botanical work this morn¬ 
 ing, something that has just chanced to me. 
 
 I am arranging the caryophylls which I mass broadly into 
 “ Clarissa, ” the true jagged-leaved and clove-scented ones ; 
 “Lychnis, '* those whose leaves are essentially in two lobes ; 
 
44 
 
 IIOUT 118 INCLUSUS. 
 
 “ Arenaria,” which I leave untouclied ; and “Mica,” a new 
 name of my own for the pearlworts, of which the French name 
 is to be Miette, and the representative type (now Sagina pro¬ 
 cumbent) is to be in— 
 
 Latin —Mica arnica. 
 
 French —Miette l’amie. 
 
 English —Pet pearlwort. 
 
 Then the next to this is to be— 
 
 Latin —Mica millegrana. 
 
 French —Miette aux mille perles. 
 
 English —Thousand pearls. 
 
 Now this on the whole I consider the prettiest of the group, 
 and so look for a plate of it which I can copy. Hunting all 
 through my botanical books, I find the best of all is Baxter’s 
 Oxford one, and determine at once to engrave that. When 
 turning the page of his text I find: “ The specimen of this 
 curious and interesting little plant from which the accompa¬ 
 nying drawing was made, was communicated to me by Miss 
 Susan Beever. To the kindness of this young lady, and that 
 of her sister, Miss Mary Beever, I am indebted for the four 
 plants figured in this number.” 
 
 I have copied lest you should have trouble in looking for 
 the book, but now, you darling Susie, please tell me whether 
 I may not separate these lovely pearlworts wholly from the 
 spergulas—by the pearlworts having only two leaves like real 
 pinks at the joints, and the spergulas, a cluster ; and tell me 
 how the spergulas scatter their seeds, I can’t find any account 
 of it. 
 
 I would fain have come to see that St. Bruno lily; but if I 
 don’t come to see Susie and you, be sure I am able to come 
 to see nothing. At present I am very deeply involved in the 
 classification of the minerals in the Sheffield Museum, impor¬ 
 tant as the first practical arrangement ever yet attempted for 
 popular teaching, and this with my other work makes me fit 
 for nothing in the afternoon but wood-chopping. But I will 
 call to-day on Dr. Brown’s friends. 
 
IIORTITS I Is CL US US. 
 
 45 
 
 I hope you will not be too much shocked with the audacities 
 of the new number of “ Proserpina,” or with its ignorances. 
 I am going during my wood-chopping really to ascertain in 
 my own way what simple persons ought to know about tree 
 growth, and give it clearly in the next number. I meant to do 
 the whole book very differently, but can only now give the 
 fragmentary pieces as they chance to come, or it would never 
 be done at all. 
 
 You must know before anybody else how the exogens are 
 to be completely divided. I keep the four great useful 
 groups, mallow, geranium, mint, and wall-flower, under the 
 head of domestic orders, that their sweet service and com¬ 
 panionship with us may be understood ; then the water-lily 
 and the heath, both four foils, are to be studied in their soli¬ 
 tudes (I shall throw all that are not four foils out of the Eri¬ 
 caceae) ; then finally there are to be seven orders of the dark 
 proserpine, headed by the draconids (snapdragons), and in¬ 
 cluding the anemones, hellebores, ivies, and forget-me-nots. 
 
 What plants I cannot get arranged under these 12-f 4 + 2 + 
 7 = 25 in all, orders, I shall give broken notices of, as I have 
 time, leaving my pupils to arrange them as they like. I can’t 
 do it all. 
 
 The whole household was out after breakfast to-day to the 
 top of the moor to plant cranberries ; and we squeezed and 
 splashed and spluttered in the boggiest places the lovely sun¬ 
 shine had left, till we found places squashy and squeezy 
 enough to please the most particular and coolest of cranberry 
 minds ; and then each of us choosing a little special bed of 
 bog, the tufts were deeply put in with every manner of tacit 
 benediction, such as might befit a bog and a berry, and many 
 an expressed thanksgiving to Susie and to the kind sender of 
 the luxuriant plants. I have never had gift from you, dear 
 Susie, more truly interesting and gladdening to me, and many 
 a day I shall climb the moor to see the fate of the plants and 
 look across to the Tliwaite. I’ve been out most, of the fore¬ 
 noon and am too sleepy to shape letters, but will try and get 
 a word of thanks to the far finder of the dainty things to¬ 
 
 morrow. 
 
HORTtJS INCLUSTTS. 
 
 * 4 G 
 
 Wliat loveliness everywhere in a duckling sort of state just 
 now. 
 
 2Wl November. 
 
 We’ve all been counting and considering how old you can 
 possibly be to-day, and have made up our minds that you are 
 really thirteen, and must begin to be serious. There have 
 been some hints about the necessity of sending you to school, 
 which I have taken no notice of, hoping that you will really 
 at last make up your mind to do your lessons at home like a 
 dear good little girl as you are. And because to-day you 
 enter into your “ teens ” I have sent you a crystal, and a little 
 bit of native gold, and a little bit of native silver, for symbols 
 of this lovely “ nativity ” of previous years ; and I do wish 
 you all love and joy and peace in them. 
 
 TO MISS BEEVER. 
 
 20 th January , 1879. 
 
 You will not doubt the extreme sorrow with which I have 
 heard of all that was ordered to be, of terrible, in your peace¬ 
 ful and happy household. Without for an instant supposing, 
 but, on the contrary, utterly refusing to admit, that such 
 calamities* may be used to point a moral (all useful morality 
 having every point that God meant it to have, perfectly sharp 
 and bright without any burnishing of ours), still less to adorn 
 a tale (the tales of modern days depending far too much upon 
 Scythian decoration with Death’s heads) ; I, yet, if I had been 
 Mr. Chapman, would have pointed out that all concealments, 
 even of trivial matters, on the part of young servants from 
 kind mistresses, are dangerous no less than unkind and un¬ 
 generous, and that a great deal of preaching respecting the 
 evil nature of man and the anger of God might be spared, if 
 children and servants were only taught, as a religious prin- 
 
 * One of onr younger servants had gone on to the frozen lake ; the ice 
 gave way, and she was drowned.—S. B. 
 
n OUT US INGLUSUS. 
 
 47 
 
 ciple, to tell their mothers and mistresses, when they go out, 
 exactly where they are going and what they are going to do. 
 I think both you and Miss Susan ought to use every possible 
 means of changing, or at least checking, the current of such 
 thoughts in your minds ; and I am in hopes that you may have 
 a little pleasure in examining the plates in the volume of Sib- 
 thorpe’s “F. Grseca” which I send to-day, in comparison with 
 those of “F. Danica.” The vulgarity and lifelessness of Sib- 
 thorpe’s plates are the more striking, because in mere execu¬ 
 tion they are the more elaborate of the two ; the chief point 
 in the “F. Danica” being the lovely artistic skill. The draw¬ 
 ings for Sibthorpe, by a young German, were as exquisite as 
 the Danes, but the English engraver and colorist spoiled all. 
 
 I will send you, if you like them, the other volumes in suc¬ 
 cession. I find immense interest in comparing the Greek 
 and Danish forms or conditions of the same English flower. 
 
 I send the second volume, in which the Rufias are lovely, 
 and scarcely come under my above condemnation. The first 
 is nearly all of grass. 
 
 4 th February. 
 
 You know I’m getting my Oxford minerals gradually to 
 Brantwood, and whenever a box comes, I think whether there 
 are any that I don’t want myself, which might yet have leave 
 to live on Susie’s table. And to-day I’ve found a very soft 
 purple agate, that looks as if it were nearly melted away 
 with pity for birds and flies, which is like Susie ; and an¬ 
 other piece of hard wooden agate with only a little ragged 
 sky of blue here and there, which is like me ; and a group of 
 crystals with grass of Epidote inside, which is like w r hat my 
 own little cascade has been all the winter by the garden side ; 
 and so I’ve had them all packed up, and I hope you will let 
 them live at the Thwaite. 
 
 Then here are some more bits, if you will be a child. 
 Here’s a green piece, long, of the stone they cut those green, 
 
 weedy brooches out of, and a nice mouse-colored natural agate, 
 
48 
 
 II OUT ITS INCLUSUS. 
 
 and a great black and white one, stained with sulphuric acid, 
 black, but very fine always, and interesting in its lines. 
 
 Oh, dear, the cold ; but it’s worth any cold to have that 
 delicious Robin dialogue. Please write some more of it ; 
 you hear all they say, I’m sure. 
 
 I cannot tell you how delighted I am with your lovely gift 
 to Joanie. The perfection of the stone, its exquisite color, 
 and superb weight, and flawless clearness, and the delicate 
 cutting, which makes the light flash from it like a wave of 
 the Lake, make it altogether the most perfect mineralogical 
 and heraldic jewel that Joanie could be bedecked with, and 
 it is as if Susie had given her a piece of Coniston Water it¬ 
 self. 
 
 And the setting is delicious, and positively must not be 
 altered. I shall come on Sunday to thank you myself for 
 it. Meantime I’m working hard at the Psalter, which I am 
 almost sure Susie will like. 
 
 25 th May. 
 
 This is a most wonderful stone that Dr. Kendall has found 
 —at least to me. I have never seen anything quite like it, 
 the arborescent forms of the central thread of iron being 
 hardly ever assumed by an ore of so much metallic lustre. I 
 think it would be very desirable to cut it, so as to get a per¬ 
 fectly smooth surface to show the arborescent forms ; if Dr. 
 Kendall would like to have it done, I can easily send it up to 
 London with my own next parcel. 
 
 I want very much to know exactly where it was found ; 
 might I come and ask about it on Dr. Kendall’s next visit to 
 you ? I could be there waiting for him any day. 
 
 I am thinking greatly of our George Herbert, but me’s so 
 wficked I don’t know where to begin. 
 
 But I never have had nicer letters “ since first I saw your 
 face ” and tried to honor and reverence you. 
 
 Violet’s better, and I’m pretty well, but have a little too 
 much thinking of old days, 
 
ITOliTUS INOLUSUS. 
 
 49 
 
 Have you any word of the Collies lately ? I keep sending 
 stones and books ; they answer not. It is delightful of you 
 to be interested in that stone book. I send you one of my 
 pictures of stones. They’re not very like, but they’re pretty. 
 I wish they did such pictures now. 
 
 What lovely pies (pictures ?) you would have made, in the 
 old butterfly times, of opal and felspar ! What lost creat¬ 
 ures we all are, we nice ones! The Alps and clouds that 1 
 could have done, if I had been shown how. 
 
 27 th June. 
 
 Everybody’s gone ! and I have all the new potatoes, and all 
 the asparagus, and all the oranges and everything, and my 
 Susie too, all to myself. 
 
 I wrote in my diary this morning that really on the whole 
 I never felt better in my life. Mouth, eyes, head, feet, and 
 fingers all fairly in trim ; older than they were, yes, but if 
 the head and heart grow wiser, they won’t want feet or 
 fingers some day. 
 
 Indeed that is too sad about Florence. I’ve written a line 
 to her by this post, and will do all the little I can to cheer 
 her. 
 
 And I’ll come to be cheered and scolded myself the 
 moment I’ve got things a little to rights here. I think imps 
 get into the shelves and drawers, if they’re kept long locked, 
 and must be caught like mice. The boys have been very 
 good, and left everything untouched but the imps; and to 
 hear people say there aren’t any! How happy you and I 
 should always be if it weren’t for them ! But we’re both so 
 naughty we can’t expect them to let us alone. Can we ? 
 
 How gay you were and how you cheered me up after the 
 dark lake. 
 
 Please say “John Inglesant” is harder than real history 
 and of no mortal use. I couldn’t read four pages of it. 
 Clever, of course. 
 
 4 
 
50 
 
 HORTUS INGLUSU8. 
 
 Herne Hill, 14 th August , 1880. 
 
 I’ve just finished my Scott paper, but it has retouchings 
 and notings yet to do. I couldn’t write a word before; 
 haven’t so much as a syllable to Diddie, and only a move at 
 chess to Macdonald, for you know, to keep a chess-player 
 waiting for a move is like keeping St. Lawrence unturned. 
 
 21 st August , 1880. 
 
 I’m leaving to-day for Dover, and a line from you to-morrow 
 or Monday would find me certainly at Poste Restante, Abbe¬ 
 ville, and please, please tell me the funny thing Miss- 
 
 said. 
 
 I have not been working at all, but enjoying myself 
 (only that takes up time all the same) at Crystal Palace 
 concerts, and jugglings, and at Zoological Gardens, where I 
 had a snake seven feet long to play with, only I hadn’t much 
 time to make friends, and it rather wanted to get away all 
 the time. And I gave the hippopotamus whole buns, and he 
 was delighted, and saw the cormorant catch fish thrown to 
 him six yards off; never missed one ; you would have thought 
 the fish ran along a wire up to him and down his throat. 
 And I saw the penguin swim under water, and the seasons 
 sit up, four of them on four wooden chairs, and catch fish 
 also ; but they missed sometimes and had to flop off their 
 chairs into the water, and then flop out again and flop up 
 again. 
 
 And I lunched with Cardinal Manning, and he gave me 
 such a plum pie. I never tasted a Protestant pie to touch it. 
 
 Now you’re just wrong about my darling Cardinal. See 
 what it is to be jealous! He gave me lovely soup, roast 
 beef, hare and currant jelly, puff pastry like Papal preten¬ 
 sions—you had but to breathe on it and it was nowhere— 
 raisins and almonds, and those lovely preserved cherries like 
 
HORTUS INGLU8US. 51 
 
 kisses kept in amber. And told me delicious stories all 
 through lunch. There! 
 
 And we really do see the sun here! And last night the 
 sky was all a spangle and delicate glitter of stars, the glare of 
 them and spikiness softened off by a young darling of a 
 
 moon. 
 
 And I’m having rather a time of it in boudoirs, turned into 
 smiling instead of pouting service. But I’m not going to 
 stay over my three weeks. How nice that you can and will 
 walk round the dining-room for exercise ! 
 
 Calais, 2Ath August. 
 
 I’m not very far away yet, you see. I stayed here for 
 auld lang syne, but with endless sorrow, of which I need not 
 give you any part of the burden. 
 
 The sea has been beautiful, and I am better for the great 
 rest and change. 
 
 Amiens, 29 th August. 
 
 You have been made happy doubtless with us by the news 
 from Herne Hill. I’ve only a telegram yet though, but write 
 at once to congratulate you on your little goddaughter. 
 
 Also to say that I am very well, and sadly longing for 
 Brantwood ; but that I am glad to see some vestige of beloved 
 things here, once more. 
 
 We have glorious weather, and I am getting perfect rest 
 most of the day—mere saunter in the sunnj^ air, taking all the 
 good I can of it. To-morrow we get (D. V.) to Beauvais, 
 where perhaps I may find a letter from Susie ; in any case 
 you may write to Hotel Meurice, Paris. 
 
 The oleanders are coming out and geraniums in all cottage 
 windows, and golden corn like Etruscan jewelry over all the 
 fields. 
 
 Beauvais, 3d September. 
 
 We are having the most perfect weather I ever saw in 
 France, much less anywhere else, and I’m taking a thorough 
 
52 
 
 no nr us inclusus . 
 
 rest, writing scarcely anything and sauntering about old town 
 streets all day. 
 
 I made a little sketch of the lake from above the Waterhead 
 which goes everywhere with me, and it is so curious when the 
 wind blows the leaf open when I am sketching here at Beau¬ 
 vais, where all is so differently delightful, as if we were on 
 the other side of the world. 
 
 I think I shall be able to write some passages about archi¬ 
 tecture yet, which Susie will like. I hear of countless 
 qualities being discovered in the new little Susie ! And all 
 things will be happy for me if you send me a line to Hotel 
 Meurice, saying you are happy too. 
 
 Paris, 4 th September. 
 
 I have all your letters, and rejoice in them ; though it is a 
 little sadder for you looking at empty Brantwood, than for me 
 to fancy the bright full Thwaite, and then it’s a great shame 
 that I’ve everything to amuse me, and lovely Louvres and 
 shops and cathedrals and coquettes and pictures and plays 
 and prettinesses of every color and quality, and you’ve only 
 your old, old hills and quiet lake. Very thankful I shall be 
 to get back to them, though. 
 
 We have finished our Paris this afternoon, and hope to 
 leave for Chartres on Monday. 
 
 Hotel de Meurice, Paris, 4 th September. 
 
 Is it such pain to you when people say what they ought not 
 to say about me ? But when do they say what they ought to 
 say about anything ? Nearly everything I have ever done or 
 said is as much above the present level of public understand¬ 
 ing as the Old Man is above the Waterhead. 
 
 We have had the most marvellous weather thus far, and 
 have seen Paris better than ever I’ve seen it yet—and to-day at 
 the Louvre we saw the Casette of St. Louis, the Coffre of 
 Anne of Austria, the porphyry vase, made into an eagle, of an 
 
IIORTUS INCLTTSUS. 
 
 53 
 
 old Abbe Segur, or some such name. All these you can see 
 also, you know, in those lovely photographs of Miss Kigbye’s, 
 if you can only make out in this vile writing of mine what I 
 mean. 
 
 But it is so hot. I can scarcely sit up or hold the pen, but 
 tumble back into the chair every half-minute and unbutton 
 another button of waistcoat, and gasp a little, and nod a little, 
 and wink a little, and sprinkle some eau de Cologne a little, 
 and try a little to write a little, and forget what I had to say, 
 and where I was, and whether it’s Susie or Joan I’m writing 
 to ; and then I see some letters I’ve never opened that came 
 by this morning’s post, and think I’d better open them per¬ 
 haps ; and here I find in one of them a delightful account of 
 the quarrel that goes on in this weather between the nicest 
 elephant in the Zoo’ and his keeper, because he won’t come 
 out of his bath. I saw them at it myself, when I was in 
 London, and saw the elephant take up a stone and throw it hard 
 against a door which the keeper was behind—but my friend 
 writes, “ I must believe from what I saw that the elephant 
 knew he would injure the man with the stones, for he threw 
 them hard to the side of him, and then stood his ground; 
 when, however, he threw water and wetted the man, ho 
 plunged into the bath to avoid the whip ; not fearing punish¬ 
 ment when he merely showed what he could do and did not. 
 
 The throwing the stone hard at the door when the keeper 
 was on the other side of it, must have been great fun for him ! 
 
 I am so sorry to have crushed this enclosed scrawl. It has 
 been carried about in my pocket to be finished, and I see 
 there’s no room for the least bit of love at the bottom, bo 
 here’s a leaf full from the Bois de Boulogne, which is very 
 lovely ; and we drive about by night or day, as if all the sky 
 were only the roof of a sapphire palace set with warm stars. 
 
 Ciiartres, 8 th September. 
 
 (Hotel du Grand Monarque.) 
 
 I suppose Vm the grand Monarque ! I don t know of any 
 other going just now, but I don’t feel quite the right thing 
 
54 
 
 II OUT US INCLUSUS. 
 
 without a wig. Anyhow, I’m having everything my own way 
 just now—weather, dinner, news from Joanie and news from 
 Susie, only I don’t like her to be so very, very sad, though it 
 is nice to be missed so tenderly. But I do hope you will like 
 to think of my getting some joy in old ways again, and once 
 more exploring old streets and finding forgotten churches. 
 
 The sunshine is life and health to me, and I am gaining 
 knowledge faster than ever I could when I was young. 
 
 This is just to say where I am, and that you might know 
 where to write. 
 
 The cathedral here is the grandest in France, and I stay a 
 week at least. 
 
 Chartres, 13 th September. 
 
 I must be back in England by the 1st October, and by the 
 10th shall be myself ready to start for Brantwood, but may 
 perhaps stay, if Joanie is not ready, till she can come too. 
 Anyway, I trust very earnestly to be safe in the shelter of my 
 own woodside by the end of October. I wonder what you 
 will say of my account of the Five Lovers of Nature* and se¬ 
 clusion in the last Nineteenth Century. 
 
 I am a little ashamed to find that, in spite of my sublimely 
 savage temperament, I take a good deal more pleasure in 
 Paris than of old, and am even going back there on Friday 
 for three more days. 
 
 We find the people here very amiable, and the French old 
 character unchanged. The perfect cleanliness and unruffled¬ 
 ness of white cap is always a marvel, and the market groups 
 exquisite, but our enjoyment of the fair is subdued by pity 
 for a dutiful dog, who turns a large wheel (by walking up it 
 inside) the whole afternoon, producing awful sounds out of a 
 huge grinding organ, of which his wheel and he are the un¬ 
 fortunate instruments. Him we love, his wheel we hate ! and 
 in general all French musical instruments. I have become 
 quite sure of one thing on this journey, that the French of 
 
 * Rousseau, Shelley, Byron, Turner, and John Ruskiu. 
 
HORTUS INCLUSUS. 
 
 to-day have no sense of harmony, but only of more or less 
 lively tune, and even, for a time, will be content with any 
 kind of clash or din produced in time. 
 
 The Cathedral service is, however, still impressive. 
 
 1 Sth February , 1881. 
 
 I ve much to tell you “ to-day ”* of answer to those prayers 
 you prayed for me. But you must be told it by our good 
 angels, for your eyes must not be worn. God willing, you 
 shall see men as trees walking in the garden of God, on this 
 pretty Coniston earth of ours. Don’t be afraid, and please be 
 happy, for I can’t be, if you are not. Love to Mary, to Miss 
 Itigbye, and my own St. Ursula, f and mind you give the 
 messages to all three, heartily. 
 
 22d April. 
 
 I’m not able to scratch or fight to-day, or I wouldn't let 
 you cover me up with this heap of gold ; but I’ve got a rheu¬ 
 matic creak in my neck, which makes me physically stilt and 
 morally supple and unprincipled, so I’vo put two pounds six¬ 
 teen in my own “ till,” where it just fills up some lowering of 
 the tide lately by German bands and the like ; and I’ve put 
 ten pounds aside for Sheffield Museum, now in instant men¬ 
 dicity ; and I’ve put ten pounds aside till you and I can have 
 a talk and you be made reasonable, after being scolded and 
 scratched ; after which, on your promiso to keep to our old 
 bargain and enjoy spending your little “Frondes” income, 
 I’ll be your lovingest again. And for the two pounds ten, 
 and the ten, I am really most heartily grateful, meaning as 
 they do so much that is delightful for both of us in the good 
 done by this work of yours. 
 
 I send you Spenser; perhaps you had better begin with 
 
 * The motto on Mr. Ruskin’s seal. See Praeterita, Vol. II., p. 286. 
 \ Photograph of Carpaccio’s. 
 
50 
 
 nORTUS IN GL US US. 
 
 the Hymn to Beauty, page 39, and then go on to the Tears ; 
 but you’ll see how you like it. It’s better than Longfellow ; 
 see line 52- 
 
 “The house of blessed gods which men call skye.” 
 
 Now I’m going to look out Dr. Kendall’s crystal. It must 
 be crystal,* for having brought back the light to your eyes. 
 
 12 th July. 
 
 How delightful that you have that nice Mrs. Howard to 
 hear you say “The Ode to Beauty,” and how nice that you 
 can learn it and enjoy saying it! j* I do not know it myself. 
 I only know that it should be known and said and heard and 
 loved. 
 
 I am often near you in thought, but can’t get over the lake, 
 somehow. There’s always somebody to be looked after here, 
 now. I’ve to rout the gardeners out of the greenhouse, or I 
 should never have a strawberry or a pink, but only nasty 
 gloxinias and glaring fuchsias ; and I’ve been giving lessons to 
 dozens of people, and writing charming sermons in the 
 “ Bible of Amiens ; ” but I get so sleepy in the afternoon, I 
 can’t pull myself over it. 
 
 I was looking at your notes on birds, yesterday. How 
 sweet they are ! But I can’t forgive that young blackbird for 
 getting wild again. 
 
 Last day of 1881. And the last letter 
 I write on it , with new pen. 
 
 I’ve lunched on your oysters, and am feasting eyes and 
 mind on your birds. 
 
 What birds? 
 
 * For a present to Dr. Kendall. 
 
 f I learned the whole of it by heart, and could then say it without a 
 break. 1 have always loved it, and in return it has helped me through 
 many a long and sleepless night.—S. B. 
 
nORTUS INCLUSUS. 
 
 57 
 
 Woodcock? Yes, I suppose, and never before noticed the 
 sheath of his bill going over the front of the lower mandible, 
 that he may dig comfortably ! But the others ! the glory of 
 velvet and silk and cloud and light, and black and tan and 
 gold, and golden sand, and dark tresses, and purple shadows, 
 and moors and mists, and night and starlight, and woods and 
 wilds, and dells and deeps, and every mystery of heaven and 
 its finger-work, is in those little birds’ backs and wings. I 
 am so grateful. All love and joy to you, and wings to fly 
 with and birds’ hearts to comfort, and mine, be to you in the 
 coming year. 
 
 Easter Day , 1882. 
 
 I have had a happy Easter morning, entirely bright in its 
 sun and clear in sky ; and with renewed strength, enough to 
 begin again the piece of St. Benedict’s life, where I broke off 
 to lose these four weeks in London—weeks not wholly lost, 
 neither, for I have learned more and more of what I should 
 have known without lessoning ; but I have learnt it, from 
 these repeated dreams and fantasies, that we walk in a vain 
 shadow, and disquiet ourselves in vain. So I am for the 
 present, everybody says, quite good, and give as little trouble 
 as possible ; but people will take it, you know, sometimes, 
 even when I don’t give it, and there’s a great fuss about mo 
 yet. But you must not be anxious any more, Susie, for 
 really there is no more occasion at one time than another. 
 All the doctors say I needn’t be ill unless I like, and I don’t 
 mean to like any more; and as far as chances of ordinary 
 danger, I think one runs more risks in a single railway journey 
 than in the sicknesses of a whole year. 
 
 8 th June. 
 
 You write as well as ever, and the eyes must surely bo 
 better, and it was a joyful amazement to mo to hear that 
 Mary was able to read and could enjoy my child’s botany. 
 You always have things before other people; will you pleaso 
 
58 
 
 n OUT US 1N0LUSUS. 
 
 send me some rosemary and lavender as soon as they are out? 
 I am busy on tlie Labiatm, and a good deal bothered. Also 
 St. Benedict, whom I shall get done with long before I’ve 
 made out the nettles he rolled in. 
 
 I’m sure I ought to roll myself in nettles, burdocks, and 
 blackthorn, for here in London I can’t really think now of 
 anything but flirting, and I’m only much the worse for it 
 afterward. 
 
 And I’m generally wicked and weary, like the people who 
 ought to be put to rest. But you’d miss me, and so would 
 Joanie ; so I suppose I shall be let stay a little while longer. 
 
 Sallencites, Savoy, 13 th September. 
 
 I saw Mont Blanc again to-day, unseen since 1877 ; and was 
 very thankful. It is a sight that always redeems me to what 
 I am capable of at ray poor little best, and to what loves and 
 memories are most precious to me. So I write to you , one of 
 the few true loves left. The snow has fallen fresh on the 
 hills, and it makes me feel that I must soon be seeking 
 shelter at Brantwood and the Thwaite. 
 
 Genoa, Sunday , 24/7^ September. 
 
 I got your delightful note yesterday at Turin, and it made 
 me wish to run back through the tunnel directly instead of 
 coming on here. But I had a wonderful day, the Alps clear 
 all the morning all round Italy—two hundred miles of them ; 
 and then in the afternoon blue waves of the Gulf of Genoa 
 breaking like blue clouds, thunder-clouds, under groves of 
 olive and palm. But I wished they were my sparkling waves 
 of Coniston instead, when I read your letter again. 
 
 What a gay Susie, receiving all the world, like a Queen 
 Susan (how odd one has never heard of a Queen Susan !), only 
 you arc so naughty, and you never do tell me of any of those 
 nice girls when they’re coming „ but only when they’re gone, 
 and I never shall get glimpse of them as long as I live. 
 
HORTUS WCLUSUS. 
 
 59 
 
 But you know you really represent the entire Buskin 
 school of the Lake Country, and I think these levees of yours 
 must be very amusing and enchanting ; but it’s very dear and 
 good of you to let the people come and enjoy themselves, and 
 how really well and strong you must be to be able for it. 
 
 I am very glad to hear of those sweet, shy girls, poor 
 things.* I suppose the sister they are now anxious about is 
 the one that would live by herself on the other side of the 
 Lake, and study Emerson and aspire to Buddhism. 
 
 I’m trying to put my own poor little fragmentary Ism into 
 a rather more connected form of imagery. I’ve never quito 
 set myself up enough to impress some people ; and I’ve 
 written so much that I can’t quite make out what I am my¬ 
 self, nor what it all comes to. 
 
 1( )th Junuary , 1883. 
 
 I cannot tell you how grateful and glad I am, to have your 
 lovely note and to know that the Bewick gave you pleasure, 
 and that you are so entirely well now, as to enjoy anything 
 requiring so much energy and attention to this degree. For 
 indeed I can scarcely now take pleasure myself in things that 
 give me the least trouble to look at, but I know that the 
 pretty book and its chosen woodcuts ought to be sent to you, 
 first of all my friends (I have not yet thought of sending it to 
 anyone else), and I am quite put in heart after a very despon¬ 
 dent yesterday, past inanely, in thinking of what I couldn't do, 
 by feeling what you can , and hoping to share the happy 
 Christmas time with you and Susie in future years. Will you 
 please tell my dear Susie I’m going to bring over a drawing 
 to show ! (so thankful that I am still able to draw after these 
 strange and terrible illnesses) this afternoon. I am in hopes it 
 may clear, but dark or bright I’m coming, about half-past 
 three, and am ever your and her most affectionate and faithful 
 servant. 
 
 * Florence, Alice, and May Bennett. Florence is gone. Alice and 
 May still sometimes at Coniston, D. G. (March, 1887). 
 
CO 
 
 IIORTUS INGLUSUS. 
 
 %lth September , 1884. 
 
 I wandered literally “ up and down ” your mountain 
 garden—(liow beautifully the native rocks slope to its paths 
 in the sweet evening light, Susiesque light!)—with great 
 happiness and admiration, as I went home, and I came indeed 
 upon what I conceived to be—discovered in the course of 
 recent excavations—two deeply interesting thrones of the 
 ancient Abbots of Furness, typifying their humility in that 
 the seats thereof were only level with the ground between two 
 clusters of the earth ; contemplating cyclamen, and then- 
 severity of penance, in the points of stone prepared for the 
 mortification of their backs ; but truly, Susie’s seat of repose 
 and meditation I was unable as yet to discern, but propose to 
 myself further investigation of that apple-perfumed paradise, 
 and am ever your devoted and enchanted. 
 
 1st December. 
 
 I gave my fourteenth, and last for this year, lecture this 
 afternoon with vigor and effect, and am safe and well (D. G.), 
 after such a spell of work as I never did before. I have been 
 thrown a week out in all my plans, by having to write two new 
 Lectures, instead of those the University was frightened at. 
 The scientists slink out of my way now, as if I was a mad dog, 
 for I let them have it hot and heavy whenever I’ve a chance 
 at them. 
 
 But as I said, I’m a week late, and though I start for the 
 North this day week, I can’t get home till this day fortnight at 
 soonest, but I hope not later than to- morrow fortnight. Very 
 thankful I shall be to find myself again at the little room door. 
 
 Fancy Mary Gladstone forgiving me even that second 
 naughtiness ! She’s going to let me come to see her this 
 week, and to play to me, which is a great comfort. 
 
 St. Susie, 27 th November, 1885. 
 
 Behold Athena and Apollo both come to bless you on your 
 birthday, and all the buds of the year to come, rejoice with 
 
II0RTU8 INCLUSUS. 
 
 61 
 
 you, and your poor cat * is able to purr again, and is extremely 
 comfortable and even cheerful “ to-day.” And we will make 
 more and more of the days, won’t we, and we will burn our 
 candle at both beginnings instead of both ends, every day 
 beginning two worlds—the old one to be lived over again, 
 the new to learn our golden letters in. Not that I mean to 
 write books in that world. I hope to be set to do something, 
 there ; and what lovely “ receptions ” you will have in your 
 little heavenly Thwaite, and celestial teas. And you won’t 
 spoil the cream with hot water, will you, any more ? 
 
 The whole village is enjoying itself, I hear, and the widows 
 and orphans to be much the better for it, and altogether, you 
 and I have a jolly time of it, haven’t we ? 
 
 2 Oth February , 1886. 
 
 I haven’t had anything nice to send you this ever so long, 
 but here’s a little bird’s nest of native silver which you could 
 almost live in as comfortably as a tit. It will stand nicely 
 on your table without upsetting, and is so comfortable to 
 hold, and altogether I’m pleased to have got it for you. 
 
 1st March. 
 
 Yes, I knew you would like that silver shrine ! and it is an 
 extremely rare and perfect specimen. But you need not bo 
 afraid in handling it ; if the little bit of spar does come off 
 it, or out of it, no matter. 
 
 But of course nobody else should touch it, till you give 
 
 them leave, and show them how. 
 
 I am sorry for poor Miss Brown, and for your not having 
 known the Doctor. He should have come here when I told 
 him. I believe he would have been alive yet, and I never 
 should have been ill. 
 
 *J. R. 
 
HORTUS INCLUSUS. 
 
 62 
 
 I believe j r ou know more Latin than I do, and can certainly 
 make more delightful use of it. 
 
 Your mornings’ ministry to the birds must be remembered 
 for you by the angels who paint their feathers. They will 
 all, one day, be birds of Paradise, and say, when the adverse 
 angel accuses you of being naughty to some people, “ But w t o 
 were hungry and she gave us corn, and took care that nobody 
 else ate it.” 
 
 I am indeed thankful you are better. But you must please 
 tell me what the thing was I said which gave you so much 
 pain. Do you recollect also what the little bit in “ Proser¬ 
 pina ” was that said so much to you ? Were you not think¬ 
 ing of “ Fors ? ” 
 
 I am very thankful for all your dear letters always—greatly 
 delighted above all with the squirrel one, and Chaucer. 
 Didn’t he love squirrels ! and don’t I wish I was a squirrel in 
 Susie’s pear-trees, instead of a hobbling disconsolate old man, 
 with no teeth to bite, much less crack, anything, and particu¬ 
 larly forbidden to eat nuts ! 
 
 Your precious letter, showing me you are a little better, 
 came this morning, with the exquisite feathers, one, darker 
 and lovelier than any I have seen, but please, I still want one 
 not in the least flattened ; all these have lost just the least 
 bit of their shell-like bending. You can so easily devise a 
 little padding to keep two strong cards or bits of wood separ¬ 
 ate for one or two to lie happily in. I don’t mind giving you 
 this tease, for the throat will bo better the less you remember 
 it. But for all of us, a dark sky is assuredly a poisonous 
 and depressing power, which neither surgery nor medicine 
 can resist. The difference to me between nature as she is 
 now, and as she was ten years ago, is as great as between 
 Lapland and Italy, and the total loss of comfort in morning 
 and evening sky, the most difficult to resist of all spiritual 
 hostility 
 
HORTUS INGLUSUS . 
 
 63 
 
 1st May , 1886. 
 
 What lovely letters you are writing me just now, but as for 
 my not having said any pretty things of you for a long while, 
 you know perfectly that I am saying them in my heart every 
 day and all day long ! I can’t find a shell marble, but I send 
 you (to look at, it’s too ugly for a present) a shell agate made 
 of shells, in a shell, as if in a pot! 
 
 And I send you for a May-day gift, with all loving May, June, 
 and December, and January wishes, such a pretty green and 
 white stone gone maying, as one doesn’t often see with the 
 rest of the Jacks-in-the-green. 
 
 And I’m ever (or at least for a while yet) your curled up old 
 cat. I shall come out of curl and get frisky when the 
 hyacinths come out. Telegram just come from Ireland : 
 “ Rose queen elected ; sweetly pretty, and all most happy.” 
 
 22d May , 1886. 
 
 Of course the little pyramid in crystal is a present. With 
 that enjoyment of Pinkerton,* you will have quite a new in¬ 
 doors interest, whatever the rain may say. 
 
 How very lucky you asked me what basalt was! How 
 much has come out of it (written in falling asleep) ? I’ve 
 been out all the morning and am so sleepy. 
 
 But I’ve written a nice little bit of “ Pra3terita” before I 
 went out, trying to describe the Rhone at Geneva. I think 
 Susie will like it, if nobody else. 
 
 That “ not enjoying the beauty of things ” goes ever so 
 much deeper than mere blindness. It is a form of antagon¬ 
 ism, and is essentially Satanic. A most strange form of 
 demonology in otherwise good people, or shall we say in 
 “ good people ? ” You know we are not good at all, are we, 
 now? 
 
 I don’t think you’ve got any green in your mica, I’ve sent 
 you a bit enclosed with some jealous spots in. 
 
 * Pinkerton on Petralogy. 
 
64 
 
 H OUT US IN CL US US. 
 
 Last day of May. 
 
 I’m bringing to-day with the strawroots, twelve more 
 sketches in folio, and the plan is that out of those, making 
 with the rest twenty-four, you choose twelve to keep next 
 week, with the new folio of twelve to be then brought, and 
 you then put aside twelve to be given back in exchange for it; 
 then next to next week you choose twelve out of that twenty- 
 four, and then next week twelve out of its twenty-four, and 
 then when I can’t send any more you choose the one to keep 
 out of the last lot, which you see will then be the creamiest 
 cream, not to say cheesiest cheese of the rest! Now isn’t that 
 a nice amusing categorical, cataloquizical, catechismic, cat- 
 cataceous plan? 
 
 7 th June. 
 
 You have been what Joanie calls a “ Doosie Dandy ” about 
 those dozens of sketches ! You’re always to have twenty-four 
 on hand, then those I send to-day are to stay with the twelve 
 you have, till next Monday, and you’ll have time then to 
 know which you like best to keep. Next Monday I send 
 another twelve and take back the twelve you’ve done with. 
 
 It was very beautiful yesterday looking from here. 
 
 I’m pretty well, and writing saucy things to everybody. 
 
 I told a Cambridge man yesterday that he had been clever 
 enough to put into a shilling pamphlet all the mistakes of his 
 generation. 
 
 (Mh November. 
 
 Do you know how to make sugar candy? In my present 
 abject state the only way of amusing myself I can hit on is 
 setting the girls of the school to garden and cook ! I3y way 
 of beginning in cooking, I offered to pay for any quantity of 
 wasted sugar if they could produce me a crystal or two of 
 sugar candy. (On the way to twelfth cakes, you know, and 
 sugar animals. One of Francesca’s friends made her a life-size 
 Faster lamb in sugar.) The first try this morning was brought 
 me in a state of sticky jelly. 
 
UORTUS INGLUSUS. 
 
 65 
 
 And after sending me a recipe for candy, would you please 
 ask Harry to look at the school garden ? I’m going to get 
 the boys to keep that in order ; but if Harry would look at it 
 and order some mine gravel down for the walks, and, with Mr. 
 Brocklebank’s authority (to whom I have spoken already), 
 direct any of the boys who are willing to form a corps of little 
 gardeners, and under Harry’s orders make the best that can be 
 made of that neglected bit of earth, I think you and I should 
 enjoy hearing of it. 
 
 Mr. Kendall is a Delphic oracle. Do you think you could 
 take sherry instead of port ? My sherry is—well, I only wish 
 Falstaff were alive to tell you what it is, or Will himself; but 
 shall I send you a bottle? And mind you don’t mind the 
 smarting if Dr. K. gives you things to make you cry. And 
 I’ll be so good, and not make you cry for a week at least. 
 
 27 th November , 1886. 
 
 For once, I have a birthday stone for you, a little worth 
 your having, and a little gladsome to me in the giving. It is 
 blue like the air that you were born into, and always live in. 
 It is as deep as gentians, and has their gleams of green in it, 
 and it is precious all through within and without, as Susie 
 herself is. Many and many returns of all the birthdays that 
 have gone away, and crowds yet of those that never were here 
 before. 
 
 MISCELLANEOUS. 
 
 I never heard the like, my writing good! and just now ! ! If 
 you only saw the wretched notes on the back of lecture leaves. 
 
 But I am so very glad you think it endurable, and it is so 
 nice to be able to give you a moment’s pleasure by such a 
 thing. I’m better to-day, but still extremely languid. I be¬ 
 lieve that there is often something in the spring which 
 weakens one by its very tenderness; the violets in the wood 
 5 
 
66 
 
 iron TTJS INGLUSUS. 
 
 send one home sorrowful that one isn’t worthy to see them, or 
 else, that one isn’t one of them. 
 
 It is mere Midsummer dream in the wood to-day. 
 
 You could not possibly have sent me a more delightful pre¬ 
 sent than this Lychnis ; it is the kind of flower that gives me 
 pleasure and health and memory and hope and everything 
 that Alpine meadows and air can. I’m getting better gen¬ 
 erally, too. The sun did take one by surprise at first. 
 
 How blessedly happy Joanie and the children were yester¬ 
 day at the Thwaite ! I’m coming to be happy myself there 
 to-morrow (D. V.). 
 
 Here are the two bits of study I did in Malham Cove ; the 
 small couples of leaves are different portraits of the first shoots 
 of the two geraniums. I don’t find in any botany an account 
 of them little round side leaves, or of the definite central one 
 above the branching of them. 
 
 Here’s your lovely note just come. I am very thankful that 
 “ Venice ” gives you so much pleasure. 
 
 I have , at least, one certainty, which few authors could hold 
 so surely, that no one was ever harmed by a book of mine ; 
 they may have been offended, but have never been discouraged 
 or discomforted, still less corrupted. 
 
 There's a saucy speech for Susie’s friend. You won’t like 
 me any more if I begin to talk like that. 
 
 The nice bread is come. May I come to tea again to¬ 
 morrow ? 
 
 I never send my love to Miss Beever, but I do love her for 
 all that. 
 
 A sapphire is the same stone as a ruby ; both are the pure 
 earth of clay crystallized. No one knows why one is red and 
 the other blue. 
 
 A diamond is pure coal crystallized. 
 
 An opal, pure flint—in a state of fixed jelly. 
 
 I’ll find a Susie-book on them. 
 
 I’ll send II. Carlyle. I am so very glad you enjoy it. 
 
 I’m in a great passion with the horrid people who write 
 
HOUTUS IN0LU8US. 
 
 67 
 
 letters to tease my good little Susie. I won’t have it. She 
 shall have some more stones to-morrow. 
 
 I must have a walk to-day, and can’t give account of them, 
 but I’ve looked them out. It’s so very nice that you like 
 stones. If my father, when I was a little boy, would only 
 have given me stones for bread, how I should have thanked 
 him, but one doesn’t expect such a taste in little girls. 
 
 What infinite power and treasure you have in being able 
 thus to enjoy the least things, yet having at the same time all 
 the fastidiousness of taste and imagination which lays hold of 
 what is greatest in the least, and best in all things ! 
 
 Never hurt your eyes by writing ; keep them wholly for 
 admiration and wonder. I hope to write little more myself 
 of books, and to join with you in joy over crystals and flowers 
 in the way we used to do when we were both more children 
 than we are.. 
 
 I have been rather depressed by that tragic story of the 
 codling. I hoped the thief of that apple has suffered more 
 than Eve, and fallen farther than either she or Adam. 
 
 Joan had to be out early this morning, and I won’t let her 
 write more, for it’s getting dark ; but she thinks of you and 
 loves you, and so do I, every day more and more. 
 
 TO MISS BEEVER. 
 
 I am ashamed not to have sent you a word of expression 
 of my real and very deep feelings of regard and respect for 
 you, and of my, not fervent (in the usual phrase, which means 
 only hasty and ebullient), but serenely warm , hope that } r ou 
 may keep your present power of benevolent happiness to 
 length of many days to come. But I hope you will some¬ 
 times take the simpler view of the little agate box than that 
 of birthday token, and that you will wonder sometimes at its 
 labyrinth of mineral vegetable ! I assure you there is noth¬ 
 ing in all my collection of agates in its way quite so perfect 
 as the little fiery forests of dotty trees in the corner of the 
 
68 
 
 II OUT US INCLUSUS, 
 
 piece which forms the bottom. I ought to have set it in 
 silver, but was always afraid to trust it to a lapidary. 
 
 What you say of the Greek want of violets is also very 
 interesting to me, for it is one of my little pet discoveries 
 that Homer means the blue iris by the word translated 
 “ violet.” 
 
 I am utterly sorry not to come to see you and Susie before 
 leaving for town, but can’t face this bitter day. I hope and 
 solemnly propose to be back in a week. 
 
 Thursday morning. 
 
 I’m ever so much better, and the jackdaw has come. But 
 why wasn’t I there to meet his pathetic desire for art knowl¬ 
 edge ? To think of that poor bird’s genius and love of scar¬ 
 let ribbons, shut up in a cage ! What it might have come 
 to! 
 
 If ever my St. George’s schools come to any perfection, 
 they shall have every one a jackdaw to give the children their 
 first lessons in arithmetic. I’m sure he could do it perfectly. 
 “ Now, Jack, take two from four, and show them how many 
 are left.” “ Now, Jack, if you take the teaspoon out of this 
 saucer, and put it into that , and then if you take two tea¬ 
 spoons out of two saucers, and put them into this, and then 
 if you take one teaspoon out of this and put it into that, 
 how many spoons are there in this, and how many in that? ” 
 —and so on. 
 
 Oh, Susie, when w q do get old, you and I, won’t we have 
 nice schools for the birds first, and then for the children ? 
 
 That photograph is indeed like a visit ; how thankful I am 
 that it is still my hope to get the real visit some day! 
 
 I was yesterday, and am always, certainly at present, very 
 unwell, and a mere trouble to my Joanies and Susies and all 
 who care for me. But I’m painting another bit of moss 
 which I think Susie will enjoy, and hope for better times. 
 
 Did you see the white cloud that stayed quiet for three 
 hours this morning over the Old Man’s summit ? It was one 
 
E0RTU8 INCLUSUS. 
 
 69 
 
 of tlie few remains of the heaven one used to see. The 
 heaven one had a Father in, not a raging enemy. 
 
 I send you Rogers’ “Italy,” that is no more. I do think 
 you'll have pleasure in it. 
 
 I’ve been made so miserable by a paper of Sir J. Lubbock’s 
 on flowers and insects, that I must come and whine to you. He 
 says, and really as if he knew it, that insects, chiefly bees, en¬ 
 tirely originate flowers ; that all scent, color, pretty form, is 
 owing to bees; that flowers which insects don’t take care of, 
 have no scent, color, nor honey. 
 
 It seems to me that it is likelier that the flowers which 
 have no scent, color, nor honey, don’t get any attention from 
 the bees. 
 
 But the man really knows so much about it, and has tried 
 so many pretty experiments, that he makes me miserable. 
 
 So I’m afraid you’re miserable too. Write to tell me about 
 it all. 
 
 It is very lovely of you to send me so sweet a note when I 
 have not been near you since the tenth century. But it is 
 all I can do to get my men and my moor looked after ; they 
 have both the instinct of doing what I don’t want, the mo¬ 
 ment my back’s turned ; and then there has not been light 
 enough to know a hawk from a hand-saw, or a crow from a 
 ptarmigan, or a moor from a meadow. But how much better 
 your eyes must be when you can write such lovely notes ! 
 
 I don’t understand how the strange cat came to love you 
 so quickly, after one dinner and a rest by the fire ! I should 
 have thought an ill-treated and outcast animal would have re¬ 
 garded everything as a trap, for a month at least—dined in 
 tremors, warmed itself with its back to the fire, watching the 
 door, and jumped up the chimney if you stepped on the rug. 
 
 The pheasant had come from Lachin-y-gair, with two 
 others, which I’ve been eating hot, cold, broiled, and dev¬ 
 illed, and with your oysters for lunch. Mattie, Diddie, and 
 Joanie have fine times of it together, they say, and that I 
 ought to be there instead of here. Do you think so ? 
 
70 
 
 IIORTITS INCLUSUS. 
 
 If you only knew the good your peacock’s feathers have 
 done me, and if you could only see the clever drawing I’m 
 making, of one from the blue breast! You know what lovely 
 little fern or equisetum stalks of sapphire the filaments are ; 
 they beat me so, but they’re coming nice. 
 
 Joanie says she thinks you are not well; and I’m easily 
 frightened about you, because you never take any care of 
 yourself, and will not do what Mary or Joan or I bid you, 
 you naughty little thing. 
 
 You won’t even submit quietly to my publishing arrange¬ 
 ments, but I’m resolved to have the book (“ Frondes ”) re¬ 
 main yours altogether ; you had all the trouble with it, and it 
 will help me ever so much more than I could myself. 
 
 That is so intensely true what you say about Turner’s work 
 being like nature’s in its slowness and tenderness. I always 
 think of him as a great natural force in a human frame. 
 
 So nice all you say of the “ Ethics ! ” And I’m a monster 
 of ingratitude, as bad as the Dragon of Wantley. Don’t like 
 Dr. Brown’s friend’s book at all. It’s neither Scotch nor 
 English, nor fish nor flesh, and it’s tiresome. 
 
 I’m in the worst humor I’ve been in this month, which is 
 saying much ; and have been writing the wickedest “ Fors ” 
 I ever wrote, which is saying more ; you will be so angry. 
 
 I’m so very glad you will mark the bits you like, but are 
 there not a good many here and there that you don't like ?— 
 I mean that sound hard or ironical. Please don’t mind 
 them. They’re partly because I never count on readers who 
 will really care for the prettiest things, and it gets me into a 
 bad habit of expressing contempt which is not indeed any 
 natural part of my mind. 
 
 It pleases me especially that you have read “ The Queen of 
 the Air.” As far as I know, myself, of my books, it is the 
 
nORTHS INCLUSUS. 
 
 71 
 
 most useful and careful piece I have done. But that again— 
 did it not shock you to have a heathen goddess so much be¬ 
 lieved in? (I’ve believed in English ones long ago.) If you 
 can really forgive me for “ The Queen of the Air,” there are 
 all sorts of things I shall come begging you to read some day* 
 
 21 st July. 
 
 I’m always looking at the Thwaite, and thinking how nice 
 it is that you are there. I think it’s a little nice, too, that 7’m 
 within sight of you, for if I hadn’t broken, I don’t know how 
 many not exactly promises, but nearly, to be back at Oxford 
 by this time, I might have been dragged from Oxford to 
 London, from London to France, from France who knows 
 where? But I’m here, and settled to produce, as soon as 
 possible, the following works— 
 
 1. New number of “ Love’s Meinie,” on the Stormy Petrel. 
 
 2. New ditto of “ Proserpina,” on sap, pith, and bark. 
 
 3. New ditto of “Deucalion,” on clouds. 
 
 4. New “Fors,” on new varieties of young ladies. 
 
 6. Two new numbers of “ Our Fathers,” on Brunehaut, and 
 Bertha her niece, and St. Augustine and St. Benedict. 
 
 6. Index and epilogue to four Oxford lectures. 
 
 7. Report and account of St. George’s Guild. 
 
 And I’ve had to turn everything out of every shelf in the 
 house, for mildew and moths. 
 
 And I want to paint a little bank of strawberry leaves. 
 
 And I’ve to get a year’s dead sticks out of the wood, and 
 see to the new oat field on the moor, and prepare lectures 
 for October! 
 
 I’m so idle. I look at the hills out of bed, and at the pic¬ 
 tures off the sofa. Let us both be useless beings ; let us be 
 butterflies, grasshoppers, lambs, larks, anything for an easy life. 
 I’m quite horrified to see, now that these two have come back, 
 what a lot of books I’ve written, and how cruel I’ve been to 
 myself and everybody else who ever has to read them. I’m 
 too sleepy to finish this note. 
 
72 
 
 UOllTUS INCLUSUS. 
 
 13 th June . 
 
 I do not know when I have received, or how I could receive, 
 so great an encouragement in all my work, as I do in hearing 
 that you, after all your long love and watchfulness of flowers, 
 have yet gained pleasure and insight from “Proserpina” as 
 to leaf structure. The examples you send me are indeed ad¬ 
 mirable. Can you tell me the exact name of the plant, that 
 I may quote it ? 
 
 Yes, and the weather also is a great blessing to me—so 
 lovely this morning. 
 
 I have been simply ashamed to write without being able to 
 say I was coming ; and this naughty Joanie has put us all 
 two months behindhand, and now Brantwood still seems as 
 far away as at Florence. (It never really seems far away, 
 anywhere.) 
 
 But you will like to know that I’m very well, and extremely 
 good, and writing beautiful new notes to “Modern Painters,” 
 and getting on with “Our Fathers.” And what lovely ac¬ 
 counts I have of “ Frondes ” from Allen. 
 
 I really think that one book has made all our business lively. 
 
 And I’m so delighted with the new brooch—the one Mary 
 gave to Joan. I never saw a more lovely pearl in any queen’s 
 treasury, nor more exquisite setting. Joan and I have no 
 end of pleasure in playing with it, and I vainly try to summon 
 philosophy enough to convince either her or myself, that dew 
 is better than pearls, and moss than emeralds. 
 
 I think my days of philosophy must be over. I certainly 
 shall not have enough to console me, if I don’t get to Brant¬ 
 wood soon. The fog here is perpetual, and I can only see, 
 and just that, where the edgo of my paper is leaving me still 
 room to say how lovingly and faithfully I am 
 
 Yours, etc. 
 
 You won’t refuse to give house room or even parlor room 
 again to they?rs/ volume of your “ Stones.” It has your name 
 
HORTUS INCLUSUS. 
 
 73 
 
 in it, and feather sketches, which I like the memory of doing, 
 and I found another in my stores to make up the set. I have 
 to-day, regretfully, but in proud satisfaction, sent to Mr. 
 Brown’s friend, Miss Lawley. You will be thinking I’m never 
 going to write any new books more, I’ve promised so long and 
 done nothing. But No. 2 and No. 4, of “Amiens” have 
 been going on at once, and No. 3 and No. 4 of “ Love’s 
 Meinie,” and No. 7 of “ Proserpina ” had to be done in the 
 middle of all four, like the stamens in a tormentilla. And 
 now my total tormentilla is all but out. But “ all-but ” is a 
 long, long word with my printers and me. Still, something 
 has been done every day, and not ill done, lately ; and Joanie 
 tells me your friends enjoyed their little visit, as I did seeing 
 them. And Joanie is well, and literally as busy as a bee, and 
 sometimes tumbles down at last on the sofa just at bedtime, 
 like the rather bumbly bees in the grass when they’ve been 
 too busy. And I’m pretty well, and asking young ladies to 
 come and see me. 
 
 I’m getting steadily better, and breathing the sunshine a 
 little again in soul and lips. But I always feel so naughty 
 after having had morning prayers, and that the whole house 
 is a sort of little Bethel that I’ve no business in. 
 
 I’m reading history of early saints too, for my Amiens 
 book, and feel that I ought to be scratched, or starved, or 
 boiled, or something unpleasant, and I don’t know if I’m a 
 saint or a sinner in the least, in mediaeval language. How did 
 saints feel themselves, I wonder, about their saintship! 
 
 It is such a joy to hear that you enjoy anything of mine, and 
 a double joy to have your sympathy in my love of those It¬ 
 alians. How I wish there were more like you ! What a 
 happy world it would be if a quarter of the people in it 
 cared a quarter as much as you and I do, for what is good and 
 true ! 
 
u 
 
 11012TUS IXULUSUS. 
 
 That Nativity is the deepest of all. It is by the master of 
 Botticelli, you know ; and whatever is most sweet and tender 
 in Botticelli he owes to Lippi. 
 
 But, do you know, I quite forget about Cordelia, and where 
 I said it ! please keep it till I come. I hope to be across to 
 see you to-morrow. 
 
 They’ve been doing photographs of me again, and I’m an 
 orang-outang as usual, and am in despair. I thought with 
 my beard I was beginning to be just the least bit nice to look 
 at. I would give up half my books for a new profile. 
 
 What a lovely day since twelve o’clock ! I never saw the 
 lake shore more heavenly. 
 
 I am very thankful that you like this St. Mark’s so much, 
 and do not feel as if I had lost power of mind. I think the 
 illness has told on me more in laziness than foolishness. I 
 feel as if there was as much in me as ever, but it is too much 
 trouble to say it. And I find myself reconciled to staying in 
 bed of a morning to a quite wof'ul extent. I have not been 
 affected so much by melancholy, being very thankful to be still 
 alive, and to be able to give pleasure to some people—foolish 
 little Joanies and Susies, and so on. 
 
 You have greatly helped me by this dear little note. And 
 the bread’s all right, brown again, and I’m read} r for asparagus 
 of any stoutness, there ! Are you content ? But my new as¬ 
 paragus is quite visible this year, though how much would be 
 ■wanted for a dish I don’t venture to count, but must be con¬ 
 gratulated on its definitely stalky appearance. 
 
 I was over the water this morning on school committee. 
 How bad I have been to let those poor children be torment¬ 
 ed as they are all this time ! I’m going to try and stop all the 
 spelling and counting and catechising, and teach them only— 
 to watch and pray. 
 
 The oranges make me think I’m in a castle in Spain ! 
 
 Your letters always warm me a little, not with laughing, 
 but with the soft glow of life, for I live mostly with “la mort 
 dans l’ame.” (It is curious that the French, whom one thinks 
 of as slight and frivolous, have this true and deep expression 
 for the forms of sorrow that kill, as opposed to those that 
 
UORTUS INCLtFSTTS. 75 
 
 discipline and strengthen.) And your words and thought just 
 soften and warm like west wind. 
 
 It is nice being able to please you with what I’m writing, 
 and that you can tell people I’m not so horrid. 
 
 Here’s the “ Fors ” you saw the proof of, but this isn’t quite 
 right yet. 
 
 The Willy * quotations are very delightful. Do you know 
 that naughty “Cowley” at all? There’s all kind of honey 
 and strawberries in him. 
 
 It is bitter cold here these last days. I don’t stir out, but 
 must this afternoon. I’ve to go out to dinner and work at 
 the Arundel Society. And if you only knew what was in my 
 thoughts you would be so sorry for me, that I can’t tell you. 
 
 Corpus Christi College, Oxford. 
 
 What a sad little letter! written in that returned darkness. 
 
 How can you ever be sad, looking forward to eternal life 
 with all whom you love, and God over all. 
 
 It is only so far as I lose hold of that hope, that anything 
 is ever a trial to me. But I can’t think how I’m to get on in 
 a world with no Venice in it. 
 
 You were quite right in thinking I would have nothing to 
 do with lawyers. Not one of them shall ever have so much 
 as a crooked sixpence of mine, to save him from being hanged, 
 or to save the Lakes from being filled up. But I really hope 
 there may be feeling enough in Parliament to do a right 
 thiug without being deafened with lawyers’ slang. 
 
 I have never thanked you for the snowdrops. They 
 
 bloomed here beautifully for four days. Then I had to leave 
 
 •/ • 
 
 them to go and lecture in London. It was nice to see them, 
 but my whole mind is set on finding whether there is a 
 country where the flowers do not fade. Fflse there is no 
 spring for me. People liked the lecture, and so many more 
 wanted to come than could get in, that I had to promise to 
 give another. 
 
 * Shakespeare. 
 
HORTUS INCLUSUS. 
 
 70 
 
 Here’s your little note, first of all. And if you only knew 
 liow my wristbands are plaguing me you’d be very sorry. 
 They’re too much starched, and would come down like mit¬ 
 tens; and now I’ve turned them up, they’re just like two hor¬ 
 rid china cups upside down, inside my coat, and I’m afraid 
 to write for fear of breaking them. And I’ve a week’s work 
 on the table, to be done before one o’clock, on pain of uproar 
 from my friends, execution from my enemies, reproach from 
 my lovers, triumph from my haters, despair of Joanie, and— 
 what from Susie ? I’ve had such a bad night, too ; woke at 
 half-past three and have done a day’s work since then—com¬ 
 posing my lecture for March, and thinking what’s to become 
 of a godson of mine whose— 
 
 Well, never mind. I needn’t give you the trouble, poor 
 little Susie, of thinking too. I wonder if that jackdaw story 
 will come to-day. 
 
 This must be folded up and directed all right at once, or 
 I’m sure it will never go. Love to Mary, very much, please, 
 and three times over ; I missed these two last times. 
 
 I’m going to Oxford to-day (D.V.), really quite well, and 
 rather merry. I went to the circus with my new pet, and 
 saw lovely riding and ball play ; and my pet said the only 
 drawback to it all, was that she couldn’t sit on both sides of 
 me. And then I went home to tea with her, and gave 
 mamma, w r ho is Evangelical, a beautiful lecture on the piety 
 of dramatic entertainments, w r hich made her laugh, whether 
 she would or no ; and then I had my Christmas dinner in 
 advance with Joanie and Arfie and Stacy Marks, and his wife 
 and two pretty daughters, and I had six kisses—two for 
 Christmas, two for New Year’s Day, and two for Twelfth 
 Night—and everybody was in the best humor with everybody 
 else. And now my room is ankle deep in unanswered letters, 
 mostly on business, and I’m going to shovel them up and tie 
 them in a parcel labelled “Needing particular attention;” 
 and then that will be put into a cupboard in Oxford, and I 
 shall feel that everything’s been done in a business-like way. 
 
 That badger’s beautiful. I don’t think there’s any need 
 for such beasts as that to turn Christians. 
 
IIORTUS INCLUSUS. 
 
 77 
 
 I am indeed most thankful you are well again, though 
 I never looked on that deafness very seriously ; but if you 
 like hearing watches tick, and boots creak, and plates clatter, 
 so be it to you, for many and many a year to come. I think 
 I should so like to be deaf, mostly, not expected to answer 
 anybody in society, never startled by a bang, never tortured 
 by a railroad whistle, never hearing the nasty cicads in Italy’, 
 nor a child cry, nor an owl. Nothing but a nice whisper into 
 my ear, by a pretty girl. Ah, well, I’m very glad I can chat¬ 
 ter to you with my weak voice, to my heart’s content; and 
 you must come and see me soon, now. All that you say of 
 “ Proserpina ” is joyful to me. What a Susie you are, draw¬ 
 ing like that! and I'm sure you know Latin better than I do. 
 
 I am better, but not right yet. There is no fear of sore 
 throat, I think, but some of prolonged tooth worry. It is 
 more stomachic than coldic, I believe, and those tea-cakes aro 
 too crisply seductive. What can it be, that subtle treachery 
 that lurks in tea-cakes, and is wholly absent in the rude 
 honesty of toast ? 
 
 The metaphysical effect of tea-cake last night was, that I 
 had a perilous and weary journey in a desert, in which I had 
 to dodge hostile tribes round the corners of pyramids. 
 
 A very sad letter from Joanie tells me she was going to Scot¬ 
 land last night, at which I am not only very sorry, but very cross. 
 
 A chirping cricket on the hearth advises me to keep my 
 heart up. Foolish hedgehog, not to come for that egg. Don’t 
 let Abigail be cast down about her tea-cakes. An “ honest ” 
 egg is just as destructive of my peace of mind. 
 
 Your happy letters (with the sympathetic misery of com¬ 
 plaint of dark days) have cheered me as much as anything 
 could do. 
 
 The sight of one of my poor “ Companions of St. George,” 
 w T ho has sent me, not a widow’s but a parlor-maid’s (an old 
 schoolmistress) “ all her living,” and whom I found last 
 
T8 
 
 HORTUS INCLUSUS. 
 
 night, dying, slowly and quietly, in a damp room, just the size 
 of your study (which her landlord won’t mend the roof of), 
 by the light of a single tallow candle—dying, I say, slovoly , of 
 consumption, not yet near the end, but contemplating it with 
 sorrow, mixed partty with fear, lest she should not have done 
 all she could for her children ! 
 
 The sight of all this and my own shameful comforts, three 
 wax candles and blazing fire and dry roof, and Susie and 
 Joanie for friends ! 
 
 Oh, me, Susie, what is to become of me in the next world, 
 who have in this life all my good things! 
 
 What a sweet, careful, tender letter this is 1 I re-enclose it 
 at once for fear of mischief, though I’ve scarcely read, for in¬ 
 deed my eyes are weary, but I see what gentle mind it means. 
 
 Yes, you will love and rejoice in your Chaucer more and 
 more. Fancy, I’ve never time, now, to look at him—obliged 
 to read even my Homer and Shakespeare at a scramble, half 
 missing the sense—the business of life disturbs one so. 
 
 Will you please thank Miss Watson for the “ Queen’s 
 Wake.” I should like to tell her about Hogg’s visit to Herne 
 Hill, and my dog Dash’s reception of him ; but I’m never 
 pleased with the Shepherd’s bearing to Sir W. Scott, as one 
 reads it in “Lockhart.” 
 
 There’s no fear of Susie’s notes ever being less bright as 
 long as she remains a child, and it’s a long while yet to look 
 forward to. 
 
 I had such a nice dinner all alone with Joanie, yesterday, 
 and Sarah waiting. Joanie coughed and startled me. I ac¬ 
 cused her of having a cold. To defend herself she siiid 
 (the mockery), Perhaps she oughtn’t to kiss me. I said, 
 “Couldn’t Sarah * try first, and see if any harm comes of 
 
 * Our Herne Hill parlor-maid for four years. One of quite the 
 brightest and handsomest types of English beauty I ever saw, either in 
 life, or fancied in painting. 
 
HORTUS INGLUSUS. 
 
 79 
 
 it?” (Sarah highly amused.) For goodness’sake don’t tell 
 Kate. 
 
 I’ve only a crushed bit of paper to express my crushed heart 
 upon. It’s the best! 
 
 That you should be thinking, designing, undermining, as 
 Mrs. Somebody says in that disgusting “Mill on the Floss,” 
 to send to London for port. And my port getting crusty, 
 dusty, cobwebby, and generally like its master, just because 
 it’s no use to nobody. I don’t drink it ; Joan don’t; Arfie’s 
 always stuck up with his claret and French vinegaret things 
 (gave him all his rheumatism, I say); and now here’s my 
 Susie sending to London, and passing me by and my sorrow¬ 
 ful bin. I didn’t think she'd have bin and done it. Even 
 the Alpine plants of which I hear, as darlings, don’t at pres¬ 
 ent console me. 
 
 Just you try such a trick again, that’s all I 
 
 Herne Hill. 
 
 Here’s your letter first thing in the morning, while I’m 
 sipping my coffee in the midst of such confusion as I’ve not 
 
 T 6 
 
 often achieved at my best. The little room, which I think is 
 as nearly as possible the size of your study, but with a lower 
 roof, has to begin with—A, my bed ; B, my basin stand ; C, 
 my table ; D, my chest of drawers ; thus arranged in relation 
 to E, the window (which has still its dark bars to prevent 
 the little boy getting out); F, the fireplace; G, the golden 
 
80 
 
 HORTUS INOLUSUS. 
 
 or mineralogical cupboard; aud H, the grand entrance. 
 The two dots with a back represent my chair, which is prop¬ 
 erly solid and not wn-easy. Three others of lighter disposi- 
 sion find place somewhere about. These, with the chimney- 
 piece and drawer’s head, are covered, or rather heaped, with 
 all they can carry, and the morning is just looking in, aston¬ 
 ished to see what is expected of it, and smiling—(yes, I may 
 fairly say it is smiling, for it is cloudless for its part above 
 the smoke of the horizon line)—at Sarah’s hope and mine, of 
 ever getting that room into order by twelve o’clock. The 
 chimney-piece with its bottles, spoons, lozenge boxes, matches, 
 candlesticks, and letters jammed behind them, does appear 
 to me entirely hopeless, and this the more because Sarah, 
 when I tell her to take a bottle away that has a mixture in it 
 which I don’t like, looks me full in the face, and says “ she 
 won’t, because I may want it.” I submit, because it is so nice 
 to get Sarah to look one full in the face. She really is the 
 prettiest, round-faced, and round-eyed girl I ever saw, and 
 it’s a great shame she should be a housemaid ; only I wfish 
 she would take those bottles away. She says I’m looking 
 better to-day, and I think I’m feeling a little bit more—no, I 
 mean, a little bit less—demoniacal. But I still can do that 
 jackdaw beautifully. 
 
 I am quite sure you would have felt like Albert Diirer, had 
 you gone on painting wrens. 
 
 The way Nature and Heaven waste the gifts and souls they 
 give and make, passes all wonder. You might have done 
 anything you chose, only you were too modest. 
 
 No, I never will call you my dear lady ; certainly, if it 
 comes to that, something too dreadful will follow. 
 
 That is so very nice, isn’t it, about the poor invalid and 
 “ Frondes.” It is terrible that doctors should say such things, 
 but on the whole, when they feel them strongly they should 
 
II011TUS INCLUSUS. 
 
 81 
 
 speak, else it would be impossible for them to give trust¬ 
 worthy comfort and healing hope. 
 
 I wish that peacock of yours would teach me to brush my 
 hair before I come to dinner, for I am, though 
 
 Ever your loving 
 
 J. R., 
 
 not fit to be seen lately, with fighting midges in my hair. 
 
 I am most interested in your criticism of “ Queen Mary.” 
 I have not read it, but the choice of subject is entirely morbid 
 and wrong, and I am sure all you say must be true. The 
 form of decline which always comes on mental power of 
 Tennyson’s passionately sensual character, is always of seeing 
 ugly things, a kind of delirium tremens. Turner had it fa¬ 
 tally in his last years. 
 
 I am so glad you enjoy writing to me more than anyone else. 
 The book you sent me of Dr. John Brown’s on books, has 
 been of extreme utility to me, and contains matter of the deep¬ 
 est interest. Did you read it yourself? If not, I must lend it 
 to you. 
 
 I am so glad also to know of your happiness in Chaucer. 
 Don’t hurry in reading. I will get you an edition for your 
 own, that you may mark it in peace. 
 
 I send you two books, neither I fear very amusing, but on 
 my word, I think books are always dull when one really most 
 wants them. No, other people don’t feel it as you and I do, 
 nor do the dogs and ponies, but oughtn’t we to be thankful 
 that we do feel it. The thing I fancy we are both wanting in, 
 is a right power of enjoying the past. What sunshine there 
 has been even in this sad year ! I have seen beauty enough 
 in one afternoon, not a fortnight ago, to last me for a year if 
 I could rejoice in memory. 
 
 But I believe things are a little better at Seascale. Arties’ 
 gone off there, but I have a painter friend, Mr. Goodwin, com¬ 
 ing to keep me company, and I’m a little content in this worst 
 of rainy days, in hopes there may be now some clearing for him. 
 
 Our little kittens pass the days of their youth up against 
 
82 
 
 HORTUS INQLUma. 
 
 the wall at the back of the house, where the heat of the oven 
 comes through. What an existence ! and yet with all my in¬ 
 door advantages 
 
 I am your sorrowful and repining 
 
 J. It. 
 
 I am entirely grateful for your letter, and for all the sweet 
 feelings expressed in it, and am entirely reverent of the sor¬ 
 row which you feel at my speaking thus. If only all were like 
 you. But the chief sins and evils of the day are caused by the 
 Pharisees, exactly as in the time of Christ, and “they make 
 broad their phylacteries ” in the same way, the Bible supersti- 
 tiously read, becoming the authority for every error and heresy 
 and cruelty. To make its readers understand that the God of 
 their own day is as living, and as able to speak to them 
 directly as ever in the days of Isaiah and St. John, and that 
 He would now send messages to His Seven Churches, if the 
 Churches would hear, needs stronger words than any I have 
 yet dared to use, against the idolatry of the historical record 
 of His messages long ago, perverted by men’s forgetfulness, 
 and confused by mischance and misapprehension ; and if in¬ 
 stead of the Latin form “ Scripture ” we put always “writing” 
 instead of “ written ”or “ write ” in one place, and “ Script¬ 
 ure,” as if it meant our English Bible, in another, it would 
 make such a difference to our natural and easy understanding 
 the range of texts. 
 
 The peacock’s feathers are marvellous. I am very glad 
 to see them. I never had any of their downy ones before. 
 My compliments to the bird, upon them, please. 
 
 I have had a tiring forenoon in the house with dark air, 
 and must go out; and poor Susie will not only scarce find a 
 turned leaf, but an empty line in the unturned one. 
 
 But children always like to have letters about anything. 
 
 I found a strawberry growing just to please itself, as red as 
 a ruby, high up on Yewdale crag yesterday, in a little corner 
 of rock all its own ; so I left it to enjoy itself. It seemed as 
 happy as a lamb, and no more meant to be eaten. 
 
HORTUS INCLUSUS. 
 
 83 
 
 Yes, those are all sweetest bits from Chaucer (the pine new 
 to me); your own copy is being bound. And all the Rich¬ 
 ard—but you must not copy out the Richard bits, for I like 
 all my Richard alike from beginning to end. Yes, my “ seed 
 pearl ” bit is pretty, I admit ; it was like the thing. The 
 cascades here, I’m afraid, come down more like seed oatmeal. 
 
 Now it’s very naughty of you, Susie, to think everybody 
 else would have ate that strawberry. Mr. Severn and Mr. 
 Patmore were both with me ; and when I said, “Now, I don’t 
 believe three other people could be found who would let that 
 alone,” Mr. Patmore was quite shocked, and said, “I’m quite 
 sure nobody but you would have thought of eating it! ” 
 
 Ever your loving, gormandising (Patmore knows me!) 
 
 J. R. 
 
 Actually I’ve never thanked you for that exquisite cheese. 
 The mere look of it puts one in heart like a fresh field. I 
 never tasted anything so perfect in its purity of cream nature. 
 The Chaucer bits, next to the cheese, are delicious, too. 
 
 About the railroad circular, I knew and know nothing but 
 that I signed my name. They may have printed said circular 
 perhaps. 
 
 At all events, most thankful should I be to anyone who 
 would help in such cause. I’m at work on a piece of moss 
 again, far better, I hope likely to be, than the one you saw. 
 
 I believe in my hasty answer to your first kind letter I 
 never noticed what you said about Aristophanes. If you will 
 indeed send me some notes of the passages that interest you 
 in the “Birds,” it will not only be very pleasant to me, but 
 quite seriously useful, for the “ Birds ” have always been to 
 me so mysterious in that comedy, that I have never got the 
 good of it which I know is to be had. The careful study of 
 
84 
 
 UORTUS INCLUSUS . 
 
 it, put off from day to day, was likely enough to fall into the 
 great region of my despair, unless you had chanced thus to 
 remind me of it. 
 
 Please, if another chance of good to me come in your way, 
 in another brown spotty-purple peacock’s feather, will you yet 
 send it to me, and I will be always your most grateful and 
 faithful J. R. 
 
 Herne Hill. 
 
 It is so very sweet and good of you to write such lovely 
 play letters to Joanie and me ; they delight and comfort us 
 more than I can tell you. 
 
 What translation of Aristophanes is that ? I must get it. 
 I’ve lost I can’t tell you how much knowledge and power 
 through false pride in refusing to read translations, though I 
 couldn’t read the original without more trouble and time than 
 I could spare ; nevertheless, you must not think this Eng¬ 
 lish gives you a true idea of the original. The English is 
 much more “ English ” in its temper than its words. Aris¬ 
 tophanes is far more dry, severe, and concentrated ; his words 
 are fewer, and have fuller flavor; this English is to him 
 what currant jelly is to currants. But it’s immensely useful to 
 me. Yes, that is very sweet about the kissing. I have done 
 it to rocks often, seldom to flowers, not being sure that 
 they would like it. 
 
 I recollect giving a very reverent little kiss to a young sap¬ 
 ling that was behaving beautifully in an awkward chink, be¬ 
 tween two great big ones that were ill-treating it. Poor me 
 (I’m old enough, I hope, to write grammar my own, way), my 
 own little self, meantime, never by any chance got a kiss 
 when I wanted it—and the better I behaved, the less chance 
 I had, it seemed. 
 
 I never thought the large packet was from you ; it was 
 thrown aside with the rest till evening, and only opened then 
 by chance. I was greatly grieved to find what I had thus left 
 unacknowledged. The drawings are entirely beautiful and 
 
HORTUS INCLUSUS. 
 
 85 
 
 wonderful,but, like all the good work done in those bygone days 
 (Donovan’s own book being of inestimable excellence in this 
 kind), they affect me with profound melancholy in the thought 
 of the loss to the entire body of the nation of all this perfect 
 artistic capacity, and sweet will, for want of acknowledgment, 
 system, and direction. I must write a careful passage on this 
 matter in my new Elements of Drawing. Your drawings 
 have been sent me not by you, but by my mistress Fors, for a 
 text. It is no wonder, when you can draw like this, that you 
 care so much for all lovely nature. But I shall be ashamed to 
 show you my peacock’s feather ; I’ve sent it, however. 
 
 What a naughty child you are to pick out all that was use¬ 
 less and leave all that’s practical and useful for “ Frondes ! ” 
 You ought to have pounced on all the best bits on drawing 
 from nature! 
 
 It is very sweet of you to give me your book, but I accept 
 it at once most thankfully. It is the best type I can show of 
 the perfect work of an English lady in her own simple peace 
 of enjoyment and natural gift of truth, in her sight and in 
 her mind. And many pretty things are in my mind and heart 
 about it, if my hands were not too cold to shape words for 
 them. The book shall be kept with my Bewicks ; it is in no¬ 
 wise inferior to them in fineness of work. The finished proof 
 of next “ Proserpina ” will, I think, be sent me by Saturday’s 
 post. Much more is done, but this number was hindered by 
 the revisal of the Dean of Christ Church, which puts me at 
 rest about mistakes in my Greek. 
 
 It is a great joy to me that you like the Wordsworth bits ; 
 there are worse coming (unless Diddie, perhaps, begs them 
 off) ; but I’ve been put into a dreadful passion by two of my 
 cleverest girl pupils “going off pious!” It’s exactly like a 
 nice pear getting “ sleepy; ” and I’m pretty nearly in the 
 worst temper I can be in, for W. W. But what are these 
 blessed feathers ? Everything that's best of grass and clouds 
 
86 
 
 IIORTUS INGLUSUS. 
 
 and chrysoprase. What incomparable little creature wears 
 such things, or lets fall ? The “ fringe of flame ” is Carlyle’s, 
 not mine, but we feel so much alike, that you may often mis¬ 
 take one for the other now. 
 
 You cannot in the least tell what a help you are to me, in 
 caring so much for my things and seeing what I try to do in 
 them. You are quite one of a thousand for sympathy with 
 everybody, and one of the ten times ten thousand, for special 
 sympathy with my own feelings and tries. Yes, that second 
 column is rather nicely touched, though I say it, for hands 
 and eyes of sixty-two ; but when once the wind stops I hope 
 to do a bit of primrosey ground that will be richer. 
 
 Here, not I, but a thing with a dozen of colds in its head, 
 am! 
 
 I caught one cold on Wednesday last, another on Thursday, 
 two on Friday, four on Saturday, and one at every station 
 between this and Ingleborough on Monday. I never was in 
 such ignoble misery of cold. I’ve no cough to speak of, nor 
 anything worse than usual in the way of sneezing, but my 
 hands are cold, my pulse nowhere, my nose tickles and wrings 
 me, my ears sing—like kettles, my mouth has no taste, my 
 heart no hope of ever being good for anything, any more. I 
 never passed such a wretched morning by my own fireside in 
 all my days, and I’ve quite a fiendish pleasure in telling you 
 all this, and thinking how miserable you’ll be too. Oh, me, 
 if I ever get to feel like myself again, won’t I take care of 
 myself. 
 
 Seven of the eleven colds are better, but the other four are 
 worse, and they were the worst before, and I’m such a wreck 
 and rag and lump of dust being made mud of, that I’m 
 ashamed to let the maids bring me my dinner. 
 
 Your contemptible, miserable, beyond pitiable, past deplor¬ 
 able J. R. 
 
IIOliTJJS INGLUSUS. 
 
 87 
 
 The little book is very lovely, all of it that is your own. 
 The religion of it you know is, anybody's, what my poor 
 little Susie was told when she was a year or two younger than 
 she is now. 
 
 What we should all try to do, is to find out something 
 certain about God, for ourselves. 
 
 The feathers nearly made me fly away from all my Psalters 
 and Exoduses, to you, and my dear peacocks. I wonder, 
 when Solomon got his ivory and apes and peacocks, whether 
 he ever had time to look at them. He couldn’t always be 
 ordering children to be chopped in two. Alas, I suppose his 
 wisdom, in England of to-day, would have been taxed to find 
 out which mother lied in saying which child wasn't hers! 
 
 But you will like my psalter, I’m sure. Diddie wouldn’t 
 copy the wickedest bits, so I was obliged to leave them out! 
 
 Oh, dear, I feel so wicked to-day, I could even tease you , 
 by telling you Joanie was better, and how it came to pass. I 
 mustn’t say more, but that I love you ever so much, and am 
 ever, etc. 
 
 I began this note especially to tell you how delighted I was 
 with your idea of the flower show ; how good it will be for 
 the people, and how nice for you ! 
 
 I’ve been writing to Miss R again, and Miss L.’s quite right 
 to stay at home. “ She thinks I have an eagle’s eye.” Well, 
 what else should I have, in day time ? together with my 
 cat’s eye in the dark ? But you may tell her I should be 
 very sorry if my eyes were 710 better than eagles’ ! “Doth 
 the eagle know what is in the pit ?” I do. 
 
 I’m only going away for Sunday, coming back on the Mon¬ 
 day, and going to stay for a week longer. Mr. MacD. has 
 begun a pretty drawing of the study (and really depends on 
 my assistant criticism) ; and Diddie, I think, will enjoy her 
 dinner with you to-morrow better than if I had gone for 
 
88 
 
 II OUT US INOLUSUS. 
 
 good and all; and I tliink I shall enjoy my Sunday at Shef¬ 
 field, if I had gone for evil and all. I’ve turned the page 
 to say I’m rather pleased with that trans-mutation (what a 
 stupid thing of me to divide that stupid word) of “ for good 
 and all,” mockingest of common phrases, even if one were go¬ 
 ing away for a honeymoon it would only be for better or 
 worse—or stay, perhaps it means for good and all else. One 
 uses it too without the all—“for good,” meaning that noth¬ 
 ing that isn’t good can be eternal. I am puzzled ; but I be¬ 
 lieve I’m coming back for good anyhow. And, there now, 
 I’ve to turn the page once more, and, I was going to say 
 something stupid about good-by, a word that makes me 
 shudder from head to foot. 
 
 I’ve found another stone for you, lapis lazuli, which never 
 fades, and is heaven color to all time. 
 
 That you may not make a complete infidel of yourself with 
 those insidious “Arabian Nights,” or a complete philosopher 
 of yourself, which would be unbecoming at your age, with 
 the “ Council of Friends ” I send you a Western book of a 
 character at once prosaic, graceful, and simple, which will dis¬ 
 enchant and refresh you at once. I will find a second volume 
 before you have finished the first, and meanwhile you must 
 come and choose the next book that is to be, out of my lib¬ 
 rary, which you never condescend to look at when you’re 
 here. 
 
 By hook or by crook, by swans and cygnets, by Carpaccio 
 and the Queen of Sheba, I’ll come to see you, please, to-day. 
 
 I’m really not quite so bad all over, yet ; and I’ve written 
 things lately with much in them that will comfort you for 
 me, though I can’t quite comfort myself. And I’ll come 
 often to be lectured ; and I’m not reading novels just now, 
 but only birds and beasts. 
 
 I want to know the names of all your five cats ; they were 
 all at the door yesterday, and I should have made six, but 
 they ran away. 
 
 I send two of Miss Kate’s books for Mary and you to keep 
 
IIORTUS INCLUSUS. 
 
 89 
 
 as long as you choose. Miss Arnold is coming to-morrow, 
 but I hope to get to the Thwaite at half-past twelve. Only 
 my morning goes just now like the hash of a Christmas 
 cracker. 
 
 I’m better; I trust you are ! It is a day at last; and the 
 flowers are all off their heads for joy. I’ve been writing 
 some pretty things too, and thinking naughty ones, as I do 
 when I’m pretty well. 
 
 But I’ve lost my voice and can’t sing them ! 
 
 Yes, of course keep that book, any time you like; but I 
 think you’ll find most of it unreadable. If you do get 
 through it, you’ll have to tell me all about it, you know, for 
 I’ve never read a word of it except just the plums here and 
 there. 
 
 Publishers are brutes, and always spoil one’s books, and 
 then say it’s our fault if they don’t sell! 
 
 Yes, that is a lovely description of a picture. All the same 
 I believe the picture itself was merely modern sensationalism. 
 
 They can’t do without death nowadays, not because they 
 want to know how to die, but because they’re too stupid to 
 live. 
 
 I hope you will be comforted in any feeling of languor or 
 depression in yourself by hearing that I also am wholly lack 
 lustrous, depressed, oppressed, compressed, and dowmpressed, 
 by a quite countless pressgang of despondencies, humilities, 
 remorses, shamefacednesses, all overnesses, all undernesses, 
 sicknesses, dulnesses, darknesses, sulkinesses, and everything 
 that rhymes to lessness and distress, and that I’m sure you 
 and I are at present the mere targets of the darts of the—, 
 etc., etc., and Mattie’s waiting and mustn’t be loaded with 
 more sorrow ; but I can’t tell you how sorry I am to break my 
 promiso to-day, but it would not be safe for me to come. 
 
90 
 
 HORTUS INCLUSUS. 
 
 I’ll look at tlie dial to-night. What a cruel thing of you to 
 make me “ look upon it! ” I’m not gone to Venice yet, but 
 thinking of it hourly. I’m very nearly done with toasting my 
 bishop; he just wants another turn or two, and then a little 
 butter. 
 
 I’m a little better, but can’t laugh much yet, and won’t cry 
 if I can help it. Yet it always makes me nearhy cry, to hear 
 of those poor working-men trying to express themselves and 
 nobody ever teaching them, nor anybody in all England, 
 knowing that painting is an art , and sculpture also, and that 
 an untaught man can no more carve or paint than play the 
 fiddle. All efforts of the kind mean simply that we have 
 neither master nor scholars in any rank or any place. And 
 I, also, what have I done for Coniston schools yet ? I don’t 
 deserve an oyster shell, far less an oyster. 
 
 Kirby Lonsdale, 
 
 Thursday evening . 
 
 You won’t get this note to-morrow, I’m afraid, but after 
 that I think they will be regular till I reach Oxford. It is very 
 nice to know that there is someone who does care for a letter, 
 as if she were one’s sister. You would be glad to see the 
 clouds break for me ; and I had indeed a very lovely morning 
 drive and still lovelier evening, and full moonrise here over 
 the Lane. 
 
 I suppose it is Kirk-by-Lune’s Dale ? for the church, I find, 
 is a very important Norman relic. By the way, I should tell 
 you that the colored plates in the “Stones of Venice” do 
 great injustice to my drawings ; the patches are worn on the 
 stones. My drawings were not good , but the plates are total 
 failures. The only one even of the engravings which is 
 rightly done is the (last, I think, in Appendix) inlaid dove and 
 raven. I’ll show you the drawing for that when I come back, 
 and perhaps for the San Michele, if I recollect to fetch it from 
 Oxford, and I’ll fetch you the second volume, which has 
 really good plates. That blue beginning, I forgot to say, is of 
 
II OUT US INCLUSUS. 
 
 91 
 
 tlie Straits of Messina, and it is really very like the color of 
 the sea. 
 
 That is intensely curious about the parasitical plant of 
 Borneo. But—very dreadful! 
 
 You are like Timon of Athens, and I’m like one of his par¬ 
 asites. The oranges are delicious, the brown bread dainty ; 
 what the melon is going to be I have no imagination to tell. 
 But, oh me, I had such a lovely letter from Dr. John, sent 
 me from Joan this morning, and I’ve lost it. It said, “Is 
 Susie as good as her letters ? If so, she must be better. 
 What freshness of enjoyment in everything she says ! ” 
 
 Alas! not in everything she feels in this weather, I fear. 
 Was ever anything so awful ? 
 
 Do you know, Susie, everything that has happened to me 
 (and the leaf I sent you this morning may show you it has 
 had some hurting in it) is little in comparison to the crushing 
 and depressing effect on me of what I learn day by day as I 
 work on, of the cruelty and ghastliness of the nature I used to 
 think so Divine? But I get out of it by remembering, This 
 is but a crumb of dust we call the “world,” and a moment of 
 eternity which we call “ time.” Can’t answer the great ques¬ 
 tion to-night. 
 
 I can only thank you for telling me ; and say, Praised be 
 God for giving him back to us. 
 
 Worldly people say “Thank God” when they get what 
 they want ; as if it amused God to plague them, and was a 
 vast piece of self-denial on His part to give them what they 
 liked. But I, who am a simple person, thank God when He 
 hurts me, because I don’t think He likes it any more than I 
 do ; but I can’t praise Him, because—I don’t understand 
 why—I can only praise what’s pretty and pleasant, like get¬ 
 ting back our doctor. 
 
92 
 
 nORTUS INQLTJSUS. 
 
 2 Qth November. 
 
 And to-morrow I’m not to be there ; and I’ve no present 
 for you, and I am so sorry for both of us ; but oh, my dear 
 little Susie, the good people all say this wretched makeshift 
 of a world is coming to an end next year, and you and I and 
 everybody who likes birds and roses are to have new birth¬ 
 days and presents of such sugar plums. Crystals of candied 
 cloud and manna in sticks with no ends, all the way to the 
 sun, and white stones ; and new names in them, and heaven 
 knows what besides. 
 
 It sounds all too good to be true ; but the good people are pos¬ 
 itive of it, and so’s the great Pyramid, and the Book of Daniel, 
 and the “Bibleof Amiens.” You can’t possibly believe in any 
 more promises of mine, I know, but if I do come to see you this 
 day week, don’t think it’s a ghost; and believe at least that wo 
 all love you and rejoice in your birthday wherever we are. 
 
 I’m so thankful you’re better. 
 
 Beading my old diary, I came on a sentence of yours last 
 year about the clouds being all “ trimmed with swansdown,” 
 so pretty. (I copied it out of a letter.) The thoughts of you 
 always trim me with swansdown. 
 
 I never got your note written yesterday ; meant at least to 
 do it even after post time, but was too stupid, and am infi¬ 
 nitely so to-day also. Only I must pray you to tell Sarah we 
 all had elder wine to finish our evening with, and I mulled it 
 myself, and poured it out from the saucepan into the expect¬ 
 ants’ glasses, and everybody asked for more ; and I slept liko 
 a dormouse. But, as I said, I am so stupid this morning 
 
 that-. Well, there’s no “that ” able to say how stupid I 
 
 am, unless the fly that wouldn’t keep out of the candle last 
 night ; and he had some notion of bliss to be found in candles, 
 and I’ve no notion of anything. 
 
 The blue sky is so wonderful to-day, and the woods after 
 the rain so delicious for walking in, that I must still delay 
 
non TITS IJYGLUSUS. 
 
 93 
 
 any school talk one day more. Meantime I’ve sent you a 
 book which is in a nice large print, and may in some parts 
 interest you. I got it that I might be able to see Scott’s 
 material for “ Peveril ; ” and it seems to me that he might 
 have made more of the real attack on Latham House than of 
 the fictitious one on Front de Boeuf’s castle, had he been so 
 minded, but perhaps he felt himself hampered by too much 
 known fact. 
 
 I’ve just finished and sent off the index to “ Deucalion,” 
 first volume, and didn’t feel inclined for more schooling to¬ 
 day. 
 
 I’ve just had a charming message from Martha Gale, under 
 the address of “that old duckling.” Isn’t that nice? Ethel 
 was coming to see you to-day, but I’ve confiscated her for the 
 woodcock, and she shan’t come to-morrow, for I want you all 
 to myself ; only it isn’t her fault. 
 
 But you gave my present before, a month ago, and I’ve 
 been presenting myself with all sorts of things ever since; 
 and now it’s not half gone. I’m very thankful for this, how¬ 
 ever, just now, for St. George, who is cramped in his career, 
 and I’ll accept it, if you like, for him. Meantime I’ve sent it 
 to the bank, and hold him your debtor. I’ve had the most 
 delicious gift besides I ever had in my life—the Patriarch 
 of Venice’s blessing written with his own hand, with his por¬ 
 trait. 
 
 I’ll bring you this to see to-morrow, and a fresh Turner. 
 
 I have forbidden Joanie’s going out to-day, for she got a 
 little chill in the wind last night, and looked pale and defaite 
 in the evening ; she’s all right again, but I can’t risk her out, 
 though she was much minded to come, and I am sure you 
 and Mary will say I am right. She will be delighted and re¬ 
 freshed by seeing the young ladies ; and the Turners look 
 grand in the gray light. 
 
94 
 
 IIORTUS INCLUSm . 
 
 So I have told Baxter to bring up a fly from the Water- 
 head, and to secure your guests on their way here, and put up 
 to bring them so far back. I shall also send back by it a 
 purple bit of Venice, which pleases me, though the mount’s 
 too large and spoils it a little ; but you will be gracious to it. 
 
 What delicious asparagus and brown bread I’ve been hav¬ 
 ing !!!!!!!! I should like to write as many notes of ad¬ 
 miration as there are waves on the lake ; the octave must do. 
 I’ve been writing a pretty bit of chant for Byron’s heroic 
 measure. Joan must play it to you when she next comes. 
 I’m mighty well, and rather mischievous. 
 
 The weather has grievously depressed me this last week, 
 and I have not been fit to speak to anybody. I had much in¬ 
 terruption in the early part of it, though, from a pleasant 
 visitor ; and I have not been able to look rightly at your pretty 
 little book. Nevertheless, I’m quite sure your strength is in 
 private letter writing, and that a curious kind of shyness pre¬ 
 vents your doing yourself justice in print. You might also 
 surely have found a more pregnant motto about birds’ nests I 
 Am not I cross ? But these gray skies are mere poison to 
 my thoughts, and I have been writing such letters that I don’t 
 think many of my friends are likely to speak to me again. 
 
 I think you must have been spinning the sunbeams into 
 gold to be able to scatter gifts like this. 
 
 It is your own light of the eyes that has made the woodland 
 leaves so golden brown. 
 
 Well, I have just opened a St. George account at the Conis- 
 ton Bank, and this will make me grandly miserly and careful. 
 
 I am very thankful for it. 
 
 Also for Harry’s saying of me that I am gentle ! I’ve been 
 quarrelling with so many people lately I had forgotten all 
 grace, till you brought it back yesterday and made me still 
 your gentle, etc. 
 
SUSIE’S LETTERS. 
 
SUSIE’S LETTERS. 
 
 The following Letters and the little notes on Birds are in¬ 
 serted here by the express wish of Mr. Buskin. I had it in 
 my mind to pay Susie some extremely fine compliments about 
 these Letters and Notes, and to compare her method of ob¬ 
 servation with Thoreau’s, and, above all, to tell some very 
 pretty stories showing her St. Francis-like sympathy with, 
 and gentle power over, all living creatures ; but Susie says 
 that she is already far too prominent, and we hope that the 
 readers of “ Hortus ” will see for themselves how she rever¬ 
 ences and cherishes all noble life, with a special tenderness, I 
 think, for furred and feathered creatures. To all outcast and 
 hungry things the Thwaite is a veritable Bethlehem, or House 
 of Bread, and to her, their sweet “Madonna Nourrice,” no 
 less than to her Teacher, the sparrows and linnets that crowd 
 its thresholds are in a very particular sense “Sons of God.” 
 
 A. F. 
 
 April 14th, 1874. 
 
 I sent off such a long letter to you yesterday, my dear 
 friend. Did you think of your own quotation from Homer, 
 when you told me that field of yours was full of violets ? But 
 where are the four fountains of white water?—through a 
 meadow full of violets and parsley ? How delicious Calypso’s 
 fire of finely chopped cedar! How shall I thank you for 
 allowing me, Susie the little, to distil your writings ? Such a 
 joy and comfort to me—for I shall need much very soon now. 
 I do so thank and love you for it ; I am sure I may say so to 
 you. I rejoice again and again that I have such a friend. 
 
 7 
 
98 
 
 HORTUS INCLUSTJS. 
 
 May I never love him less, never prove unworthy of his friend¬ 
 ship ! How I wanted my letter, and now it has come, and I 
 have told our Dr. John of your safe progress so far. I trust 
 you will be kept safe from everything that might injure you 
 in any way. 
 
 The snow has melted away, and this is a really sweet April 
 day and ought to be enjoyed—if only Susie could. But both 
 she and her dear friend must strive with their grief. When 
 I was a girl—(I was once)—I used to delight in Pope’s 
 Homer. I do believe I rather enjoyed the killing and slaying, 
 specially the splitting down the chine! But when I tried to 
 read it again not very long ago, I got tired of this kind of 
 thing. If you had only translated Homer! then I should 
 have had a feast. When a schoolgirl, going each day with 
 my bag of books into Manchester, I used to like Don 
 Quixote and Sir Charles Grandison with my milk porridge. 
 I must send you only this short letter to-day. I can see your 
 violet field from this window. How sweetly the little limpid 
 stream would tinkle to-day ; and how the primroses are sitting 
 listening to it and the little birds sipping it! I have come to 
 the conclusion that bees go more by sight than by scent. As 
 I stand by my peacock with his gloriously gorgeous tail all 
 spread out, a bee comes right at it (very vulgar, but expres¬ 
 sive) ; and I have an Alpine Primula on this window-stone 
 brightly in flower, and a bee came and alighted, but went 
 away again at once, not finding the expected honey. I won¬ 
 der what you do the livelong day, for I know you and idle¬ 
 ness are not acquaintances. I am so sorry your favorite 
 places are spoiled. But dear Brantwood will grow prettier 
 and prettier under your care. 
 
 April 9 th. 
 
 I have just been pleased by seeing a blackbird enjoying, 
 with schoolboy appetite, portions of a moistened crust of 
 bread which I threw out for him and his fellow-creatures. 
 How he dug with his orange bill!—even more orange than 
 usual perhaps at this season of the year. At length the 
 
HOBTUS INCLUSUS. 
 
 99 
 
 robing have built a nest in the ivy in our yard—a very secure 
 and sheltered place, and a very convenient distance from the 
 crumb market. Like the old woman, he sings with a merry 
 devotion, and she thinks there never was such music, as she 
 sits upon her eggs ; he comes again and again, with every little 
 dainty that his limited income allows, and she thinks it all the 
 sweeter because he brings it to her. Now and then she leaves 
 her nest to stretch her wings, and to shake off the dust 
 of care, and to prevent her pretty ankles being cramped. But 
 she knows her duty too well to remain absent long from her 
 precious eggs. 
 
 Now another little note from Dr. John, and he actually 
 begins, “My dear ‘Susie,’”—and ends, “Let me hear from 
 you soon. Ever yours affectionately.” Also he says, “It is 
 very kind in you to let me get at once close to you.” The 
 rest of his short letter (like you, he was busy) is nearly all 
 about you, so of course it is interesting to me, and he hopes 
 you are already getting good from the change, and I indulge 
 the same hope. 
 
 10 th April. 
 
 Brantwood looked so very nice this morning decorated by 
 the coming into leaf of the larches. I wish you could have 
 seen them in the distance as I did : the early sunshine had 
 glanced upon them lighting up one side, and leaving the other 
 in softest shade, and the tender green contrasted with the 
 deep browns, and grays stood out in a wonderful way, and the 
 trees looked like spirits of the wood, which you might think 
 would melt away like the White Lady of Avenel. 
 
 Dear sweet April still looks coldly upon us—the month you 
 love so dearly. Little white lambs are in the fields now, and 
 so much that is sweet is coming ; but there is a shadow over 
 this house now ; and, also, my dear kind friend is far away. 
 The horse-chestnuts have thrown away the winter coverings 
 of their buds, and given them to that dear economical mother 
 earth, who makes such good use of everything, and works up 
 old materials again in a wonderful way, and is delightfully 
 Unlike most economists—the very soul of generous liberality. 
 
100 
 
 nonTUS INGLUSUS. 
 
 Now some of your own words, so powerful as they are—you 
 are speaking of the Alp and of the “ Great Builder ”—of your 
 own transientness, as of the grass upon its sides ; and in this 
 very sadness, a sense of strange companionship with past 
 generations, in seeing what they saw. They have ceased to 
 look upon it, you will soon cease to look also ; and the granite 
 wall will be for others, etc., etc. 
 
 My dear friend, was there ever anyone so pathetic as you ? 
 And you have the power of bringing things before one, both 
 to the eye and to the mind : you do indeed paint with your 
 pen. Now I have a photograph of you—not a very satisfactory 
 one, but still I am glad to have it, rather than none. It was 
 done at Newcastle-on-Tyne. Were you in search of something 
 of Bewick’s ? 
 
 I have just given the squirrel his little loaf (so you see I 
 am a lady),* he has bounded away with it, full of joy and 
 gladness. I wish that this were my case and yours , for what¬ 
 ever we may wish for, that we have not. We have a variety 
 and abundance of loaves. I have asked Dr. J. Brown whether 
 he would like photographs of your house and the picturesque 
 breakwater. I do so wish that you and he and I did not suffer 
 so much, but could be at least moderately happy. I am sure 
 you would be glad if you knew, even in this time of sorrow, 
 when all seems stale, flat, unprofitable, the pleasure and 
 interest I have had in reading your Yol. 3 [“ Modern 
 Painters”]. I study your character in your writings, and I 
 find so much to elevate, to love, to admire—a sort of educa¬ 
 tion for my poor old self—and oh! such beauty of thought 
 and word. 
 
 Even yet my birds want so much bread ; I do believe the 
 worms are sealed up in the dry earth, and they have many 
 little mouths to fill just now—and there is one old blackbird 
 whose devotion to his wife and children is lovely. I should 
 like him never to die, he is one of my heroes. And now a dog 
 
 * See Fors Clavigera, Letter XLY. 
 
HORTUS INCLUSUS. 
 
 101 
 
 which calls upon me sometimes at the window, and I point 
 kitchen ward and the creature knows what I mean, and goes 
 and gets a good meal. So if I can only make a dog happy 
 (as you do, only you take yours to live with you, and I cannot 
 do that) it is a pleasant thing. I do so like to make things 
 happier, and I should like to put bunches of hay in the fields 
 for the poor horses, for there is very scant supply of grass, and 
 too many for the supply. 
 
 1 st May. 
 
 I cannot longer refrain from writing to you, my dear kind 
 friend, so often are you in my thoughts. Dearest Joanie has 
 told you, I doubt not, and I know how sorry you are, and how 
 truly you are feeling for your poor Susie. So knowing that , I 
 will say no more about my sorrow. There is no need for 
 words. I am wishing, oh, so much, to know how you are : 
 quite safe and well, I hope, and able to have much real enjoy¬ 
 ment in the many beautiful things by which you are sur¬ 
 rounded. May you lay up a great stock of good health and 
 receive much good in many ways, and then return to those 
 who so much miss you, and by whom you are so greatly be¬ 
 loved. 
 
 Coniston would go into your heart if you could see it now 
 —so very lovely, the oak trees so early, nearly in leaf already. 
 Your beloved blue hyacinths will soon be out, and the cuckoo 
 has come, but it is long since Susie has been out. She only 
 stands at an open window, but sho must try next week to go 
 into the garden ; and she is finding a real pleasure in making 
 extracts from your writings for you, often wondering “will 
 he let that remain ? ” and hoping that he will. 
 
 Do you ever send home orders about your Brantwood ? I 
 have been wishing so much that your gardener might be told 
 to mix quantities of old mortar and soil together, and to fill 
 many crevices in vour new walls with it ; then the breezes 
 will bring fern seeds and plant them, or rather sow them in 
 such fashion as no human being can do. When time and the 
 showers brought by the west wind have mellowed it a little, 
 
102 
 
 IIORTUS IN CL US US. 
 
 tlie tiny beginnings of mosses will be there. The sooner this 
 can be done the better. Do not think Susie presumptuous. 
 
 We have hot sun and a very cool air, which I do not at all 
 like. 
 
 I hope your visit to Palermo and your lady have been all 
 that you could wish. Please do write to me ; it would do me 
 so much good and so greatly refresh me. 
 
 This poor little letter is scarcely worth sending, only it says 
 that I am your loving Susie. 
 
 \kth May. 
 
 My dearest Friend,— Your letter yesterday did me so much 
 good, and though I answered it at once yet here I am again. 
 A kind woman from the other side has sent me the loveliest 
 group of drooping and very tender ferns, soft as of some vel¬ 
 vet belonging to the fairies, and of the most exquisite green, 
 and primroses, and a slender-stalked white flower, and so ar¬ 
 ranged that they continually remind me of that enchanting 
 group of yours in Yol. 3, which you said I might cut out. 
 What would you have thought of me if I had ? Oh, that you 
 would and could sketch this group—or even that your eye 
 could rest upon it! Now you will laugh if I ask you whether 
 harpies ever increase in number ? or whether they are only 
 the “ old original.” They quite torment me when I open the 
 window, and blow chaff at me. I suppose at this moment 
 dearest Joanie is steaming away to Liverpool; one always 
 wants to know now whether people accomplish a journey 
 safely. When the blackbirds come for soaked bread, they 
 generally eat a nice little lot themselves, before carrying any 
 away from the window for their little ones ; but Bobbie, “ our 
 little English Bobin,” has just been twice, took none for him¬ 
 self, but carries beak-load after beak-load for his speckled in¬ 
 fants. How curious the universal love of bread is ; so many 
 things like and eat it—even flies, and snails ! 
 
 You know you inserted a letter from Jersey about fish !* 
 
 * See Tors Clavigera, Letter XXX, 
 
HORTUS INCLUSUS . 
 
 103 
 
 A lady there tells me that formerly you might have a bucket 
 of oysters for sixpence, and that now you can scarcely get 
 anything but such coarse kinds of fish as are not liked ; and 
 she has a sister, a sad invalid, to whom fish would be a very 
 pleasant and wholesome change. This is really a sad state of 
 things, and here the railways seem very likely to carry away 
 our butter, and it is now such a price, quite ex[h]orbitant. 
 Why did I put an h in ? Is it to prove the truth of what you 
 say, that ladies do not spell well ? A letter which I once 
 wrote when a girl was a wonderful specimen of bad spelling. 
 
 15 th May. 
 
 I have found such lovely passages in Vol. 1 this morning 
 that I am delighted, and have begun to copy one of them. 
 You do float in such beautiful things sometimes that you 
 make me feel I don’t know how ! 
 
 How I thank you for ever having written them, for though 
 late in the day, they were written for me, and have at length 
 reached me ! 
 
 You are so candid about your age that I shall tell you 
 mine ! I am astonished to find myself sixty-eight—very near 
 the Psalmist’s threescore and ten. Much illness and much 
 sorrow, and then I woke up to find myself old, and as if I had 
 lost a great part of my life. Let us hope it was not all lost. 
 
 I think you can understand me when I say that I have a 
 great fund of love, and no one to spend it upon, because 
 there are not any to whom I could give it fully, and I love 
 my pets so dearly, but I dare not and cannot enjoy it fully 
 because—they die, or get injured, and then my misery is in¬ 
 tense. I feel as if I could tell you much, because your sym¬ 
 pathy is so refined and so tender and true. Cannot I be a 
 a sort of second mother to you ? I am sure the first one was 
 often praying for blessings for you, and in this, at least, I re¬ 
 semble her. 
 
 Am I tiresome writing all this ? It just came, and you 
 said I was to write what did. We have had some nice rain, 
 but followed not by warmth, but a cruel east wind. 
 
104 
 
 nORTUS INCLUSUS. 
 
 ABOUT WRENS. 
 
 This year I have seen wrens’ nests in three different kinds 
 of places—one built in the angle of a doorway, one under a 
 bank, and a third near the top of a raspberry bush ; this last 
 was so large that when our gardener first saw it, he thought 
 it was a swarm of bees. It seems a pleasure to this active 
 bird to build ; he will begin to build several nests sometimes 
 before he completes one for Jenny Wren to lay her eggs and 
 make her nursery. Think how busy both he and Jenny are 
 when the sixteen young ones come out of their shells—little 
 helpless gaping things wanting feeding in their turns the live¬ 
 long summer day ! What hundreds and thousands of small 
 insects they devour ! They catch flies with good-sized wings. 
 I have seen a parent wren with its beak so full that the wings 
 stood out at each side like the whiskers of a cat. 
 
 Once in America, in the month of June, a mower hung up 
 his coat under a shed near a barn ; two or three days passed 
 before he had occasion to put it on again. Thrusting his arm 
 up the sleeve he found it completely filled with something, 
 and on pulling out the mass he found it to be the nest of a 
 wren, completely finished and lined with feathers. What a 
 pity that all the labor of the little pair had been in vain ! 
 Great was the distress of the birds, who vehemently and 
 angrily scolded him for destroying their house ; happily it 
 was an empty one, without either eggs or young birds. 
 
 HISTORY OF A BLACKBIRD. 
 
 We had had one of those summer storms which so injure 
 the beautiful flowers and the young leaves of the trees. A 
 blackbird’s nest with young ones in it was blown out of the 
 ivy on the wall, and the little ones, with the exception of one, 
 were killed ! The poor little bird did not escape without a 
 wound upon his head, and when he was brought to me it did 
 not seem very likely that I should ever be able to rear him ; 
 
nORTUS INCLUSUS . 
 
 105 
 
 but I could not refuse to take in the little helpless stranger, 
 so I put him into a covered basket for a while. 
 
 I soon found that I had undertaken what was no easy task, 
 for he required feeding so early in a morning that I was 
 obliged to take him and his bread crumbs into my bed-room, 
 and jump up to feed him as soon as he began to chirp, which 
 he did in very good time. 
 
 Then in the daytime I did not dare to have him in the sit¬ 
 ting-room with me, because my sleek favorites, the cats, 
 would soon have devoured him, so I carried him up into an 
 attic, and as he required feeding very often in the day, you 
 may imagine that I had quite enough of exercise in running 
 up and down stairs. 
 
 But I was not going to neglect the helpless thing after 
 once undertaking to nurse him, and I had the pleasure of 
 seeing him thrive well upon his diet of dry-bread crumbs and 
 a little scrap of raw meat occasionally ; this last delicacy, you 
 know, was a sort of imitation of worms! 
 
 Very soon my birdie knew my step, and though he never 
 exactly said so, I am sure he thought it had “music in’t,” for 
 as soon as I touched the handle of the door he set up a shriek 
 of joy ! 
 
 “The bird that we nurse is the bird that we love,” and I 
 soon loved Dick. And the love was not all on one side, for 
 my bonnie bird would sit upon my finger uttering complacent 
 little chirps, and when I sang to him in a low voice he would 
 gently peck my hair. 
 
 As he grew on and wanted to use his limbs, I put him into 
 a large wicker bonnet-basket, having taken out the lining ; it 
 made him a large, cheerful, airy cage. Of course I had a 
 perch put across it, and he had plenty of white sand and a 
 pan of water ; sometimes I set his bath on the floor of tho 
 room, and he delighted in bathing until he looked half- 
 drowned ; then what shaking of his feathers, what preening 
 and arranging there was! And how happy and clean and 
 comfortable he looked when his toilet was completed ! 
 
 You may be sure that I took him some of the first ripe 
 currants and strawberries, for blackbirds like fruit, and so 
 
106 
 
 HOHTUS INCLUSU8. 
 
 do boys! When lie was fledged I let him out in the room, 
 and so he could exercise his wings. It is a curious fact that 
 if I went up to him with my bonnet on he did not know me 
 at all, but was in a state of great alarm. 
 
 Blackbirds are wild birds, and do not bear being kept in a 
 cage, not even so well as some other birds do; and as this 
 bird grew up he was not so tame, and was rather restless. I 
 knew that, though I loved him so much, I ought not to keep 
 him shut up against his will. He was carried down into the 
 garden while the raspberries were ripe, and allowed to fly 
 away; and I have never seen him since. Do you wonder 
 that my eyes filled with tears when he left? 
 
IN MONTIBTIS SANCTIS. 
 
 STUDIES OF MOUNTAIN FORM 
 AND OF ITS VISIBLE CAUSES. 
 
 COLLECTED AND COMPLETED OUT OF 
 
 “MODERN PAINTERS. 0 
 
 i 
 

PREFACE. 
 
 I receive at present with increasing frequency requests or 
 counsels from people whose wishes and advice I respect, for 
 the reprinting of “ Modern Painters.” When I formerly stated 
 my determination not to republish that work in its original 
 form, it was always with the purpose of giving its scientific 
 sections with farther illustration in “Deucalion ” and “Proser¬ 
 pina,” and extracts from those relating to art and education in 
 my Oxford Lectures. But finding, usually, for these last, 
 subjects more immediately interesting ; and seeing that Deu¬ 
 calion and Proserpina have quite enough to do in their own 
 way—for the time they have any chance of doing it in—I am 
 indeed minded now to reprint the three scientific sections 
 of “ Modern Painters ” in their original terms, which, very 
 thankfully I find, cannot much be bettered, for what they 
 intend or attempt. The scientific portions, divided prospec¬ 
 tively, in the first volume, into four sections, were meant to 
 define the essential forms of sky, earth, water, and vegetation ; 
 but finding that I had not the mathematical knowledge re¬ 
 quired for the analysis of wave-action, the chapters on Sea¬ 
 painting were never finished, the materials for them being 
 partly used in the “Harbors of England,” and the rest of the 
 design remitted till I could learn more dynamics. But it 
 was never abandoned, and the corrections already given in 
 “ Deucalion ” of the errors of Agassiz and Tyndall on the 
 glacier theory are based on studies of wave-motion which I 
 hope still to complete the detail of in that work. 
 
 My reprints from “ Modern Painters ” will therefore fall 
 only into three divisions, on the origin of form in clouds, 
 mountains, and trees. They will be given in the pages and 
 
110 
 
 PREFACE. 
 
 type now chosen for my Oxford Lectures ; and the two lect¬ 
 ures on existing Storm-cloud already published will form a 
 proper introduction to the cloud-studies of former times, of 
 which the first number is already in the press. In like 
 manner, the following paper, prepared to be read before the 
 Mineralogical Society on the occasion of their meeting in Ed¬ 
 inburgh, this year, and proposing, in brief abstract, the ques¬ 
 tions which are at the root of rock-science, may not unfitly 
 introduce the chapters of geological inquiry, begun at the 
 foot of the Matterhorn thirty years ago, inquiries which were 
 the proper sequel of those instituted by Saussure, and from 
 which the fury of investigation in extinct zoology has since so 
 far diverted the attention of mineralogists, that I have been 
 virtually left to pursue them alone ; not without some re¬ 
 sults, for which, fortified as they are by the recent advance 
 of rock-chemistry, I might claim, did I care to claim, the 
 dignity of Discoveries. For the separate enumeration of 
 these, the reader is referred to the postscript to the opening 
 paper. 
 
 The original wood-cuts will all be used in this edition, but 
 in order not to add to the expense of the republished text, I 
 have thought it best that such of the steel plates as are still 
 in a state to give fair impressions, should be printed and 
 bound apart; purchasable either collectively or in separate 
 parts, illustrative of the three several sections of text. These 
 will be advertised when ready. 
 
 The text of the old book, as in the already reprinted 
 second volume, will be in nothing changed, and only occa¬ 
 sionally explained or amplified by notes in brackets. 
 
 It is also probable that a volume especially devoted to the 
 subject of Education may be composed of passages gathered 
 out of the entire series of my works; and since the parts of 
 “ Modern Painters ” bearing on the principles of art will be 
 incorporated in the school lectures connected with my duty at 
 Oxford, whatever is worth preservation in the whole book 
 will be thus placed at the command of the public. 
 
 Brantwood, 
 
 1 (H7i September , 1884 . 
 
IN MONTIBTJS SANCTIS. 
 
 CHAPTER I. 
 
 OF THE DISTINCTIONS OF FORM IN SILICA. 
 
 (Bead before the Mineralogical Society , July 24, 1884.) 
 
 As this paper, by the courtesy of the secretaries, stands 
 first on the list of those to be read at the meeting, I avail my¬ 
 self of the privilege thus granted me of congratulating the 
 Society on this occasion of its meeting in the capital of a 
 country which is itself one magnificent mineralogical speci¬ 
 men, reaching from Cheviot to Cape Wrath ; thus gathering 
 into the most convenient compass, and presenting in the 
 most instructive forms, examples of nearly every mineralogi¬ 
 cal process and phenomenon which have taken place in the 
 construction of the world. 
 
 May I be permitted, also, to felicitate myself, on the per¬ 
 mission thus given me, to bring before the Mineralogical So¬ 
 ciety a question which, in Edinburgh, of all cities of the 
 world, it should be easiest to solve, namely, the methods of 
 the construction and painting of a Scotch pebble ? 
 
 I am the more happy in this unexpected privilege, because, 
 though an old member of the Geological Society, my geolog¬ 
 ical observations have always been as completely ignored by 
 that Society, as my remarks on political economy by the 
 Directors of the Bank of England ; and although I have re¬ 
 peatedly solicited from them the charity of their assistance in 
 so small a matter as the explanation of an agate stone on the 
 forefinger of an alderman, they still, as l stated the ease in 
 
112 
 
 IN MONTIBUS SANCTIS. 
 
 closing my first volume of “ Deucalion,” discourse on the ca¬ 
 tastrophes of chaos, and the processes of creation, without 
 being able to tell why a slate splits, or how a pebble is col¬ 
 ored. 
 
 Pebble—or crystal; here in Scotland the main questions 
 respecting these two main forms of silica are put to us, with 
 a close solicitude, by the beautiful conditions of agate, and 
 the glowing colors of the Cairngorm, which have always varie¬ 
 gated and illuminated the favorite jewelry of Scottish laird 
 and lassie. 
 
 May I hope, with especial reference to the 
 
 “ favorite gem 
 
 Of Scotland's mountain diadem,” 
 
 to prevail on some Scottish mineralogist to take up the 
 hitherto totally neglected subject of the relation of color in 
 minerals to their state of substance : why, for instance, large 
 and well-developed quartz crystals are frequently topaz 
 color or smoke color,—never rose-color ; while massive quartz 
 may be rose-color, and pure white or gray, but never smoke 
 color;—again, why amethyst quartz may continually, as at 
 Schemnitz and other places, be infinitely complex and multi¬ 
 plex in crystallization, but never warped ; while smoky quartz 
 may be continually found warped, but never, in the amethys¬ 
 tine way, multiplex ;—why, again, smoky quartz and Cairn¬ 
 gorm are continually found in short crystals, but never in 
 long slender ones,—as, to take instance in another mineral, 
 white beryl is usually short or even tabular, and green beryl 
 long, almost in proportion to its purity ? 
 
 And, for the better solution, or at least proposition, of the 
 many questions, such as these, hitherto undealt with by 
 science, might I also hope that the efforts of the Mineralogi- 
 cal Society may be directed, among other quite feasible ob¬ 
 jects not }^et attained, to the formation of a museum of what 
 might be called mineral-geology, showing examples of all 
 familiar minerals in association with their native rocks, on a 
 sufficiently large and intelligible scale. There may be, per¬ 
 haps, by this time, in the museum of Edinburgh,—but there 
 
IN MONTIBUS SANCTIS. 
 
 113 
 
 is not in the British Museum, nor have I ever myself seen,— 
 either a specimen of pure Cairngorm in the gangue, or a 
 block of trap containing agates of really high quality, whether 
 from Scotland, Germany, or India. 
 
 Knowing the value of time to the meeting, I leave this, to 
 my thinking, deeply important subject of the encouragement 
 of geognostic mineralogy, to their own farther consideration ; 
 and pass to a point of terminology which is of extreme sig¬ 
 nificance in the study of siliceous minerals, namely, the de¬ 
 sirableness, and I should myself even say the necessity, of 
 substituting the term “ spheroidal ” for “ reniform” in minera- 
 logical description. Every so-called “ kidney-shaped ’’mineral 
 is an aggregate of spheroidal crystallizations, and it would be 
 just as rational and elegant to call sea-foam kidney-shaped, as 
 to call chalcedony so. The word “ Botryoidal ” is yet more 
 objectionable, because it is wholly untrue. There are many 
 minerals that resemble kidneys ; but there is no substance 
 in the whole mineral kingdom that resembles a bunch of 
 grapes. The pisolitic aggregations which a careless observer 
 might think grape-like, are only like grap e-shot, and lie in 
 heaps, not clusters. 
 
 But the change I would propose is not a matter of mere 
 accuracy or elegance in description. For want of observing 
 that the segmental surfaces of so-called reniform and botryoi¬ 
 dal minerals are spheroidal, the really crystalline structure 
 producing that external form has been overlooked, and, in con¬ 
 sequence, minerals have been continually described either as 
 amorphous, or as mixtures of different substances, which are 
 neither formless nor mingled, but are absolutely defined in 
 structure, and absolutely homogeneous in substance. 
 
 There are at least six states of siliceous substance which are 
 thus entirely distinct,—flint, jasper, chalcedony, hyalite, opal, 
 and quartz. They are only liable to be confused with each 
 other in bad specimens ; each has its own special and separate 
 character, and needs peculiar circumstances for its production 
 and development. The careful history of the forms of these 
 six minerals, and the careful collection of the facts respecting 
 the mode of their occurrence, would require a volume as large 
 8 
 
114 
 
 IN MON TIB US SANCTIS. 
 
 as any that are usually issued by way of complete systems of 
 mineralogy. Whereas, sufficient account is usually supposed 
 to be rendered of them in a few sentences, and, moreover, 
 every sentence of these concise abstracts usually contains, or 
 implies, an unchallenged fallacy. 
 
 I take, for example, from the account of “ clialcedonic vari¬ 
 eties of quartz ” given in Dana’s octavo of 456 close-printed 
 pages (Triibner, 1879),—the entire account occupies no more 
 than a page and three lines,—the following sentences: 
 
 “ Chalcedony oftens occurs lining or filling cavities in amyg- 
 daloidal rocks, and sometimes in other kinds. These cavities 
 are nothing but little caverns, into which siliceous waters 
 have filtrated at some period. The stalactites are ‘ icicles ’ of 
 chalcedony, hung from the roof of the cavity. 
 
 “ Agate, a variegated chalcedony. The colors are distrib¬ 
 uted in clouds, spots, or concentric lines. These lines take 
 straight, circular, or zigzag forms, and when the last, it is 
 called fortification agate, so named from the resemblance to 
 the angular outlines of a fortification. These lines are the 
 edges of layers of chalcedony, and these layers are successive 
 deposits during the process of its formation. 
 
 “ Mocha stone, or moss agate, is a brownish agate, consist¬ 
 ing of chalcedony with dentritic or moss-like delineations, of 
 an opaque yellowish-brown color.” 
 
 Now, with respect to the first of these statements, it is true 
 that cavities in amygdaloidal rocks are nothing but little cav¬ 
 erns, just as caverns in any rocks are nothing but large cavi¬ 
 ties. But the rocks are called “ amygdaloidal,” because their 
 cavities are in the shape of almonds, and there must be a 
 reason for this almond shape, which will bear on the struct¬ 
 ure of their contents. It is also true that in the rocks of Ice¬ 
 land there are cavities lined with stalactites of chalcedony. 
 But I believe no member of this Society has ever seen a cavity 
 in Scotch trap lined with stalactites of chalcedony; nor a 
 Scotch pebble which gave the slightest evidence of the direc¬ 
 tion of its infiltration. 
 
 The second sentence is still more misleading, for in no 
 sense is it toe that agate is a “ variegated ghalgedony.” It is 
 
IN MONTIBUS SANCTIS. 
 
 115 
 
 chalcedony separated into bands of various consistence, and 
 associated with parallel bands of jasper and quartz. And 
 whether these bands are successive deposits during the pro¬ 
 cess of formation or not, must be questionable until we pro¬ 
 duce the resemblance of an agate by a similar operation, 
 which I would very earnestly request some of the members 
 of the Mineralogical Society to do, before allowing state¬ 
 ments of this positive kind to be made on the subject in pop¬ 
 ular text-books. 
 
 The third sentence confounds Mocha stone with moss 
 agate, they being entirely different minerals. The delinea¬ 
 tions in Mocha stone are dendritic, and produced by mechan¬ 
 ical dissemination of metallic oxides, easily imitable by drop¬ 
 ping earthy colors into paste. But moss agates are of two 
 kinds, brown and green, the one really like moss, the other 
 filiform and like seaweed ; and neither of them is at present 
 explicable or imitable. 
 
 The inaccuracy of the statements thus made in so elaborate 
 a work on mineralogy as Dana’s, may, I think, justify me in 
 asking the attention of the Mineralogical Society to the dis¬ 
 tinctions in the forms of silica which they will find illustrated 
 by the chosen examples from my own collection, placed on 
 the table for their inspection. I place, first, side by side, 
 No. 1, the rudest, and No. 7, the most delicate, conditions of 
 pure chalcedony; the first, coarsely spheroidal, and associ¬ 
 ated with common flint; the second, filiform, its threads and 
 rods combining into plates,—each rod, on close examination, 
 being seen to consist of associated spheroidal concretions. 
 
 Next to these I place No. 2, a common small-globed chal¬ 
 cedony formed on the common quartzite of South England, 
 with opaque concentric zones developing themselves subse¬ 
 quently over its translucent masses. I have not the slightest 
 idea how any of these three specimens can have been formed, 
 and simply lay them before the Society in hope of receiving 
 some elucidatory suggestions about them. 
 
 My ignorance need not have remained so abject, had my 
 other work left me leisure to follow out the deeply interest¬ 
 ing experiments instituted by Mr. E. A. Pankhurst and Mr. 
 
116 
 
 IN MON TIB US SANCTIS. 
 
 J. I’Anson, of which the first results, being indeed the begin¬ 
 ning of the true history of silica, were published by those 
 gentlemen in the Mineralogical Magazine for 1882, I have 
 laid their paper, kindly then communicated to me, on the 
 table, for immediate comparison of its plates with the speci¬ 
 mens, and I have arranged the first two groups of these, 
 adopting from that paper the terms exogenous and endogen¬ 
 ous, for the two great families of agates, so as to illustrate 
 the principal statements made in its pages. 
 
 It would materially facilitate the pursuit of their discov¬ 
 eries if some of the members of the Society would register 
 and describe the successive phenomena of crystallization in 
 any easily soluble or fusible minerals. The history of a min¬ 
 eral is not given by ascertainment of the number or the an¬ 
 gles of the i^anes G f its crystals, but by ascertaining the 
 manner in which those crystals originate, increase, and asso¬ 
 ciate. The ordinary mineralogist is content to tell us that 
 gold, silver, and diamond are all cubic ;—it is for the miner¬ 
 alogist of the future to say why gold associates its countless 
 cubes into arborescent laminm, and silver into capillary 
 wreaths ; while diamond condemns its every octahedron to 
 monastic life, and never, except by accident, permits one of 
 them to crystallize beside another. 
 
 At pages 5 and 6 of Mr. J. I’Anson’s paper will be found 
 explanations, more or less complete, of the forms which I 
 have called folded “ agates ” and “ lake ” agates, reaching to 
 No. 40. The specimens from 40 to 60 then illustrate the 
 conditions of siliceous action which I am still alone among 
 modern mineralogists in my mode of interpreting. 
 
 The minor points of debate concerning them are stated in 
 the descriptions of each in the catalogue ; but there are some 
 examples among them from which branch lines of observa¬ 
 tion leading far beyond the history of siliceous pebbles. To 
 these I venture here to direct your special attention. 
 
 No. 3 is a fragment of black flint on which blue chalcedony 
 is deposited as a film extending itself in circles, exactly like 
 the growth of some lichens. I have never seen this form of 
 chalcedony solidify from circles into globes, and it is evident 
 
IN MONTI BUS SANCTIS. 
 
 117 
 
 that for this condition we must use the term “ cycloidal,” in¬ 
 stead of “ spheroidal.” I need not point out that “ reniform ” 
 would be here entirely absurd. 
 
 This apparently common specimen (and, as far as regards 
 frequency of occurrence, indeed common enough) is never¬ 
 theless one of the most profoundly instructive of the whole 
 series. It is, to begin with, a perfect type of the finest possi¬ 
 ble flint, properly so called. Its surface, eminently charac¬ 
 teristic of the forms of flint-concretion, is literally a white 
 dust of organic fragments, while the narrow fissure which has 
 opened in it, apparently owing to the contraction of its mass, 
 is besprinkled and studded, as closely, with what might not 
 unfitly be called pearl-chalcedony, or seed-chalcedony, or 
 hail-chalcedony ; for seen through the lens it exactly resem¬ 
 bles the grains of minute hail, sticking together as they melt; 
 in places, forming very solid crests—in others, and especially 
 in the rifted fissure, stalactites, possibly more or less vertical 
 to the plane in which the flint lay. 
 
 In No. 5 the separation into concentric films is a condition 
 peculiar to flint-chalcedony, and never found in true agates. 
 
 In No. 6 (chalcedony in stalactitic coats, on amethyst) the 
 variation of the stalactites in direction, and their modes of 
 agglutination, are alike unintelligible. 
 
 No. 8 is only an ordinary specimen of chalcedony on 
 haematite, in short, closely combined vertical stalactites, each 
 with a central stalactite of black iron-oxide ; but it is to be 
 observed, in comparing it with No. G, that when chalcedony 
 is thus formed on rods of haematite, the stalactites are almost 
 unexceptionally vertical, and quite straight. The radiate 
 ridge at one side of this example is, however, entirely anoma¬ 
 lous. 
 
 No. 9. The succeeding specimen, though small, is a notable 
 one, consisting of extremely minute and delicate shells or 
 crusts of spheroidal haematite, establishing themselves in the 
 heart of quartz. I have no idea of the method, or successions 
 in time, of this process. These I leave to the consideration 
 of the Society, but I point to the specimen as exquisitely ex¬ 
 hibiting the laws of true spheroidal crystallization, in a min- 
 
118 
 
 IN MONT I BUS SANCTIS. 
 
 eral which both in its massive and crystalline state is continu¬ 
 ally associated with quartz. And it cannot but be felt that 
 this spheroidal structure of haematite could as little be ex¬ 
 plained by calling or supposing it a mixture of micaceous 
 haematite with amorphous haematite, as that of chalcedony by 
 calling it a mixture of hexagonal with amorphous quartz. 
 
 No. 10. Next follows a beautiful and perfectly character¬ 
 istic example of massively spheroidal agate, in which first 
 gray and then white chalcedony, peculiarly waved and faulted 
 by a tendency to become quartz, surrounds earthy centres, 
 and is externally coated with pure quartz. And here I must 
 ask the Society to ratify for me the general law, that in all 
 solid globular or stalactitic conditions of chalcedony, if any 
 foreign substance occurs mixed with them, it is thrown to 
 their centres, while the pure quartz is always found on the 
 outside.* On the other hand, the usual condition of geodes 
 of chalcedony found in the cavities of rocks, is to purify 
 themselves toward the interior, and either coat themselves 
 with quartz on the interior surface, or entirely fill the central 
 cavity with quartz. 
 
 No. 46 is a most literally amygdaloidal—almond-shaped— 
 mass of silica ; only, not poured into an almond-shaped cav¬ 
 ity in basalt, but gathered into a knot out of Jurassic lime¬ 
 stone, as flint is out of chalk. 
 
 It is, however, banded quite otherwise than flint, the bands 
 giving occasion to its form, and composed of different sub¬ 
 stances. Whereas those of flint are of the flint itself in dif¬ 
 ferent states, and always independent of external form. 
 
 Secondly. It seems to me a question of considerable inter¬ 
 est, why the coarse substance of flint and of this dull horn- 
 stone can be stained with black, but not chalcedony, nor 
 quartz. The blackest so-called quartz is only a clear umber, 
 and opaque quartz is never so stained at all. Natural black 
 onyx is of extreme rarity, the onyx of commerce being arti¬ 
 ficially stained ; the black band in the lake agate, No. 32, is 
 
 * It is to be noticed also tliat often in stalactitic or tubular concre¬ 
 tions the purest chalcedony immediately surrounds the centre. 
 
IN MON Tin US SANCTIS. 
 
 119 
 
 probably bituminous. And in connection with this part of 
 the inquiry, it seems to be the peculiar duty of the mineralo¬ 
 gist to explain the gradual darkening of the limestones tow¬ 
 ard the central metamorpliic chains. 
 
 Thirdly, and principally. This stone gives us an example 
 of waved or contorted strata which are unquestionably pro¬ 
 duced by concretion and partial crystallization, not compres¬ 
 sion, or any kind of violence. I shall take occasion, in con¬ 
 cluding, to insist farther on the extreme importance of this 
 character. 
 
 The specimen was found by my good publisher, Mr. Allen, 
 on the southern slope of the Saleve ; and it is extremely de¬ 
 sirable that geologists in Savoy should obtain and describe 
 more pebbles of the same sort, this one being, as far as my 
 knowledge goes, hitherto unique. 
 
 71-77. These seven examples of opal have been chosen 
 merely to illustrate farther the modes of siliceous solution 
 and segregation, not with that of illustrating opal itself,— 
 every one of the seven examples presenting phenomena more 
 or less unusual. The two larger blocks, 71, 72 (Australian), 
 give examples in one or two places of obscurely nodular and 
 hollow concretion, before unknown in opal, but of which a 
 wonderful specimen, partly with a vitreous superficial glaze, 
 has been sent me by Mr. Henry Willett, of Arnold House, 
 Brighton, a most accurate investigator of the history of silica. 
 It is to be carefully noted, however, that the moment the 
 opal shows a tendency to nodular concretion, its colors 
 vanish. 
 
 No. 73 is sent only as an example of the normal state of 
 Australian opal, disseminated in a rock of which it seems 
 partly to have opened for itself the shapeless spaces it fills. 
 In No. 71, it may be observed, there is a tendency in them to 
 become tabular. No. 74, an apparently once fluent state of 
 opal in veins, shows in perfection the arrangement in straight 
 zones transverse to the vein, which I pointed out in my earl¬ 
 iest papers on silica as a constant distinctive character in 
 opal-crystallization. No. 75 is the only example I ever saw 
 of stellar crystallization in opal. No. 7G, from the samo 
 
120 
 
 IN MONTIBUS SANGTIS. 
 
 locality, is like a lake agate associated witli a brecciate con¬ 
 dition of the gangue ; while No. 77, though small, will be 
 found an extremely interesting example of hydrophane. The 
 blue bloom seen in some lights on it, when dry, as opposed 
 to the somewhat vulgar vivacity of its colors when wet, is a 
 perfect example of the opal’s faculty of selecting for its lustre 
 the most lovely combinations of the separated rays. A 
 diamond, or a piece of fissured quartz, reflects indiscrimin¬ 
 ately all the colors of the prism ; an opal, only those which 
 are most delightful to human sight and mental association. 
 
 78-80. These three geological specimens are placed at the 
 term of the series, that the importance of the structure 
 already illustrated by No. 46 may be finally represented to 
 the Society ; No. 46 being an undulated chalcedony ; No. 78 
 an undulated jasper ; No. 79, a hornstone ; and No. 80 a fully 
 developed gneiss. 
 
 I have no hesitation in affirming,—though it is not usual 
 with me to affirm anything I have not seen, and seen close,— 
 that every one of these types of undulated structure has been 
 produced by crystallization only, and absolutely without com¬ 
 pression or violence. But the transition from the contorted 
 gneiss which has been formed by crystallization only, to that 
 which has been subjected to the forces of upheaval, or of 
 lateral compression, is so gradual and so mysterious, that all 
 the chemistry and geology of modern science is hitherto at 
 fault in its explanation ; and this meeting would confer a 
 memorable benefit on future observers by merely determining 
 for them the conditions of the problem. Up to a certain 
 point, however, these were determined by Saussure, from 
 whose frequent and always acutely distinct descriptions of 
 contorted rocks I select the following, because it refers to a 
 scene of which the rock structure was a subject of constant 
 interest to the painter Turner ; the ravine, namely, by which, 
 on the Italian side of the St. Gothard, the Ticino escapes 
 from the valley of Airolo. 
 
 “At a league from Faido the traveller ascends by a road 
 carried on a cornice above the Ticino, which precipitates itself 
 between the rocks with the greatest violence. I made the 
 
IN MONTIBUS SANCTIS. 
 
 121 
 
 ascent on foot, in order to examine with care the beautiful 
 rocks, worthy of all the attention of a rock-lover. The veins 
 of that granite form in many places redoubled zigzags, pre¬ 
 cisely like the ancient tapestries known as point of Hungary, 
 and there it is impossible to say whether the veins of the 
 stone are, or are not, parallel to the beds; while finally I ob¬ 
 served several beds which in the middle of their thickness 
 appeared filled with veins in zigzag, while near their borders 
 they were arranged all in straight lines. This observation 
 proves that the zig-zags are the effect of crystallization, and 
 not that of a compression of the beds when they were in a 
 state of softness. In effect, the middle of a bed could not be 
 pushed together (‘refoule ’) unless the upper and lower parts 
 of it were pushed at the same time.” 
 
 This conclusive remark of Saussure renders debate impos¬ 
 sible respecting the cause of the contortions of gneiss on a 
 small scale ; and a very few experiments with clay, dough, or 
 any other ductile substance, such as those of which I have 
 figured the results in the Vltli plate of “ Deucalion,” will 
 prove, what otherwise is evident on sufficient reflection, that 
 minutely rh} 7 thmic undulations of beds cannot be obtained 
 by compression on a large scale. But I am myself prepared 
 to go much farther than this. During half a century of 
 various march among the Alps, I never saw the gneiss yet, 
 which I could believe to have been wrinkled by pressure, and 
 so far am I disposed to carry this denial of external force, 
 that I live in hopes of hearing the Matterhorn itself, whose 
 contorted beds I engraved thirty years ago in the fourth 
 volume of “ Modern Painters ” (the book is laid on the table, 
 open at the plate), pronounced bj r the Mmeralogical Society 
 to be nothing else than a large gneissitic crystal, curiously 
 cut! 
 
 Whether this hope be vain or not, I believe it will soon be 
 felt by the members of this Society, that an immense field of 
 observation is opened to them by recent chemistry, peculiarly 
 their own: and that mineralogy, instead of being merely the 
 servant of geology, must be utimately her guide. No move¬ 
 ment of rocks on a large scale can ever be explained until wo 
 
122 
 
 IN MONTIBUS SANCTIS. 
 
 understand rightly the formation of a quartz vein, and the 
 growth, to take the most familiar of fusible minerals, of an 
 ice-crystal.* 
 
 And I would especially plead with the younger members of 
 the Society, that they should quit the-mselves of the idea that 
 they need large laboratories, fine microscopes, or rare min¬ 
 erals, for the effective pursuit of their science. A quick eye, 
 a candid mind, and an earnest heart, are all the microscopes 
 and laboratories which any of us need ; and with a little clay, 
 sand, salt, and sugar a man may find out more of the methods 
 of geological phenomenon than ever were known to Sir 
 Charles Lyell. Of the interest and entertainment of such 
 unpretending science I hope the children of this generation 
 may know more than their fathers, and that the study of the 
 Earth, which hitherto has shown them little more than the 
 monsters of a chaotic past, may at last interpret for them the 
 beautiful work of the creative present, and lead them day by 
 day to find a loveliness, till then unthought of, in the rock, 
 and a value, till then uncounted, in the gem. 
 
 POSTSCRIPT TO CHAPTER I. 
 
 I believe that one of the causes which has prevented my writings on 
 subjects of science from obtaining the influence with the public which 
 they have accorded to those on art, though precisely the same faculties 
 of eye and mind are concerned in the analysis of natural and of picto¬ 
 rial forms, may have been my constant practice of teaching by question 
 rather than assertion. So far as I am able, I will henceforward mend 
 this fault as I best may ; beginning here with the assertion of the four 
 facts for which, being after long observation convinced of them, I claim 
 now, as I said in the Preface, the dignity of Discoveries. 
 
 I. That a large number of agates, and other siliceous substances, 
 hitherto supposed to be rolled pebbles in a conglomerate paste, are in 
 truth crystalline secretions out of that paste in situ, as garnets out of 
 mica-slate. 
 
 II. That a large number of agates, hitherto supposed to be formed by 
 
 * A translation into English of Dr. Schumacher’s admirable essay, Die 
 Krystallisation des Eises, Leipzig, 1844, is extremely desirable. 
 
IN MONTIBUS SANCTIS. 
 
 123 
 
 broken fragments of older agate, cemented by a gelatinous chalcedony, 
 are indeed secretions out of a siliceous fluid containing miscellaneous 
 elements, and their apparent fractures are indeed produced by the 
 same kind of tranquil division which terminates the bands in banded 
 flints. 
 
 III. That the contortions in gneiss and other metamorphic rocks, con¬ 
 stantly ascribed by geologists to pressure, are only modes of crytalliza- 
 tion. 
 
 And IV. That many of the faults and contortions produced on a large 
 scale in metamorphic rocks are owing to the quiet operation of similar 
 causes. 
 
 These four principles, as aforesaid, I have indeed worked out and 
 discovered for myself, not in hasty rivalry with other mineralogists, 
 but continually laying before them what evidence I had noted, and 
 praying them to carry forward the inquiry themselves. Finding they 
 would not, I have given much time this year to the collection of the 
 data in my journals, and to the arrangement of various collections of 
 siliceous and metallic minerals, illustrating such phenomena, of which 
 the primary one is that just completed and catalogued in the British 
 Museum (Nat. Hist.), instituting there, by the permission of the Trus¬ 
 tees, the description of specimens by separate numbers ; the next in 
 importance is that at St. George’s Museum in Sheffield ; the third is one 
 which I presented this spring to the Museum of Kirkcudbright; the 
 fourth that placed at St. David’s School, Beigate ; and a fifth is in 
 course of arrangement for the Mechanics’ Institute here at Coniston ; 
 the sixth, described in the preceding chapter, may probably, with some 
 modification, be placed at Edinburgh, but remains for the present at 
 Brantwood, with unchanged numbers. 
 
 The six catalogues describing these collections will enable any stu¬ 
 dent to follow out the history of siliceous minerals with reference to the 
 best possible cabinet examples ; but for a guide to their localities and 
 the modes of their occurrence, he will find the following extracts from 
 Pinkerton’s “ Tetralogy,” * more useful than anything in modem 
 books; and I am entirely happy to find that my above-claimed disoo\- 
 eries were all anticipated by him, and are, by his close descriptions, in 
 all points confirmed. His general term “ Glutenites, for stones ap¬ 
 parently formed of cemented fragments, entirely deserves restoration 
 and future acceptance. 
 
 “The division of glutenites into bricias and pudding-stones, the 
 former consisting of angular fragments, the latter of round or oval pel>- 
 
 * Two vols. 8vo, Cochrane & Co., Fleet Street, 1811. A quite invaluable 
 book for clearness of description, usefulness of suggestion, and extent of geog¬ 
 nostic reference. It has twenty beautiful little vignettes also, which aio 
 models of steel engraving. 
 
124 
 
 IN MONTIBUS SANCTIS. 
 
 bles, would not be unadvisable, were it in strict conformity with nat¬ 
 ure. But there are many rocks of this kind ; as, for example, the 
 celebrated Egyptian bricia, in which the fragments are partly round 
 and partly angular ; while the term glutenite is liable to no such objec¬ 
 tions, and the several structures identify the various substances. 
 
 “ The celebrated English pudding-stone, found nowhere in the world 
 but in Hertfordshire, appears to me to be rather an original rock, 
 formed in the manner of amygdalites, because the pebbles do not seem 
 to have been rolled by water, which would have worn off the substances 
 in various directions; while, on the contrary, the white, black, brown, 
 or red circlets are always entire, and parallel with the surface, like 
 those of agates. Pebbles, therefore, instead of being united to form 
 such rocks, may, in many circumstances, proceed from their decompo¬ 
 sition; the circumjacent sand also arising from the decomposition of 
 the cement. 
 
 “ Mountains or regions of real glutenite often, however, accompany 
 the skirts of extensive chains of mountains, as on the northwest and 
 southeast sides of the Grampian Mountains in Scotland, in which in¬ 
 stance the cement is affirmed by many travellers to be ferruginous, or 
 sometimes argillaceous. The largeness or minuteness of the pebbles or 
 particles cannot be said to alter the nature of the substance ; so that a 
 fine sandstone is also a glutenite, if viewed by the microscope. They 
 may be divided into two structures : the large-grained, comprising bri- 
 cias and pudding-stones ; and the small-grained, or sandstones. 
 
 “ At Dunstallnage, in Scotland,* romantic rocks of a singularly abrupt 
 appearance, in some parts resembling walls, are formed by glutenite, 
 in which the kernels consist of white quartz, with green or black trap 
 porphyries, and basalts. 
 
 “ In the glutenite from the south of the Grampians, from Aj^rshire, 
 from Inglestone Bridge, on the road between Edinburgh and Lanark, 
 the cement is often siliceous, as in those at the foot of the Alps ob¬ 
 served by Saussure. 
 
 “Another glutenite consists of fragments of granite, cemented by 
 trap. 
 
 “ Siderous glutenite, or pudding-stone of the most modern formation, 
 is formed around cannon, pistols, and other instruments of iron, by 
 the sand of the sea. 
 
 “ Glutenite of small quartz pebbles, in a red ferruginous cement, is 
 found in the coal mines near Bristol, etc. 
 
 “ Porphvritic bricia {Linn, a Gmelin , 247), from Dalecarlia in Sweden, 
 and Saxony. Calton-hill, Edinburgh ? 
 
 * For convenience in quotation, I occasionally alter Pinkerton’s phrases— 
 but, it will be found by reference to the original, without the slightest change 
 in, or loss of, their meaning. 
 
IN MONTIBIfS SANCTIS. 
 
 125 
 
 “The entirely siliceous glutenites will comprehend many important 
 substances of various structures, from the celebrated Egyptian bricia, 
 containing large pebbles of jasper, granite, and porphyry, to the silice¬ 
 ous sandstone of Stonehenge. These glutenites are of various forma¬ 
 tions ; and the pudding-stone of England would rather seem, as already 
 mentioned, to be an original rock, the pebbles or rather kernels having 
 no appearance of having been rolled in water. Patrin* has expressed 
 the same idea concerning those pudding-stones which so much embar¬ 
 rassed Saussure, as he found their beds in a vertical position, while he 
 argues that they could only have been formed on a horizontal level. 
 This curious question might, as would seem, be easily decided by ex¬ 
 amining if the kernels have been rolled, or if, on the contrary, they 
 retain their uniform concentric tints, observable in the pudding stone 
 of England, and well represented in the specimen which Patrin has 
 engraved. But the same idea had arisen to me before I had seen 
 Patrin’s ingenious system of mineralogy. In like manner rocks now 
 universally admitted to consist of granular quartz, or that substance 
 crystallized in the form of sand, were formerly supposed to consist 
 of sand agglutinated. Several primitive rocks contain glands of 
 the same substance, and that great observer, Saussure, has called 
 them Glandulites, an useful denomination when the glands are of 
 the same substance with the rock ; while Amygdalites are those rocks 
 which contain kernels of quite a different nature. He observes, that 
 in such a rock a central point of crystallization may attract the cir¬ 
 cumjacent matter into a round or oval form, perfectly defined and dis¬ 
 tinct ; while other parts of the substance, having no point of attraction, 
 may coalesce into a mass. The agency of iron may also be suspected, 
 that metal, as appears from its ores, often occurring in detached round 
 and oval forms of many sizes, and even a small proportion having a 
 great power. 
 
 “ On the other hand, many kinds of pudding-stone consist merely of 
 rounded pebbles. Saussure describes the Bigiberg, near the lake of 
 Lucerne, a mountain not less than 5,800 feet in height above the sea, 
 and said to be eight leagues in circumference, which consists entirely 
 of rolled pebbles, and among them some of pudding-stone, probably 
 original, disposed in regular layers, and embedded in a calcareous ce¬ 
 ment. The pudding rocks around the great lake Baikal, in the centre 
 of Asia, present the same phenomenon ; but it has not been observed 
 whether the fragments be of an original or derivative rock. 
 
 “ The siliceous sandstones form another important division of this 
 class. They may sometimes, as already mentioned, be confounded with 
 granular quartz, which must be regarded as a primary crystallization. 
 The sand, which has also been found in micaceous scliistus, and at a 
 
 * i., 154. 
 
125 
 
 IN MONTIBUS SANCTIS. 
 
 vast depth in many mines, may be well regarded as belonging to this 
 formation ; for it is well known that, if the crystallization be much 
 disturbed, the substance will descend in small irregular particles. 
 
 “ Siliceous sandstones are far more uncommon than the calcareous or 
 argillaceous. The limits of the chalk country in England are singularly 
 marked by large masses of siliceous sandstone, irregularly dispersed. 
 Those of Stonehenge afford remarkable examples of the size and nature 
 of those fragments, but the original rock has not been discovered. 
 Trap or basaltin often reposes on siliceous sandstone. 
 
 “But the most eminent and singular pudding-stones are those oc¬ 
 curring in Egypt, in the celebrated bricia of the Valley of Cosseir, and 
 in the siliceous bricia of the same chain, in which are embedded those 
 curious pebbles known by the name of Egyptian jasper; and which 
 also sometimes contain agates. Bricias, with red jasper, also occur in 
 France, Switzerland, and other countries; but the cement is friable, 
 and they seldom take a good polish. All these rocks present both 
 round and angular fragments, which shows that the division into 
 bricias and pudding-stones cannot be accepted : a better division, when 
 properly ascertained, would be into original and derivative glutenites. 
 In a geological point of view, the most remarkable pudding-stones, 
 which might more classically be called Kollanites, from the Greek,* 
 are those which border the chains of primitive mountains, as already 
 mentioned. The English Hertfordshire pudding-stone is unique, and 
 beautiful specimens are highly valued in France, and other countries. 
 It is certainly an original rock, arising from a peculiar crystallization, 
 being composed of round and oval kernels of a red, yellow, brown, or 
 gray tint, in a base consisting of particles of the same, united by a silf 
 ceous cement. 
 
 “Of small-grained argillaceous glutenite, the most celebrated rock i3 
 the Grison, or Bergmanite, just mentioned, being composed of grains 
 of sand, various in size, sometimes even kernels of quartz; which, 
 with occasional bits of hard clay slate, are embedded in an argillaceous 
 cement, of the nature of common gray clay slate. When the particles 
 are very fine, it assumes the slaty structure, and forms the grauwack 
 slate of the Germans. It is the chief of Werner’s transitive rocks, 
 nearly approaching to the primitive ; while at the same time it some¬ 
 times contains shells and other petrifactions. 
 
 “This important rock was formerly considered as being almost pe¬ 
 culiar to the Ilartz, where it contains the richest mines ; but has since 
 been observed in many other countries. The slaty grison, or Bergman¬ 
 ite, has been confounded with a clay slate, and we are obliged to Mr. 
 Jameson for the following distinctions: 1. It is commonly of a bluish, 
 
 * IvoAAa, cement; the more proper, as it also implies iron, often the 
 chief agent. 
 
IN MONTIBVS SANCTIS. 
 
 127 
 
 ash, or smoke gray, and rarely presents the greenish or light yellowish- 
 gray color of primitive clay slate. 2. Its lustre is sometimes glimmer¬ 
 ing from specks of mica, but it never shows the silky lustre of clay 
 slate. 3. It never presents siderite nor garnets. 4. It alternates with 
 massive grauwack. But is not the chief distinction its aspect of a sand¬ 
 stone, which has led to the trivial French name of gres-gris, and the 
 English rubble-stone , which may imply that it was formed of rubbed 
 fragments, or of the rubbish of other rocks ? The fracture is also differ¬ 
 ent ; and three specimens of various fineness, which I received from 
 Daubuisson, at Paris, could never be confounded with clay slate. 
 
 “This rock is uncommonly productive of metals, not only in beds 
 but also in veins, which latter are frequently of great magnitude. Thus 
 almost the whole of the mines in the Hartz are situated in greywack. 
 These mines afford principally argentiferous lead-glance, which is usu¬ 
 ally accompanied with blend, fahl ore, black silver ore, and copper 
 pyrites. A more particular examination discloses several distinct veni- 
 genous formations that traverse the mountains of the Hartz. The grey¬ 
 wack of the Saxon Erzgebirge, of the Rhine at Rheinbreidenbach, 
 Andernach, etc., of Leogang in Salzburg, is rich in ores, particularly 
 those of lead and copper. At Vorospatak and Facebay, in Transylvania, 
 the greywack is traversed by numerous small veins of gold.” 
 
 These passages from Pinkerton, with those translated at p. 9 from 
 Saussure, are enough to do justice to the clear insight of old geologists, 
 respecting matters still at issue among younger ones ; and I must 
 therefore ask the reader’s patience with the hesitating assertions in the 
 following chapters of many points on which a wider acquaintance with 
 the writings of the true Fathers of the science might have enabled me 
 to speak with grateful confidence. 
 
CHAPTER H. 
 
 THE DRY LAND. 
 
 “ Modern Painters,” Vol. IV, chap. mi. 
 
 “ And God said, Let the waters which are under the heaven 
 be gathered together unto one place, and let the dry land appear .” 
 
 We do not, perhaps, often enough consider the deep sig¬ 
 nificance of this sentence. We are too apt to receive it as the 
 description of an event vaster only in its extent, not in its 
 nature, than the compelling the Red Sea to draw back, that 
 Israel might pass by. We imagine the Deity in like manner 
 rolling the waves of the greater ocean together on an heap, 
 and setting bars and doors to them eternally. 
 
 But there is a far deeper meaning than this in the solemn 
 words of Genesis, and in the correspondent verse of the Psalm, 
 “His hands prepared the dry land.” Up to that moment the 
 earth had been void, for it had been without form. The com¬ 
 mand that the waters should be gathered , was the command 
 that the earth should be sculptured. The sea was not driven 
 to his place in suddenly restrained rebellion, but withdrawn 
 to his place in perfect and patient obedience. The dry land 
 appeared, not in level sands, forsaken by the surges, which 
 those surges might again claim for their own ; but in range 
 beyond range of swelling hill and iron rock, forever to claim 
 kindred with the firmament, and be companioned by the 
 clouds of heaven. 
 
 2. What space of time was in reality occupied by the 
 “ day ” of Genesis, is not, at present, of any importance for 
 us to consider. By what furnaces of fire the adamant was 
 melted, and by what wheels of earthquake it was torn, and by 
 
IN MONTI BUS SANCTIS. 
 
 129 
 
 what teeth of glacier * and weight of sea-waves it was en¬ 
 graven and finished into its perfect form, we may perhaps 
 hereafter endeavor to conjecture ; but here, as in few words 
 the work is summed by the historian, so in few broad thoughts 
 it should be comprehended by us ; and as we read the mighty 
 sentence, “Let the dry land appear,” we should try to follow 
 the finger of God, as it engraved upon the stone tables of the 
 earth the letters and the law of its everlasting form ; as, gulf 
 by gulf, the channels of the deep were ploughed; and, cape 
 by cape, the lines were traced, with Divine foreknowledge, of 
 the shores that were to limit the nations ; and, chain by chain, 
 the mountain walls were lengthened forth, and their founda¬ 
 tions fastened for ever ; and the compass was set upon the 
 face of the depth, and the fields, and the highest part of the 
 dust of the world were made ; and the right hand of Christ 
 first strewed the snow on Lebanon, and smoothed the slopes 
 of Calvary. 
 
 3. It is not, I repeat, always needful, in many respects it is 
 not possible, to conjecture the manner, or the time, in which 
 this work was done ; but it is deeply necessary for all men 
 to consider the magnificence of the accomplished purpose, 
 and the depth of the wisdom and love which are manifested 
 in the ordinances of the hills. For observe, in order to bring 
 the world into the form which it now bears, it was not mere 
 sculpture that was needed; the mountains could not stand 
 for a day unless they were formed of materials altogether 
 different from those which constitute the lower hills, and the 
 surfaces of the valleys. A harder substance had to be pre¬ 
 pared for every mountain chain ; yet not so hard but that it 
 might be capable of crumbling down into earth fit to nourish 
 the Alpine forest and the Alpine flower; not so hard but 
 that, in the midst of the utmost majesty of its enthroned 
 strength, there should be seen on it the seal of death, and the 
 
 * Though I had already learned from James Forbes the laws of 
 glacier motion, I still fancied that ice could drive embedded blocks and 
 wear down rock surfaces. See for correction of this error, Arrows of 
 the Chase, vol. i., pp. 255-273, and Deucalion, passim. 
 
 9 
 
130 
 
 IN MON TIB US SANCTIS. 
 
 writing of the same sentence that had gone forth against the 
 human frame, “ Dust thou art, and unto dust thou slialt re¬ 
 turn.” * And with this perishable substance the most majes¬ 
 tic forms were to be framed that were consistent with the 
 safety of man ; and the peak was to be lifted, and the cliff 
 rent, as high and as steeply as was possible, in order yet to 
 permit the shepherd to feed his flocks upon the slope, and 
 the cottage to nestle beneath their shadow. 
 
 4. And observe, two distinct ends were to be accomplished 
 in the doing this. It was, indeed, absolutely necessary that 
 such eminences should be created, in order to fit the earth in 
 any wise for human habitation ; for without mountains the 
 air could not be purified, nor the flowing of the rivers sus¬ 
 tained, and the earth must have become for the most part 
 desert plain, or stagnant marsh. But the feeding of the riv¬ 
 ers and the purifying of the winds are the least of the services 
 appointed to the hills. To fill the thirst of the human heart 
 for the beauty of God’s working—to startle its lethargy with 
 the deep and pure agitation of astonishment—are their 
 higher missions. They are as a great and noble architecture ; 
 first giving shelter, comfort, and rest; and covered also with 
 mighty sculpture and painted legend. It is impossible to 
 examine in their connected system the features of even the 
 most ordinary mountain scenery, without concluding that it 
 has been prepared in order to unite, as far as possible, and in 
 the closest compass, every means of delighting and sanctify¬ 
 ing the heart of man. “ As far as possible ; ” that is, as far as 
 is consistent with the fulfilment of the sentence of condem¬ 
 nation on the whole earth. Death must be upon the hills; 
 and the cruelty of the tempests smite them, and the brier 
 and thorn spring up upon them : but they so smite, as to 
 bring their rocks into the fairest forms; and so spring, as 
 to make the very desert blossom as the rose. Even among 
 
 * “Surely tlie mountain falling cometh to nought, and the rock is 
 removed out of his place. The waters wear the stones : thou washest 
 away the things which grow out of the dust of the earth, and thou de- 
 stroyest the hope of man . 1 ’—Job xiv. 18, 19. 
 
IN MONTIBUS SANCTIS. 
 
 131 
 
 our own hills of Scotland and Cumberland, though often too 
 barren to be perfectly beautiful, and always too low to be 
 perfectly sublime, it is strange how many deep sources of de¬ 
 light are gathered into the compass of their glens and vales; 
 and how, down to the most secret cluster of their far-away 
 flowers, and the idlest leap of their straying streamlets, the 
 whole heart of Nature seems thirsting to give, and still to 
 give, shedding forth her everlasting beneficence with a pro¬ 
 fusion so patient, so passionate, that our utmost observance 
 and thankfulness are but, at last, neglect of her nobleness, 
 and apathy to her love. 
 
 But among the true mountains of the greater orders the 
 Divine purpose of appeal at once to all the faculties of the 
 human spirit becomes still more manifest. Inferior hills or¬ 
 dinarily interrupt, in some degree, the richness of the valleys 
 at their feet ; the gray downs of southern England, and tree¬ 
 less coteaux of central France, and gray swells of Scottish 
 moor, whatever peculiar charm they may possess in themselves, 
 are at least destitute of those which belong to the woods and 
 fields of the lowlands. But the great mountains lift the low¬ 
 lands on their sides. Let the reader imagine, first, the appear¬ 
 ance of the most varied plain of some richly cultivated coun¬ 
 try ; let him imagine it dark with graceful woods, and soft 
 with deepest pastures; let him fill the space of it, to the ut¬ 
 most horizon, with innumerable and changeful incidents of 
 scenery and life ; leading pleasant streamlets through its mead¬ 
 ows, strewing clusters of cottages beside their banks, tracing 
 sweet footpaths through its avenues, and animating its fields 
 with happy flocks, and slow wandering spots of cattle ; and 
 when he has wearied himself with endless imagining, and left 
 no space without some loveliness of its own, let him conceive 
 all this great plain, with its infinite treasures of natural beauty 
 and happy human life, gathered up in God’s hands from one 
 edge of the horizon to the other, like a woven garment; and 
 shaken into deep falling folds, as the robes droop from a king’s 
 shoulders ; all its bright rivers leaping into cataracts along the 
 hollows of its fall, and all its forests rearing themselves aslant 
 against its slopes, as a rider rears himself back when his hors® 
 
132 
 
 IN MON TIB US SANCTIS. 
 
 plunges ; and all its villages nestling themselves into the new 
 windings of its glens ; and all its pastures thrown into steep 
 waves of greensward, dashed with dew along the edges of their 
 folds, and sweeping down into endless slopes, with a cloud 
 here and there lying quietly, half on the grass, half in the air ; 
 and he will have as yet, in all this lifted world, only the foun¬ 
 dation of one of the great Alps. And whatever is lovely in 
 the lowland scenery becomes lovelier in this change : the trees 
 which grew heavily and stiffly from the level line of plain 
 assume strange curves of strength and grace as they bend 
 themselves against the mountain side ; they breathe more 
 freely, and toss their branches more carelessly as each climbs 
 higher, looking to the clear light above the topmost leaves of 
 its brother tree : the flowers which on the arable plain fell 
 before the plough, now find out for themselves unapproacha¬ 
 ble places, where year by year they gather into happier fel¬ 
 lowship, and fear no evil ; and the streams which in the 
 level land crept in dark eddies by unwholesome banks, now 
 move in showers of silver, and are clothed with rainbows, 
 and bring health and life wherever the glance of their waves 
 can reach. 
 
 5. And although this beauty seems at first, in its wildness, 
 inconsistent with the service of man, it is in fact more neces¬ 
 sary to his happy existence than all the level and easily subdued 
 land which he rejoices to possess. It seems almost an insult 
 to the reader’s intelligence to ask him to dwell (as if they could 
 be doubted) on the uses of the hills, and yet so little until 
 lately have those uses been understood that, in the seventeenth 
 century, one of the most enlightened of the religious men of 
 his day (Fleming), himself a native of a mountain country, 
 casting about for some reason to explain to himself the exist¬ 
 ence of mountains, and prove their harmony with the provi¬ 
 dential government of creation, can light upon this reason 
 only, “They are inhabited by the beasts.” 
 
 6. It may not, therefore, even at this day, be profitless to 
 review briefly the nature of the three great offices which 
 mountain ranges are appointed to fulfil, in order to preserve 
 the health and increase the happiness of mankind. 
 
IN MON TIB US SANCTIS. 
 
 133 
 
 I. Their first use is of course to give motion to (fresh) water. 
 
 Every fountain and river, from the inch-deep streamlet 
 that crosses the village lane in trembling clearness, to the 
 massy and silent march of the everlasting multitude of waters 
 in Amazon or Ganges, owe their play and purity and power 
 to the ordained elevations of the Earth. Gentle or steep, 
 extended or abrupt, some determined slope of the earths 
 surface is of course necessary, before any wave can so much 
 as overtake one sedge in its pilgrimage ; and how seldom do 
 we enough consider, as we walk beside the margins of our 
 pleasant brooks, how beautiful and wonderful is that ordi¬ 
 nance, of which every blade of grass that waves in their clear 
 water is a perpetual sign ; that the dew and rain fallen on the 
 face of the earth shall find no resting-place ; shall find, on the 
 contrary, fixed channels traced for them, from the ravines of 
 the central crests down which they roar in sudden ranks of 
 foam, to the dark hollows beneath the banks of lowland past¬ 
 ure, round which they must circle slowly among the stems 
 and beneath the leaves of the lilies ; paths prepared for 
 them, by which, at some appointed rate of journey, they 
 must evermore descend, sometimes slow and sometimes swift, 
 but never pausing ; the daily portion of the earth they have 
 to glide over marked for them at each successive sunrise, the 
 place which has known them knowing them no more, and the 
 gateways of guarding mountains opened for them in cleft and 
 chasm, none letting them in their pilgrimage ; and, from far 
 off, the great heart of the sea calling them to itself! Deep 
 calleth unto deep. 
 
 I know not which of the two is the more wonderful,—that 
 calm, gradated, invisible slope * of the champaign land, which 
 gives motion to the stream ; or that passage cloven for it 
 through the ranks of hill, which, necessary for the health of 
 the land immediately around them, would yet, unless so su- 
 pernaturally divided, have fatally intercepted the flow of the 
 
 * (Only true on a large scale. I have perhaps not allowed enough 
 for the mere secession of flowing water, supplying the evaporation of 
 the sea, whether the plains he level or not;—it must find its way to 
 the place where there is a fall, as through a mill pond to the weir.) 
 
134 
 
 IN MONTIBUS SANCTIS. 
 
 waters from far-off countries. When did the great spirit of 
 the river first knock at those adamantine gates ? When did 
 the porter open to it, and cast his keys away for ever, lapped 
 in whirling sand? I am not satisfied—no one should be sat¬ 
 isfied with that vague answer—the river cut its way. Not 
 so. The river found its way.* I do not see that rivers, in 
 their own strength, can do much in cutting their way ; they 
 are nearly as apt to choke their channels up, as to carve them 
 out. Only give a river some little sudden power in a valley, 
 and see how it will use it. Cut itself a bed? Not so, 
 by any means, but fill up its bed, and look for another, in 
 a wild, dissatisfied, inconsistent manner. Any way, rather 
 than the old one, will better please it; and even if it is 
 banked up and forced to keep to the old one, it will not 
 deepen, but do all it can to raise it, and leap out of it. And 
 although, wherever water has a steep fall, it will swiftly cut 
 itself a bed deep into the rock or ground, it will not, when 
 the rock is hard, cut a wider channel than it actually 
 needs ; so that if the existing river beds, through ranges of 
 mountain, had in reality been cut by the streams, they would 
 be found, wherever the rocks are hard, only in the form of 
 narrow and profound ravines—like the well-known channel 
 of the Niagara, below the fall ; not in that of extended val¬ 
 leys. And the actual work of true mountain rivers, though 
 often much greater in proportion to their body of water than 
 that of the Niagara, is quite insignificant when compared with 
 the area and depth of the valleys through which they flow; 
 so that, although in many cases it appears that those larger 
 valleys have been excavated at earlier periods by more pow¬ 
 erful streams, or by the existing stream in a more powerful 
 condition, still the great fact remains always equally plain, 
 and equally admirable, that, whatever the nature and dura¬ 
 tion of the agencies employed, the earth was so shaped at 
 first as to direct the currents of its rivers in the manner most 
 
 * ( It is very delightful to me,—at least to the proud spirit in me,— 
 to find myself thus early perceiving and clearly announcing a fact of 
 which modern geology is still incognizant ; see the postscript to this 
 chapter,) 
 
Itf MONTIBUS SANCTIS. 
 
 135 
 
 healthy and convenient for man. The valley of the Rhone 
 may, though it is not likely, have been in great part exca¬ 
 vated in early time by torrents a thousand times larger than 
 the Rhone ; but it could not have been excavated at all, un¬ 
 less the mountains had been thrown at first into two chains, 
 between which the torrents were set to work in a given di¬ 
 rection. And it is easy to conceive how, under any less be¬ 
 neficent dispositions of their masses of hill, the continents of 
 the earth might either have been covered with enormous 
 lakes, as parts of North America actually are covered; or 
 have become wildernesses of pestiferous marsh ; or lifeless 
 plains, upon which the water would have dried as it fell, 
 leaving them for great part of the year desert. Such dis¬ 
 tricts do exist, and exist in vastness ; the whole earth is not 
 prepared for the habitation of man ; only certain small por¬ 
 tions are prepared for him—the houses, as it were, of the 
 human race, from which they are to look abroad upon the 
 rest of the world, not to wonder or complain that it is not all 
 house, but to be grateful for the kindness of the admirable 
 building, in the house itself, as compared with the rest. It 
 would be as absurd to think it an evil that all the world is 
 not fit for us to inhabit, as to think it an evil that the globe 
 is no larger than it is. As much as we shall ever need is evi¬ 
 dently assigned to us for our dwelling-place ; the rest, cov¬ 
 ered with rolling waves or drifting sands, fretted with ice, 
 or crested with fire, is set before us for contemplation in an 
 uninhabitable magnificence ; and that part which we are en¬ 
 abled to inhabit owes its fitness for human life chiefly to its 
 mountain ranges, which, throwing the superfluous rain off as 
 it falls, collect it in streams or lakes, and guide it into given 
 places, and in given directions ; so that men can build their 
 cities in the midst of fields which they know will be always 
 fertile, and establish the lines of their commerce upon 
 streams which will not fail. 
 
 7. Nor is this giving of motion to water to be considered 
 as confined only to the surface of the earth. A no less im¬ 
 portant function of the hills is in directing the flow of the 
 fountains and springs, from subterranean reservoirs. There 
 
13G 
 
 IN MON TIB US SANCTIS. 
 
 is no miraculous springing up of water out of the ground at 
 our feet ; but every fountain and well is supplied from a 
 reservoir among the hills, so placed as to involve some slight 
 fall or pressure, enough to secure the constant flowing of the 
 stream. And the incalculable blessing of the power given to 
 us in most valleys, of reaching by excavation some point 
 whence the water will rise to the surface of the ground in 
 perennial flow, is entirely owing to the concave disposition of 
 the beds of clay or rock raised from beneath the bosom of 
 the valley into ranks of enclosing hills. 
 
 8. II. The second great use of mountains is to maintain a 
 constant change in the currents and nature of the air . Such 
 change would, of course, have been partly caused by differ¬ 
 ences in soils and vegetation, even if the earth had been level; 
 but to a far less extent than it is now by the chains of hills, 
 which, exposing on one side their masses of rock to the full 
 heat of the sun (increased by the angle at which the rays 
 strike on the slope), and on the other casting a soft shadow for 
 leagues over the plains at their feet, divide the earth not only 
 into districts, but into climates, and cause perpetual currents 
 of air to traverse their passes,* and ascend or descend their 
 ravines, altering both the temperature and nature of the air 
 as it passes, in a thousand different ways ; moistening it with 
 the spray of their waterfalls, sucking it down and beating it 
 hither and thither in the pools of their torrents, closing it 
 within clefts and caves, where the sunbeams never reach, till 
 it is as cold as November mists, then sending it forth again 
 to breathe softly across the slopes of velvet fields, or to be 
 scorched among sunburnt shales and grassless crags ; then 
 drawing it back in moaning swirls through clefts of ice, and 
 up into dewy wreaths above the snow-fields ; then piercing it 
 with strange electric darts and flashes of mountain fire, and 
 tossing it high in fantastic storm-cloud, as the dried grass is 
 tossed by the mower, only suffering it to depart at last, when 
 
 * This second division of my subject, compressed into one paragraph, 
 is treated with curious insufficiency. See again postscript to this 
 chapter. 
 
IN MONTIBUS SANCTIS. 137 
 
 chastened and pure, to refresh the faded air of the far-off 
 plains. 
 
 9. III. The third great use of mountains is to cause per¬ 
 petual change in the soils of the earth. Without such pro¬ 
 vision, the ground under cultivation would in a series of 
 years become exhausted, and require to be upturned labori¬ 
 ously by the hand of man. But the elevations of the earth’s 
 surface provide for it a perpetual renovation. The higher 
 mountains suffer their summits to be broken into fragments 
 and to be cast down in sheets of massy rock, full, as we shall 
 see presently, of every substance necessary for the nourish¬ 
 ment of plants ; these fallen fragments are again broken by 
 frost, and ground by torrents, into various conditions of sand 
 and clay—materials which are distributed perpetually by the 
 streams farther and farther from the mountain’s base. Every 
 shower which swells the rivulets enables their waters to 
 carry certain portions of earth into new positions, and ex¬ 
 poses new banks of ground to be mined in their turn. That 
 turbid foaming of the angry water—that tearing down of 
 bank and rock along the flanks of its fury—are no disturb¬ 
 ances of the kind course of nature ; they are beneficent opera¬ 
 tions of laws necessary to the existence of man and to the 
 beauty of the earth. The process is continued more gently, 
 but not less effectively, over all the surface of the lower un¬ 
 dulating country ; and each filtering thread of summer rain 
 which trickles through the short turf of the uplands is bear¬ 
 ing its own appointed burden of earth to be thrown down on 
 some new natural garden in the dingles below. 
 
 And it is not, in reality, a degrading, but a true, large, and 
 ennobling view of the mountain ranges of the world, if we 
 compare them to heaps of fertile and fresh earth, laid up by 
 a prudent gardener beside his garden beds, whence, at in¬ 
 tervals, he casts on them some scattering of new and virgin 
 ground. That which we so often lament as convulsion or 
 destruction is nothing else * than the momentary shaking of 
 
 * (I should call it a good deal else, now ! but must leave the text un¬ 
 touched ; being, in its statements of pure fact putting its theology 
 •side for the moment—quite one of the best pieces I have ever done.) 
 
138 
 
 IN MON TIB BS SANCTIS. 
 
 the dust from the spade. The winter floods, which inflict a 
 temporary devastation, bear with them the elements of suc¬ 
 ceeding fertility ; the fruitful field is covered with sand and 
 shingle in momentary judgment, but in enduring mercj' ; and 
 the great river, which chokes its mouth with marsh, and tosses 
 terror along its shore, is but scattering the seeds of the har¬ 
 vests of futurity, and preparing the seats of unborn genera¬ 
 tions. 
 
 10. I have not spoken of the local and peculiar utilities of 
 mountains ; I do not count the benefit of the supply of sum¬ 
 mer streams from the moors of the higher ranges—of the 
 various medicinal plants which are nested among their rocks 
 —of the delicate pasturage which they furnish for cattle *— 
 of the forests in which they bear timber for shipping—the 
 stones they supply for building, or the ores of metal which 
 they collect into spots open to discovery, and easy for work¬ 
 ing. All these benefits are of a secondary or a limited na¬ 
 ture. But the three great functions which I have just de¬ 
 scribed—those of giving motion and change to water, air, and 
 earth—are indispensable to human existence ; they are oper¬ 
 ations to be regarded with as full a depth of gratitude as 
 the laws which bid the tree bear fruit, or the seed multiply 
 itself in the earth. And thus those desolate and threatening 
 ranges of dark mountains, which, in nearly all ages of the 
 world, men have looked upon with aversion or with terror, 
 and shrunk back from as if they were haunted by perpetual 
 images of death, are, in reality, sources of life and happiness 
 far fuller and more beneficent than all the bright fruitfulness 
 of the plain. The valleys only feed ; the mountains feed, and 
 guard, and strengthen us. We take our ideas of fearfulness 
 and sublimity alternately from the mountains and the sea ; 
 but we associate them unjustly. The sea wave, with all its 
 beneficence, is yet devouring and terrible ; but the silent 
 wave of the blue mountain is lifted toward heaven in a still¬ 
 ness of perpetual mercy ; and the one surge, unfathomable 
 
 * The highest pasturages (at least so say the Savoyards) being always 
 the best and richest. 
 
TN MON TIB US SANCTIS. 
 
 139 
 
 in its darkness, the other, unshaken in its faithfulness, for 
 ever bear the seal of their appointed symbolism, 
 
 “ THY JUSTICE IS LIKE THE GREAT MOUNTAINS : 
 
 THY JUDGMENTS ARE A GREAT DEEP.” 
 
 POSTSCRIPT TO CHAPTER H 
 
 The subject of erosion by water, referred to in the note at p. 134, is 
 treated of at length in the 12tli chapter of “Deucalion,” of which the 
 conclusions may be summed in the warning to young geologists not to 
 suppose that because Shanklin Chine was “ chined ” by its central gutter, 
 therefore Salisbury Craigs were cut out by the Water of Leith—Ingle- 
 borough by the Ribble, or Monte Rosa by the Rhone. 
 
 The subject has since been farther illustrated by the admirable 
 drawings and sections given by Mr. Collingwood in his “ Limestone Alps 
 of Savoy,” 1884. 
 
 The paragraph at p. 136 is chiefly, and enormously, defective in speak¬ 
 ing only of the changes effected by mountains in the nature of air, and 
 not following out their good offices in lifting the mountaineer nations 
 to live in the air they purify, or rise into, already pure. 
 
CHAPTER HI. 
 
 OF THE MATERIALS OF MOUNTAINS. 
 
 “ Modern Painters,” Part V., the beginning of chap. viii. 
 
 In the early days of geological science the substances 
 which composed the crust of the earth, as far as it could be 
 examined, were supposed to be referable to three distinct 
 classes : the first consisting of rocks which not only sup¬ 
 ported all the rest, but from wdiich all the rest were derived, 
 therefore called “ Primary;” the second class consisting of 
 rock formed of the broken fragments or altered substance of 
 the primary ones, therefore called “ Secondary ; ” and, thirdly, 
 rocks or earthy deposits formed by the ruins and detritus of 
 both primary and secondary rocks, called therefore “ Ter¬ 
 tiary.” This classification was always, in some degree, un¬ 
 certain ; and has been lately superseded by more complicated 
 systems, founded on the character of the fossils contained in 
 the various deposits, and on the circumstances of position, by 
 which their relative age3 are more accurately ascertainable. 
 But the original rude classification, though of little, if any, 
 use for scientific purposes, was based on certain broad and 
 conspicuous phenomena, which it brought clearly before the 
 popular mind. In this way it may still be serviceable, and 
 ought, I think, to be permitted to retain its place, as an in¬ 
 troduction to systems more defined and authoritative.* 
 
 2. For the fact is, that in approaching any large mountain 
 
 * I am still entirely of this opinion. See postscript to chapter. 
 These opening paragraphs are to my mind extremely well put, and 
 should be read to young people by their tutors as an introduction to 
 geological study. I have here and there retouched a loose sentence, 
 and leave them as good as I could do now. 
 
IN MONT I BUS SANCTIS. 
 
 141 
 
 range, the ground over which the spectator passes, if he ex¬ 
 amine it with any intelligence, will almost always arrange 
 itself in his mind under three great heads. There will be, 
 first, the ground of the plains or valleys he is about to quit, 
 composed of sand, clay, gravel, rolled stones, and variously 
 mingled soils ; which, when there is opportunity, at the banks 
 of a stream, or the sides of a railway cutting, to examine to 
 any depth, he will find arranged in beds exactly resembling 
 those of modern sandbanks or sea-beaches, and appearing to 
 have been formed under natural laws such as are in opera¬ 
 tion daily around us. At the outskirts of the hill district, 
 he may, perhaps, find considerable eminences, formed of these 
 beds of loose gravel and sand ; but, as he enters into it far¬ 
 ther, he will soon discover the hills to be composed of somo 
 harder substance, properly deserving the name of rock, sus¬ 
 taining itself in picturesque forms, and appearing, at first, to 
 owe both its hardness and its outlines to the action of laws 
 such as do not hold at the present day. He can easily explain 
 the nature, and account for the distribution, of the banks 
 which overhang the lowland road, or of the dark earthy de¬ 
 posits which enrich the lowland pasture ; but he cannot so 
 distinctly imagine how the limestone hills of Derbyshire and 
 Yorkshire were hardened into their stubborn whiteness, or 
 raised into their cavernous cliffs. Still, if he carefully ex¬ 
 amine the substance of these more noble rocks, he will, in 
 nine cases out of ten, discover them to be composed of fine 
 calcareous dust, or closely united particles of sand ; and will 
 be ready to accept as possible, or even probable, the sugges¬ 
 tion of their having been formed, by slow deposit, at the 
 bottom of deep lakes and ancient seas, and then gradually 
 consolidated under such laws of Nature as are still in opera¬ 
 tion. 
 
 3. But, as he advances yet farther into the hill district, ho 
 finds the rocks around him assuming a gloomier and more 
 majestic condition. Their tint darkens ; their outlines become 
 wild and irregular ; and whereas before they had only ap¬ 
 peared at the roadside in narrow ledges among the turf, or 
 glanced out from among the thickets above the brooks in 
 
142 
 
 IN MON TIB VS SANCTIS. 
 
 white walls and fantastic towers, they now rear themselves up 
 in solemn and shattered masses far and near ; softened, indeed, 
 with strange harmony of clouded * colors, but possessing the 
 whole scene with their iron spirit ; and rising, in all proba¬ 
 bility, into eminences as much prouder in actual elevation than 
 those of the intermediate rocks, as more powerful in their in¬ 
 fluence over every minor feature of the landscape. 
 
 4. And when the traveller proceeds to observe closely the 
 materials of which these nobler ranges are composed, he finds 
 also a complete change in their internal structure. They are 
 no longer formed of delicate sand or dust—each particle of 
 that dust the same as every other, and the whole mass de¬ 
 pending for its hardness merely on their closely cemented 
 unity ; but they are now formed of several distinct substances 
 visibly unlike each other; and not pressed , but crystallized 
 into one mass—crystallized into a unity far more perfect 
 than that of the dusty limestone, but yet without the least 
 mingling of their several natures with each other. Such a 
 rock, freshly broken, has a spotty, granulated, and, in almost 
 all instances, sparkling, appearance ; it requires a much 
 harder blow to break it than the limestone or sandstone ; but 
 when once thoroughly shattered, it is easy to separate from 
 each other the various substances of which it is composed, 
 and to examine them in their individual grains or crystals ; of 
 which each variety will be found to have a different degree 
 of hardness, a different shade of color, a different character 
 of form, and a different chemical composition. 
 
 But this examination will not enable the observer to com¬ 
 prehend the method either of their formation or aggregation, 
 at least by any process such as he now sees taking place 
 around him ; he will at once be driven to admit that some 
 
 * “ Clouded ” referring to the peculiar softness and richness of the 
 dark lichens on many primitive rocks, as opposed to the whiteness or 
 gray yellow of many among the secondaries. “ Iron spirit, ” just after, 
 meaning a strength having the toughness of iron in it, unassailable; 
 hut I find with pleasant surprise in extremely “old English” geology, a 
 large family of these rocks called “ siderous,” from the quantity of latent 
 iron they oontain. 
 
IN MON TIB US SANCTIS. 
 
 143 
 
 strange and powerful operation has taken place upon these 
 rocks, different from any of which he is at present cognizant.* 
 5. Now, although these three great groups of rocks do indeed 
 often pass into each other by imperceptible gradations, and 
 although their peculiar aspect is never a severe indication of 
 their relative ages, yet their characters are for the most part 
 so defined as to make a strong impression on the mind of an 
 ordinary observer; and their age is also for the most part 
 approximately indicated by their degrees of hardness and 
 crystalline aspect. It does, indeed, sometimes f happen that 
 a soft and slimy clay will pass into a rock like Aberdeen 
 granite by transitions so subtle that no point of separation 
 can be determined ; and it very often happens that rocks 
 like Aberdeen granite are of more recent formation than 
 certain beds of sandstone and limestone. But in spite of all 
 these uncertainties and exceptions, I believe that unless actual 
 pains be taken to efface from the mind its natural impressions, 
 the idea of three great classes of rocks and earth will main¬ 
 tain its ground in the thoughts of the generally intelligent 
 observer ; that, whether he desire it or not, he will find him¬ 
 self throwing the soft and loose clays and sands together 
 under one head ; placing the hard rocks, of a dull, compact, 
 homogeneous substance, under another head; and the 
 hardest rocks, of a crystalline, glittering, and various sub¬ 
 stance, under a third head ; and having done this, he will also 
 find that, with certain easily admissible exceptions, these 
 three classes of rocks are, in every district which he examines, 
 of three different ages ; that the softest are the youngest, the 
 hard and homogeneous ones are older, and the crystalline are 
 the oldest ; and he will, perhaps, in the end, find it a somewhat 
 
 * The original text proceeded thus—“ and farther inquiry will prob¬ 
 ably induce him to admit, as more than probable, the supposition that 
 their structure is in great part owing to the action of enormous heat pro¬ 
 longed for indefinite periods”—which sentence I remove into this note to 
 prevent the lucidity and straightforward descriptional truth of these 
 paragraphs to be soiled with conjecture. 
 
 f Very rarely! I forget what instance I was thinking of—anyhow 
 the sentence is too strongly put, 
 
144 
 
 IN M ON TIB US SANCTIS. 
 
 inconvenient piece of respect to the complexity and accuracy 
 of modern geological science, if he refuse to the three classes, 
 thus defined in his imagination, their ancient titles of Tertiary, 
 Secondary, and Primary. 
 
 6. But however this may be, there is one lesson evidently 
 intended to be taught by the different characters of these 
 rocks, which we must not allow to escape us. We have to ob¬ 
 serve, first, the state of perfect powerlessness, and loss of all 
 beauty, exhibited in those beds of earth in which the sepa¬ 
 rated pieces or particles are entirely independent of each 
 other, more especially in the gravel whose pebbles have all 
 been rolled into one shape; secondly, the greater degree of 
 permanence, power, and beauty possessed by the rocks whose 
 component atoms have some affection and attraction for each 
 other, though all of one kind ; and, lastly, the utmost form 
 and highest beauty of the rocks in which the several atoms 
 have all different shapes, characters , and offices; but are in¬ 
 separably united by some fiery, or baptismal,* process which 
 has purified them all. 
 
 It can hardly be necessary to point out how these natural 
 ordinances seem intended f to teach us the great truths which 
 are the basis of all political science; how the polishing 
 friction which separates, the affection that binds, and the 
 affliction that fuses and confirms, are accurately symbolized 
 by the processes to which the several ranks of hills appear to 
 owe their present aspect ; and how, even if the knowledge 
 of those processes be denied to us, that present aspect may in 
 itself seem no imperfect image of the various states of man¬ 
 kind : first, that which is powerless through total disorgan¬ 
 ization ; secondly, that which, though united, and in some 
 degree powerful, is yet incapable of great effort, or result, 
 owing to the too great similarity and confusion of offices, both 
 
 * The words “or baptismal ” now inserted. 
 
 f Most people being unable to imagine intention under the guise of 
 fixed law, I should have said now, rather than “ seem intended to teach 
 us,” “do, if we will consider them, teach us.” See however, below, the 
 old note to § 9. This 6th paragraph is the germ, or rather bulb, of 
 Ethics of the Dust. 
 
IN MONTIBUS SANCTIS. 
 
 145 
 
 in ranks and individuals; and finally, the perfect state of 
 brotherhood and strength in which each character is clearly 
 distinguished, separately perfected, and employed in its 
 proper place and office. 
 
 7. I shall not, however, so oppose myself to the views of our 
 leading geologists as to retain here the names of Primary, 
 Secondary, and Tertiary rocks. But as I wish the reader to 
 keep the ideas of the three classes clearly in his mind, I will 
 ask his leave to give them names which involve no theory, and 
 can be liable, therefore, to no grave objections. We will call 
 the hard, and (generally) central, masses, Crystalline Rocks, 
 because they almost always present an appearance of crys¬ 
 tallization.* The less hard substances, which appear compact 
 and homogeneous, we will call Coherent Rocks, and for the 
 scattered debris we will use the general term Diluvium. 
 
 8. All these orders of substance agree in one character, that 
 of being more or less frangible or soluble. One material, in¬ 
 deed, which enters largely into the composition of most of 
 them, flinty is harder than iron; but even this, their chief 
 source of strength, is easily broken by a sudden blow ; and it 
 is so combined in the large rocks with softer substances, that 
 time and the violence or chemical agency of the weather 
 invariably produce certain destructive effects on their masses. 
 Some of them become soft, and moulder away ; others break, 
 little by little, into angular fragments or slaty sheets ; but all 
 yield in some way or other ; and the problem to be solved in 
 every mountain range appears to be, that under these condi¬ 
 tions of decay, the cliffs and peaks may be raised as high and 
 thrown into as noble forms, as is possible, consistently with 
 an effective, though not perfect, permanence, and a general, 
 though not absolute, security. 
 
 9. Perfect permanence and absolute security were evidently 
 in nowise intended.f It would have been as easy for the 
 
 *Not strongly enough put, this time. They always are crystalline, 
 whether they present the appearance of it or not. 
 
 f I am well aware that to the minds of many persons nothing bears a 
 greater appearance of presumption than any attempt at reasoning re- 
 
 10 
 
146 
 
 IN MONTIBUS SANCTIS. 
 
 Creator to have made mountains of steel as of granite, of 
 adamant as of lime ; but this was clearly no part of the Divine 
 counsels : mountains were to be destructible and frail—to 
 melt under the soft lambency of the streamlet, to shiver 
 before the subtle wedge of the frost, to wither with un- 
 traceable decay in their own substance—and yet, under all 
 these conditions of destruction, to be maintained in magnifi¬ 
 cent eminence before the eyes of men. 
 
 Nor is it in anywise difficult for us to perceive the benefi¬ 
 cent reasons for this appointed frailness of the mountains. 
 They appear to be threefold : the first, and the most im¬ 
 portant, that successive soils might be supplied to the plains, 
 in the manner explained in the last chapter, and that men 
 might be furnished with a material for their works of archi¬ 
 tecture and sculpture, at once soft enough to be subdued, and 
 hard enough to be preserved ; the second, that some sense of 
 danger might always be connected with the most precipitous 
 forms, and thus increase their sublimity ; and the third, that 
 a subject of perpetual interest might be opened to the human 
 mind in observing the changes of form brought about by time 
 on these monuments of Creation. 
 
 10. In order, therefore, to understand the method in which 
 these various substances break, so as to produce the forms 
 which are of chief importance in landscape, as well as the ex¬ 
 quisite adaptation of all their qualities to the service of men, 
 it will be well that I should take some note of them in their 
 order ; not with any far-followed mineralogical detail, but 
 with care enough to enable me hereafter to explain, without 
 
 specting the purposes of the Divine Being; and that in many cases it 
 would be thought more consistent with the modesty of humanity to 
 limit its endeavor to the ascertaining of physical causes than to form 
 conjectures respecting Divine intentions. But I believe this feeling to 
 be false and dangerous. Wisdom can only be demonstrated in its ends, 
 and goodness only perceived in its motives. He who in a morbid mod¬ 
 esty supposes that he is incapable of apprehending any of the purposes 
 of God renders himself also incapable of witnessing His wisdom ; and he 
 who supposes that favors may be bestowed without intention will soon 
 learn to receive tliejn without gratitude. 
 
IN MON TIB NS SANCTIS. 
 
 147 
 
 obscurity, any phenomena dependent upon such peculiarities 
 of substance. 
 
 (I have cut the eighth chapter of the old book in half here, 
 for better arrangement of subject. The reader will perhaps 
 forego, once in a way, without painful sense of loss, my cus¬ 
 tomary burst of terminal eloquence.) 
 
 POSTSCRIPT TO CHAPTER III. 
 
 For many reasons, which will appear one by one in the course of this 
 work, I think it well to give, for postscript to this chapter, a translation 
 of Saussure's introductory account of granite, published in 1803, at 
 Neuchatel, chez Louis Fauche-Borel, imprimeur clu Hoi (King of 
 Prussia), “ Voyages dans les Alpes,” vol. i. chap. v. Les Roches Com- 
 posees. Granit. 
 
 “Granites belong to that class of stones which naturalists name com¬ 
 posed stones, or rocks, or living rock, roc vif,* the saxa mixta of Wal- 
 lerius. This class includes stones which are composed of two, three, or 
 four different species of stones, intermixed under the form of angular 
 grains, or folia (feuillets) united by the intimacy of their contact, without 
 the hell) °f an V stronger gluten. 
 
 “ Those which divide themselves by folia are called schistous rocks, or 
 foliated rocks (Roches schisteuses ou Roches feuilletees). Saxa fissilia, 
 Wall. Those which appear composed of grains, and which present 
 neither folia nor sensible veins, are named Rocks in mass. Saxa solida, 
 Wall. Such are the granites. 
 
 “ It is these two species of rocks which form the matter of the most 
 elevated mountains, such as the central chains of the Alps, the Cordil¬ 
 lera, the Ural, Caucasus, and Altaic mountains. One never finds them 
 seated upon (assises sur) mountains of slate (ardoise) or of calcareous 
 stone; they serve, on the contrary, for base to these, and have conse¬ 
 quently existed before them. They bear then, by just claim, the name 
 
 * The modern reader passes as merely poetical the words “ living rock of 
 former good writers. But living rock is as distinct from dead, as heart of 
 oak from dry rot. In accuracy, “living” is the word used by the natural 
 human sense to express the difference between a crystalline rock and one of 
 mere coagulated sand or Blime. 
 
 
148 
 
 IN MONTIBUS SANCTIS. 
 
 of primitive mountains, while those of slate and calcareous stone are 
 qualified as secondary. ” 
 
 The young reader will do well to fix these simple statements in his 
 head, and by no means let them be shaken in it. Modern geologists 
 will tell him that Mont Blanc is young ; but the date of a mountain’s 
 elevation is not that of its substance. Granite no more becomes a sec¬ 
 ondary rock in lifting a bed of chalk than an old man becomes a boy 
 in throwing off his bedclothes. All modern geologists will tell you that 
 granite and basalt are pretty much the same thing, that each may be¬ 
 come the other, and any come to the top. Recollect simply, to begin 
 with, that granite forms delightful and healthy countries, basalt gloomy 
 and oppressive ones, and that, if you have the misfortune to live under 
 Etna or Hecla, you and your house may both be buried in basalt to¬ 
 morrow morning ; but that nobody was ever buried in granite, unless 
 somebody paid for his tomb. Recollect farther, that granite is for the 
 most part visibly composed of three substances, always easily recogniz¬ 
 able—quartz, felspar, and mica ; but basalt may be made of anything 
 on the face or in the stomach of the Earth. And recollect finally, that 
 there was assuredly a time when the Earth had no animals upon it; 
 another time when it had only nasty and beastly animals upon it ; and 
 that at this time it has a great many beautiful and angelic animals upon 
 it, tormented out of their lives by one extremely foolish two-legged 
 one. To these three periods, the first of chaotic solitude, the second of 
 rampant monstrosity, and the third of ruthless beauty, the names of 
 Primary, Secondary, and Tertiary may justly hold for ever—be the 
 Fourth Age what it may. 
 
CCELI E1STARRANT, 
 
 STUDIES OF CLOUD FORM 
 
 AND OF ITS VISIBLE CAUSES. 
 
 COLLECTED AND COMPLETED OUT OF 
 
 »• 
 
 “MODERN PAINTERS 
 

PREFACE. 
 
 The studies of the nature and form of clouds, reprinted in 
 the following pages from the fourth and fifth volumes of 
 “Modern Painters,” will be in this series third in order, as 
 they are in those volumes, of the treatises on natural history 
 which were there made the foundation of judgment in land¬ 
 scape art. But the essay on trees will require more careful 
 annotation than I have at present time for, and I am also de¬ 
 sirous of placing these cloud studies quickly in the hands of 
 anyone who may have been interested in my account of 
 recent storms. 
 
 I find nothing to alter,* and little to explain, in the follow¬ 
 ing portions of my former work, in which such passages as 
 the eighth and ninth paragraphs of the opening chapter—usu¬ 
 ally thought of by the public merely as word-painting, but 
 which are in reality accurately abstracted, and finally concen¬ 
 trated, expressions of the general laws of natural phenomena f 
 —are indeed among the best I have ever written, and in their 
 
 * Sometimes a now useless reference to other parts of the book is 
 omitted, or one necessary to connect the sentence broken by such omis¬ 
 sion ; otherwise I do not retouch the original text. 
 
 f Thus the sentence at page 7, “murmuring only when the winds 
 raise them, or rocks divide.” does not describe, or word-paint, the sound 
 of waters, but (with only the admitted art of a carefully reiterated “ r ”) 
 sums the general causes of it ; while, again, the immediately following 
 one, defining the limitations of sea and river, “ restrained by established 
 shores, and guided through unchanging channels,” attempts no word- 
 painting either of coast or burnside ; but states, with only such orna¬ 
 ment of its simplicity as could be got of the doubled “t” and doubled 
 “ ch,” the fact of the stability of existing rock structure which I was, at 
 that time, alone among geologists in asserting. 
 
152 
 
 PREFACE. 
 
 way, I am not ashamed to express my conviction, unlikely to 
 be surpassed by any other author. But it may be necessary 
 to advise the student of these now isolated chapters not to in¬ 
 terpret any of their expressions of awe or wonder as meaning 
 to attribute any supernatural, or in any special sense miracu¬ 
 lous, character to the phenomena described, other than that 
 of their adaptation to human feeling or need. I did not in 
 the least mean to insinuate, because it was not easy to explain 
 the buoyancy of clouds, that they were supported in the air 
 as St. Francis in his ecstasy ; or because the forms of a 
 thunder-cloud were terrific, that they were less natural than 
 those of a diamond ; but in all the forms and actions of non- 
 sentient things, I recognized (as more at length explained in 
 the conclusion of my essay on the plague cloud) constant 
 miracle, and according to the need and deserving of man, 
 more or less constantly manifest Deity. Time, and times, 
 have since passed over my head, and have taught me to hope 
 for more than this — nay, perhaps so much more as that in 
 English cities, where two or three are gathered in His name, 
 such vision as that recorded by the sea-king Dandolo * 
 might again be seen,when he was commanded that in the midst 
 of the city he should build a church, “ in the place above 
 which he should see a red cloud rest.” 
 
 J. Buskin. 
 
 Oxford, November 8th, 1884. 
 
 * St. Mark’s. 
 
CCELI ENARRANT. 
 
 CHAPTER L 
 
 THE FIRMAM ENT. 
 
 “Modern Painters” Vol. IV., Part V, Chap . VI. 
 
 1. The task whicli we now enter upon, as explained in the 
 close of the preceding chapter, is the ascertaining as far as 
 possible what the proper effect of the natural beauty of differ¬ 
 ent objects ought to be on the human mind, and the degree 
 in which this nature of theirs, and true influence, have been 
 understood and transmitted by Turner. 
 
 I mean to begin with the mountains, for the sake of conve¬ 
 nience in illustration, but, in the proper order of thought, 
 the clouds ought to be considered first; and I think it will be 
 well, in this intermediate chapter, to bring to a close that line 
 of reasoning by which we have gradually, as I hope, strength¬ 
 ened the defences around the love of mystery, which distin¬ 
 guishes our modern art; and to show, on final and conclusive 
 authority, what noble things these clouds are, and with what 
 feeling it seems to be intended by their Creator that we should 
 contemplate them. 
 
 2. The account given of the stages of creation in the first 
 chapter of Genesis is in every respect clear and intelligible to 
 the simplest reader, except in the statement of the work 
 of the second day. I suppose that this statement is passed 
 over by careless readers as a sublime mystery which was not 
 intended to be understood. But there is no mystery in any 
 other part of the chapter, and it seems to me unjust to con¬ 
 clude that any was intended here. 
 
154 
 
 GCELI ENARRANT. 
 
 And tlie passage ought to be peculiarly interesting to us, as 
 being the first in the Bible in which the heavens are named, 
 and the only one in which the word “Heaven,” all-important 
 as that word is to our understanding of the most precious 
 promises of Scripture, receives a definite explanation. 
 
 Let us, therefore, see whether by a careful comparison of 
 the verse with other passages in which the word occurs, we 
 may not be able to arrive at as clear an understanding of this 
 portion of the chapter as of the rest. 
 
 3. In the first place the English word “ Firmament ” itself 
 is useless, because we never employ it but as a synonym of 
 heaven ; it conveys no other distinct idea to us; and the verse, 
 though from our familiarity with it we imagine that it pos¬ 
 sesses meaning, has in reality no more point or value than if 
 it were written, “God said, Let there be a something in the 
 midst of the waters, and God called the something Heaven.” 
 
 But the marginal reading, “ Expansion,” has definite value ; 
 and the statement that “ God said, Let there be an expansion 
 in the midst of the waters, and God called the expansion 
 Heaven,” has an apprehensible meaning. 
 
 4. Accepting this expression as the one intended, we have 
 next to ask what expansion there is between two waters, de- 
 scribable by the term Heaven. Milton adopts the term “ ex¬ 
 panse ; ” * but he understands it of the whole volume of the 
 air which surrounds the earth. Whereas, so far as we can tell, 
 there is no water beyond the air, in the fields of space ; and 
 the whole expression of division of waters from waters is thus 
 rendered valueless. 
 
 o. Now, with respect to this whole chapter, we must re¬ 
 member always that it is intended for the instruction of all 
 mankind, not for the learned reader only ; and that, therefore, 
 the most simple and natural interpretation is the likeliest in 
 
 * “God made 
 
 The firmament, expanse of liquid, pure, 
 Transparent, elemental air, diffused 
 In circuit to the uttermost convex 
 Of this great round.” 
 
 —Paradise Lost, Book VII 
 
CCELI ENAURANT. 
 
 155 
 
 general to be the true one. An unscientific reader knows lit¬ 
 tle about the manner in which the volume of the atmosphere 
 surrounds the earth ; but I imagine that he could hardly glance 
 at the sky when rain was falling in the distance, and see the 
 level line of the bases of the clouds from which the shower 
 descended, without being able to attach an instant and easy 
 meaning to the words “ expansion in the midst of the waters.” 
 And, if having once seized this idea, he proceeded to examine 
 it more accurately, he would perceive at once, if he had ever 
 noticed anything of the nature of clouds, that the level line of 
 their bases did indeed most severely and stringently divide 
 “ waters from waters,” that is to say, divide water in its col¬ 
 lective and tangible state, from water in its divided and aereal 
 state; or the waters which fall and flow , from those which 
 rise and flow. Next, if we try this interpretation in the theo¬ 
 logical sense of the word Heaven, and examine whether the 
 clouds are spoken of as God’s dwelling-place, we find God 
 going before the Israelites in a pillar of cloud ; revealing Him¬ 
 self in a cloud on Sinai ; appearing in a cloud on the mercy 
 seat ; filling the Temple of Solomon with the cloud when its 
 dedication is accepted ; appearing in a great cloud to Ezekiel; 
 ascending into a cloud before the eyes of the disciples on 
 Mount Olivet, and in like manner returning to Judgment. 
 “Behold He cometh with clouds, and every eye shall see Him.” 
 “ Then shall they see the Son of Man coming in the clouds of 
 heaven, with power and great glory.’ * While farther, the 
 “clouds” and “heavens” are used as interchangeable words 
 in those Psalms which most distinctly set forth the power of 
 God: “ He bowed the heavens also, and came down ; He made 
 darkness pavilions around about Him, dark waters, and thick 
 clouds of the skies.” And again : “ Thy mercy, O Lord, is in 
 the heavens, and Thy faithfulness reacheth unto the clouds. 
 And again: “ His excellency is over Israel, and His strength 
 
 * The reader may refer to the following texts, which it is needless to 
 quote:—Exod. xiii. 21, xvi. 10, xix. 0, xxiv. 10, xxxiv. 5; Levit. xvi. 2 ; 
 Num. x. 34 ; Judges v. 4 ; 1 Kings viii. 10 ; Ezek. i. 4 ; Dan. vii. l-> , 
 Matt. xxiv. 30 ; 1 Thess. iv. 17 ; Rev. i. 7. 
 
156 
 
 CCELI ENARRANT. 
 
 is in the clouds.” Again : “ The clouds poured out water, 
 the skies sent out a sound, the voice of Thy thunder was in 
 the heaven.” Again : “Clouds and darkness are round about 
 Him, righteousness and judgment are the habitation of His 
 throne ; the heavens declare His righteousness, and all the 
 people see His glory.” 
 
 6. In all these passages the meaning is unmistakable, if 
 they possess definite meaning at all. We are too apt to take 
 them merely for sublime and vague imagery, and therefore 
 gradually to lose the apprehension of their life and power. 
 The expression, “ He bowed the heavens,” for instance, is, I 
 suppose, received by most readers as a magnificent hyperbole, 
 having reference to some peculiar and fearful manifestation 
 of God’s power to the writer of the Psalm in which the words 
 occur. But the expression either has plain meaning, or it has 
 no meaning. Understand by the term “Heavens” the com¬ 
 pass of infinite space around the earth, and the expression, 
 “bowed the Heavens,” however sublime, is wholly without 
 meaning ; infinite space cannot be bent or bowed. But 
 understand by the “Heavens’’the veil of clouds above the 
 earth, and the expression is neither hyperbolical nor obscure ; 
 it is pure, plain, and accurate truth, and it describes God, 
 not as revealing Himself in any peculiar way to David, but 
 doing what He is still doing before our own eyes day by day. 
 By accepting the words in their simple sense, we are thus led 
 to apprehend the immediate presence of the Deity, and His 
 purpose of manifesting Himself as near us whenever the 
 storm-cloud stoops upon its course ; while by our vague and 
 inaccurate acceptance of the words we remove the idea of His 
 presence far from us, into a region which we can neither see 
 nor know ; and gradually, from the close realization of a liv¬ 
 ing God who “maketh the clouds His chariot,” we refine and 
 explain ourselves into dim and distant suspicion of an inac¬ 
 tive God, inhabiting inconceivable places, and fading into the 
 multitudinous formalisms of the laws of Nature. 
 
 7. All errors of this kind—and in the present day we are 
 in constant and grievous danger of falling into them—arise 
 from the originally mistaken idea that man can, “by search- 
 
OCELI ENARRANT. 
 
 157 
 
 mg, find out God—find out the Almighty to perfection ; ” 
 that is to say, by help of courses of reasoning and accumula¬ 
 tions of science, apprehend the nature of the Deity in a more 
 exalted and more accurate manner than in a state of compara¬ 
 tive ignorance ; whereas it is clearly necessary, from the 
 beginning to the end of time, that God’s way of revealing 
 Himself to His creatures should be a simple way, -which all 
 those creatures may understand. Whether taught or un¬ 
 taught, whether of mean capacity or enlarged, it is necessary 
 that communion with their Creator should be possible to all; 
 and the admission to such communion must be rested, not on 
 their having a knowledge of astronomy, but on their having a 
 human soul. In order to render this communion possible, 
 the Deity has stooped from His throne, and has not only, in 
 the person of the Son, taken upon Him the veil of our human 
 flesh, but, in the person of the Father, taken upon Him the 
 veil of our human thoughts , and permitted us, by His own 
 spoken authority, to conceive Him simply and clearly as a 
 loving Father and Friend ;—a being to be walked with and 
 reasoned with ; to be moved by our entreaties, angered by 
 our rebellion, alienated by our coldness, pleased by our love, 
 and glorified by our labor ; and finally, to be beheld in imme¬ 
 diate and active presence in all the powers and changes of 
 creation. 
 
 This conception of God, which is the child’s, is evidently 
 the only one which can be universal, and therefore, the only 
 one which for us can be true. The moment that, in our pride 
 of heart, we refuse to accept the condescension of the Al¬ 
 mighty, and desire Him, instead of stooping to hold our 
 hands, to rise up before us into His glory—we, hoping that 
 by standing on a grain of dust or two of human knowledge 
 higher than our fellows, we may behold the Creator as He 
 rises—God takes us at our word ; He rises, into His own 
 invisible and inconceivable Majesty ; He goes forth upon the 
 ways which are not our ways, and retires into the thoughts 
 which are not our thoughts; and we are left alone. And 
 presently we say in our vain hearts, “ There is no God.” 
 
 8. I would desire, therefore, to receive God’s account of 
 
158 
 
 C(ELI ENARRANT. 
 
 His own creation as, under the ordinary limits of human 
 knowledge and imagination, it would be received by a simple- 
 minded man ; and finding that the “ heavens and the earth ” 
 are spoken of always as having something like equal relation 
 to each other (“ thus the heavens and the earth were finished, 
 and all the host of them”), I reject at once all idea of the 
 term “Heavens” being intended to signify the infinity of 
 space inhabited by countless sand, with which space though 
 we measured not the earth only, but the sun itself, with all 
 the solar system, no relation of equality or comparison could 
 be inferred. But I suppose the heavens to mean that part of 
 the creation which holds equal companionship with our globe ; 
 I understand the “rolling of those heavens together as a scroll ” 
 to be an equal and relative destruction with the “melting of 
 the elements in fervent heat ; ” * and I understand the making 
 the firmament to signify that, so far as man is concerned, 
 most magnificent ordinance of the clouds—the ordinance, that 
 as the great plain of waters was formed on the face of the 
 earth, so also a plain of waters should be stretched along the 
 height of air, and the face of the cloud answer the face of the 
 ocean ; and this upper and heavenly plain should be of waters, 
 as it were, glorified in their nature, no longer quenching the 
 
 * Compare also Job xxxvi. 29, “The spreading of the clouds, and 
 the noise of Ilis tabernacle; ” and xxxviii. 33, “ Knowest thou the 
 ordinances of heaven ? canst thou set the dominion thereof in the 
 earth ? canst thou lift up thy voice to the clouds ? ” 
 
 Observe that in the passage of Addison’s well-known hymn— 
 
 “ The spacious firmament on high, 
 
 With all the blue, ethereal sky, 
 
 And spangled heavens, a shining frame, 
 
 Their great Original proclaim ”— 
 
 the writer has clearly the true distinctions in his mind ; he does not 
 use his words, as we too often accept them, in vain tautology. By the 
 spacious firmament he means the clouds, using the word “ spacious 
 to mark the true meaning of the Hebrew term ; the blue ethereal sky is 
 the real air or ether, blue above the clouds; the heavens are the starry 
 space, for which he uses this word, less accurately indeed than the 
 others, but as the only one available for his meaning. 
 
C(ELI ENARRANT. 
 
 159 
 
 fire, but now bearing fire in their own bosoms ; no longer 
 murmuring only when the winds raise them or rocks divide, 
 but answering each other with their own voices from pole to 
 pole ; no longer restrained by established shores, and guided 
 through unchanging channels, but going forth at their pleas¬ 
 ure like the armies of the angels, and choosing their encamp¬ 
 ments upon the heights of the hills ; no longer hurried down¬ 
 ward for ever, moving but to fall, nor lost in the lightless 
 accumulation of the abyss, but covering the east and west 
 with the waving of their wings, and robing the gloom of the 
 farther infinite with a vesture of divers colors, of which the 
 threads are purple and scarlet, and the embroideries flame. 
 
 9. This, I believe, is the ordinance of the firmament; and 
 it seems to me that in the midst of the material nearness of 
 these heavens God means us to acknowledge His own imme¬ 
 diate presence as visiting, judging, and blessing us. “ The 
 earth shook, the heavens also dropped, at the presence of 
 God.” ‘‘He doth set His bow in the cloud,” and thus re¬ 
 news, in the sound of every drooping swathe of rain, His 
 promises of everlasting love. “ In them hath He set a taber¬ 
 nacle for the sun,” whose burning ball, which, without the 
 firmament, would be seen but as an intolerable and scorching 
 circle in the blackness of vacuity, is by that firmament sur¬ 
 rounded with gorgeous service, and tempered by mediatorial 
 ministries; by the firmament of clouds the golden pavement 
 is spread for his chariot wheels at morning ; by the firmament 
 of clouds the temple is built for his presence to fill with light 
 it noon ; by the firmament of clouds the purple veil is closed 
 it evening round the sanctuary of his rest; by the mists of the 
 firmament his implacable light is divided, and its separated 
 ierceness appeased into the soft blue that fills the depth of 
 distance with its bloom, and the flush with which the moun- 
 ;ains burn as they drink the overflowing of the dayspring, 
 find in this tabernacling of the unendurable sun with men, 
 lirough the shadows of the firmament, God would seem to 
 let forth the stooping of His own majesty to men, upon the 
 krone of the firmament. As the Creator of all the worlds, 
 ,nd the inhabitor of eternity, we cannot behold Him ; but as 
 
160 
 
 C(ELI ENARRANT. 
 
 the Judge of the earth and the Preserver of men, those 
 heavens are indeed His dwelling-place. “ Swear not, neither 
 by heaven, for it is God’s throne; nor by the earth, for it is 
 His footstool.” And all those passings to and fro of fruitful 
 shower and grateful shade, and all those visions of silver 
 palaces built about the horizon, and voices of moaning winds 
 and threatening thunders, and glories of colored robe and 
 cloven ray, are but to deepen in our hearts the acceptance, 
 and distinctness, and dearness of the simple words, “ Our 
 Father, which art in heaven.” 
 
CHAPTER H. 
 
 THE CLOUD-BALANCINGS. 
 
 “Modern Painters” Vol. V, Part VII., Chap. I. 
 
 1. We have seen that when the earth had to be prepared 
 for the habitation of man, a veil, as it were, of intermediate 
 being was spread between him and its darkness, in which 
 were joined, in a subdued measure, the stability and insensi¬ 
 bility of the earth, and the passion and perishing of man¬ 
 kind. 
 
 But the heavens, also, had to be prepared for his habita¬ 
 tion. 
 
 Between their burning light—their deep vacuity, and man, 
 as between the earth’s gloom of iron substance, and man, a 
 veil had to be spread of intermediate being ; which should 
 : appease the unendurable glory to the level of human feeble- 
 ; ness, and sign the changeless motion of the heavens with a 
 semblance of human vicissitude. 
 
 Between the earth and man arose the leaf. Between the 
 heaven and man came the cloud. His life being partly as the 
 falling leaf, and partly as the flying vapor. 
 
 2. Has the reader any distinct idea of what clouds are ? 
 We had some talk about them long ago, and perhaps thought 
 their nature, though at that time not clear to us, would be 
 easily enough understandable when we put ourselves seriously 
 to make it out. Shall we begin with one or two easiest 
 questions ? 
 
 That mist which lies in the morning so softly in the valley, 
 level and white, through which the tops of the trees rise as if 
 through an inundation—why is it so heavy ? and why does it 
 lie so low, being yet so thin and frail that it will melt away 
 utterly into splendor of morning, when the sun has shone on 
 11 
 
162 
 
 GCELI ENARBANT. 
 
 it but a few moments more ? Those colossal pyramids, huge 
 and firm, with outlines as of rocks, and strength to bear the 
 beating of the high sun full on their fiery flanks—why are 
 they so light—their bases high over our heads, high over the 
 heads of Alps ? why will these melt away, not as the sun 
 rises, but as he descends , and leave the stars of twilight clear, 
 while the valley vapor gains again upon the earth like a 
 shroud ? 
 
 Or that ghost of a cloud, which steals by yonder clump of 
 pines ; nay, which does not steal by them, but haunts them, 
 wreathing yet round them, and yet—and yet, slowly; now 
 falling in a fair waved line like a woman’s veil; now fading, 
 now gone ; we look away for an instant, and look back, and it 
 is again there. What has it to do with that clump of pines, 
 that it broods by them and waves itself among their branches, 
 to and fro ? Has it hidden a cloudy treasure among the 
 moss at their roots, which it watches thus? Or has some 
 strong enchanter charmed it into fond returning, or bound it 
 fast within those bars of bough ? And yonder filmy crescent, 
 bent like an archer’s bow above the snowy summit, the high¬ 
 est of all the hill—that white arch which never forms but 
 over the supreme crest—how is it stayed there, repelled ap¬ 
 parently from the snow—nowhere touching it, the clear sky 
 seen between it and the mountain edge, yet never leaving it— 
 poised as a white bird hovers over its nest? 
 
 Or those war-clouds that gather on the horizon, dragon- 
 crested, tongued with fire ; how is their barbed strength 
 bridled ? what bits are these they are champing with their va¬ 
 porous lips ; flinging off flakes of black foam ? Leagued levia¬ 
 thans of the Sea of Heaven, out of their nostrils goeth smoke, 
 and their eyes are like the eyelids of the morning ; the sword 
 of him that layeth at them cannot hold the spear, the dart, 
 nor the habergeon. Where ride the captains of their armies ? 
 Where are set the measures of their march ? Fierce mur- 
 murers, answering each other from morning until evening— 
 what rebuke is this which has awed them into peace ?—what 
 hand has reined them back by the way by which they 
 came ? 
 
CCELI ENARRANT. 
 
 163 
 
 3. I know not if the reader will think at first that questions 
 
 like these are easily answered. So far from it, I rather be¬ 
 lieve that some of the mysteries of the clouds never will be 
 understood by us at all. “ Knowest thou the balancings of 
 the clouds ? ” Is the answer ever to be one of pride ? “ The 
 
 wondrous works of Him which is perfect in knowledge ?” Is 
 our knowledge ever to be so ? 
 
 It is one of the most discouraging consequences of the 
 varied character of this work of mine, that I am wholly unable 
 to take note of the advance of modern science. What has 
 conclusively been discovered or observed about clouds I know 
 not; but by the chance inquiry possible to me I find no book 
 which fairly states the difficulties of accounting for even the 
 ordinary aspects of the sky. I shall, therefore, be able in this 
 section to do little more than suggest inquiries to the reader, 
 putting the subject in a clear form for him. All men ac¬ 
 customed to investigation will confirm me in saying that it is 
 a great step when we are personally quite certain what we do 
 not know. 
 
 4. First, then, I believe we do not know what makes clouds 
 float. Clouds are water, in some fine form or another; but 
 water is heavier than air, and the finest form you can give a 
 heavy thing will not make it float in a light thing.* On it, 
 yes, as a boat ; but in it, no. Clouds are not boats, nor boat¬ 
 shaped, and they float in the air, not on the top of it. “ Nay, 
 but though unlike boats, may they not be like feathers ? If 
 out of quill substance there may be constructed eider-down, 
 and out of vegetable tissue, thistle-down, both buoyant enough 
 for a time, surely of water-tissue may be constructed also 
 water-down, which will be buoyant enough for all cloudy pur¬ 
 poses.'’ Not so. Throw out your eider plumage in a calm 
 day, and it will all come settling to the ground—slowly indeed, 
 
 * [Compare tlie old note to § 6 : but I had not, when I wrote it, enough 
 reflected on the horrible buoyancy of smoke, nor did I know over what 
 spaces volcanic ashes were diffusible. Will any of my scientific friends 
 uow state for me the approximate weight and bulk of a particle of dust 
 of any solid substance which would be buoyant in air of given density ?] 
 
104 : 
 
 OCELI ENABRANT. 
 
 to aspect; but practically so fast that all our finest clouds 
 would be here in a heap about our ears in an hour or two, if 
 they were only made of water feathers. “But may they not 
 be quill feathers, and have air inside them ? May not all their 
 particles be minute little balloons?” 
 
 A balloon only floats when the air inside it is either specifi¬ 
 cally, or by heating, lighter than the air it floats in. If the 
 cloud-feathers had warm air inside their quills, a cloud would 
 be warmer than the air about it, which it is not (I believe). 
 And if the cloud-feathers had hydrogen inside their quills, a 
 cloud would be unwholesome for breathing, which it is not— 
 at least so it seems to me. 
 
 “ But may they not have nothing inside their quills ? ” 
 Then they would rise, as bubbles do through water, just as 
 certainly as, if they were solid feathers, they would fall. All 
 our clouds would go up to the top of the air, and swim in 
 eddies of cloud-foam. 
 
 “ But is not that just what they do ? ” No. They float at 
 different heights, and with definite forms, in the body of the 
 air itself. If they rose like foam, the sky on a cloudy day 
 would look like a very large flat glass of champagne seen from 
 below, with a stream of bubbles (or clouds) going up as fast 
 as they could to a flat foam-ceiling. 
 
 “But may they not be just so nicely mixed out of some¬ 
 thing and nothing, as to float where they are wanted ? ” 
 
 Yes : that is just what they not only may, but must be ; only 
 this way of mixing something and nothing is the very thing 
 I want to explain or have explained, and cannot do it, nor get 
 it done. 
 
 5. Except thus far. It is conceivable that minute hollow 
 spherical globules might be formed of water, in which the en¬ 
 closed vacuity just balanced the weight of the enclosing water, 
 and that the arched sphere formed by the watery film was 
 strong enough to prevent the pressure of the atmosphere from 
 breaking it in. Such a globule would float like a balloon at 
 the height in the atmosphere where the equipoise between the 
 vacuum it enclosed, and its own excess of weight above that 
 of the air, was exact. It would, probably, approach its com- 
 
GCELI ENA URANT. 
 
 165 
 
 panion globules by reciprocal attraction, and form aggrega¬ 
 tions which might be visible. 
 
 This is, I believe, the view usually taken by meteorologists. 
 I state it as a possibility, to be taken into account in examin¬ 
 ing the question—a possibility confirmed by the scriptural 
 words which I have taken for the title of this chapter. 
 
 6. Nevertheless, I state it as a possibility only, not seeing 
 how any known operation of physical law could explain the 
 formation of such molecules. This, however, is not the only 
 difficulty. Whatever shape the water is thrown into, it seems 
 at first improbable that it should lose its property of wetness. 
 Minute division of rain, as in “Scotch mist,” makes it capable 
 of floating farther,* or floating up and down a little, just as 
 dust will float, though pebbles will not; or gold-leaf, though 
 a sovereign will not; but minutely divided rain wets as much 
 as any other kind, whereas a cloud, partially always, some- 
 
 * The buoyancy of solid bodies of a given specific gravity, in a given 
 fluid, depends, first on their size, then on their forms. 
 
 First, on their size ; that is to say, on the proportion of the magnitude 
 of the object (irrespective of the distribution of its particles) to the 
 magnitude of the particles of the air. 
 
 Thus, a grain of sand is buoyant in wind, but a large stone is not; 
 and pebbles and sand are buoyant in water in proportion to their small¬ 
 ness, fine dust taking long to sink, while a large stone sinks at once. 
 Thus, we see that water may be arranged in drops of any magnitude, 
 from the largest rain-drop, about the size of a large pea, to an atom so 
 small as not to be separately visible, the smallest rain passing gradually 
 into mist. Of these drops of different sizes (supposing the strength of 
 the wind the same), the largest fall fastest, the smaller drops are more 
 buoyant, and the small misty rain floats about like a cloud, as often up 
 as down, so that an umbrella is useless in it; though in a heavy thunder¬ 
 storm, if there is no wind, one may stand gathered up under an um¬ 
 brella without a drop touching the feet. 
 
 Secondly, buoyancy depends on the amount of surface which a 
 given weight of the substance exposes to the resistance of the substance 
 it floats in. Thus, gold-leaf is in a high degree buoyant, while the 
 same quantity of gold in a compact grain would fall like a shot; and a 
 feather is buoyant, though the same quantity of animal matter in a 
 compact form would be as heavy as a little stone. A slate blows far 
 from a house-top, while a brick falls vertically, or nearly so. 
 
166 
 
 CCELI ENARRANT. 
 
 times entirely, loses its power of moistening. Some low 
 clouds look, when you are in them, as if they were made of 
 specks of dust, like short hair ; and these clouds are entirely 
 dry. And also many clouds will wet some substances, but 
 not others. So that we must grant further, if we are to be 
 happy in our theory, that the spherical molecules are held 
 together by an attraction which prevents their adhering to 
 any foreign body, or perhaps ceases only under some peculiar 
 electric conditions. 
 
 7. The question remains, even supposing their production 
 accounted for — What intermediate states of water may 
 exist between these spherical hollow molecules and pure 
 vapor ? 
 
 Has the reader ever considered the relations of commonest 
 forms of volatile substance? The invisible particles which 
 cause the scent of a rose-leaf, how minute, how multitudinous, 
 passing richly away into the air continually ! The visible 
 cloud of frankincense—why visible? Is it in consequence of 
 the greater quantity, or larger size, of the particles, and how 
 does the heat act in throwing them off in this quantity, or of 
 this size ? 
 
 Ask the same questions respecting water. It dries, that is, 
 becomes volatile, invisibly, at (any ?) temperature. Snow 
 dries, as water does. Under increase of heat, it volatilizes 
 faster, so as to become dimly visible in large mass, as a heat- 
 haze. It reaches boiling-point, then becomes entirely visible. 
 But compress it, so that no air shall get between the watery 
 particles—it is invisible again. At the first issuing from the 
 steam-pipe the steam is transparent; but opaque, or visible, 
 as it diffuses itself. The water is indeed closer, because 
 cooler, in that diffusion; but more air is between its particles. 
 Then this very question of visibility is an endless one, waver¬ 
 ing between form of substance and action of light. The 
 clearest (or least visible) stream becomes brightly opaque by 
 more minute division in its foam, and the clearest dew in 
 hoar-frost. Dust, unperceived in shade, becomes constantly 
 visible in sunbeam ; and watery vapor in the atmosphere, 
 which is itself opaque, when there is promise of fine weather, 
 
col'li mAnn ant. 167 
 
 becomes exquisitely transparent; and (questionably) blue, 
 when it is going to rain. 
 
 8. Questionably blue ; for besides knowing very little about 
 water, we know what, except by courtesy, must, I think, be 
 called Nothing—about air. Is it the watery vapor, or the 
 air itself, which is blue ? Are neither blue, but only white, 
 producing blue when seen over dark spaces ? If either blue, 
 or white, why, when crimson is their commanded dress, are 
 the most distant clouds erimsonest ? Clouds close to us may 
 be blue, but far off, golden—a strange result, if the air is blue. 
 And again, if blue, why are rays that come through large 
 spaces of it red; and that Alp, or anything else that catches 
 far-away light, why colored red at dawn and sunset? No 
 one knows, I believe. It is true that many substances, as 
 opal, are blue, or green, by reflected light, yellow by trans¬ 
 mitted ; but air, if blue at all, is blue always by transmitted 
 light. I hear of a wonderful solution of nettles, or other 
 unlovely herb, which is green when shallow—red when deep. 
 Perhaps some day, as the motion of the heavenly bodies by 
 help of an apple, their light by help of a nettle, may be ex¬ 
 plained to mankind. 
 
 9. But further : these questions of volatility, and visibility, 
 and hue, are all complicated with those of shape. How is a 
 cloud outlined ? Granted whatever you choose to ask con¬ 
 cerning its material, or its aspect, its loftiness, and luminous¬ 
 ness-—how of its limitation ? What hews it into a heap, or 
 spins it into a web ? Cold is usually shapeless, I suppose, ex¬ 
 tending over large spaces equally, or with gradual diminution. 
 You cannot have, in the open air, angles, and wedges, and 
 coils, and cliffs of cold. Yet the vapor stops suddenly, sharp 
 and steep as a rock, or thrusts itself across the gates of heaven 
 in likeness of a brazen bar; or braids itself in and out, and 
 across and across, like a tissue of tapestry ; or falls into ripples, 
 like sand; or into waving shreds and tongues, as fire. On 
 what anvils and wheels is the vapor pointed, twisted, ham¬ 
 mered, whirled, as the potter’s clay ? By what hands is the 
 incense of the sea built up into domes of marble ? 
 
 And, lastly, all these questions respecting substance, and 
 
168 
 
 CJCELI ENARRANT. 
 
 aspect, and shape, and line, and division, are involved with 
 others as inscrutable, concerning action. The curves in which 
 clouds move are unknown—nay, the very method of their 
 motion, or apparent motion, how far it is by change of place, 
 how far by appearance in one place and vanishing from 
 another. And these questions about movement lead partly 
 far away into high mathematics, where I cannot follow them, 
 and partly into theories concerning electricity and infinite 
 space, where I suppose at present no one can follow them. 
 
 What, then, is the use of asking the questions ? 
 
 For my own part, I enjoy the mystery, and perhaps the 
 reader may. I think lie ought. He should not be less grate¬ 
 ful for summer rain, or see less beauty in the clouds of morn¬ 
 ing, because they come to prove him with hard questions ; to 
 which, perhaps, if we look close at the heavenly scroll,* we 
 may find also a syllable or two of answer illuminated here and 
 there. 
 
 * There is a beautiful passage in Sartor Resartus concerning this old 
 Hebrew scroll, in its deeper meanings, and the child’s watching it, 
 though long illegible for him, yet “with an eye to the gilding.” It 
 signifies in a word or two nearly all that is to be said about clouds.—(Not 
 quite. J. R., 1884.) 
 
 
NOTES 
 
 ON SOME OF 
 
 THE PRINCIPAL PICTURES 
 
 EXHIBITED IN THE ROOMS OF THE 
 
 ROYAL ACADEMY, 
 
 1875. 
 

PREFACE. 
 
 It is now just twenty years since I wrote the first number 
 of these notes ; and fifteen since they were discontinued. I 
 have no intention of renewing the series, unless occasionally, 
 should accident detain me in London during the spring. But 
 this year, for many reasons, it seemed to me imperatively 
 proper to say as much as is here said. 
 
 And that the temper of the saying may not, so far as I can 
 prevent it, be mistaken, I will venture to ask my reader to 
 hear, and trust that he will believe, thus much concerning 
 myself. Among various minor, but collectively sufficient, 
 reasons for the cessation of these notes, one of the chief was 
 the exclamation of a young artist, moving in good society— 
 
 authentically, I doubt not, reported to me—“D-the 
 
 fellow, why doesn’t he back his friends ? ” The general 
 want in the English mind of any abstract conception of 
 justice, and the substitution for it of the idea of fidelity to a 
 party, as the first virtue of public action, had never struck 
 me so vividly before ; and thenceforward it seemed to me use¬ 
 less, so far as artists were concerned, to continue criticism 
 which they would esteem dishonorable, unless it was false. 
 
 But Fortune has so sternly reversed her wheel during these 
 recent years, that I am more likely now to be accused of mal¬ 
 ice than of equity ; and I am therefore at the pains to beg 
 the honest reader to believe that, having perhaps as much 
 pleasure as other people, both in backing my friends and 
 fronting my enemies, I have never used, and shall never use, 
 my power of criticism to such end ; but that I write now, and 
 have always written, so far as I am able, what may show that 
 
172 
 
 PREFACE . 
 
 there is a fixed criterion of separation between right art and 
 wrong; that no opinion, no time, and no circumstances can 
 ever in one jot change this relation of their Good and Evil; 
 and that it would be pleasant for the British public to recog¬ 
 nize the one, and wise in them to eschew the other. 
 
 Herne Hill, May 23, 1875. 
 
NOTES, ETC. 
 
 Before looking at any single picture, let us understand the 
 scope and character of the Exhibition as a whole. The Royal 
 Academy of England, in its annual publication, is now noth¬ 
 ing more than a large colored Illustrated Times folded in 
 saloons :—the splendidest May Number of the Graphic , shall 
 we call it ? That is to say, it is a certain quantity of pleasant, 
 but imperfect, “illustration ” of passing events, mixed with as 
 much gossip of the past, and tattle of the future, as may be 
 probably agreeable to a populace supremely ignorant of the 
 one, and reckless of the other. 
 
 Supremely ignorant, I say — ignorant, that is, on the lofty 
 ground of their supremacy in useless knowledge. 
 
 For instance : the actual facts which Shakespeare knew 
 about Rome were, in number and accuracy, compared to those 
 which M. Alma-Tadema knows, as the pictures of a child’s 
 first story-book, compared to Smith’s “ Dictionary of Antiqui¬ 
 ties.” 
 
 But when Shakespeare wrote, 
 
 “ The noble sister of Publicola, 
 
 The Moon of Rome ; chaste as the icicle 
 That’s curdled by the frost from purest snow. 
 
 And hangs on Dian’s temple,” 
 
 he knew Rome herself, to the heart ; and M. Tadema, after 
 reading his Smith’s “ Dictionary ” through from A to Z, knows 
 nothing of her but her shadow ; and that cast at sunset. 
 
 Yet observe, in saying that Academy work is now nothing 
 more, virtually, than cheap colored woodcut, I do not mean 
 to depreciate the talent employed in it. Our public press is 
 
174 NOTES ON THE PRINCIPAL PICTURES 
 
 supported by an ingenuity and skill in rapid art unrivalled 
 at any period of history ; nor have I ever been so humbled, 
 or astonished, by the mightiest work of Tintoret, Turner, or 
 Velasquez, as I was one afternoon last year, in watching, in 
 the Dudley gallery, two ordinary workmen for a daily news¬ 
 paper, finishing their drawings on the blocks by gaslight, 
 against time. 
 
 Nay, not in skill only, but in pretty sentiment, our press 
 illustration, in its higher ranks, far surpasses—or indeed, in 
 that department finds no rivalship in—the schools of classical 
 art; and it happens curiously that the only drawing of which 
 the memory remains with me as a possession, out of the old 
 water-color exhibition of this year — Mrs. Allingham’s 
 “ Young Customers ”—should be, not only by an accomplished 
 designer of woodcut, but itself the illustration of a popular 
 story. The drawing, with whatever temporary purpose exe¬ 
 cuted, is forever lovely; a thing which I believe Gains¬ 
 borough would have given one of his own pictures for—old- 
 fashioned as red-tipped daisies are—and more precious than 
 rubies. 
 
 And I am conscious of, and deeply regret, the inevitable 
 warp which my own lately exclusive training under the elder 
 schools gives to my estimate of this current art of the day; 
 and submissively bear the blame due to my sullen refusal of 
 what good is offered me in the railroad station, because I can¬ 
 not find in it what I found in the Ducal Palace. And I may 
 be permitted to say this much, in the outset, in apology for 
 myself, that I determined on writing this number of Academy 
 notes, simply because I was so much delighted with Mr. 
 Leslie’s School—Mr. Leighton’s little Fatima, Mr. Hook’s 
 Hearts of Oak, and Mr. Couldery’s kittens—that I thought I 
 should be able to write an entirely good-humored, and there¬ 
 fore, in all likelihood, practically useful, sketch of the socially 
 pleasant qualities of modern English painting, which were 
 not enough acknowledged in my former essays. 
 
 As I set myself to the work, and examined more important 
 pictures, my humor changed, though much against ray will. 
 Not more reluctantly the son of Beor found his utterances 
 
IN TEE ROYAL ACADEMY. 
 
 175 
 
 become benedictory, than I mine—the reverse. But the need 
 of speaking, if not the service (for too often we can help 
 least where need is most), is assuredly greater than if I could 
 have spoken smooth things without ruffling anywhere the 
 calm of praise. 
 
 Popular or classic—temporary or eternal—all good art is 
 more or less didactic. My artist-adversaries rage at me for 
 saying so ; but the gayest of them cannot help being momen¬ 
 tarily grave ; nor the emptiest-headed occasionally instruc¬ 
 tive ; and whatever work any of them do, that is indeed 
 honorable to themselves, is also intellectually helpful, no less 
 than entertaining, to others. And it will be the surest way 
 of estimating the intrinsic value of the art of this year, if we 
 proceed to examine it in the several provinces which its 
 didactic functions occupy ; and collect the sum of its teach¬ 
 ing on the subjects—which will, I think, sufficiently embrace 
 its efforts in every kind—of Theology, History, Biography, 
 Natural History, Landscape, and as the end of all, Policy. 
 
 THEOLOGY. 
 
 584. Dedicated to all the Churches. (G. F. Watts, R.A.) 
 
 Here, at least, is one picture meant to teach; nor failing of 
 its purpose, if we read it rightly. Very beautiful, it might 
 have been ; and is, in no mean measure; but as years pass 
 by, the artist concedes to himself, more and more, the privi¬ 
 lege which none but the feeble should seek, of substituting 
 the sublimity of mystery for that of absolute majesty of 
 form. The relation between this gray and soft cloud of vis¬ 
 ionary power, and the perfectly substantial, bright, and near 
 I presence of the saints, angels, or Deities of early Christian 
 art, involves questions of too subtle interest to be followed 
 here ; but in the essential force of it, belongs to the inevi¬ 
 table expression, in each period, of the character of its own 
 ; faith. The Christ of the 13th century was vividly present to 
 its thoughts, and dominant over its acts, as a God manifest in 
 
176 NOTES ON THE PRINCIPAL PICTURES 
 
 the flesh, well pleased in the people to whom He came ; while 
 ours is either forgotten ; or seen, by those who yet trust in 
 Him, only as a mourning and departing Ghost. 
 
 129. Ezekiel’s Vision. (P. F. Poole, RA.) 
 
 Though this design cannot for a moment be compared 
 with the one just noticed, in depth of feeling, there is yet, as 
 there has been always in Mr. Poole’s work, some acknowl¬ 
 edgment of a supernatural influence in physical phenomena, 
 which gives a nobler character to his storm-painting than can 
 belong to any merely literal study of the elements. But the 
 piece is chiefly interesting for its parallelism with that “dedi¬ 
 cated to all the churches,” in effacing the fearless realities of 
 the elder creed among the confused speculations of our 
 modern one. The beasts in Raphael’s vision of Ezekiel are 
 as solid as the cattle in Smitlifield; while here, if traceable at 
 all in the drift of the storm-cloud (which, it is implied, was 
 all that the prophet really saw), their animal character can 
 only be accepted in polite compliance with the prophetic im¬ 
 pression, as the weasel by Polonius. And my most Polonian 
 courtesy fails in deciphering the second of the four—not- 
 living—creatures. 
 
 218. Rachel and her Flock. (F. Goodall, RA.) 
 
 This is one of the pictures which, with such others as Hol¬ 
 man Hunt’s “ Scapegoat,” Millais’ “ Dove Returning to the 
 Ark,” etc., the public owe primarily to the leading genius of 
 Dante Rossetti, the founder, and for some years the vital 
 force, of the pre-Raphaelite school. He was the first assertor 
 in painting, as I believe I was myself in art-literature (Gold¬ 
 smith and Moliere having given the first general statements 
 of it), of the great distinctive principle of that school, that 
 things should be painted as they probably did look and 
 happen, and not as, by rules of art developed under Raphael, 
 Correggio, and Michael Angelo, they might be supposed 
 gracefully, deliciously, or sublimely to have happened. 
 
 The adoption of this principle by good and great men, pro¬ 
 duces the grandest art possible in the world; the adoption of 
 
IN THE ROYAL ACADEMY. 
 
 177 
 
 it by vile and foolish men—very vile and foolish art; yet not 
 so entirely nugatory as imitations of Raphael or Correggio 
 would be by persons of the same calibre : an intermediate and 
 large class of pictures have been produced by painters of aver¬ 
 age powers ; mostly of considerable value, but which fall 
 again into two classes, according to the belief of the artists in 
 the truth, and understanding of the dignity of the subjects 
 they endeavor to illustrate, or their opposite degree of incre¬ 
 dulity and materialistic vulgarism of interpretation. 
 
 The picture before us belongs to the higher class, but is not 
 a fine example of it. We cannot tell from it whether Mr. 
 Goodall believes Rachel to have wept over Ramah from her 
 throne in heaven ; but at least we gather from it some sugges¬ 
 tion of what she must have looked like, when she was no 
 more than a Syrian shepherdess. 
 
 That she was a very beautiful shepherdess, so that her lover 
 thought years of waiting but as days, for the love he bore to 
 her, Mr. Goodall has scarcely succeeded in representing. And 
 on the whole he w r ould have measured his powers more rea¬ 
 sonably in contenting himself with painting a Yorkshire 
 shepherdess instead of a Syrian one.* Like everybody except 
 myself—he has been in the East. If that is the appearance of 
 the new moon in the East, I am well enough content to guide, 
 and gild, the lunacies of my declining years by the light of 
 the old western one. 
 
 518. Julian the Apostate, presiding, etc. (E. Armytage, R.A.) 
 
 This, I presume, is a modern enlightened improvement on 
 the Disputa del Sacramento. The English Church is to be 
 congratulated on the education she gives her artists. Fum¬ 
 bling with sham Gothic penny tracts, and twopenny Script¬ 
 ure prints, among the embers of reverence and sacred life 
 that yet linger on from the soul of ancient days, she holds her 
 own, in outward appearance at least, among our simple coun- 
 ---——-- 
 
 * Compare, however, at once, 582, which is, on the whole, the most 
 (honorably complete and scholastic life-size figure in the rooms, with 
 well-cast, and unaffectedly well-painted, drapery. 
 
 12 
 
178 NOTES ON TIIE PRINCIPAL PICTURES 
 
 try villages ; and, in our more ignorant manufacturing cen¬ 
 tres, contentedly enamels the service of Mammon with the 
 praise of God. But in the capital of England—here, on her 
 Vatican hill above St. Peter’s church, and beside St. Paul’s— 
 this is the testimony she wins from art, as compared with the 
 councils of Fathers, and concourses of Saints, which poor dark- 
 minded Italy once loved to paint. Mr. Armytage, however, has 
 not completed his satire with subtlety ; he knows the higher 
 virtue of sectarians as little as Gibbon knew those of Julian,* 
 whose sincere apostasy was not the act of a soul which could 
 “ enjoy the agreeable spectacle” of vile dispute among any 
 men—least of all, among those whom he had once believed 
 messengers of Christ. 
 
 1293—1295. Terra-cottas, representing, etc. (S. Tin worth.) 
 
 Full of fire and zealous faculty, breaking its way through 
 all conventionalism to such truth as it can conceive ; able also 
 to conceive far more than can be rightly expressed on this 
 scale. And, after all the labors of past art on the Life of 
 Christ, here is an English workman fastening, with more de¬ 
 cision than I recollect in any of them, on the gist of the sin of 
 the Jews, and their rulers, in the choice of Barabbas, and 
 making the physical fact of contrast between the man released, 
 and the man condemned, clearly visible. We must receive it, 
 I suppose, as a flash of really prophetic intelligence on the 
 question of Universal Suffrage. 
 
 These bas-reliefs are the most earnest work in the Academy, 
 next to Mr. Boehm’s study of Carlyle. But how it happens 
 that after millions of money have been spent in the machinery 
 of art education at Kensington, an ornamental designer of so 
 high faculty as this one, should never in his life have found a 
 human being able to explain to him the first principles of re¬ 
 lief, or show him the difference between decorative foliage- 
 sculpture, and Norman hatchet-work—I must leave the Ken¬ 
 sington authorities to explain ; for it passes all my capacities 
 of conjecture, and all my hitherto experience of the costly 
 
 * £>ee note on page OQO* 
 
IN THE ROYAL ACADEMY. 
 
 179 
 
 and colossal public institution of—Nothing—out of which, to 
 wise men, as here, can come nothing ; but to fools everywhere^ 
 —worse than nothing. Kensington has flattened its thousands 
 of weak students into machine pattern-papers : here, it had 
 a true man to deal with ; and for all he has learned of his 
 business, he might as well have lived in South Australia. 
 
 HISTORY. 
 
 26. The Sculpture Gallery. (L. Alma-Tadema.) 
 
 This, I suppose, we must assume to be the principal histori¬ 
 cal piece of the year; a work showing artistic skill and classic 
 learning, both in high degree. But both parallel in their 
 method of selection. The artistic skill has succeeded with all 
 its objects in the degree of their unimportance. The piece 
 of silver plate is painted best; the griffin bas-relief it stands on, 
 second best; the statue of the empress worse than the griffins, 
 and the living personages worse than the statue. I do not 
 know what feathers the fan with the frightful mask in the 
 handle, held by the nearest lady, is supposed to be made of; 
 to a simple spectator they look like peacock's, without the 
 eyes. And, indeed, the feathers, under which the motto “ I 
 serve” of French art seems to be written in these days, are, I 
 think, very literally, all feather and no eyes—the Raven’s 
 feather to wit, of Sycorax. The selection of the subject is 
 similarly—one might say, filamentous—of the extremity, in¬ 
 stead of the centre. The old French Republicans, reading of 
 Rome, chose such events to illustrate her history, as the battle 
 of Romulus with the Sabines, the vow of the Horatii, or the 
 self-martyrdom of Lucretia. The modern Republican sees in 
 ! the Rome he studies so profoundly, only a central establish¬ 
 ment for the manufacture and sale of imitation-Greek articles 
 of virth. 
 
 The execution is dextrous, but more with mechanical steadi¬ 
 ness of practice than innate fineness of nerve. It is impos¬ 
 sible, however, to say how much the personal nervous faculty 
 
180 NOTES ON THE PRINCIPAL PICTURES 
 
 of an artist of this calibre is paralyzed by his education in 
 schools which I could not characterize in my Oxford inaugural 
 lectures otherwise than as the “ schools of clay,” in which he is 
 never shown what Venetians or Florentines meant by “ paint¬ 
 ing,” and allowed to draw his flesh steadily and systematically 
 with shadows of charcoal, and lights of cream-soap, without 
 ever considering whether there would be any reflections in the 
 one, or any flush of life in the other. The head on the ex¬ 
 treme left is exceptionally good ; but who ever saw a woman’s 
 neck and hand blue-black under reflection from white drapery, 
 as they are in the nearer figure ? It is well worth while to go 
 straight from this picture to the two small studies by Mr. 
 Albert Moore, 356 and 357, which are consummately artistic 
 and scientific work : examine them closely, and with patience ; 
 the sofa and basket especially, in 357, with a lens of moderate 
 power ; and, by way of a lesson in composition, hide in this 
 picture the little honeysuckle ornament above the head, and 
 the riband hanging over the basket, and see what becomes of 
 everything 1 Or try the effect of concealing the yellow flower 
 in the hair, in the “flower walk.” And for comparison with 
 the elementary method of M. Tadema, look at the blue reflec¬ 
 tion on the chin in this figure ; at the reflection of the warm 
 brick wall on its right arm ; and at the general modes of un¬ 
 affected relief by which the extended left arm in " Pansies ” de¬ 
 taches itself from the background. And you ought after¬ 
 ward, if you have eye for color, never more to mistake a tinted 
 drawing for a painting. 
 
 233. The Festival. (E. J. Poynter, A.) 
 
 I wonder how long Mr. Poynter thinks a young lady could 
 stand barefoot on a round-runged ladder ; or that a sensible 
 Greek girl would take her sandals off to try, on an occasion 
 when she had festive arrangements to make with care. The 
 ladders themselves, here and in No. 236 (The Golden Age), 
 appear to me not so classical, or so rude, in type, as might have 
 been expected; but to savor somewhat of the expeditious gas- 
 ligliting. Of course Mr. Poynter’s object in No. 236 is to 
 show us, like Michael Angelo, the adaptability of limbs to 
 
IN TEE ROYAL ACADEMY. 
 
 181 
 
 awkward positions. But lie can only, by this anatomical sci¬ 
 ence, interest his surgical spectators ; while the Golden Age, 
 in this pinchbeck one, interests nobody. Not even the painter 
 —for had he looked at the best authorities for account of it, 
 he would have found that its people lived chiefly on corn and 
 strawberries, both growing wild; and doubtless the loaded 
 fruit-branches drooped to their reach. Both these pictures 
 are merely studies of decorative composition, and have far too 
 much pains taken with them for their purpose. Decorative 
 work, however complete, should be easy. 
 
 401. Ready ! (P. Cockerell.) 
 
 I suppose this is meant for portrait, not history. At all 
 events, the painter has been misled in his endeavor, if he 
 made any, to render Swiss character, by Schiller’s absurd 
 lines. Schiller, of all men high in poetic fame whose works 
 are in anywise known to me, has the feeblest hold of facts 
 and the dullest imagination. “ Still as a lamb ! ” Sucking, I 
 suppose ? They are so very quiet in that special occupation ; 
 and never think of such a thing as jumping, when they have 
 had enough, of course ? And I should like to hear a Swiss 
 (or English) boy, with any stuff in him, liken himself to a 
 lamb! If there were any real event from which the legend 
 sprung, the boy’s saying would have been not in the smallest 
 degree pathetic : “ Never fear me, father; I’ll stand like 
 grandmother’s donkey when she wants him to go”—or 
 something to such effect. 
 
 482. The Babylonian Marriage Market. (E. Long.) 
 
 A painting of great merit, and well deserving purchase by 
 the Anthropological Society. For the varieties of character 
 in the heads are rendered with extreme subtlety, while, as a 
 mere piece of painting, the work is remarkable, in the modern 
 school, for its absence of affectation ; there is no insolently 
 indulged indolence, nor vulgarly asserted dexterity—the paint¬ 
 ing is good throughout, and unobtrusively powerful. 
 
 It becomes a question of extreme interest with me, as I ex¬ 
 amine this remarkable picture, how far the intensely subtle 
 
182 
 
 NOTES ON TIIE PRINCIPAL PICTURES 
 
 observation of physical character and expression which ren¬ 
 dered the painting of it possible, necessitates the isolation of 
 the artist’s thoughts from subjects of intellectual interest, or 
 moral beauty. Certainly, the best expressional works of the 
 higher schools present nothing analogous to the anatomical 
 precision with which the painter has here gradated the 
 feature and expression of the twelve waiting girls, from great 
 physical beauty to absolute ugliness ; and from the serene 
 insolence and power of accomplished fleshly womanhood, to 
 the restless audacity, and crushed resignation, of its despised 
 states of personal inferiority, unconsoled by moral strength, 
 or family affection. As a piece of anthropology, it is the nat¬ 
 ural and very wonderful product of a century occupied in 
 carnal and mechanical science. In the total paralysis of con¬ 
 ception—without attempt to disguise the palsy—as to the 
 existence of any higher element in a woman’s mind than 
 vanity and spite, or in a man’s than avarice and animal 
 passion, it is also a specific piece of the natural history of 
 our own century; but only a partial one, either of it, or of 
 the Assyrian, who was once as “ the cedars in the garden of 
 God.” 
 
 The painter has in the first instance misread his story, or 
 been misled by his translation. This custom, called wise by 
 Herodotus, is so called only as practised in country districts 
 with respect to the fortuneless girls of the lower laboring 
 population ; daughters of an Assyrian noble, however plain- 
 featured, would certainly not be exposed in the market to 
 receive dowry from the dispute for their fairer sisters.* But 
 there is matter of deeper interest in the custom, as it is com¬ 
 pared to our modern life. However little the English edu¬ 
 cated classes now read their Bibles, they cannot but, in the 
 present state of literary science, be aware that there is a book, 
 
 * The passage in Strabo which gives some countenance to the idea of 
 universality in the practice, gives a somewhat different color to it by 
 the statement that over each of the three great Assyrian provinces a 
 “temperately wise” person was set to conduct the ordinances of 
 marriage. 
 
IN TUB ROYAL ACADEMY. 
 
 183 
 
 once asserted to have been written by St. John, in which a 
 spiritual Babylon is described as the mother of harlots and 
 abominations of the earth, and her ruin represented as lament¬ 
 able, especially to the merchants , who trafficked with her in 
 many beautiful and desirable articles, but above all in “ souls 
 of men.” 
 
 Also, the educated reader cannot but be aware that the ani¬ 
 mosity of Christian sects—which we have seen the subject of 
 another important national-historical picture in this Academy 
 —has for the last three hundred years wasted much of their 
 energy in endeavors to find Scriptural reason for calling each 
 other Babylonians, and whatever else that term may be under¬ 
 stood to imply. 
 
 There is, however, no authority to be found in honestly 
 read Scripture for these well-meaning, but ignorant, incivili¬ 
 ties. Bead in. their entirety, the books of the Bible represent 
 to us a literal and material deliverance of a visibly separated 
 people, from a literal bondage ; their establishment in a liter¬ 
 ally fruitful and peaceful land, and their being led away out 
 of that land, in consequence of their refusal to obey the laws 
 of its Lord, into a literal captivity in a small, material Baby¬ 
 lon. The same Scriptures represent to us a spiritual deliver¬ 
 ance of an invisibly separated people, from spiritual bondage ; 
 their establishment in the spiritual land of Christian joy and 
 peace ; and their being led away out of this land into a spirit¬ 
 ual captivity in a great spiritual Babylon, the mother of 
 abominations, and in all active transactions especially delight¬ 
 ful to “ merchants ”—persons engaged, that is to say, in ob¬ 
 taining profits by exchange instead of labor. 
 
 And whatever was literally done, whether apparently wise 
 or not, in the minor fleshly Babylon, will, therefore, be found 
 spiritually fulfilled in the major ghostly one ; and, for in¬ 
 stance, as the most beautiful and marvellous maidens were 
 announced for literal sale by auction in Assyria, are not also 
 the souls of our most beautiful and marvellous maidens an¬ 
 nounced annually for sale by auction in Paris and London, in 
 a spiritual manner, for the spiritual advantages of position in 
 society. 
 
184 NOTES ON THE PRINCIPAL PICTURES 
 
 BIOGRAPHY. 
 
 Under this head I include Drama, Domestic Incident, and 
 Portrait : this last being, if good, the sum of what drama and 
 domestic chances have been wrought by, and befallen to, the 
 person portrayed. 
 
 Not to begin with too high matters, and collapse subse¬ 
 quently, suppose we first contemplate the pretty little scene, 
 
 408. Domestic Troubles. (J. Burr.) 
 
 The boy peeping in fearfully at the door, has evidently, 
 under the inspiration of modern scientific zeal, dissected the 
 bellows ; and whether they will ever help the pot to boil 
 again is doubtful to grandpapa. The figure of the younger 
 child, mute with awe and anxiety, yet not wholly guiltless of 
 his naughty brother’s curiosity, is very delightful. Avenging 
 Fate, at the chimney-piece, is too severe. 
 
 I have marked, close by it, two other pictures, 403, 405, 
 which interested me for reasons scarcely worth printing. The 
 cloister of Assisi has been carefully and literally studied, in 
 all but what is singular or beautiful in it; namely, the flat¬ 
 tened dome over its cistern, and the central mossy well above. 
 But there is more conscientious treatment of the rest of the 
 building, and greater quietness of natural light than in most 
 picture backgrounds of these days. Ponte della Paglia, 405, 
 may be useful to travellers in at least clearly, if not quite ac¬ 
 curately, showing the decorative use of the angle sculpture of 
 the drunkenness of Noah on the Ducal Palace; and the Bridge 
 of Sighs is better painted than usual. 
 
 242. A Merrie Jest. (H. S. Marks, A.) 
 
 Very characteristic of the painter’s special gift. The diffi¬ 
 culty of so subtle a rendering as this of the half-checked, yet 
 extreme mirth, of persons naturally humorous, can only bo 
 judged of by considering how often aspects of laughter aro 
 attempted in pictures, and how rarely we feel ourselves in- 
 
IN THE ROYAL ACADEMY. 
 
 1S5 
 
 dined to join in the merriment. The piece of accessory and- 
 scape is very unaffected and good, and the painting, through¬ 
 out, here, as well as in the equally humorous, and useless, 
 picture of bygone days, 166, of good standard modern quality. 
 
 107. The Barber’s Prodigy. (J. B. Burgess.) 
 
 A close and careful study of modern domestic drama, de¬ 
 serving notice, however, chiefly for its unaffected manner of 
 work, and moderately pleasant incident, as opposed to over- 
 labored pictures of what is merely ugly, or meanly faultful, 
 141, 241—w r astes of attention, skill, and time. “Too Good 
 to be True,” 153, another clever bit of minor drama, is yet 
 scarcely good enough to be paused at; “ Private and Confi¬ 
 dential,” 375, deserves a few moments more. 879 (A. Ldben) 
 is much surer and finer in touch than anything English that 
 I can find in this sort. The Diisseldorf Germans, and the 
 Neuchatel Swiss have been doing splendid domestic work 
 lately ; but, I suppose, are too proud to exhibit here. 
 
 75. Sophia Western. (W. P. Frith, R A.) 
 
 The painter seems not to have understood, nor are the pub¬ 
 lic likely to understand, that Fielding means, in the passage 
 quoted, to say that Miss Western’s hands were white, soft, 
 translucent, and at the moment, snow-cold. In the picture 
 they cannot be shown to be cold—are certainly not white ; do 
 not look soft; and scarcely show the light of the fire on them, 
 much less through them. But what is the use of painting 
 from Fielding at all ? Of all our classic authors, it is he who 
 demands the reader’s attention most strictly; and what mod¬ 
 ern reader ever attends to anything ? 
 
 88. Loot: 1797. (A. C. Gore.) 
 
 An entirely fine picture of its class, representing an ordi¬ 
 nary fact of war as it must occur, without any forced senti¬ 
 ment or vulgar accent. Highly skilful throughout, keenly 
 seen, well painted, and deserving a better place than the slow 
 cart-horses and solid waterfalls on the line have left for it. 
 
186 NOTES ON THE PRINCIPAL PICTURES 
 
 89. War Time. (B. Riviere.) 
 
 Compare 626, at once ; the first is a true piece of feeling— 
 almost Wordsworthian ; the second, disgraceful to it, both in 
 the low pitch of its vulgar horror, and in its loss of power, by 
 retreat to picturesque tradition, instead of dealing, like the 
 other, with the facts of our own day. 
 
 If Mr. Riviere really feels as I think he feels, and means to 
 do good, he must not hope to do anything with people who 
 would endure the sight of a subject such as this. He may 
 judge what they are worth by a sentence I heard as I stood 
 before it. “ Last of the garrison—ha ! they’re all finished off, 
 you see—isn’t that well done ? ” At all events, if he means 
 to touch them, he must paint the cooking of a French pet- 
 poodle ; not the stabbing of a bloodhound. 
 
 214. The Crown of Love. (J. E. Millais.) 
 
 Much of the painter’s old power remains in this sketch (it 
 cannot be called a painting) ; and it is of course the leading 
 one of the year in dramatic sentiment. This, then, it appears, 
 is the best that English art can, at the moment, say in praise 
 of the virtue, and promise of the reward, of Love; this, the 
 subject of sentimental contemplation likely to be most pleas¬ 
 ing to the present British public ; torture, namely, carried to 
 crisis of death, in the soul of one creature, and flesh of an¬ 
 other. The British public are welcome to their feast; but, as 
 purchasers, they ought to be warned that, compared with the 
 earlier dual pictures of the school (Huguenot, Claudio and 
 Isabella, April love, and the like), this composition balances 
 its excess of sentiment by defect of industry ; and that it is 
 not a precedent advantageous to them, in the arrangement of 
 pictures of lovers, that one should have a body without a face, 
 and the other a face without a body. 
 
 47. Hearts of Oak. (J. C. Hook, R.A.) 
 
 Beautiful, but incomplete ; the painter wants more heart of 
 oak himself. If he had let all his other canvases alone, and 
 finished this, the year’s work would have been a treasure for all 
 the centuries; while now, it is only “ the Hook of the season/ 
 
IN THE ROYAL ACADEMY. 
 
 187 
 
 It looks right and harmonious in its subdued sunshine. But 
 it isn’t. Why should mussel-shells cast a shadow, but boats 
 and hats none ? Why should toy-carts and small stones have 
 light and dark sides, and tall rocks none ? I fancy all the 
 pictures this year must have been painted in the sunless east 
 wind ; and only a bit of sunshine put in here and there out of the 
 painter’s head, where he thought it would do nobody any harm. 
 
 112. A November Morning, etc. (H. T. Wells, R.A.) 
 
 Fishermen’s hearts being of oak, what are huntsmen’s hearts 
 made of ? 
 
 They will have to ascertain, and prove, soon ; there being 
 question nowadays, among the lower orders, whether they 
 have got any, to speak of. 
 
 A pleasant aristocratic picture—creditable to Mr. Wells, and 
 the nobility. Not a Yandyck, neither. 
 
 430. Sunday Afternoon. (R. Collinson.) 
 
 This picture, though of no eminent power in any respect, is 
 extremely delightful to myself ; and ought, I think, to be so 
 to most unsophisticated persons, who care for English rural 
 life ; representing, as it does, a pleasant and virtuous phase of 
 such life, whether on Sunday or Saturday afternoon. 
 
 Why, by the way, must we accept it for Sunday ? Have 
 our nice old women no rest on any other day ? Do they never 
 put on a clean muslin kerchief on any other day ? Do they 
 never read their Bible (of course, it would be improper to sup¬ 
 pose any other book readable by them) on any other day ? 
 Whatever day it be—here, at all events, are peace, light, clean¬ 
 liness, and content. 
 
 Luxury even, of a kind ; the air coming in at that door must 
 be delicious ; and the leaves, outside of it, look like a bit of 
 the kitchen-garden side of Paradise. They please me all the 
 better because, since scientific people -were good enough to tell 
 us that leaves were made green by “ green-leaf,” I haven’t seen 
 a leaf painted green, by auybody. But this peep through the 
 door is like old times, when we were neither plagued with 
 soot, nor science. 
 
188 NOTES ON THE PRINCIPAL PICTURES 
 
 Note, for a little piece of technical study in composition, 
 that the painter would not have been able to venture on so 
 pure color outside of the door, had he not painted the door 
 green as well, only of a modified tint, and so led the subdued 
 color forward into the red interior, taken up again by the 
 shadows of the plants in the window. The management of 
 the luminous shadow throughout is singularly skilful—all the 
 more so because it attracts so little attention. This is true 
 chiaroscuro ; not spread treacle or splashed mud, speckled with 
 white spots—as a Rembrandt amateur thinks. 
 
 Mr. Pettie, for instance, a man of real feeling and great 
 dramatic power, is ruining himself by these shallow notions of 
 chiaroscuro. If he had not been mimicking Rembrandt, as 
 well as the “costume of the sixteenth century,” in 318, he 
 never would have thought of representing Scott’s entirely 
 heroic and tender-hearted Harry of Perth (223), merely by the 
 muscular back and legs of him (the legs, by the way, were 
 slightly bandy—if one holds to accuracy iu anatomical re¬ 
 spects) ; nor vulgarized the real pathos and most subtle expres¬ 
 sion of his Jacobites (1217) by the slovenly dark background, 
 corresponding, virtually, to the slouched hat of a theatrical 
 conspirator. I have been examining the painting of the chief 
 Jacobite’s face very closely. It is nearly as good as a piece of 
 old William Hunt; but Hunt never loaded his paint, except 
 in sticks, and moss, and such like. Now there’s a wrinkle 
 quite essential to the expression, under the Jacobite’s eye, got 
 by a projecting ridge of paint, instead of a proper dark line. 
 Rembrandt’s bad bricklayer’s work, with all the mortar stick¬ 
 ing out at the edges, may be pardonable in a Dutchman sure 
 of his colors; but it is always licentious ; and m these days, 
 when the first object of manufacture is to produce articles that 
 won’t last, if the mortar cracks, where are we ? 
 
 To return to the question of chiaroscuro. The present 
 Academicians—most of whom I have had anxious talk of, 
 with their fathers or friends, when they were promising boys 
 —have since been, with the best part of their minds, amusing 
 themselves in London drawing-rooms, or Eastern deserts, in¬ 
 stead of learning their business ; with the necessary result 
 
m THE ROYAL ACADEMY. 
 
 189 
 
 that they have, as a body, qualified themselves rather to be 
 Masters of Ceremonies than of Studies ; and guides rather of 
 Caravans than Schools; and have not got an inkling of any 
 principle of their art to bless themselves—or other people, 
 with. So that they have not only filled their large railroad 
 station and stalls (attached refreshment-room completing the 
 nature of the thing) with a mass of heterogeneous pictures, 
 of which at least two-thirds are beneath the level of accept¬ 
 ance in any well-established dealer’s shop ; * but they have 
 encouraged, by favor of position, quite the worst abuses of 
 the cheap art of the day; of which these tricks of rubbing 
 half the canvas over with black or brown, that the rest may 
 come out handsomer, or that the spectator may be properly, 
 but at the same time economically, prepared for its melan¬ 
 choly or sublime tenor, are among the least creditable either 
 to our English wits or honesty. The portrait, No. 437, for 
 instance, is a very respectable piece of painting, and w^ould 
 have taken its place well in the year’s show of work, if the 
 inkstand had not been as evanescent as the vision of Ezekiel, 
 and the library shelves so lost in the gloom of art, as to sug¬ 
 gest, symbolically, what our bishops at home seem so much 
 afraid of—indistinctness in colonial divinity. And the two 
 highly moral pictures, 101 and 335, which are meant to 
 enforce on the public mind the touching theories that, for 
 the laboring poor, grass is not green, nor geese white ; and 
 that on the pastoral poor, the snow falls dirty ; might have 
 delivered their solemn message just as convincingly from a 
 more elevated stage of the wall-pulpit, without leaving on the 
 minds of any profane spectator like myself, the impression of 
 their having been executed by a converted crossing-sweeper, 
 with his broom, after it was worn stumpy. 
 
 If the reader is interested in the abstract qualities of art, 
 he will find it useful at once to compare with these more or 
 less feeble or parsimonious performances, two pictures 
 
 * I permit myself to name, for instance, not as worse than others, but 
 as peculiarly disagreeable to myself, beoause I love monks, herons, and 
 sea—450, 291, and 837. 
 
190 
 
 NOTES ON THE PRINCIPAL PICTURES 
 
 which, if not high in attainment, are at least, the one strong, 
 and the other generous. 184. “ Peasantry of Esthonia going 
 to Market ” (G. Bochman) is masterly work, by a man prac¬ 
 tised in his business ; but who has been taught it in a bad 
 school. It is a true artistic abstraction of gray and angular 
 natural facts ; it indeed omits too much—for even in Es¬ 
 thonia there must be grass somewhere, or what could the 
 horses eat ?—and it omits the best things and keeps the 
 worst; but it is done with method, skill, and a conscientious 
 notion that to be gray and angular is to be right. And it 
 deserves a place in an Academy exhibition. 
 
 On the other hand, 263, “ Getting Better ” (C. Calthrop), is 
 an intensely laborious, honest, and intentionally difficult 
 study of chiaroscuro in two lights, on varied color ; and in 
 all other respects it is well meant, and generously, according 
 to the painter’s power, completed. I won’t say more of it, 
 because at the height it hangs I can see no more ; nor must 
 the reader suppose that what I have said implies anything 
 beyond what is stated. All that I certify is, that as a study 
 of chiaroscuro it deserves close attention, much praise, and a 
 better place than it at present occupies. 
 
 336. The Mayor of Newcastle. (W. W. Ouless.) 
 
 An agreeable and vigorous portrait, highly creditable to 
 the painter, and honorable to its subject and its possessors. 
 Mr. Ouless has adopted from Mr. Millais what was deserving 
 of imitation ; and used the skill he has learned to better 
 ends. All his portraits here are vigorous and interesting. 
 
 221. John Stuart Blackie. (J. Archer.) 
 
 An entirely well-meant, and I should conjecture successful, 
 portrait of a man much deserving portraiture. The back¬ 
 ground has true meaning, and is satisfactorily complete ; very 
 notable, in that character, among the portrait backgrounds of 
 the year. The whole is right and good. 
 
 718. The Countess of Pembroke. (E. Clifford.) 
 
 Mr. Clifford evidently means well, and is studying in th® 
 
IN TIIE ROYAL ACADEMY. 
 
 191 
 
 elder schools ; and painting persons who will permit him to 
 do his best in his own way. 
 
 There is much of interesting in his work, but he has yet 
 to pass through the Valley of Humiliation before he can reach 
 the Celestial Mountains. He must become perfectly simple 
 before he can be sublime ; above all, he must not hope to be 
 great by effort. This portrait is over-labored ; and, toward 
 the finishing, he has not well seen what he was doing, and 
 has not rightly balanced his front light against that of the 
 sky. But his drawings always deserve careful notice. 
 
 317. Miss M. Stuart Wortley. (A. Stuart Wortley.) 
 
 The Tightest and most dignified female portrait here—as 
 Lady Coleridge’s drawing of Mr. Newman, 1069, is the most 
 subtle among those of the members of learned professions 
 (though Mr. Laurence’s two beautiful drawings, 1054, 1062, 
 only fall short of it by exhibiting too frankly the practised 
 skill of their execution). 1052 is also excellent; and, on the 
 whole—thinking over these, and other more irregular and 
 skirmishing, but always well-meant, volunteer work, sprinkled 
 about the rooms—I think the amateurs had better have an 
 Academy of their own next year, in which indulgently, when 
 they had room to spare, they might admit the promising 
 effort of an artist. 
 
 I have scarcely been able to glance round at the portrait 
 sculpture ; and am always iniquitously influenced, in judg¬ 
 ing of marble, by my humor for praise or dispraise of the 
 model, rather than artist. Guarding myself, as well as I 
 may, from such faultful bias, I yet venture to name 1342 as 
 an exemplary piece of chiselling ; carefully and tenderly 
 composed in every touch. If the hair on the forehead were 
 completely finished, this would be a nearly perfect bust. I 
 cannot understand why the sculptor should have completed 
 the little tress that falls on the cheek so carefully ; and yet left 
 so many unmodified contours in the more important masses. 
 
 1301. Thomas Carlyle. (J. E. Boehm.) 
 
 For this noble piece of portraiture I cannot trust myself to 
 
192 NOTES ON THE PRINCIPAL PICTURES 
 
 express my personal gratitude ; nor does either the time I can 
 give to these notes, or their limited intention, permit me—if 
 even otherwise I could think it permissible—to speak at all 
 of the high and harmonious measure in which it seems to me 
 to express the mind and features of my dear Master. 
 
 This only it is within the compass of my present purpose 
 to affirm—that here is a piece of vital and essential sculpture; 
 the result of sincere skill spent carefully on an object worthy 
 its care : motive and method alike right; no pains spared ; 
 and none wasted. And any spectator of sensitiveness will 
 find that, broadly speaking, all the sculpture round seems 
 dead and heavy in comparison, after he has looked long at 
 this. 
 
 There must always be, indeed, some difference in the im¬ 
 mediate effect on our minds between the picturesque treat¬ 
 ment proper in portrait sculpture, and that belonging, by its 
 grace of reserve, to classical design. But it is generally a 
 note of weakness in an Englishman when he thinks he can 
 conceive like a Greek ; so that the plurality of modern 
 Hellenic Academy sculpture consists merely of imperfect 
 anatomical models peeped at through bath-towels ; and is in 
 the essence of it quite as dull as it appears to be. Let us go 
 back to less dignified work. 
 
 196. School Revisited. (G. D. Leslie, A.) 
 
 I came upon this picture early, in my first walk through 
 the rooms, and was so delighted with it that it made me like 
 everything else I saw, that morning ; it is altogether ex¬ 
 quisite in rendering some of the sweet qualities of English 
 girlhood ; and, on the whole, the most easy and graceful 
 composition in the rooms. I had written first, “masterly” 
 composition ; but no composition is quite masterly which 
 modifies or subdues any of the natural facts so as to force 
 certain relations between them. Mr. Leslie at present sub¬ 
 dues all greens, refuses all but local darks, and scarcely per¬ 
 mits himself, even in flesh, color enough for life. Young 
 ladies at a happy country boarding-school, like this, would 
 be as bright as by the seaside; and there is no reason why a 
 
IN THE ROYAL ACADEMY . 
 
 193 
 
 knowledge-gatherer, well cared for, should be less rosy than 
 a samphire-gatherer. 
 
 Rich color may be in good taste, as well as the poorest; 
 and the quaintness, politeness, and grace of Leslie might yet 
 glow with the strength and freshness of Hook. It may per¬ 
 haps be more difficult than I suppose to get the delicate lines 
 and gradations on which the expression of these girls mainly 
 depends in deeper color. But, at all events, the whole 
 should be more in harmony, and more consistently precious. 
 English girls are, perhaps, not all of them, St. Dorothys; but 
 at least they are good enough to deserve to have their rose- 
 leaves painted about them thoroughly. 
 
 The little tiling on the extreme left, with the hoop, is as 
 pleasant a shadow of nature as can be conceived in this kind: 
 and I have no words to say how pretty she is. 
 
 But Mr. Leslie is in the very crisis of his artist life. His 
 earlier pictures were finer in color—and color is the soul of 
 painting. If he could resolve to paint thoroughly, and give 
 the colors of Nature as they are, he might be a really great 
 painter, and almost hold, to Bonifazio, the position that Rey¬ 
 nolds held to Titian. But if he subdues his color for the 
 sake of black ribands, white dresses, or faintly idealized faces, 
 he will become merely an Academic leaf of the “ Magazin des 
 Modes.” 
 
 For the present, however, this picture, and the clay portrait 
 of Carlyle, are, as far as my review reaches, the only two 
 works of essential value in the Exhibition of this year—that 
 i3 to say, the only works of quietly capable art, representing 
 what deserved representation. 
 
 English girls, by an English painter. Whether you call 
 them Madonnas, or saints—or what not—it is the law of art- 
 life ; your own people, as they live, are the only ones you can 
 understand. Only living Venice, done by Venetian—living 
 Greece by Greek—living Scotland, perhaps, which has much 
 loved Germany, by living Germany, which has much rever¬ 
 enced Scotland : such expansion of law maybe granted ; nay, 
 the strangeness of a foreign country, making an artist’s sight 
 
 of it shrewd and selective, may produce a sweet secondary 
 
 13 
 
104 NOTES ON THE PRINCIPAL PICTURES 
 
 form of beautiful art; your Spanish Lewis—your French 
 Prout—your Italian Wilson — and their like—second-rate 
 nevertheless, always. Not Lewis, but only Velasquez, can 
 paint a perfect Spaniard ; not Wilson, nor Turner, but only 
 Carpaccio, can paint an Italian landscape ; and, too fatally, 
 the effort is destructive to the painters, beyond all resistance ; 
 and Lewis loses his animal power among the arabesques of 
 Cairo ; Turner, his Yorkshire honesty at Rome ; and Holman 
 Hunt—painting the Light of the World in an English or¬ 
 chard—paints the gaslight of Bond Street in the Holy Land. 
 
 English maids, I repeat, by an English painter : that is all 
 that an English Academy can produce of loveliest. There’s 
 another beautiful little one, by Mr. Leighton, with a purple 
 drapery thrown over her, that she may be called Fatima (215, 
 and 345), who would have been quite infinitely daintier in a 
 print frock, and called Patty. And I fear there are no more, 
 to speak of, by artists,* this year ; the two vivid sketches, 
 222, 262, being virtually put out of court by their coarse 
 work. (Look close at the painting of the neck, in the one, 
 and of the left hand, in the other.) Of English men, there is 
 the Mayor, and the Chemist; a vigorous squire or two, and 
 the group of grand old soldiers at Greenwich—a most notable, 
 true, pathetic study; but scarcely artistic enough to be reck¬ 
 oned as of much more value than a good illustrative woodcut. 
 Mr. Watts’ portraits are all conscientious and subtle, and of 
 great present interest, yet not realistic enough to last. Exclu¬ 
 sively I return to my Carlyle and the school-girls, as, the one, 
 sure to abide against the beating of the time stream ; and 
 the other, possibly floating on it, discernible as a flower in 
 foam. 
 
 y 
 
 * But see note on 317, p. 191. 
 
IN THE ROYAL ACADEMY. 
 
 195 
 
 NATURAL HISTORY. 
 
 There ought to be a separate room in our Academy for the 
 exhibition of the magnificent work in scientific drawing and 
 engraving, done, at present, almost without public notice, for 
 the illustrations of great European works on Palaeontology, 
 Zoology, and Botany. The feeling, on the part of our artists, 
 that an idle landscape sketch, or a clever caricature, may be 
 admitted into their rooms as “ artistic ; ” and that work which 
 the entire energy of early life must be given to learn, and of 
 late life to execute—is to be excluded, merely because it is 
 thoroughly true and useful—-is I hope likely to yield, some 
 day, to the scientific enthusiasm which has prevailed often 
 where it should have been resisted, and may surely therefore 
 conquer, in time, where it has honorable claims. 
 
 There is nothing of the kind, however, to be seen here, 
 hitherto ; but I may direct attention under this head, rather 
 than that of landscape, to the exquisite skill of delineation 
 with which Mr. Cooke has finished the group of palm-trees in 
 his wonderful study of Sunset at Denderah. (443.) The 
 sacrifice of color in shadow for the sake of brilliancy in light, 
 essentially a principle of Holland as opposed to Venice, is in 
 I great degree redeemed in this picture by the extreme care 
 with which the relations of light are observed on the terms 
 conceded : but surely, from so low sunset, the eastern slopes 
 of the mountains on the left could not have been reached by 
 so many rays ? 
 
 To this division of our subject also must be referred Mr. 
 Brett’s “Spires and Steeples of the Channel Islands (49/), 
 but with less praise, for since the days when I first endeav¬ 
 ored to direct the attention of a careless public to his con¬ 
 scientious painting of the Stonebreaker and Woodcutter, he 
 has gained nothing—rather, I fear, lost, in subtlety of execu¬ 
 tion, and necessitates the decline of his future power by per¬ 
 sistently covering too large canvas. There is no occasion that 
 a geological study should also be a geological map ; and even 
 
 i 
 
196 NOTES ON THE PRINCIPAL PICTURES 
 
 his earlier picture, which I am honored in possessing, of the 
 Yal d’Aosta, would have been more precious to me if it had 
 been only of half the Yal d’Aosta. 
 
 The extreme distance here, however, beyond the promon¬ 
 tory, is without any question the best bit of sea and atmos¬ 
 phere in the rooms. The paint on the water surface in the 
 bay is too loaded ; but laid with extreme science in alterna¬ 
 tions of color. 
 
 At a still lower level, though deserving some position in 
 the Natural History class for its essential, though rude, and 
 apparently motiveless, veracity, must be placed “ The Fringe 
 of the Moor.” (74.) 
 
 But why one should paint the fringe of the moor, rather 
 than the breadth of it, merely for the privilege of carrying an 
 ugly wooden fence all across the foreground, I must leave 
 modern sentimentalists and naturalists to explain. Yestiges 
 of the painter’s former power of seeing true color remain in 
 the iridescent distance, but now only disgrace the gentle hill¬ 
 sides with their coarseness of harlequinade ; and the daubed 
 sky—daubed without patience even to give unity of direction 
 to the bristle marks—seems to have been wrought in obtrusive 
 directness of insult to every master, principle, and feeling 
 reverenced, or experienced, in the schools of noble art, from 
 its nativity to this hour. 
 
 And, closing the equivocal group of works in which Natu¬ 
 ralism prevails unjustly over art, I am obliged to rank Mr. 
 Leighton’s interesting study of man in his Oriental function 
 of scarecrow (symmetrically antithetic to his British one of 
 game-preserver) 398. It is, I do not doubt, anatomically cor¬ 
 rect ; and, with the addition of the corn, the poppies, and 
 the moon, becomes semi-artistic ; so that I feel much com¬ 
 punction in depressing it into the Natural History class ; and 
 the more, because it partly forfeits its claim even to such 
 joosition, by obscuring in twilight its really valuable delinea¬ 
 tion of the body, and disturbing our minds, in the process of 
 scientific investigation, by sensational effects of afterglow, and 
 lunar effulgence, which are disadvantageous, not to the scien¬ 
 tific observer only, but to less learned spectators ; for when 
 
IN THE ROYAL ACADEMY. 
 
 197 
 
 simple and superstitious persons like myself, greatly suscep¬ 
 tible to the influence of low stage lamps and pink side-lights, 
 first catch sight of the striding figure from the other side of 
 the room, and take it, perhaps, for the angel with his right 
 foot on the sea and his left foot on the earth, swearing there 
 shall be Time no longer ; or for Achilles alighting from one 
 of his lance-cast-long leaps on the shore of Scamander ; and 
 find, on near approach, that all this grand straddling, and 
 turning down of the gas, mean, practically, only a lad shying 
 stones at sparrows, we are but too likely to pass on petulantly, 
 without taking note of what is really interesting in this 
 Eastern custom and skill—skill which I would recommend with 
 all my heart to the imitation of the British game-preserver 
 aforesaid, when the glorious end of Preservation is to be ac¬ 
 complished in Battue. Good slinging would involve more 
 healthy and graceful muscular action than even the finest 
 shooting ; and might, if we fully followed the Eastern example, 
 be most usefully practised in other periods of the year, and 
 districts of England, than those now consecrated to the sports 
 of our aristocracy. I cannot imagine a more edifying spectacle 
 than a British landlord in the middle of his farmer’s cornfield*- 
 occupied in this entirely patriotic method of Protection. 
 
 The remainder of the pictures which I have to notice as be¬ 
 longing to the domain of Natural History, are of indubitable, 
 though unpretending, merit : they represent indeed pure 
 Zoology in its highest function of Animal Biography, which 
 scientific persons will one day find requires much more learned 
 investigation of its laws than the Thanatography which is at 
 present their exclusive occupation and entertainment. 
 
 414. A Fascinating Tail. (H. H. Couldery.) 
 
 Quite the most skilful piece of minute and Dureresque paint¬ 
 ing in the exhibition—(it cannot be rightly seen without a 
 lens) ; and in its sympathy with kitten nature, down to the 
 most appalling depths thereof, and its tact and sensitiveness 
 to the finest gradations of kittenly meditation and motion,— 
 unsurpassable. It seems hard to require of a painter who has 
 toiled so much, that, for this very reason, he should toil the 
 
198 
 
 NOTES ON THE PRINCIPAL PICTURES 
 
 more. But “ The Little Epicure ” (169) cannot be considered 
 a picture till the cabbage leaves are as perfect as the fish. 
 
 1234. The First Taste. (S. Carter.) 
 
 Altogether enjoyable to me ; and I am prepared to maintain 
 (as a true lover of dogs, young and old), against all my heroic 
 and tragically-minded friends, that this picture is exemplary 
 in its choice of a moment of supreme puppy felicity, as prop- 
 erest time for puppy portraiture. And I thankfully—and with 
 some shame for my generally too great distrust of modern 
 sentiment—acknowledge, before it, that there is a real ele¬ 
 ment of fine benevolence toward animals, in us, advanced 
 quite infinitely, and into another world of feeling, from the 
 days of Snyders and Bubens. “ The Little Wanderers ” (1173), 
 by this same painter, are a most pathetic and touching group 
 of children in the wood. You may see, if you will take your 
 opera-glass to it, that the robin is even promising to cover 
 them with leaves, if indeed things are to end, as seems too 
 probable. And compare, by the way, the still more meek and 
 tender human destitution, “ To be Left till Called for,” 83, 
 which I am ashamed of myself for forgetting, as one of the 
 pretty things that first encouraged me to write these notes. 
 “ Nobody’s Log ” may console us with his more cynical view 
 of his position in the wide world ; and finally, Miss Acland’s 
 Platonic puppy (737) shows us how events of the most unex¬ 
 pected, and even astounding, character may be regarded, by 
 a dog of sense, with entire moral tranquillity, and consequently 
 with undisturbed powers of reflection and penetration. 
 
 How strange that I cannot add to my too short list of ani¬ 
 mal studies—any, however unimportant, of Birds ! (I do not 
 count as deserving notice at all, dramatic effects of vulture, 
 raven, etc.) Not a nest—not a plume ! English society now 
 caring only for kingfishers’ skins on its hat, and plovers’ eggs 
 on its plate. 
 
 ( \ 
 
 / i. 
 
 / 
 

 IN THE ROYAL ACADEMY. 
 
 199 
 
 LANDSCAPE. 
 
 The distinction between Natural Historic painting of scen¬ 
 ery and true Landscape, is that the one represents objects as 
 a Government Surveyor does, for the sake of a good account 
 of the things themselves, without emotion, or definite purpose 
 of expression. Landscape painting shows the relation be¬ 
 tween nature and man ; and, in fine work, a particular tone 
 of thought in the painter’s mind respecting what he repre¬ 
 sents. 
 
 I endeavored, thirty years ago, in “Modern Painters,” to 
 explain this difference briefly, by saying that, in Natural His¬ 
 tory painting, the artist was only the spectator’s horse ; but 
 in Landscape painting, his friend. 
 
 The worst of such friendliness, however, is that a conceited 
 painter may at last leave Nature out of the question altogether, 
 and talk of himself only ; and then there is nothing for it but 
 to go back to the Government Surveyor. Mr. Brett, in his 
 coast scene above noticed, gives us things, without thoughts ; 
 and the fuliginous moralists above noticed, thoughts—such 
 as they are—without things : by all means let us rather have 
 the geographical synopsis. 
 
 415. Hoppers on the Road. (W. Linnell.) 
 
 This is a landscape, however ; and, if it were more lightly 
 painted, we might be very happy with it. Mr. Linnell cares 
 no more than his father for brush-dexterity ; but he does no 
 worse now, in that part of the business, than everyone else. 
 And what a relief it is, for any wholesome human sight, after 
 sickening itself among the blank horrors of dirt, ditch-water, 
 and malaria, which the imitators of the French schools have 
 begrimed our various exhibition walls with, to find once more 
 a bit of blue in the sky, and a glow of brown in the coppice, 
 and to see that Hoppers in Kent can enjoy their scarlet and 
 purple—like empresses and emperors! 
 
200 NOTES ON THE PRINCIPAL PICTURES 
 
 1199. Summer Days for Me. (A. W. Hunt.) 
 
 I am at some pause in expressing my pleasure in the realiza¬ 
 tion of this beautiful scene, because I have personal interest 
 in it, my own favorite summer walk being through this very 
 field. As, however, I was far away at Assisi when the artist 
 painted it, and had nothing whatever to do with either the 
 choice or treatment of his subject, it is not indecorous for me 
 to praise a work in which I am able so securely to attest a 
 fidelity of portraiture, happily persisted in without losing the 
 grace of imagination. 
 
 It is the only picture of the year which I saw in the studio; 
 and that by chance ; for it is one of my fixed laws not to look 
 at pictures before they take their fair trial in the Academy. 
 But I ventured to find fault with the sky. The sky was 
 courteously changed to please me ; but I am encroaching 
 enough to want it changed more. “ Summer days are ” not 
 “ for me ” unless the sky is blue in them, and especially unless 
 it looks—what simple mortals too often make it in reality,—a 
 great way off. I want this sky to look bluer at the top, and 
 farther away at the bottom. The brook on the right is one 
 of the very few pieces of stream which, this year, have been 
 studied for their beauty, not their rage. 
 
 256. Wise Saws. (J. C. Hook, R.A.) 
 
 I suspect that many, even of the painter’s admirers, pass 
 this pretty sketch without noticing the humor with which he 
 has expressed the gradations of feminine curiosity, scientific 
 attention, and conscientious sense of responsibility, in the 
 faces of the troop of cows who approach to investigate the 
 nature of the noisy phenomenon upon the palings. It is a 
 charming summer sketch, but scarcely worth sending to the 
 Academy; and time was wasted by the good painter in carry¬ 
 ing so far, what he felt his skill would be misapplied in 
 carrying farther. 
 
 I am sure that Mr. Hook cannot lately have been reading 
 his Richard H ; but, whether the line quoted for his motto 
 chanced idly to occur to his memory, or was suggested to him 
 by some acquaintance, he will, I trust, find a more decorous, 
 
IN THE ROYAL ACADEMY. 
 
 201 
 
 as he easily may a more amusing, motto for his pretty cattle 
 piece, before it becomes known in the picture market as the 
 parody of one of the most pathetic utterances in all Shake¬ 
 spearian tragedy. 
 
 123. On the River Mole. (Birket Foster.) 
 
 In doubt whether the spectator, without assistance, would 
 see all the metaphysical distinctions between the cows in Mr. 
 Hook’s landscape, I need a more keen-sighted spectator’s 
 assistance to tell me, in Mr. Foster’s, whether those animals 
 on the opposite bank of the Mole are cows at all. If so, the 
 trunks of the trees in the hedge beyond are about twenty 
 yards in girth. What do our good water-color painters mean 
 by wasting their time in things like this (and I could name 
 one or two who have done worse), for the sake of getting 
 their names into the Academy catalogue ? 
 
 69, 81. The Horse-dealer. Crossing the Moor. 
 
 I have not looked long enough at these to justify me in 
 saying more of them than that they should not be here on the 
 line. That much I must say ; and emphatically. 
 
 265. (I venture to supply a title, the painter seeming to 
 have been at a loss.) A Wild Rose, remarkable in being left 
 on its stalk, demonstrates to the poet Campbell that there has 
 been a garden in this locality. 
 
 Little thought I, when I wrote the first line of “ Modern 
 Painters,” that a day would come when I should have to say 
 of a modern picture what I must say of this. When I began 
 my book, Wilkie was yet living ; and though spoiled by his 
 Spanish ambition, the master’s hand was yet unpalsied, nor 
 had lost its skill of practice in its pride. Turner was in his 
 main color-strength, and the dark room of the Academy had, 
 every year, its four or five painted windows, bright as the 
 jewel casements of Aladdin’s palace, and soft as a kingfisher s 
 wings. Mulready was at the crowning summit of his laborious 
 skill ; and the “ Burchell and Sophia in the Hayfield, and 
 the “Choosing of the Wedding Dress,” remain in my mind as 
 
202 
 
 NOTES ON TIIE PRINCIPAL PICTURES 
 
 standards of English effort in rivalship with the best masters 
 of Holland. Constable’s clumsy hand was honest, and his 
 flickering sunshine fair. Stanfield, sea-bred, knew what a ship 
 was, and loved it; knew what rocks and waves were, and 
 wrought out their strength and sway with steadiest will. 
 David Roberts, though utterly destitute of imagination, and 
 incapable of color, was at least a practised draughtsman in 
 his own field of architectural decoration ; loved his Burgos or 
 Seville cathedral fronts as a woman loves lace ; and drew the 
 details of Egyptian hieroglyph with dutiful patience, not to 
 show his own skill, but to keep witness of the antiquity he 
 had the wisdom to reverence ; while, not a hundred yards 
 from the Academy portico, in the room of the old water- 
 color, Lewis was doing work which surpassed, in execution, 
 everything extant since Carpaccio ; and Copley-Fielding, Rob¬ 
 son, Cox, and Prout were everyone of them, according to 
 their strength, doing true things with loving minds. 
 
 The like of these last-named men, in simplicity and tender* 
 ness of natural feeling, expressing itself with disciplined 
 (though often narrow) skill, does not, so far as I can see, now 
 exist in the ranks of art-laborers ; and even of men doing 
 their absolute best according to their knowledge, it would bo 
 difficult to find many among the most renowned exhibitors of 
 London and Paris ; while here, full on the line, with highest 
 Academic name, and hailed by explosive applause from the 
 
 whole nation, here is-I cannot use strength of words 
 
 enough to tell you what it is, unless you will first ascertain 
 for yourselves what it is not. 
 
 Get what good you can of it, or anything else in the rooms 
 to-day ; but to-morrow, or when next you mean to come to the 
 Academy, go first for half an hour into the National Gallery, 
 and look closely and thoroughly at the painting of the soldier’s 
 helmet, and crimson plume in John Bellini’s Peter Martyr; 
 at the horse-bridle in the large, nameless Venetian picture of 
 the Madonna and kneeling Knight; at the herbage in the fore¬ 
 ground of Mantegna’s Madonna ; and at Titian’s columbines 
 and vine in the Bacchus and Ariadne. All these are examples 
 of true painter’s work in minor detail; unsurpassable, but not, 
 
nr THE ROYAL ACADEMY. 
 
 203 
 
 by patience and modesty, inimitable. There was once a day 
 when the painter of this (soi-disant) landscape promised to do 
 work as good. If, coming straight from that to this, you like 
 this best, be properly thankful for the blessings of modern 
 science and art, and for all the good guidance of Kensington 
 and Messrs. Agnew. But if you think that the four-petalled 
 rose, the sprinkle of hips looking like ill-drawn heather, the 
 sundial looking like an ill-drawn fountain, the dirty birch-tree, 
 and the rest—whatever it is meant for—of the inarticulate 
 brown scrabble, are not likely to efface in the eyes of future 
 generations the fame of Venice and Etruria, you have always 
 the heroic consolation given you in the exclamation of the 
 Spectator —“If we must choose between a Titian and a Lan¬ 
 cashire cotton mill—give us the cotton mill.” 
 
 Literally, here you have your cotton mill employed in its 
 own special Art-produce. Here you have, what was once the 
 bone and sinew of a great painter, ground and carded down 
 into black-podded broom-twigs. That is what has come to 
 pass upon him ; that, his finding on his “ ruinous walk ” over 
 the diabolic Tom Tidler’s ground of Manchester and Salford. 
 Threshed under the mammon flail into threads and dust, and 
 shoddy-fodder for fools ; making manifest yet, with what rag¬ 
 ged remnant of painter’s life is in him, the results of mechani¬ 
 cal English labor on English land. Not here the garden of 
 the sluggard, green with frank weeds ; not here the garden of 
 the Deserted Village, overgrown with ungathered balm ; not 
 here tire noble secrecy of a virgin country, where the falcon 
 floats and the wild goat plays ; but here the withering pleas- 
 ance of a fallen race, who have sold their hearths for money, 
 and their glory for a morsel of bread. 
 
 231. The Quarries of Holmeground. (J. S. Raven.) 
 
 The painter has real feeling of the sublimity of hill forms, 
 and has made the most of his Langdale pikes. But it is very 
 wonderful that in all this Academy, so far as I have yet seen, 
 there is not a single patient study of a mossy-rock. Now the 
 beauty of foreground stone is to be mossy, as the beauty of a 
 beast is to be furry ; and a quarried rock is to a natural one 
 
204 NOTES ON THE PRINCIPAL PICTURES 
 
 what a skinned leopard is to a live one. Even if, as a simple 
 painter, and no huntsman, one liked one’s leopard or tiger 
 better dead than alive, at least let us have him dead in his 
 integrity ; or—if so much as that cannot be,—for pictorial 
 purpose it is better to have, as in No. 697, the skin without 
 the tiger, than, as here, the tiger without the skin. (No. 697, 
 by the way, should have been named in the Natural History 
 class, for a good study as far as it reaches, and there may be 
 more substantial drawing in it than I can see at the height 
 where it is hung.) 
 
 Another sorrowful character in the mountain-painting of 
 this year, is the almost total absence of any attempt to ren¬ 
 der calm and full sunshine. 564 and 368 are, I think, the 
 only exceptions, though scarcely worth noticing except as 
 such ; unless the latter, for the extreme and singular beauty 
 of the natural scene it represents. The “Mountain Twilight,” 
 759, W. C. Eddington, is evidently a pure and careful study 
 of evening air among noble hills. What an incomparably rid¬ 
 iculous mob this London mob is !—to let some square leagues 
 of room lie about its metropolis in waste brick-field, and oc¬ 
 cupy immeasurable space of wall with advertisements of pills 
 and pictures of newly-opened shops ; and lift a lovely little 
 drawing like this simply—out of its way. 
 
 237. Richmond Hill. (Yicat Cole, A.) 
 
 The passages on the left, under the trees, of distant and 
 subdued light, in their well-studied perfection, are about the 
 most masterly things in landscape work in this exhibition ; 
 but has the painter never in his life seen the view from Rich¬ 
 mond Hill on a clear day ? Such a thing is still possible ; 
 and when it happens, is the time to paint that distance, or at 
 least (for the passages on the left imply mist), when the in¬ 
 distinctness of it may be in golden mist, not gas fume. The 
 last line quoted from Thomson seems to have been written 
 prophetically, to describe the England of our own day. But 
 Thomson was never thinking of real smoke when he wrote it. 
 He was as far from imagining that English landscape would 
 ever be stifled in floating filth, as that the seasons should 
 
IN THE ROYAL ACADEMY. 
 
 205 
 
 3top rolling, or April not know itself from November. He 
 means merely the warm mist of an extreme horizon ; and has 
 it least given us something to look at before we come to it. 
 What has Mr. Yicat Cole done with all those hills, and dales, 
 md woods, and lawns, and spires, which he leads us to ex¬ 
 pect ? 
 
 I think I never saw a large picture so much injured by a 
 ittle fault, as this is by the white wake of the farthest boat on 
 he river. As a fact, it is impossible ; as a white line, it cuts 
 11 to pieces. 
 
 651. The Head of a Highland Glen. (F. C. Newcome.) 
 
 The best study of torrent, including distant and near water, 
 hat I find in the rooms : 1075 has been most carefully and 
 dmirably studied from nature by Mr. Raven : only what is 
 he use of trying to draw water with charcoal ? and what 
 lakes nearly all the painters this year choose to paint their 
 treams in a rage, and foul with flood, instead of in their beauty, 
 nd constant beneficence ? Our manufacturers have still left, 
 i some parts of England and Scotland, streams of what may 
 e advertised in the bills of Natural Scenery as “ real water ; ” 
 nd I myself know several so free from pollution that one can 
 ■it near them with perfect safety, even when they are not in 
 ood. 
 
 The rest of this mountain scene by Mr. Newcome is also 
 irefully studied, and very right and good. 
 
 756. The Llugwy at Capel Curig. (I. J. Curnock.) 
 
 I find this to be the most attentive and refined landscape of 
 1 here ; too subdued in its tone for my own pleasure, but 
 rilful and affectionate in a high degree ; and one of the few 
 iceptions to my general statement above made ; for here is 
 calm stream patiently studied. The distant woods and hills 
 e all very tender and beautiful. 
 
 
 636 is also a singularly careful and unassumingly true draw- 
 g ;—but are the town and rail not disquieted enough,—that 
 3 should get no rest in a village ? 
 
NOTES ON THE PRINCIPAL PICTURES 
 
 20G 
 
 POLICY. 
 
 We finally inquire what our British artists have to say to us 
 on the subject of good Government, and its necessary results; 
 —what triumph they express in the British Constitution and 
 its present achievements. 
 
 In old times, all great artistic nations were pictorialiy talka¬ 
 tive, chiefly, next to religion, on the subject of Government. 
 Venice, Florence, and Siena did little else than expound, in 
 figures and mythic types, the nature of civic dignity, states- 
 manly duty, and senatorial or soldierly honor; and record, 
 year by year, the events conducive to their fame. 
 
 I have not exhaustively overlooked the Academy ; but, ex¬ 
 cept Miss Thomson’s study of a battle fought just “ sixty 
 years since, ”■—I find no English record of any important mili¬ 
 tary or naval achievement; and the only exhibition of the 
 mode in which Britannia at present rules the waves, is Mr. 
 Cooke’s “ Devastation ” being reviewed ; somewhat sable and 
 lugubrious as a national spectacle, dubious as a national 
 triumph, and to myself, neither in color nor sentiment enjoy¬ 
 able, as the pictures of Victorys and Temeraires one used to 
 see in days of simpler warfare. And of political achievement 
 there seems still less consciousness or regard in the British 
 artist; so that future generations will ask in vain for any aid 
 to their imagination of the introduction of Dr. Kenealy to the 
 Speaker, or any other recent triumph of the British Consti¬ 
 tution. 
 
 The verdict of existing British Art on existing British 
 Policy is, therefore, if I understand it rightly, that we have 
 none ; but, in the battle of life, have arrived at declaration 
 of an universal Sauve qui peut ;—or explicitly, to all men, Do 
 as you like, and get what you can. Something other than this 
 may however be gathered, it seems to me, from the two records 
 given us of the war,—so unwise, and yet so loyal,—of sixty 
 years ago. 
 
IN THE ROYAL ACADEMY. 
 
 207 
 
 613. La Charge des Cuirassiers Franyais a Waterloo. (Phi- 
 lippoteau.) 
 
 This carefully studied and most skilful battle piece is but 
 too likely to be overlooked in the confused rush to Miss Thom¬ 
 son’s more attractive composition. And of all in the Academy, 
 this is the picture which an Englishman, of right feeling, would 
 least wish to overlook. I remember no so impartial and 
 faithful representation of an historical battle. I know no war¬ 
 painting by the artists of any great race, however modest, in 
 which the object has not hitherto been definitely—self-lauda¬ 
 tion. But here is a piece of true war-history, of which it is 
 not possible to say, by observance of any traceable bias, 
 whether a Frenchman or Englishman painted it. Such a 
 picture is more honorable to France than the taking of the 
 Malakoff. 
 
 I never approached a picture with more iniquitous prejudice 
 against it, than I did Miss Thomson’s ; partly because I have 
 always said that no woman could paint; and secondly, because 
 I thought what the public made such a fuss about, must be 
 good for nothing. 
 
 But it is Amazon’s work, this ; no doubt of it, and the first 
 fine pre-Baphaelite * picture of battle we have had;—profoundly 
 interesting ; and showing all manner of illustrative and realis¬ 
 tic faculty. Of course, all that need be said of it, on this side, 
 must have been said twenty times over in the journals; and it 
 remains only for me to make my tardy genuflection, on the 
 trampled corn, before this Pallas of Pall Mall;—and to mur¬ 
 mur my poor words of warning to her, that she remember, in 
 aer day of triumph, how it came to pass that Atlanta was 
 jtajmd and Camilla slain. 
 
 Camilla-like the work is—chiefly in its refinement, a quality 
 
 * Miss Thomson may perhaps not in the least know herself for a sister 
 >f the school. But the entire power of her picture, as of her own mind, 
 lepends first on her resolution to paint things as they really are, or 
 were; and not as they might be poetically fancied to be. See above, 
 he note on 218, p. 176. 
 
 ! 
 
208 NOTES ON THE PRINCIPAL PICTURES 
 
 I had not in the least expected, for the cleverest women 
 almost always show their weakness in endeavors to be 
 dashing. But actually, here, what I suppose few people would 
 think of looking at, the sky, is the most tenderly painted, and 
 with the truest outlines of cloud, of all in the exhibition ;—and 
 the terrific piece of gallant wrath and ruin on the extreme 
 right, where the cuirassier is catching round the neck of his 
 horse as he falls, and the convulsed fallen horse just seen 
 through the smoke below—is wrought, through all the truth 
 of its frantic passion, with gradations of color and shade 
 which I have not seen the like of since Turner’s death. 
 
 I place these two paintings under the head of “Policy,” be¬ 
 cause it seems to me that, especially before the Quatrebras, 
 one might wisely consider with Mr. Carlyle, and with one’s self, 
 what was the “ net upshot ” and meaning of our modern form 
 of the industry of war. Why should these wild and well- 
 meaning young Irish lads have been brought, at great expense, 
 all the way to Four Arms, merely to knock equally wild and 
 well-meaning young French lads out of their saddles into 
 their graves ; and take delight in doing so ? And why should 
 the English and French squires at the head of their regiments, 
 have, practically, no other object in life than deceiving these 
 poor boys, and an infinite mob besides of such others, to their 
 destruction ? 
 
 Think of it. Suppose this picture, as well as the one I was 
 so happy in praising of Mr. Collinson’s, had been called—as it 
 also, quite properly, might have been—“ Sunday Afternoon” 
 (only dating “June 18th, 1815”). Suppose the two had been 
 hung side by side. And, to complete our materials for medi¬ 
 tation, suppose Mr. Nicol’s “ The Sabbath Day ” (1159)— 
 which I observed the Daily Telegraph called an exquisitely 
 comic picture, but which I imagine Mr. Nicol meant for a se¬ 
 rious one—representing the conscientious Scottish mountain- 
 matron setting out for the place where she may receive her 
 cake of spiritual oatmeal, baken on the coals of Presbyterian 
 zeal; suppose, I say, this ideal of Scottish Sabbath occu¬ 
 pation placed beside M. Philippoteau’s admirable painting of 
 the Highland regiment at evening missionary service, in that 
 
IN THE ROYAL AO ALE NY. 
 
 209 
 
 / 
 
 sweet and fruitful foreign land ; while Miss Thomson enables 
 us also, thus meditating in our fields at eventide, to consider, 
 if not the Lilies, at least the Poppies of them ; and to under¬ 
 stand how in this manner of friction of ears of corn—by his 
 bent knees instead of his fingers—the modern Christian shows 
 that the Sabbath was made for man, and not man for the Sab¬ 
 bath? 
 
 “ Well—and if this were so done,—should we not feel that 
 the peace of the cottage, and the honor of the mountain-side, 
 were guarded and won for them by that mighty Evening Ser¬ 
 vice, with the thunder of its funeral march rolled deep among 
 the purple clouds ? ” 
 
 No ! my soldier friends ; no: do not think it. They were, 
 and are, guarded and won by silent virtues of the hearth and 
 the rock, which must endure until the time when the prayer 
 we pray in our every Sabbath Litany, to be delivered from 
 battle, murder, and sudden death—shall have been offered 
 with sincere hearts, fervently; and so found its way at last 
 to the audience of Heaven. 
 
 NOTE TO PICTURE 518. 
 
 “ The rarity and grandeur of his character being that he was a Greek 
 in ideas and a Roman in action ; who really did, and abstained, strictly 
 to ideal, in a time when everybody else was sadly fallen from his ideal. 
 
 “ In 353 he is made Csesar (Constantius having no sons, and he 
 being last of his race); and from that to Constantius' death in 3G1 he 
 las to fight the Franks and Alemanni. During the last few years of 
 his time I find he lived mostly at Paris—that he fortified the ancient 
 mtetia (Pile de la Cite), built the Thermae Juliani, the remains of which, 
 Tkermes de Julien) are still visible in the Rue de la Ilarpe, between 
 > alais de Cluny and Ecole de Medecine. Also, in a scarcity of corn 
 rom inroads of the Germans, he got a great supply of corn from Eng- 
 and (calculated at 120,000 quarters at once 0—and fed people all along 
 he Rhine from Bingen to Cologne. He says (Fpist. ii .) he was a Christian 
 p to his twentieth year, 351 ; and he said nothing about his change (in 
 ublic) till 361. Then he felt himself the successor of M. Aurelius, and 
 ?ems to have gone to work in his determined, clear-sighted way. But 
 ie Pagans seem to have been surprised at his faith as much as the 
 kristians at his apostasy.”—R ev. R. St. J. Tybwhitt. 
 
 14 
 
NOTES BY MB. BUSKIN 
 
 ON 
 
 SAMUEL PEOUT 
 
 AND 
 
 WILLIAM HUNT, 
 
 ILLUSTRATED BY 
 
 A LOAN COLLECTION OF DRAWINGS 
 
 EXHIBITED AT 
 
 THE FINE ART SOCIETY'S GALLERIES , 
 
 148 NEW BOND STREET. 
 
 1879-80. 
 
» 
 
NOTE. 
 
 I have to thank the kind friends who have contributed 
 drawings. I regret that very many of them have had to be 
 returned, simply because I had already to my hand examples 
 which sufficiently illustrated the lessons I wished to teach in 
 putting together these notes. 
 
 J. Buskin. 
 
f 
 
 
PKEFACE. 
 
 It has been only in compliance with the often and earnestly 
 urged request of my friend Mr. Marcus Huish, that I have 
 thrown the following notes together, on the works of two 
 artists belonging to a time with which nearly all associations 
 are now ended in the mind of general society ; and of which 
 my own memories, it seemed to me, could give little pleasure 
 (even if I succeeded in rendering them intelligible) to a public 
 indulged with far more curious arts, and eager for otherwise 
 poignant interests than those which seemed admirable,— 
 though not pretending to greatness, and were felt to be delight¬ 
 ful,—though not provoking enthusiasm, in the quiet and 
 little diverted lives of the English middle classes, “ sixty years 
 since." 
 
 It is especially to be remembered that drawings of this sim¬ 
 ple character were made for the same middle classes, exclu¬ 
 sively : and even for the second order of the middle classes, 
 more accurately expressed by the term “ bourgeoisie." The 
 great people always bought Canaletto, not Prout, and Van 
 Huysum, not Hunt. There was indeed no quality in the 
 bright little water-colors, which could look other than pert 
 in ghostly corridors, and petty in halls of state ; but they 
 gave an unquestionable tone of liberal-mindedness to a subur¬ 
 ban villa, and were the cheerfullest possible decorations for a 
 moderate-sized breakfast parlor, opening on a nicely mown 
 lawn. Their liveliness even rose, on occasion, to the charity 
 of beautifying the narrow chambers of those whom business 
 or fixed habit still retained in the obscurity of London itself; 
 and I remember with peculiar respect the pride of a benevo¬ 
 lent physician, who never would exchange his neighborhood 
 
216 
 
 PREFACE. 
 
 to the poor of St. Giles’s for the lucrative lustre of a West 
 End Square, in wreathing his tiny little front drawing-room 
 with Hunt’s loveliest apple-blossom, and taking the patients 
 for whom he had prescribed fresh air, the next instant on a 
 little visit to the country. 
 
 Nor was this adaptation to the tastes and circumstances of 
 the London citizen, a constrained or obsequious compliance 
 on the part of the kindly artists.' They were themselves, in 
 mind, as in habits of life, completely a part of the character¬ 
 istic metropolitan population whom an occasional visit to the 
 Continent always thrilled with surprise on finding themselves 
 again among persons who familiarly spoke French ; and whose 
 summer holidays, though more customary, amused them nev¬ 
 ertheless with the adventure, and beguiled them with the pas¬ 
 toral charm, of an uninterrupted picnic. Mr. Prout lived at 
 Brixton, just at the rural extremity of Cold Harbor Lane, 
 where the spire of Brixton church, the principal architectural 
 ornament of the neighborhood, could not but greatly exalt, 
 by comparison, the impressions received from that of Stras- 
 burg Cathedral, or the Hotel de Ville of Bruxelles ; and Mr. 
 Hunt, though often in the spring and summer luxuriating in 
 country lodgings, was only properly at home in the Hamp¬ 
 stead road,* and never painted a cluster of nuts without some 
 expression, visible enough by the manner of their presenta¬ 
 tion, of the pleasure it was to him to see them in the shell, 
 instead of in a bag at the greengrocer’s. 
 
 The lightly rippled level of this civic life lay, as will be 
 easily imagined, far beneath the distractions, while it main¬ 
 tained itself meekly, yet severely, independent of the advan¬ 
 tages held out by the social system of what is most reverently 
 called “Town.” Neither the disposition, the health, nor the 
 means of either artist admitted of their spending their even¬ 
 ings, in general, elsewhere than by their own firesides ; nor 
 could a spring levee of English peeresses and foreign ambas¬ 
 sadors be invited by the modest painter whose only studio 
 was his little back-parlor, commanding a partial view of the 
 
 * See liis own inscription, with London in capitals, under No. 
 
PREFACE. 
 
 217 
 
 scullery steps and the water-butt. The fluctuations of moral 
 and aesthetic sentiment in the public mind were of small 
 moment to the humble colorist, who depended only on the 
 consistency of its views on the subject of early strawberries ; 
 and the thrilling subjects presented by the events or politics 
 of the day were equally indifferent to the designer who in¬ 
 vited interest to nothing later than the architecture of the 
 15th century. Even the treasures of scientific instruction, 
 and marvels of physical discovery, were without material in¬ 
 fluence on the tranquillity of the two native painters’ unedu¬ 
 cated skill. Prout drew every lovely street in Europe with¬ 
 out troubling himself to learn a single rule of perspective; 
 while Hunt painted mossy banks for five-and-twenty years 
 without ever caring to know a Sphagnum from a Polypody, 
 and embossed or embowered his birds’ eggs to a perfection, 
 which Greek connoisseurs would have assured us the mother 
 had unsuspectingly sate on—without enlarging his range of 
 ornithological experience beyond the rarities of tomtit and 
 hedge-sparrow. 
 
 This uncomplaining resignation of patronage, and unblush¬ 
 ing blindness to instruction, were allied, in both painters, 
 with a steady consistency in technical practice, which, from 
 the first, and to the last, precluded both from all hope of pro¬ 
 motion to the honors, as it withheld them from the peril of 
 entanglement in the rivalries, connected with the system 
 of exhibition in the Royal Academy. Mr. Prout’s method of 
 work was entirely founded on the quite elementary qualities 
 of white paper and black Cumberland lead ; and expressly 
 terminated within the narrow range of prismatic effects pro¬ 
 ducible by a brown or blue outline, with a wash of ochre or 
 cobalt. Mr. Hunt’s early drawings depended for their pecul¬ 
 iar charm on the most open and simple management of trans¬ 
 parent color; and his later ones, for their highest attain¬ 
 ments, on the flexibility of a pigment which yielded to the 
 i slightest touch and softest motion of a hand always more sen- 
 ' sitive than firm. The skill which unceasing practice, within 
 limits thus modestly unrelaxed, and with facilities of instru¬ 
 ment thus openly confessed, enabled each draughtsman in his 
 
218 
 
 PREFACE. 
 
 special path to attain, was exerted with a vividness of instinct 
 somewhat resembling that of animals, only in the slightest 
 degree conscious of praiseworthiness, but animated by a 
 healthy complacency, as little anxious for external sympathy 
 as the self-content of a bee in the translucent symmetry of its 
 cell, or of a chaffinch in the silvery tracery of her nest—and 
 uniting, through the course of their uneventful and active 
 lives, the frankness of the bird with the industry of the in¬ 
 sect. 
 
 In all these points of view the drawings to which I venture, 
 not without hesitation, to call the passing attention of the 
 public, can claim regard only as examples of genius both nar¬ 
 rowed and depressed; yet healthy enough to become more 
 elastic under depression ; and scintillant enough to be made 
 more vivid by contraction. But there are other respects in 
 which these seemingly unimportant works challenge graver 
 study ; and illustrate phases of our own national mind—I 
 might perhaps say, even of national civilization—which coin¬ 
 cide with many curious changes in social feelings ; and may 
 lead to results not easily calculable in social happiness. 
 
 If the reader has any familiarity with the galleries of paint¬ 
 ing in the great cities of Europe, he cannot but retain a 
 clear, though somewhat monotonously calm, impression of the 
 character of those polished flower-pieces, or still-life pieces, 
 which occupy subordinate corners in their smaller rooms ; 
 and invite to moments of repose, or frivolity, the attention 
 and imagination which have been wearied in admiring the at¬ 
 titudes of heroism, and sympathizing with the sentiments of 
 piety. Recalling to his memory the brightest examples of 
 these which his experience can supply, he will find that all 
 the older ones agree—if flower-pieces—in a certain courtli¬ 
 ness and formality of arrangement, implying that the highest 
 honors which flowers can attain are in being wreathed into 
 grace of garlands, or assembled in variegation of bouquets, 
 for the decoration of beauty, or flattery of noblesse. If fruit 
 or still-life pieces, they agree no less distinctly in directness 
 of reference to the supreme hour when the destiny of digni¬ 
 fied fruit is to be accomplished in a royal dessert; and the 
 
PREFACE. 
 
 219 
 
 furred and feathered life of hill and forest may bear witness 
 to the Wisdom of Providence by its extinction for the kitchen 
 dresser. 
 
 Irrespectively of these ornamental virtues, and culinary 
 utilities, the painter never seems to perceive any conditions 
 of beauty in the things themselves, which would make them 
 worth regard for their own sake: nor, even in these appointed 
 functions, are they ever supposed to be worth painting, un¬ 
 less the pleasures they procure be distinguished as those of 
 the most exalted society. No artists of the old school would 
 ever think of constructing a subject out of the herbs of a cot¬ 
 tage garden, or viands of a rural feast. Whatever interest 
 was then taken in the life of the lower orders involved always 
 
 some reference to their rudenesses or vices ; and rarely exhib- 
 
 ' */ 
 
 its itself in any other expression than that of contempt for 
 their employments, and reproach to their recreation. 
 
 In all such particulars the feelings shown in the works of 
 Hunt, and of the school with which he was associated, direct¬ 
 ly reverse those of the preceding age. So far from being 
 garlanded into any polite symmetry, his primroses fresh from 
 the bank, and hawthorns white from the hedge, confess at 
 once their artless origin in the village lane—have evidently 
 been gathered only at the choice, and thrown down at the 
 caprice, of the farmer’s children, and cheerfully disclaim all 
 hope of ever contributing to the splendors or felicities of the 
 great. The bloom with which he bedews the grape, the 
 frosted gold with which he frets the pine, are spent chiefly 
 to show what a visible grace there is in the fruits of the earth, 
 which w T e may sometimes feel that it is rude to touch, and 
 swinish to taste ; and the tenderness of hand and thought 
 that soothe the rose-gray breast of the fallen dove, and weave 
 the couch of moss for its quiet wings, propose no congratula¬ 
 tion to the spectator on the future flavor of the bird in a 
 pie. 
 
 It is a matter of extreme difficulty, but of no less interest, 
 to distinguish, in this order of painting, what part of if has 
 its origin in a plebeian—not to say vulgar—simplicity, which 
 education would have invested with a severer charm ; and 
 
220 
 
 PREFACE. 
 
 what part is grounded on a real sense of natural beauty, more 
 pure and tender than could be discerned amid the luxury of 
 courts, or stooped to by the pride of nobles. 
 
 For an especial instance, the drawing of the interior, No. 
 174, may be taken as a final example of the confidence which 
 the painter felt in his power of giving some kind of interest 
 to the most homely objects, and rendering the transitions of 
 ordinary light and shade impressive, though he had nothing 
 more sacred to illuminate than a lettuce, and nothing more 
 terrible to hide than a reaping-hook. The dim light from 
 the flint-glass window, and the general disposition and scale 
 of the objects it falls on, remind me sometimes, however un¬ 
 reasonably, of the little oratory into which the deeply-worn 
 steps ascend from the Beauchamp Chapel at Warwick. But 
 I know perfectly well, and partly acknowledge the rightness of 
 his judgment, though I cannot analyze it, that Hunt would no 
 more have painted that knightly interior instead of this, with 
 helmets lying about instead of saucepans, and glowing herald¬ 
 ries staying the light instead of that sea-green lattice, than 
 he would have gone for a walk round his farm in a court 
 dress. 
 
 “ Plebeian—not to say vulgar ”—choice ; but I fear that 
 even “vulgar,” with full emphasis, must be said sometimes 
 in the end. Not that a pipkin of cream in Devonshire is to 
 be thought of less reverently than a vase of oil or canister of 
 bread in Attica ; but that the English dairy-maid in her way 
 can hold her own with the Attic Canepliora, and the peasant 
 children of all countries where leaves are green and waters 
 clear, possess a grace of their own no less divine than that of 
 branch and wave. And it is to be sorrowfully confessed that 
 the good old peach and apple painter was curiously insensible 
 to this brighter human beauty, and though he could scarcely 
 pass a cottage door around his Berkshire home without seeing 
 groups of which Correggio would have made Cupids, and 
 Luioi cherubs, turned away from them all, to watch the rough 
 plough-boy at his dinner, or enliven a study of his parlor¬ 
 maid at her glass (158), with the elegance of a red and green 
 pincushion. 
 
PREFACE. 
 
 221 
 
 And yet, for all this, the subtle sense of beauty above re¬ 
 ferred to was always in his mind, and may be proved, and 
 partly illustrated, by notice of two very minute, but very 
 constant, differences between his groups of still life and 
 those of the Dutch painters. In every flower-piece of 
 pretension, by the masters of that old school, two accessory 
 points of decoration are never absent. The first of these is 
 the dew-drop, or rain-drop—it may be two or three drops, of 
 either size, on one of the smoothest petals of the central 
 flower. This is always, and quite openly, done to show how 
 well the painter can do it—not in the least with any enjoy¬ 
 ment of wetness in the flower. The Dutchman never got a 
 wet flower to paint from. He had his exquisite and exem¬ 
 plary poppy or tulip brought in from the market as he had 
 occasion, and put on its dew-drops for it as a lady’s dressing- 
 maid puts on her diamonds, merely for state. But Hunt saw 
 the flowers in his little garden really bright in the baptismal 
 dawn, or drenched with the rain of noontide, and knew that 
 no mortal could paint any real likeness of that heaven-slied 
 light—and never once attempted it; you will find nothing 
 in any of his pictures merely put on that you may try to 
 wipe it off. 
 
 But there was a further tour-de-force demanded of the 
 Dutch workman, without which all his happiest preceding 
 achievements would have been unacknowledged. Not onty a 
 dew-drop, but, in some depth of bell, or cranny of leaf, a 
 bee, or a fly, was needful for the complete satisfaction of the 
 connoisseur. In the articulation of the fly’s legs, or neurog¬ 
 raphy of the bee’s wings, the Genius of painting was sup¬ 
 posed to signify her accepted disciples ; and their work went 
 forth to the European world, thenceforward, without ques¬ 
 tion, as worthy of its age and country. But, without recog¬ 
 nizing in myself, or desiring to encourage in my scholars, 
 any unreasonable dislike or dread of the lower orders of 
 living creatures, I trust that the reader will feel with me that 
 none of Mr. Hunt’s peaches or plums would be made daintier 
 by the detection on them of even the most cunningly latent 
 wasp, or cautiously rampant caterpillar; and will accept, 
 
222 
 
 PREFACE. 
 
 without so much opposition as it met with forty years ago, 
 my then first promulgated, but steadily since repeated asser¬ 
 tion, that the “ modern painter ” had in these matters less 
 vanity than the ancient one, and better taste. 
 
 Another interesting evidence of Hunt’s feeling for beauty 
 is to be found in the unequal distribution of his pains to 
 different parts of his subject. This is indeed, one of the 
 peculiar characteristics of our modern manner, and in the 
 abstract, not a laudable one. All the old masters, without 
 exception, complete their pictures from corner to corner with 
 a strictly driven level of deliberation ; and whether it be a 
 fold of drapery, a blade of grass, or a wreath of cloud, on 
 which they are subordinately occupied, the pencil moves 
 at the same tranquil pace, and the qualities of the object are 
 rendered with the same fixed attention. In this habitual 
 virtue, the dull and the brilliant, the weak and the mighty, 
 concur without exception ; holding it for their first point of 
 honor to be thorough craftsmen ; and to carry on the so¬ 
 licitude of their skill throughout the piece, as an armorer 
 would hammer a corslet, or a housewife knit a stocking, 
 leaving no edge untempered, and no thread unfastened. 
 Modern petulance and incompetence lead, on the contrary, 
 to the flaunting of dexterity in one place, and the pretence 
 of ease in another—complete some portions of the subject 
 with hypocritical affection, and abandon others in ostenta¬ 
 tious contempt. In some few cases, the manner arises from 
 a true eagerness of imagination, or kindly and natural desire 
 for sympathy in particular likings ; but in the plurality of 
 instances, the habit allies itself with mistaken principles of 
 art, and protects impatience and want of skill under the 
 shield of philosophy. 
 
 Few modern pieces of oil-painting are more accomplished 
 or deliberate than those of Meissonier: and in the example 
 placed on the table in the centre of the room, his subject was 
 one which he certainly would not have treated, consciously, 
 with prosaic indignity of manner, or injurious economy of 
 toil. Yet the inequality of workmanship has depressed what 
 might have been a most sublime picture almost to the level of 
 
PREFACE. 
 
 223 
 
 a scenic effect. The dress of the Emperor and housings of 
 his steed are wrought with the master’s utmost care: but the 
 landscape is nearly unintelligible, and the ground a mere 
 conventional diaper of feeble green and gray. 
 
 It is difficult to describe the height to which the picture 
 would have risen above its present power, if a ruined French 
 village had been represented with Flemish precision amidst 
 the autumnal twilight of the woods ; and the ground over 
 which the wearied horse bears his dreaming rider, made 
 lovely with its native wild-flowers. 
 
 In all such instances, the hold which a true sense of beauty 
 has over the painter’s mind may be at once ascertained by 
 observing the nature of the objects to which his pains have 
 been devoted. No master with a fine instinct for color would 
 spend his time with deliberate preference on the straps and 
 buckles of modern horse-furniture, rather than on the sur¬ 
 rounding landscape or foreground flowers, though in a subject 
 like this he would have felt it right to finish both, to the 
 spectator’s content, if not to his amazement. And among the 
 numerous rustic scenes by Hunt which adorn these walls, 
 though all are painted with force and spirit, none are recom¬ 
 mended to our curiosity by an elaborate finish given to 
 ungraceful objects. His final powers are only employed on 
 motives like the dead doves in Nos. 139 and 145, accompanied 
 by incidents more or less beautiful and seemly. 
 
 I must even further guard my last sentence, by the admis¬ 
 sion that the means by which his utmost intentions of finish are 
 accomplished, can never, in the most accurate sense, be termed 
 “ elaborate.” When the thing to be represented is minute, 
 the touches which express it are necessarily minute also ; 
 they cannot be bold on the edge of a nutshell, nor free 
 within the sphere of a bird’s nest; but they are always frank 
 and clear, to a degree which may seem not only imperfect, 
 but even harsh or offensive, to eyes trained in more tender or 
 more formal schools. This broken execution by detached 
 and sharply defined touches became indeed, in process of 
 years, a manner in which the painter somewhat too visibly 
 indulged, or prided himself ; but it had its origin and author- 
 
224 
 
 PREFACE. 
 
 ity in the care with which he followed the varieties of color 
 in the shadow, no less than in the lights, of even the smallest 
 objects. It is easy to obtain smoothness and unity of grada¬ 
 tion when working with a single tint, but if all accidents of 
 local color and all differences of hue between direct and re¬ 
 flected light are to be rendered with absolute purity, some 
 breaking of the texture becomes inevitable. In many cases, 
 also, of the most desirable colors, no pigments mixed on the 
 palette, but only interlaced touches of pure tints on the pa¬ 
 per, will attain the required effect. The indefinable primrose 
 color, for instance, of the glazed porringer in the foreground 
 of No. 174 could not possibly have been given with a mixed 
 tint. The breaking of gray through gold by which it has 
 been reached is one of the prettiest pieces of work to be seen 
 in these rooms ; it exhibits the utmost skill of the artist, and 
 is an adequate justification of his usual manner. 
 
 Among the earliest statements of principles of art made in 
 the “Stones of Venice,” one of those chiefly fortunate in obtain¬ 
 ing credit with my readers was the course of argument urg¬ 
 ing frankness in the confession of the special means by which 
 any artistic result has been obtained, and of the limitations 
 which these appointed instruments, and the laws proper to 
 the use of them, set to its scope. Thus the threads in tapes¬ 
 try, the tesserae in mosaic, the joints of the stones in masonry, 
 and the movements of the pencil in painting, are shown with¬ 
 out hesitation by the greatest masters in those arts, and often 
 enforced and accented by the most ingenious ; while endeavors 
 to conceal them—as to make needlework look like pencilling, 
 or efface, in painting, the rugged freedom or joyful lightness 
 of its handiwork into the deceptive image of a natural surface, 
 are, without any exception, signs of declining intelligence, 
 and benumbed or misguided feelings. 
 
 I therefore esteem Hunt’s work all the more exemplary in 
 acknowledging without disguise the restrictions imposed on 
 the use of water-color as a medium for vigorously realistic 
 effects : and I have placed pieces of it in my Oxford school as 
 standards of imitative (as distinguished from decorative) 
 color, in the rightness and usefulness of which I have every 
 
PREFACE . 
 
 225 
 
 day more confirmed trust. I am aware of no other pieces of 
 art, in modern days, at once so sincere and so accomplished : 
 only let it be noted that I use the term “ sincere ”in this case, 
 not as imputing culpable fallacy to pictures of more imagin¬ 
 ative power, but only as implying the unbiassed directness of 
 aim at the realization of very simple facts, which is often 
 impossible to the passions, or inconsistent with the plans, of 
 greater designers. 
 
 In more cautiously guarded terms of praise, and with far 
 less general proposal of their peculiar qualities for imitation, 
 I have yet, both in my earlier books, and in recent lectures at 
 Oxford, spoken of the pencil sketches of Prout with a rever¬ 
 ence and enthusiasm which it is my chief personal object in 
 the present exhibition to justify, or at least to explain ; so 
 that future readers may not be offended, as I have known 
 some former ones to be, by expressions which seemed to them 
 incompatible with the general tenor of my teaching. 
 
 It is quite true that my feelings toward this painter are 
 much founded on, or at least colored by, early associations ; 
 but I have never found the memories of my childhood beguile 
 me into any undue admiration of the architecture in Billiter 
 Street or Brunswick Square ; and I believe the characters 
 which first delighted me in the drawings of this—in his path 
 unrivalled—artist, deserve the best attention and illustration 
 of which in my advanced years I am capable. 
 
 The little drawing, No. 95, bought, I believe, by my grand¬ 
 father, hung in the corner of our little dining parlor at Herne 
 Hill as early as I can remember ; and had a most fateful and 
 continual power over my childish mind. Men are made what 
 they finally become, only by the external accidents which are 
 in harmony with their inner nature. I was not made a stu¬ 
 dent of Gothic merely because this little drawing of Prout’s 
 was the first I knew ; but the hereditary love of antiquity, 
 and thirst for country life, which "were as natural to me as a 
 little jackdaw’s taste for steeples, or dabchick’s for reeds, 
 were directed and tempered in a very definite way by the 
 qualities of this single and simple drawing. 
 
 In the first place, it taught me generally to like ruggedness ; 
 
226 
 
 PREFACE. 
 
 and the conditions of joint in moulding, and fitting of stones 
 in walls which were most weather-worn, and like the gray 
 dykes of a Cumberland hill-side. This predilection—passion, 
 I might more truly call it—holds me yet so strongly, that I 
 can never quite justly conceive the satisfaction of the original 
 builders, even of the most delicate edifice, in seeing its come¬ 
 ly stones well set together. Giotto’s tower, and the subtly 
 Cyclopean walls of early Yerona, have indeed chastised the 
 prejudice out of me, so far as regards work in marble enriched 
 with mosaic and pure sculpture ; but I had almost rather see 
 Furness or Fountains Abbey strewed in grass-grown heaps 
 by their brooksides, than in the first glow and close setting 
 of their fresh-hewn sandstone. Whatever is rationally justi¬ 
 fiable in this feeling, so far as it is dependent on just rever¬ 
 ence for the signs of antiquity, and may therefore be trusted 
 to, as existing generally in the minds of persons of thought¬ 
 ful temperament, was enough explained, long ago, in the pas¬ 
 sages of the “Seven Lamps of Architecture,” which, the book 
 not being now generally accessible, I reprint in Appendix I. ; 
 but openness of joints and roughness of masonry are not 
 exclusively signs of age or decay in buildings: and I did not at 
 that time enough insist on the propriety, and even the grace, 
 of such forms of literal “ rustication ” * as are compelled 
 by coarseness of materials, and plainness of builders, when 
 proper regard is had to economy, and just honor rendered to 
 provincial custom and local handicraft. These are now so 
 little considered that the chief difficulties I have had in the 
 minute architectural efforts possible at Brantwood have been 
 to persuade my Coniston builder into satisfaction with Conis- 
 ton slate ; and retention of Coniston manners in dressing—or 
 rather, leaving undressed—its primitively fractured edges. If 
 I ever left him alone for a day, some corner stone was sure to 
 be sent for from Bath or Portland, and the ledges I had left 
 
 * All the forms of massive foundation, of which the aspect, in build¬ 
 ings of pretension, has been described by this word, took their origin 
 from the palaces in Florence, whose foundations were laid with un¬ 
 chiselled blocks of the gray gritstone of Fesole, and looked like a piece 
 of its crags. 
 
PREFACE. 
 
 227 
 
 to invite stonecrop and swallows, trimmed away in the ad¬ 
 vanced style of the railway station at Carnforth. 
 
 There is more, however, to be noted in this little old-fash¬ 
 ioned painting, than mere delight in weedy eaves and mortar¬ 
 less walls. Pre-eminently its repose in such placid subjects of 
 thought as the cottage, and its neighboring wood, contain for 
 an easily-pleased observer, without the least recommendation 
 of them by graceful incident, or plausible story. If we can be 
 content with sunshine on our old brown roof, and the sober 
 green of a commonplace English wood, protected by a still 
 more commonplace tarred paling, and allowing the fancy there¬ 
 fore not to expatiate even so far as the hope of a walk in it—it 
 is well;—and if not,—poor Prout has no more to offer us, and 
 will not even concede the hope that one of those diagonally- 
 dressed children may be the least pretty, or provoke us, by the 
 gleam of a ribbon, or quaintness of a toy, into asking so much 
 as what the itinerant pedler has in his basket. 
 
 I was waiting for a train the other day at Dover, and in an 
 old-fashioned print-shop on the hill up to the Priory station, 
 saw a piece of as old-fashioned picture-making, elaborately en¬ 
 graved, and of curious interest to me, at the moment, with 
 reference to my present essay. It belonged to the dull British 
 school which was founded on conscientious following of the 
 miniature methods and crowded incidents of Dutch painting ; 
 and always dutifully proposed to give the spectator as much 
 entertainment as could be collected into the given space of can¬ 
 vas. There was an ideal village street to begin with, the first 
 cottage gable at the corner having more painting (and very 
 good and pretty painting) spent on the mere thatch of it, than 
 there is in the entire Prout drawing under our notice. Be¬ 
 yond the laborious gable came some delicately-branched trees ; 
 and then the village street, in and out, half-a-mile long, with 
 shops, and signs, and what not; and then the orthodox church- 
 steeple, and then more trees, and then a sky with rolling white 
 clouds after Wouvermans ;—but all this, though the collected 
 quantity of it would have made half-a-dozen country villages, 
 if well pulled out, was only the beginning of the subject. 
 Gable, street, church, rookery, and sky, were all, in the paint- 
 
228 
 
 PREFACE. 
 
 er’s mind, too thin and spare entertainment. So out of the 
 gable-window looked a frightened old woman—out of the cot¬ 
 tage-door rushed an angry old man ; over the garden palings 
 tumbled two evil-minded boys,—after the evil-minded boys 
 rushed an indignantly-minded dog ; and in the centre of the 
 foreground, cynosure of the composition, were, a couple of 
 fighting-cocks,—one fallen, the other crowing for conquest;— 
 highly finished, both, from wattle to spur. And the absolute 
 pictorial value of the whole,—church and sky—village and 
 startled inhabitants—vagabond boys—vindictive dog—and 
 victorious bird (the title of the picture being “ The Moment of 
 Victory ”)—the intrinsic value of the whole, I say, being—not 
 the twentieth part of a Hunt’s five-minute sketch of one cock’s 
 feather. 
 
 And yet it was all prettily painted,—as I said ; and possessed 
 every conceivable quality that can be taught in a school, or 
 bought for money : and the artist who did it had probably in 
 private life, a fair average quantity of sense and feeling, but 
 had left both out of his picture, in order to imitate what he 
 had been taught was fine, and produce what he expected would 
 pay. 
 
 Take another instance, more curious, and nearer to matters 
 in hand. The little photograph, No. 117, was made in 1858 
 (by my own setting of the camera), in the court-yard of one of 
 the prettiest yet remaining fragments of 15th century domes¬ 
 tic buildings in Abbeville. The natural vine-leaves consent in 
 grace and glow with the life of the old wood carving; and 
 though the modern white porcelain image ill replaces the re¬ 
 volution-deposed Madonna, and only pedestals of saints, and 
 canopies, are left on the propping beams of the gateway ; and 
 though the cask, and cooper’s tools, and gardener’s spade and 
 ladder are little in accord with what was once stately in the 
 gate, and graceful in the winding stair,—the declining shadows 
 of the past mingle with the hardship of the present day in no 
 unkindly sadness ; and the little angle of courtyard, if tenderly 
 painted in the depression of its fate, has enough still to occupy 
 as much of our best thought as may be modestly claimed for 
 his picture by any master not of the highest order. 
 
PREFACE. 
 
 229 
 
 But these motives of wise and gentle feeling would not ap¬ 
 peal to the public mind in competitive exhibition. Such ef¬ 
 forts as are made by our own landscapists to keep record of 
 any fast vanishing scenes of the kind, are scarcely with good¬ 
 will accepted even in our minor art galleries : and leave to share 
 in the lustre of the Parisian “ Salon de 1873 ” could only be 
 hoped for by the author of the composition from which the 
 photograph, No. 118, is taken, on condition of his giving 
 pungency to the feeble savor of architectural study by a con¬ 
 diment of love, assassination, and despair. 
 
 It will not, I trust, be supposed that in anything I have said, 
 or may presently further say, I have the smallest intention of 
 diminishing the praise of nobly dramatic or pathetic pictures. 
 The best years of my life have been spent in the endeavor to 
 illustrate the neglected greatest of these, in Venice, Milan, and 
 Rome : while my last and most deliberate writings have lost 
 much of their influence with the public by disagreeably insist¬ 
 ing that the duty of a great painter was rather to improve 
 them, than amuse. But it remains always a sure elementary 
 principle that interest in the story of pictures does not in the 
 least signify a relative interest in the art of painting, or in the 
 continual beauty and calm virtue of nature : and that the 
 wholesomest manner in which the intelligence of young people 
 can be developed (I may say, even, the intelligence of modest 
 old people cultivated), in matters of this kind, is by induc¬ 
 ing them accurately to understand what painting is as mere 
 painting, and music as mere music, before they are led into 
 further question of the uses of either, in policy, morals, or 
 religion. 
 
 And I cannot but recollect with feelings of considerable re¬ 
 freshment, in these days of the deep, the lofty, and the mys¬ 
 terious, what a simple company of connoisseurs we were, who 
 j crowded into happy meeting, on the first Mondays in Mays of 
 long ago, in the bright large room of the old Water-color 
 Society; and discussed, with holiday gayety, the unimposing 
 merits of the favorites, from whose pencils we knew precisely 
 what to expect, and by whom we were never either disap¬ 
 pointed or surprised. Copley Fielding used to paint fishing- 
 
 I 
 
230 
 
 PREFACE. 
 
 boats for us, in a fresh breeze, “ Off Dover,” “ Off Ramsgate,” 
 “ Off the Needles,”—off everywhere on the south coast where 
 anybody had been last autumn ; but we were always kept pleas¬ 
 antly in sight of land, and never saw so much as a gun fired in 
 distress. Mr. Robson would occasionally paint a Bard, on a 
 heathery crag in Wales ; or—it might be—a Lady of the Lake 
 on a similar piece of Scottish foreground,—“ Benvenue in the 
 distance.” A little fighting, in the time of Charles the First, 
 was permitted to Mr. Cattermole ; and Mr. Cristall would some¬ 
 times invite virtuous sympathy to attend the meeting of two 
 lovers at a Wishing gate or a Holy well. But the furthest 
 flights even of these poetical members of the Society were 
 seldom beyond the confines of the British Islands ; the vague 
 dominions of the air, and vasty ones of the deep, were held to 
 be practically unvoyageable by our un-Dsedal pinions, and on 
 the safe level of our native soil, the sturdy statistics of Mr. De 
 Wint, and blunt pastorals of Mr. Cox, restrained within the 
 limits of probability and sobriety, alike the fancy of the idle, 
 and the ambition of the vain. 
 
 It became, however, by common and tacit consent, Mr. 
 Prout’s privilege, and it remained his privilege exclusively, to 
 introduce foreign elements of romance and amazement into 
 this—perhaps slightly fenny—atmosphere, of English common 
 sense. In contrast with our Midland locks and barges, his 
 “ On the Grand Canal, Venice,” was an Arabian enchantment; 
 among the mildly elegiac country churchyards of Llangollen 
 or Stoke Pogis, his “Sepulchral Monuments at Verona’’were 
 Shakespearian tragedy ; and to us who had just come into the 
 room out of Finsbury or Mincing Lane, his “ Street in Nurem- 
 burg ” was a German fairy tale. But we none of us recognized, 
 then (and I know not how far any of us recognize yet), that 
 these feelings of ours were dependent on the mediation of a 
 genius as earnest as it was humble, doing work not in its es¬ 
 sence romantic at all; but, on the contrary, the only quite use¬ 
 ful, faithful, and evermore serviceable work that the Society— 
 by hand of any of its members—had ever done, or could ever, 
 in that phase of its existence, do : containing, moreover, a 
 statement of certain social facts only to be gathered, and image 
 
PREFACE. 
 
 231 
 
 of certain pathetic beauties only to be seen, at that particular 
 moment in the history of (what we are pleased to call) civiliza¬ 
 tion. 
 
 “ As earnest,” I repeat,—“ as it was humble.” The drawings 
 actually shown on the Exhibition walls gave no sufficient clue 
 to Prout’s real character, and no intimation whatever of his 
 pauseless industry. He differed, in these unguessed methods 
 of toil, wholly from the other members of the Society. De 
 Wint’s morning and afternoon sketches from nature, with a 
 few solidifying touches, were at once ready for their frames. 
 Fielding’s misty downs and dancing seas were softened into 
 their distances of azure, and swept into their hollows of foam, 
 at his ease, in his study, with conventional ability, and 
 lightly burdened memory. Hunt’s models lay on the little 
 table at his side all day ; or stood as long as he liked by the 
 barn-door, fora penny. But Prout’s had to be far sought, and 
 with difficulty detailed and secured : the figures gliding on the 
 causeway or mingling in the market-place, stayed not his leis¬ 
 ure ; and his drawings prepared for the Water-color room 
 i were usually no more than mechanical abstracts, made abso¬ 
 lutely for support of his household, from the really vivid 
 sketches which, with the whole instinct and joy of his nature, 
 he made all through the cities of ancient Christendom, with¬ 
 out an instant of flagging energy, and without a thought of 
 money payment. They became to him afterward a precious 
 ! library, of which he never parted with a single volume as long 
 as he lived. But it was the necessary consequence of the devo¬ 
 tion of his main strength to the obtaining of these studies, that 
 at his death they remained a principal part of the provision 
 left for his family, and were therefore necessarily scattered. 
 I cannot conceive any object more directly tending to the 
 best interests of our students, both in art and history, than 
 the reassembling a chosen series of them for the nation, as 
 opportunity may be given. 
 
 Let me, however, before entering on any special notice of 
 those which Mr. Huish has been able at this time (and I my¬ 
 self, by the good help of the painter’s son, Mr. Gillespie Front), 
 to obtain for exhibition, state in all clearness the terms under 
 
 i 
 
232 
 
 PREFACE. 
 
 which they should he judged, and may be enjoyed. For just 
 as we ought not to match a wood-block of Bewick’s against a 
 fresco by Correggio, we must not compare a pencil outline of 
 Prout’s with any such ideals of finished street effect as Flem¬ 
 ish painting once produced. Prout is not a colorist, nor, in 
 any extended or complete sense of the word, a painter. He 
 is essentially a draughtsman with the lead-pencil, as Purer 
 was essentially a draughtsman with the burin, and Bewick on 
 the wood-block. And the chief art-virtue of the pieces here 
 exhibited is the intellectual abstraction which represents 
 many features of things with few lines. 
 
 Take the little view in Amiens, No. 7, showing the west 
 front of the cathedral in the distance. That front is enriched 
 with complex ranks of arcade and pinnacle, which it would 
 take days to outline perfectly, and which, seen at the distance 
 assumed in this drawing, gather into a mystery which no 
 fineness of hand could imitatively follow. But all this has 
 been abstracted into a few steady lines, with an intelligence 
 of choice and precision of notation which build the cathedral 
 as if it stood there, and in such accurate likeness that it could 
 be recognized at a glance from every other mass of Gothic in 
 Europe. 
 
 That drawing dependent on abstraction of this kind, in 
 which forms are expressed rather as a mineralogist would 
 draw a crystal than with aoy investing mystery of shade or 
 effect, cannot be carried beyond the point assigned, nor con¬ 
 vey any sense of extreme beauty or majesty, when these really 
 exist in its subject, must be conceded at once, and in full. 
 But there is a great deal of scenery in this Europe of ours, 
 not lovely ; and a great deal of habitation in this Europe 
 of ours not sublime, yet both extremely worthy of being 
 recorded in a briefly crystalline manner. And with scenes 
 only, and dwellings only, of this ruder nature, Prout is con* 
 cerned. 
 
 Take for instance the general facts respecting the valley of 
 the Somme, collected in this little sketch of Amiens. That 
 river, and the Oise, with other neighboring minor streams, 
 flow through a chalk district intersected by very ancient val- 
 
PREFACE. 
 
 233 
 
 leys, filled mostly witli peat up to sea-level, but carrying off 
 a large portion of the rainfall over the whole surface of the 
 upper plains, which, open and arable, retain scarcely any mois¬ 
 ture in morasses, pools, or deep grass. The rivers, therefore, 
 though with little fall, run always fast and brimful, divided 
 into many serviceable branches and runlets ; while the older 
 villages and cities on their banks are built of timber and brick, 
 or in the poorer cottages, timber and clay ; but their churches 
 of an adhesive and durable chalk rock, yielding itself with the 
 utmost ease to dexterities of deep incision, and relieving, at 
 first with lace-like whiteness, and always with a pleasant pearly 
 gray, the shadows so obtained. No sensual arts or wealthy 
 insolences have ever defiled or distorted the quiet temper of 
 the northern French race, and in this busy little water-street 
 of Amiens (you see that Prout has carefully indicated its rapid 
 current—a navigable and baptismal brook, past step and door 
 —water that one can float with and wash with, not a viscous 
 vomit of black poison, like an English river) you have clearly 
 pictured to you a state of peasant life assembled in the fellow- 
 i ship of a city, yet with as little pride as if still in the glades of 
 Arden, and united chiefly for the sake of mere neighborliness ; 
 and the sense of benediction and guardianship in the every¬ 
 where visible pinnacles of the temple built by their Fathers, 
 nor yet forsaken by their Fathers’ God. 
 
 All this can be enough told in a few rightly laid pencil 
 lines, and more, it is needless to tell of so lowly provincial 
 life. 
 
 Needless, at least, for the general public. For the closer 
 student of architecture, finer drawing may be needed ; but 
 even for such keener requirement Prout will not, for a time, 
 
 I fail us. 
 
 Five-and-twenty miles down the Somme lies the little 
 ! ramparted town of Abbeville ; rampart only of the Grand Mo- 
 narque’s time, but the walls of might long ago, in the days of 
 Crecy ; and few French provincial bourgs had then more 
 numerous or beautiful monasteries, hospitals, chapels, and 
 churches. Of the central St. Wulfran, never completed, there 
 remain only the colossal nave, the ruined transept walls, and 
 
234 
 
 PREFACE. 
 
 the lordly towers and porches of the west front. The drawing 
 No. 5, quite one of the best examples of Prout’s central time 
 in the room, most faithfully represents this western pile of 
 tracery and fretwork, with the filial richness of the timber 
 houses that once stood round it. 
 
 None of the beautiful ones here seen are now left; and one 
 day, perhaps, even France herself will be grateful to the wan¬ 
 dering Londoner, who drew them as they once were, and 
 copied, without quite understanding, every sign and word on 
 them. 
 
 And as one of the few remaining true records of fifteenth- 
 century France—such as her vestiges remained after all the 
 wreck of revolution and recoil of war had passed over them, 
 this pencil drawing, slight as it seems, may well take rank be¬ 
 side any pen-sketch by Holbein in Augsburg, or Gentil Bellini 
 iu Venice. As a piece of composition and general treatment, 
 it might be reasoned on for days ; for the cunning choices of 
 omission, the delicate little dexterities of adjustment—the 
 accents without vulgarity, and reticences without affectation— 
 the exactly enough everywhere, to secure an impression of 
 reality, and the instant pause at the moment when another 
 touch would have been tiresome—are, in the soberest truth, 
 more wonderful than most of the disciplined compositions of 
 the greater masters, for no scruple checks them for an instant 
 in changing or introducing what they chose ; but Prout gives 
 literal, and all but servile, portrait, only managing somehow 
 to get the chequers of woodwork to carry down the richness of 
 the towers into the houses ; then to get the broad white wall 
 of the nearer houses to contrast with both, and then sets the 
 transept turret to peep over the roof just enough to etherialize 
 its practicality, and the black figure to come in front of it to 
 give lustre to its whiteness ; and so on throughout, down to 
 the last and minutest touches:—the incomprehensiblest class¬ 
 ical sonata is not more artificial—the sparklingest painted 
 window not more vivid, and the sharpest photograph not half 
 so natural. 
 
 In sequence of this drawing, I may point out seven 
 others of like value, equally estimable and unreplaceable, 
 
PREFACE. 
 
 235 
 
 both in matters of Art, and—I use the word, as will be seen 
 presently, in its full force—of History, namely 
 
 No. 9. Evreux. 
 
 No. 10. Strasburg. 
 
 No. 19. Antwerp. 
 
 No. 47. Domo d’Ossola. 
 
 No. 48. Como. 
 
 No. 65. Bologna. 
 
 No. 71. The Coliseum. 
 
 I choose these eight drawings (counting the Abbeville), four 
 belonging to North France and Germany, four to Italy, of 
 which the Northern ones do indeed utterly represent the 
 spirit of the architecture chosen ; but the Southern subjects 
 are much more restricted in expression, for Prout was quite 
 unable to draw the buildings of the highest Italian school: 
 yet he has given the vital look of Italy in his day more truly 
 than any other landscapist, be he who he may ; and not ex¬ 
 cepting even Turner, for his ideal is always distinctly Tur- 
 nerian, and not the mere blunt and sorrowful fact. 
 
 You might perhaps, and very easily, think at first that 
 these Prout subjects were as much “ Proutized ” (Copley 
 Fielding first used that word to me) as Turner’s were Turner- 
 ized. They are not so, by any manner of means, or rather, 
 they are so by manner and means only, not by sight or 
 heart. Turner saw things as Shelley or Keats did ; and with 
 perfectly comprehensive power, gave all that such eyes can 
 summon, to gild, or veil, the fatalities of material truth. But 
 Prout saw only what all the world sees, what is substantially 
 and demonstrably there ; and drew that reality, in his much 
 arrested and humble manner indeed, but with perfectly apos¬ 
 tolic faithfulness. He reflected the scene like some rough 
 old Etruscan mirror—jagged, broken, blurred, if you will, 
 but It, the thing itself still ; "while Turner gives it, and him¬ 
 self too, and ever so much of fairyland besides. His Flor¬ 
 ence or Nemi compels me to think, as a scholar, or (for so 
 much of one as may be in me) a poet; but Prout’s harbor of 
 
230 
 
 PREFACE. 
 
 old Como is utterly and positively the very harbor I landed 
 in when I was a boy of fourteen, after a day’s rowing from 
 Cadenabbia, and it makes me young again, and hot, and 
 happy, to look at it. And that Bologna! Well, the tower 
 does lean a little too far over, certainly ; but what blessed¬ 
 ness to be actually there, and to think we shall be in Venice 
 to-morrow! 
 
 But note that the first condition of all these really great 
 drawings (as indeed for all kinds of other good), is unaffected¬ 
 ness. If ever Prout strains a nerve, or begins to think what 
 other people will say or feel;—nay, if he ever allows his own 
 real faculty of chiaroscuro to pronounce itself consciously, he 
 falls into fourth- and fifth-rate work directly ; and the entire 
 force of him can be found only where it has been called into 
 cheerful exertion by subjects moderately, yet throughout de¬ 
 lightful to him ; which present no difficulties to be conquered, 
 no discords to be reconciled, and have just enough of clarion 
 in them to rouse him to his paces, without provoking him to 
 prance or capriole. 
 
 I should thus rank the drawing of Como (48) as quite of 
 the first class, and in the front rank of that class. Unat¬ 
 tractive at first, its interest will increase every moment that 
 you stay by it, and every little piece of it is a separate pic¬ 
 ture, all the better in itself for its subjection to the whole. 
 
 You may at first think the glassless windows too black. 
 But nothing can be too black for an open window in a sunny 
 Italian wall, at so short a distance. You may think the hills 
 too light, but nothing can be too light for olive hills in mid¬ 
 day summer. “ They would have come dark against the 
 sky ? ” Yes, certainly ; but we don’t pretend to draw Italian 
 skies—only the ruined port of Como, which is verily here be¬ 
 fore us—(alas ! at Como no more, having long since been filled 
 up, levelled, and gravelled, and made an “ esplanade ” for 
 modern Italy to spit over in its idle afternoons). But take 
 the lens to the old group of houses ;—they will become as in¬ 
 teresting as a missal illumination if you only look carefully 
 enough to see how Prout varied those twenty-seven black 
 holes, so that literally not one of them shall be like another. 
 
PREFACE. 
 
 237 
 
 The grand old Comasque builder of the twelfth century 
 arches below (the whole school of Lombardic masonry being 
 originally Comasque) varied them to his hand enough in 
 height and width—but he invents a new tiny picture in chiar¬ 
 oscuro to put under every arch, and then knits all together 
 with the central boats ;—literally knits, for you see the mast 
 of one of them catches up the cross-stick—stitch we might 
 call it—that the clothes hung on between the balconies ; and 
 then the little figures on the left catch up the pillars like 
 meshes in basket-work, and then the white awning of the 
 boat on the left repeats the mass of wall, taking the stiffness 
 out of it, while the reflections of arches, with the other fig¬ 
 ures, and the near black freights, carry all the best of it, 
 broken and rippling, to the bitter shore. 
 
 But the drawing of the Coliseum at Rome, No. 71, has still 
 higher claim to our consideration ; in it were reserved, and 
 in all points, rarer powers of expressing magnitude and soli¬ 
 tude. It is so majestic in manner that it would quite have 
 borne being set beside the photograph of Turner’s drawing 
 at Farnley ; had it been fair to match mere outline against a 
 finished composition. For Prout was, and he remains, the 
 only one of our artists who entirely shared Turner’s sense of 
 magnitude, as the sign of past human effort, or of natural 
 force; and I must be so far tedious as to explain this meta¬ 
 physical point at some length. Of all forms of artistic sus¬ 
 ceptibility, reverent perception of true * magnitude is the 
 rarest. No general conclusion has become more clear to 
 my experience than this—strange as it may seem at first 
 statement, that a painter’s mind, typically , recognizes no 
 charm in physical vastness : and will, if it must choose be¬ 
 tween two evils, by preference work on a reduced, rather 
 than an enlarged, scale; and for subject, paint miniature 
 rather than mass. Human form is always given by the great 
 
 * Reckless accumulation of false magnitude—as by John Martin, is 
 merely a vulgar weakness of brain, allied to nightmare ; so also the 
 colossal works of decadent states in sculpture and architecture, which 
 are always insolent; not reverent 
 
238 
 
 PREFACE. 
 
 masters either of the natural size, or somewhat less (unless 
 under fixed conditions of distance which require perspective 
 enlargement),—and no sort or shadow of pleasure is ever taken 
 by the strongest designers in bulk of matter. Veronese never 
 paints shafts of pillars more than two feet in diameter, or 
 thereabouts, and only from fifteen to twenty feet in height. 
 Titian’s beech-trunks in the Peter Martyr were not a foot 
 across at the thickest, while his mountains are merely blue 
 spaces of graceful shape, and are never accurately enough 
 drawn to give even a suggestion of scale. And in the entire 
 range of Venetian marine painting there is not one large 
 wave. 
 
 Among our own recent landscape painters, while occasion¬ 
 ally great feeling is shown for space, or mystery, there is 
 none for essential magnitude. Stanfield was just as happy 
 in drawing the East cliff at Hastings as the Rock of Ischia ; 
 and painted the little sandy jut of crag far better than the 
 coned volcano. Fielding asked for no more stupendous sum¬ 
 mits than those of Saddleback or Wrynose—and never at¬ 
 tempted the grandeur even of Yorkshire scars, finding their 
 articulated geology troublesome. Sometimes David Roberts 
 made a praiseworthy effort to explain the size of a pillar at 
 Thebes, or a tower in the Alhambra; but only in cases where 
 the character of largeness had been forced upon his attention, 
 as the quality to be observed by himself, and recommended 
 to the observation of others. He never felt, or would have 
 tried to make anyone else feel—the weight of an ordinary 
 boulder stone, or the hollow of an old chestnut stem, or the 
 height of a gathering thunder-cloud. In the real apprehen¬ 
 sion of measurable magnitude, magnitude in things clearly 
 seen—stones, trees, clouds, or towers—Turner and Prout 
 stand—they two—absolutely side by side—otherwise com¬ 
 panionless. 
 
 Measurable magnitude, observe :—and therefore wonderful. 
 If you can’t see the difference between the domes of the Na¬ 
 tional Gallery and of St. Paul’s :—much more if you can’t see 
 the difference between Shanklin Chine and the Via Mala (and 
 most people can’t!)—you will never care either for Turner or 
 
PREFACE. 
 
 239 
 
 Proutnor can you care rightly for them unless you have an 
 intellectual pleasure in construction, and know and feel that it 
 is more difficult to build a tower securely four hundred feet 
 high, than forty—and that the pillar of cloud above the crater 
 of Etna, standing two thousand feet forth from the lips of it, 
 means a natural force greater than the puff of a railway boiler. 
 The quiet and calm feeling of reverence for this kind of power, 
 and the accurate habit of rendering it (see notes on the 
 Sketches of Strasburg, No. 10, and Drachenfels, No. 28)— 
 are always connected, so far as I have observed, with some 
 parallel justice in the estimate of spiritual order and power 
 in human life and its laws ;—nor is there any faculty of my 
 own mind — among those to which I owe whatever useful 
 results it may have reached—of which I am so gratefully 
 conscious. 
 
 There is one further point—and if my preface has hitherto 
 been too garrulous, it must be grave in notice of this at the 
 close,—in which Turner, Bewick, Hunt, and Prout, all four 
 agree—that they can draw the poor, but not the rich. They 
 acknowledge with affection, whether for principal or accessory 
 subjects of their art, the British farmer, the British sailor,* the 
 British marketwoman, and the British workman. They agree 
 unanimously in ignoring the British gentleman. Let the 
 British gentleman lay it to heart, and ask himself why. 
 
 The general answer is long, and manifold. But, with re¬ 
 spect to the separate work of Prout, there is a very precious 
 
 * Including, of course, the British soldier ; but for Turner, a ship of the 
 line was pictorially better material than a field battery; else he would 
 just as gladly have painted Albuera as Trafalgar. I am intensely anx¬ 
 ious, by the way, to find out where a small picture of his greatest time 
 may now be dwelling,—a stranded English frigate engaging the batteries 
 on the French coast at sunset (she got off at the flood-tide in the morn¬ 
 ing) ; I want to get it, if possible, for the St. George’s Museum at Sheffield. 
 For the rest, I think the British gentleman may partly see his way to 
 the answer of the above question if he will faithfully consider with him¬ 
 self how it comes to pass that, always fearless in the field, he is cow¬ 
 ardly in the House,—and always generous in the field,—is yet meanly 
 cunning, and—too often—malignant, in the House. 
 
240 
 
 PREFACE. 
 
 piece of instruction in it, respecting national prosperity and 
 policy, which may be gathered with a few glances. 
 
 You see how all his best pieces depend on figures either 
 crowded in market-places, or pausing (lounging, it may be) 
 in quiet streets—you will not find in the entire series of 
 subjects here assembled from his hand—a single figure in 
 a hurry ! He ignores, you see—not only the British Gentle¬ 
 man ;—but every necessary condition, nowadays, of British 
 Business! 
 
 Look again, and see if you can find a single figure exerting 
 all its strength. A couple of men rolling a single cask, per¬ 
 haps ; here and there a woman with rather a large bundle on 
 her head—any more athletic display than these, you seek in 
 vain. 
 
 He ignores even the British Boat-race—and British muscu¬ 
 lar divinity, and British Muscular Art. 
 
 His figures are all as quiet as the Cathedral of Chartres! 
 “Because he could not make them move ”—think you ? Nay, 
 not so. Some of them—(that figure on the sands in the Calais, 
 for instance), you can scarcely think are standing still—but 
 they all move quietly. The real reason is that he understood 
 —and we do not—the meaning of the word—“quiet.” 
 
 He understood it, personally, and for himself : practically 
 and for others. Take this one fact—of his quiet dealings with 
 men, and think over it. In his early days he had established 
 a useful and steady connection with the country dealers,—that 
 is to say, with the leading printsellers in the county towns 
 and principal watering-places. He supplied them with pretty 
 drawings of understood size and price, which were nearly al¬ 
 ways in tranquil demand by the better class of customers. 
 The understood size was about 10 inches by 14 or 15, and the 
 fixed price, six guineas. The dealer charged from seven to 
 ten, according to the pleasantness of the drawing. I bought 
 the “Venice,” for instance, No. 55, from Mr. Hewitt, of Leam¬ 
 ington, for eight guineas. 
 
 The modern fashionable interest in—what we suppose to be 
 art—had just begun to show itself a few years before Prout’s 
 death ; and he was frequently advised to raise his prices. But 
 
PREFACE. 
 
 241 
 
 he never raised them a shilling to his old customers.* They 
 were supplied with all the drawings they wanted, at six guineas 
 each, to the end. A very peaceful method of dealing, and 
 under the true ancient laws ordained by Athena of the Agora, 
 and St. James of the Rialto. 
 
 Athena, observe, of the Agora, or Market Place. And St. 
 James of the Deep Stream, or Market River. The Angels of 
 Honest Sale and Honest Porterage ; such honest porterage 
 being the true grandeur of the Grand Canal, and of all other 
 canals, rivers, sounds, and seas that ever moved in wavering 
 morris under the night. And the eternally electric light of 
 the embankment of that Rialto stream was shed upon it by 
 the Cross—know you that for certain, you dwellers by high- 
 embanked and steamer-burdened Thames. 
 
 And learn from your poor wandering painter this lesson— 
 for sum of the best he had to give you (it is the Alpha of the 
 Laws of true human life)—that no city is prosperous in the 
 sight of heaven, unless the peasant sells in its market—adding 
 this lesson of Gentile Bellini’s for the Omega, that no city is 
 ever righteous in the Sight of Heaven, unless the noble walks 
 in its street. 
 
 * Nor greatly to his new ones. The drawings made for the Water- 
 color room were usually more elaborate, and, justly, a little higher in 
 price ; but my father bought the Lisieux, No. 13, off its walls, for eigh¬ 
 teen guineas. 
 
 16 
 

tt \ ‘ 
 
 CATALOGUE. 
 
 I.-PEOUT. 
 
 The reader will find, ending this pamphlet, a continuous 
 index to the whole collection of drawings, with references to the 
 pages in which special notice has been taken of them. So that 
 in this descriptive text, I allow myself to pause in explanatory, 
 or wander in discursive, statement, just as may seem to me 
 most helpful to the student, or most likely to interest the 
 general visitor. 
 
 I begin with the series of pencil drawings by Prout, which 
 were my principal object in promoting this exhibition. Of 
 these I have chosen seventy, all of high quality, and arranged 
 so as to illustrate the outgoing course of an old-fashioned 
 Continental tour, beginning at Calais, and ending at Rome. 
 Following the order of these with attention, an intellectual 
 observer may learn many things—not to his hurt. 
 
 Their dates, it will be noticed, are never given by the artist 
 himself—except in the day ; never the year—nor is there any¬ 
 thing in the progress of Prout’s skill, or in his changes of 
 manner, the account of which need detain us long. From 
 earliest boyhood to the day of his death, he drew firmly, and 
 never scrabbled or blurred. Not a single line or dot is 
 ever laid without positive intention,* and the care needful to 
 fulfil that intention. This is already a consummate virtue. 
 But the magnificent certainty and ease, united, which it en¬ 
 abled him to obtain, are only seen to the full in drawings of 
 
 H — -——--- 
 
 * See tlie exception proving tlierule, in a single line, in No. 12, there 
 noted. 
 
 
244 
 
 NOTES ON PEOUT. 
 
 his middle time. Not in decrepitude, but in mistaken effort, 
 for which, to my sorrow, I was partly mj^self answerable, he 
 endeavored in later journeys to make his sketches more 
 accurate in detail of tracery and sculpture ; and they lost in 
 feeling what they gained in technical exactness and elabora¬ 
 tion. Of these later drawings only three are included in this 
 series, 4, 8, and 17 ; their peculiar character will, however, be 
 at once discernible. 
 
 His incipient work was distinguished by two specialties— 
 the use of a gray washed tint with the pencil, a practice en¬ 
 tirely abandoned in his great time (though he will always 
 make notes of color frankly) ; and the insisting on minor 
 pieces of broken texture, in small stones, bricks, grass, or any 
 little picturesque incidents, with loss of largeness and repose. 
 The little study of the apse of Worms Cathedral (32), a most 
 careful early drawing, shows these faults characteristically ; 
 the Prague (23) is as definite an example of his great central 
 manner, and even Turner’s outline is not more faultless, 
 though more complete. For the rest, Turner himself shared 
 in the earlier weakness of more sharply dotted and sprinkled 
 black touches, and practised, cotemporaneously, the wash of 
 gray tint with the pencil. The chief use of the method to 
 the young student is in its compelling him to divide his 
 masses clearly ; and I used it much myself in early sketches, 
 such as that of the Aventine, No. 104a, for mere cleanliness 
 and comfort in security of shadow—rather than the always 
 rubbing and vanishing blacklead. But it is an entirely re¬ 
 stricted method, and must be abandoned in all advanced study, 
 and the pencil used alone both for shade and line, until the 
 finer gradations of shadow are understood. Then color may 
 be used with the pencil for notation, and every power at once 
 is in the workman’s hands. The two first studies in our 
 series are perfect instances of this conclusive method.* 
 
 There were more reasons, and better ones, than the students 
 
 * For further notes on the methods of shape proper to the great 
 masters, the reader may consult the third and fourth numbers of iny 
 Laws of Fesole. 
 
NOTES ON PROUT. 
 
 245 
 
 of to-day would suppose, for his not adopting it oftener. The 
 subjects in Cornwall and Derbyshire, by which his mind was 
 first formed, were most of them wholly discouraging in color, 
 if not gloomy or offensive. Gray blocks of whinstone, black 
 timbers, and broken walls of clay, needed no iridescent illus¬ 
 tration ; the heath and stonecrop were beyond his skill ; and, 
 had he painted them with the staunchest efforts, would not 
 have been translatable into the coarse lithographs for Acker- 
 mann’s drawing-books, the publication of which was at that 
 time a principal source of income to him. His richer Conti¬ 
 nental subjects of later times were often quite as independent 
 of color, and in nearly every case taken under circumstances 
 rendering its imitation impossible. He might be permitted 
 by indulgent police to stop a thoroughfare for an hour or two 
 with a crowd of admirers, but by no means to settle himself 
 in a comfortable tent upon the pavement for a couple of 
 months, or set up a gypsy encampment of pots and easel in the 
 middle of the market-place. Also, his constitution, as delicate 
 as it was sanguine, admitted indeed of his sitting without 
 harm for half an hour in a shady lane, or basking for part of 
 the forenoon in a sunny piazza, but would have broken down 
 at once under the continuous strain necessary to paint a pict¬ 
 ure in the open air. And under these conditions the wonder 
 is only how he did so much that was attentive and true, and 
 that even his most conventional water-colors are so refined in 
 light and shade that even the slightest become almost majestic 
 when engraved. 
 
 1. Calais. 
 
 Sketch on the spot, of the best time and highest 
 quality—the clouds put in as they stood—the brig as she 
 lay—the figures where they measure the space of sand, 
 and give the look of busy desolateness, which poor Calais 
 —crown jewel of England—had fallen to in our day 
 Prout’s and mine. You see the size of the steam-packet 
 of the period ; you may trust Prout’s measure of its mag¬ 
 nitude, as aforesaid. So also of belfry, lighthouse, and 
 church—very dear all to the old painter, as to me. I 
 
246 
 
 NOTES ON PROUT. 
 
 gave my own drawing of the lighthouse and belfry, No. 
 104, to the author of Rab and his Friends , who may per¬ 
 haps lend it me for comparison.* My drawing of the 
 church spire is lost to me, but somewhere about in the 
 world, I hope, and perhaps may be yet got hold of, and 
 kept with this drawing, for memory of old Calais, and il¬ 
 lustration of what was meant by the opening passage of 
 the fourth volume of “Modern Painters.” (AppendixII.) 
 
 Take the lens f to the gate of the tower (above the 
 steamer) and see how, in such a little bit, the architecture 
 is truly told. Compare Hogarth’s Gate of Calais. 
 
 2. Calais Old Pier. 
 
 Turner’s great subject. But Turner’s being earlier 
 taken, while the English packet was still only a fast-sail¬ 
 ing cutter—(steam unthought of!) A perfect gem of 
 masterful study, and quiet feeling of the facts of eternal 
 sea and shore. 
 
 The solemnly rendered mystery of the deep and far 
 sea ; the sway of the great waves entering over the bar at 
 the harbor’s mouth ; the ebbing away of the sand at the 
 angle of the pier; the heaping of it in hills against its 
 nearer side, J and the way in which all is made huge, 
 bleak, and wild by the deeper tone of the dark sail and 
 figure, are all efforts of the highest art faculty, which we 
 cannot too much honor and thank. 
 
 3. Studies of French and Netherland Figures and Dili¬ 
 
 gences. 
 
 Exemplary in the manner of abstract, and perfect in 
 figure drawing, for his purposes. They are poor persons, 
 
 * It was exhibited last year, hut if it comes from Scotland, will be 
 shown again for proof of Prout’s fidelity in distant form. 
 
 fFor proper study of any good work in painting and drawing, the 
 student should always have in his hand a magnifying glass of moderate 
 power, from two to three inches in diameter. 
 
 X Compare the sentence respecting this same place, Appendix II ., 
 “ surfy sand, and liillocked shore.” 
 
NOTES ON PROUT. 
 
 247 
 
 you see—all of them. Not quite equal to Miss Kate 
 Greenaway’s in grace, nor to Mrs. Allingham’s in face 
 (they, therefore, you observe, have mostly their backs to 
 us). But both Miss Kate and Mrs. Allingham might do 
 better duty to their day, and better honor to their art, 
 if they would paint, as verily, some of these poor country 
 people in far-away places, rather than the high-bred pret¬ 
 tinesses or fond imaginations, which are the best they 
 have given us yet for antidote to the misery of London. 
 
 4. Abbeville. Church of St. Wulfran. 
 
 Seen from the west, over old houses (since destroyed). 
 Of the artist’s best time and manner. See Preface, page 
 233. 
 
 5. Abbeville. Church of St. Wulfran—the northwestern 
 
 TOWER, WITH OLD HOUSES. 
 
 Elaborate. Of the late time, but not in the highest 
 degree good. The chiaroscuro of the pinnacles evident¬ 
 ly caught on the spot, but not carried through the draw¬ 
 ing rightly, and the whole much mannered. Precious, 
 however, for all that. 
 
 6. Photograph of the Porches of St. Wulfran, Abbeville. 
 
 7. Amiens. 
 
 One of the best of the best time. See Preface, page 
 232, and compare the extract from “Modern Painters,” 
 given in Appendix III. 
 
 8. Chapel of the Holy Sepulchre in St. Jaques, Dieppe. 
 
 One of the best studies of the last period. See further 
 notes on it under the number 17. 
 
 9. Evreux. 
 
 Perfect sketch of the best time, and most notable for 
 the exquisite grace of proportion in its wooden belfry. 
 No architect, however accurate in his measurements—no 
 artist, however sensitive in his admiration—ever gave the 
 
248 
 
 NOTES ON PROUT . 
 
 proportion and grace of Gothic spires and towers with 
 the loving fidelity that Prout did. This is much to say; 
 and therefore I say it again deliberately : there are no 
 existing true records of the real effect of Gothic towers 
 and spires—except only Prout’s. And now I must be 
 tedious a while, and explain what I mean in saying this— 
 being much—and show it to be true. Observe first— 
 everything in grace of form depends on truth of scale. 
 You don’t show how graceful a thing is, till you show 
 how large it is; for all grace means ultimately the use of 
 strength in the right way, moral and physical, against a 
 given force. A swan, no bigger than a butterfly, would 
 not be graceful—its grace is in its proportion to the 
 waves and power over them. A butterfly as large as a 
 swan would not be graceful—its beauty is in being so 
 small that the winds play with it, but do not vex it. A 
 hollow traceried spire fifteen feet high would be effem¬ 
 inate and frivolous, for it would be stronger solid—a hol¬ 
 low traceried spire five hundred feet high, is beautiful; 
 for it is safer so, and the burden of the builder’s toil 
 spared. All wisdom—economy—beauty, and holiness, 
 are one; harmonious throughout—in all places, times, 
 and things : understand any one of their orders, and do 
 it—it will lead you to another—to all others, in time. 
 
 Now, therefore, think why this spire of Evreux is 
 graceful. If it were only silver filigree over a salt-cellar, 
 it would still be pretty (for it is beautifully varied and 
 arranged). But not “graceful ” (or full of grace). The 
 reason is that it is built, not with silver, but with aspen 
 logs, and because there has been brought a strange refine¬ 
 ment and melody, as of chiming in tune, and virtue of 
 uprightness—and precision of pointedness, into the aspen 
 logs, which nobody could ever have believed it teas in a 
 log to receive. And it is graceful also, because it is evi¬ 
 dently playful and bright in temper. There are no labor¬ 
 ing logs visible—no propping, or thrusting, or bearing 
 Jogs—no mass of enduring and afflicted timber—only im¬ 
 aginative timber, aspiring just high enough for praise, 
 
NOTES ON PROUT. 
 
 249 
 
 not for ambition. Twice as high as it ever could have 
 stood in a tree—by honor of men done to it; but not so 
 high as to strain its strength, and make it weak among 
 the winds, or perilous to the people. 
 
 Strasburg—The Cathedral Spire. 
 
 I have put this drawing—quite one of the noblest in all 
 the series—out of its geographical place, and beside the 
 Evreux, that you may compare the qualities of grace in 
 wooden and stone buildings; and follow out our begun 
 reasoning further. 
 
 Examine first how the height is told. Conscientiously, 
 to begin with. He had not room enough on his paper 
 (perhaps), and put the top at the side rather than blunt 
 or diminish the least bit. I say “ perhaps,” because, with 
 most people, that would have been the way of it; but my 
 own private opinion is, that he never meant to have room 
 on his paper for it—that he felt instinctively that it was 
 grander to have it going up nobody knew where—only 
 that he could not draw it so for the public, and must 
 have the top handy to put on afterward. 
 
 Conscientiously, first, the height is told ; next, artfully. 
 He chooses his place just where you can see the principal 
 porch at the end of the street—takes care, by every arti¬ 
 fice of perspective and a little exaggeration of aerial tone, 
 to make you feel how far off it is ; then carries it up into 
 the clearer air. Of course, if you don’t notice the distant 
 porch, or are not in the habit of measuring the size of one 
 part of a thing by another, you will not feel it here—but 
 neither would you have felt it there, at Strasburg itself. 
 
 Next for composition. If you ever read my last year’s 
 notes on Turner, you must remember how often I had to 
 dwell on his way of conquering any objectionable charac¬ 
 ter in his main subject by putting more of the same char¬ 
 acter in something else, where it was not objectionable. 
 Now it happens to be one of the chief faults of Strasburg 
 Spire (and it has many, for all the reputation of it), to be 
 far too much constituted of meagre upright lines (see the 
 
250 
 
 NOTES ON PROTIT. 
 
 angle staircases, and process of their receding at the top, 
 and the vertical shafts across the window at its base). 
 Prout instantly felt, as he drew the tower, that, left to 
 itself it would be too ironlike and stiff. He does not dis¬ 
 guise this character in the least, but conquers it utterly by 
 insisting with all his might on the flutings of the pilasters 
 of the near well. “ How ill drawn these ! ” you say. Yes, 
 but he hates these in themselves, and does not care how 
 badly he draws them, so only that by their ugly help he 
 can save the Cathedral. Which they completely do ; tak¬ 
 ing all the stiffness out of it, and leaving it majestic. 
 Next—he uses contrast to foil its beauty, as he has used 
 repetition to mask its faults. In the Abbeville, No. 4, he 
 had a beautiful bit of rustic white wall to set off his towers 
 with. Here, in Strasburg, half modernized, alas ! even in 
 his time, he finds nothing better than the great ugly white 
 house behind the lamp. In old times, remember, a series 
 of gables like that of the last house would have gone all 
 down the street. (Compare the effect in Antwerp, No. 
 19, all contemporary.) Prout will not do any “restora¬ 
 tion ”—he knows better; but he could easily have dis¬ 
 guised this white house with cast shadows across the 
 street and some blinds and carpets at the windows. But 
 the white, vulgar mass shall not be so hidden, and the 
 richness of all the old work shall gain fulness out of the 
 modern emptiness, and modesty out of the modern im¬ 
 pudence. 
 
 Pre-eminently the gain is to the dear old gabled house 
 on the right, which is the real subject of the drawing, 
 being a true Strasburg dwelling-house of the great times. 
 But before speaking more of this, I must ask you to look 
 at the next subject. 
 
 12. Lisieux, Old Street in. 
 
 This, though it contains so much work, is a hurried and 
 fatigued drawing—fatigued itself in a sense, as having 
 more touches put on it than were good for it ; and the 
 sign of fatigue in the master, or perhaps rather of passing 
 
NOTES ON PROUT. 
 
 251 
 
 illness, for he seems never to have been tired in the or¬ 
 dinary way. The unusually confused and inarticulate 
 figures, the more or less wriggled and ill-drawn draperies, 
 and the unfinished foundation of the house on the right, 
 where actually there is a line crossing another unin¬ 
 tentionally ! are all most singular with him ; and I fancy 
 he must have come on this subject at the end of a sickly- 
 minded day, and yet felt that he must do all he could 
 for it, and then broken down. 
 
 He has resolved to do it justice, at least in the draw¬ 
 ing No. , one of the best in the room ; but there are 
 characters in the subject itself which, without his quite 
 knowing why, cramped him, and kept several of his finer 
 powers from coming into play. 
 
 Note first, essentially, he is a draughtsman of stone, 
 not wood, and a tree-trunk is always wholly beyond his 
 faculty; so that, when everything is wooden, as here, 
 he has to translate his stony manner for it all through, 
 and is as if speaking a foreign language. In the finished 
 drawing, one scarcely knows whether the near doorway 
 is stone or wood. 
 
 And there was one character, I repeat, in this subject 
 that specially strained this weak part of him. When a 
 wooden house is in properly wooden style—he can always 
 do it, as at Abbeville and Strasburg. But this street 
 at Lisieux is a wooden street in stone style. I feel even 
 tempted to write fine scientific modern English about it, 
 and say it is objectively lignologic and subjectively petro¬ 
 logic. The crossing beams of the wall-courses, and king¬ 
 posts of the gables in dormer windows are indeed 
 properly expressive of timber structure ; but all the 
 sculpture is imitative of the forms developed in the stone 
 traceries of the same period — seen perfectly in the 
 elaborate drawing, No. 8. 
 
 Those traceries were themselves reciprocally cor¬ 
 rupted, as we shall see presently, by the woodwork 
 practised all round them ; but botli the Burgundian and 
 Norman later Gothic was corrupted by its own luxurious 
 
NOTES ON PROTJT. 
 
 laziness, before it took any infection from the forest. In¬ 
 stead of building a real pointed arch—they merely put 
 a cross lintel with a nick in it * (a), then softened the 
 nick-edges and ran a line of moulding round it (6), and 
 
 a b c 
 
 then ran up a flourish above to show what a clever thing 
 they had done (c)—and there you are. But there is 
 much more curious interest in this form of wooden im¬ 
 itative architecture than any mere matter of structural 
 propriety. 
 
 Please compare the Lisieux houses in No. 11, with the 
 house on the right at Strasburg in No. 10. You see 
 there are no pinnacles nor crockets imitated there. All 
 is sternly square—upright timber and cross timber— 
 cut into what ornamental current mouldings the work¬ 
 man knew. 
 
 And yet you see the Cathedral at the side is eminent¬ 
 ly gabled and pinnacular! Bun your eye from the 
 square window of the second story of the house (third 
 from ground), along to the cathedral gabled tracery. 
 Could any two stjdes be more adverse ? While on the 
 contrary, the Lisieux street is merely a “changing the 
 willow wreaths to stone ”—in imitation of the chapel of 
 St. Jaques ? It is true, the Lisieux street is contempo¬ 
 rary with St. Jaques, and the Strasburg house a century 
 or so later than the Cathedral; but that is not the reason 
 of the opposition. Had they been either pure French 
 
 * Without the nick, mind you, it would have been a grand 
 building—pure Greek or pure Tuscan, and capable of boundless 
 good. It is the Nicolaitane nick that’s the devil. 
 
NOTES ON PROUT. 
 
 253 
 
 or pure German, the two would have declined together 
 and have died together. But in France of the fifteenth 
 century, church, noblesse, and people, were one body, and 
 the people in Lisieux loved and delighted in their clergy 
 and nobles, as the Venetians did— 
 
 “Pontifices, clerus, populus, duxmente serenus.” 
 
 But Strasbourg is on the edge—nay, on the Pole—of all 
 divisions. Virtually, from west to east, between Dijon 
 and Berne ; virtually, from north to south, between Co¬ 
 logne and Basle; virtually, if you have eyes the Diet of 
 Worms is in it; the Council of Constance is in it; the 
 Battle of Sempach is there, and the rout of Granson. 
 
 That is a Swiss cottage, with all ecclesiastical and feudal 
 powers flaming up into the shy at the side of it, and the 
 iron lances and lines of them are as lace round the “ Com¬ 
 merce de Jean Diehl.” “ Commerce,” a grand word, which 
 we suppose ourselves here to understand, an entirely vile 
 one, if misunderstood. Human commerce, a business for 
 men and angels ; but inhuman, for apes and spectres. 
 We must look at a few more street-scenes in order to find 
 out which sort Jean Diehl’s belongs to. 
 
 14. Bayeux. 
 
 A small sketch, but first-rate, and with half a mile of 
 street in it. Pure and plain woodwork this, with prop 
 and buttress of stumpy stone—healthy all, and sound ; 
 note especially the strong look of foundation, as opposed 
 to the modern style of house-front in most commercial 
 quarters—five stories of brick wall standing on the edge 
 of a pane of plate-glass. 
 
 15. Tours. 
 
 The saints presiding over an old-clothes shop, appar¬ 
 ently—but it may be the fashionable drapers of the 
 quarter. I merely give it as an example of the developed 
 form of bracket, the end of the cross timber becoming 
 
254 
 
 NOTES ON PROUT. 
 
 a niche, and the prop, a saint—not without meaning. 
 Much more strength than is really wanted allowed in the 
 backing, so that these corrugated saints do not by their 
 recessed niches really weaken the structure. Compare 
 photograph, No. 117. 
 
 16. Rouen. The Butter-tower. 
 
 Built with the octroi on butter—not a right way—be 
 it spoken, in passing. All taxes on food of any sort, or 
 drink of any sort, are wrong, whether to build a pious 
 tower, or support an impious government. 
 
 A tired sketch—the house on the left, one of the most 
 beautiful in France, hurried and ill done. 
 
 17. Rouen. Staircase in St. Maclou. 
 
 Almost unique in the elaboration of the texture in mar¬ 
 ble pillar, and effect of distant light, showing what he was 
 capable of in this kind ; compare St. Jaques, No. 8, where 
 he gets flickering sunlight through painted glass. There, 
 the effect is pathetic and expressive ; but both texture and 
 effect of light were mistakes, in St. Maclou ; it does not 
 in the least matter to the staircase whether the pillar is 
 smooth, or the window bright. In earlier times he would 
 have merely indicated the forms of both, and given his 
 time to gather groups of figures following the circular 
 sweep of the staircase. 
 
 18. Ghent. 
 
 Having run south now as far as I care, we will turn 
 back, please, to go through the Netherlands into Germany. 
 Pretty nearly all the Netherlands are in this and the fol¬ 
 lowing drawing. Boats, beside houses ; the boats heavily 
 practical : the houses heavily fanciful; but both accurate 
 and perfect in their way ; work of a great, though fen- 
 witted, people. The Ghent scene is the very cream of 
 Prout—all that he could best do in his happiest times— 
 his Cornish and Hastings boat-study standing him in 
 thorough stead here , though it will fail him at Venice, as 
 we shall sadly see. 
 
NOTES ON PROUT. 
 
 255 
 
 19. Antwerp. 
 
 Altogether magnificent: the noble street-scene, requir¬ 
 ing no effort to exalt, no artifice to conceal a single fea¬ 
 ture in it. Pure fact—the stately houses and the simple 
 market, and the divine tower. You would like adver¬ 
 tisements all along the house-fronts, instead, wouldn’t 
 you ? and notices of sale—at a ruinous sacrifice—in the 
 shop-windows, wouldn’t you? and a tramway up the 
 street, and a railway under it, and a gasometer at the end 
 of it, instead of a cathedral—now, wouldn’t you ? 
 
 21. Brunswick. 
 
 Dainty still; a most lovely drawing. I didn’t find any¬ 
 thing so good in the town myself, but was not there until 
 1859, when, I suppose, all the best of it had been knocked 
 down. The Stadthaus (see lithograph, No. 93) is unique 
 in the support of its traceries on light transverse arches, 
 but this innovation, like nearly all German specialities in 
 Gothic, is grotesque, and affected without being ingenious. 
 
 22. Dresden. 
 
 An exquisite drawing ; and most curious in the entire 
 conquest and calming down of Prout’s usual broken 
 touch into Renaissance smoothness. It is the best exist¬ 
 ing representation of the old town, and readers of Fried¬ 
 rich may care to know what it was like. 
 
 23. Prague.—Entrance over the Bridge. 
 
 A drawing already noticed, of the highest quality. 
 The lithograph, No. 91, of the other side of the tower on 
 the right, enables us to walk back the other way; it 
 quite one of the best drawings in the book. 
 
 24. Prague.—The Stadthaus. 
 
 Both lovely, and essentially Proutesque, as a drawing. 
 Architecturally, one of the prettiest possible examples of 
 fourteenth century Gothic. The town was all, more or 
 less, like that, once—the houses beyond have, I suppose, 
 been built even since the siege. 
 
256 
 
 NOTES ON PliOUT. 
 
 25. Bamberg. 
 
 I include this drawing in our series, first for its lovely 
 crowd of figures ; and secondly, to show that Prout never 
 attempts to make anything picturesque that naturally 
 isn’t. Domo d’Ossola and Bologna (47 and 64) are pic¬ 
 turesque—in the drawings, because they are so in reality 
 —and heavy Bamberg remains as dull as it pleases to be. 
 This strict honesty of Prout’s has never been rightly un¬ 
 derstood, because he didn’t often draw dull things, and 
 gleaned the picturesque ones out of every hole and cor¬ 
 ner ; so that everybody used to think it -was he who had 
 made them picturesque. But, as aforesaid, he is really 
 as true as a mirror. 
 
 26. Nuremberg, Church of St. , at. 
 
 Of the best time, and certainly the fullest expres¬ 
 sion ever given of the character of the church. But the 
 composition puzzled him, the house corner on left com¬ 
 ing in too abruptly, and the sketch falls short of his best 
 qualities ; he gets fatigued with the richness in excess 
 over so large a mass, and feels that nothing of foreground 
 will carry it out in harmony. 
 
 28. The Drachenfels. 
 
 When I said that Turner and Prout stood by themselves 
 in power of rendering magnitude, I don't mean on the 
 same level, of course, but in perfect sympathy ; and Tur¬ 
 ner himself would have looked with more than admiration 
 —with real respect—at this quiet little study. I have never 
 seen any other picture or drawing which gave so intensely 
 the main truths of the breadth and prolonged distances 
 of the great river, and the scale and standing of the rock, 
 as compared with the buildings and woods at its feet. 
 
 The “ standing ” of the rock, I say especially ; for it is in 
 great part by the perfect sculpture and build of its but¬ 
 tresses—(the “ articulation ” which, I have just said, Field¬ 
 ing shunned as too troublesome) that the effect, or rather 
 information, of magnitude is given. 
 
NOTES ON PE OUT. 
 
 257 
 
 And next to this rock drawing, the clear houses and 
 trees, and exquisite little boat—examined well—complete 
 the story of mountain power by their intense reality. 
 Take the lens to them—there is no true enjoyment to be 
 
 had without attention, either from pictures, or the truth 
 itself. 
 
 29. Islands on the Rhine. 
 
 First, the power of the Dragon rock—then of the 
 noble river. It seems to have been an especially interest¬ 
 ing scene this, to good painters. One of the most elab¬ 
 orate pieces of drawing ever executed by Turner was 
 from this spot. 
 
 30. The Pfalz. 
 
 Hurried a little, and too black in distance—but I in¬ 
 clude it in the series for a most interesting bit of compo¬ 
 sition in it. The building, from this point of view, had 
 a disagreeable look of a church-tower surrounded by 
 pepper-boxes. He brings it into a mass, and makes a 
 fortress of it, by the shadow on the mountain to the 
 right of the tower, almost as dark as a bit of roof. 
 
 32. Worms. 
 
 An early drawing—the only one included in this series 
 —is to be compared with the careful water-color, No. 31. 
 
 35. Ulm. 
 
 A beautiful drawing of one of the most interesting 
 street fountains in Germany. It is given in this sketch, 
 as usual, with entire care and feeling of its proportion. 
 The water-color drawing, No. 3G, shows the little inter¬ 
 est he took in copying for the Exhibition, knowing that 
 the British mind was not to be impressed by proportion, 
 and only cared for getting things into their frames. 
 The lithograph, No. 90, is, on the contrary, one of his 
 most careful works, and quite true to the place, wdien I 
 saw it in 1835. I suppose it is all pulled down, and 
 17 
 
258 
 
 NOTES ON PROUT. 
 
 made an “ esplanade ” of by tbis time. (See “ Seven 
 Lamps,” p. 182, in Appendix I.) 
 
 37 and 33. Swiss and German Costumes. 
 
 I never can understand how these groups are ever de¬ 
 signed or caught, and how they are built up, one by 
 one. No painter who can do it ever tells us how. 
 
 39. Chillon. 
 
 The only drawing I ever saw which gave the real rela¬ 
 tion of the castle to the size of the mountain behind it. 
 
 40. The Dungeon of Chillon. 
 
 I must leave the reader now to make what he may of 
 this and the following drawings as far as 47 : all of 
 them, to people who know the old look of the places, 
 will be interesting ; but I have no time to enlarge on 
 them. 
 
 41. Montreux. 
 
 42. Waterfall under the Dent du Midi, in the Rhone Valley. 
 
 43. Village of Martigny. 
 
 46. Brieg. 
 
 47. Domo d’Ossola. 
 
 One of the most exemplary in the room, for intense 
 fidelity to the place, and lovely composition of living 
 groups. Note the value of the upright figure in the 
 balcony on the left, in breaking up and enriching the 
 mass, and joining it with the rest. 
 
 48. Como. 
 
 Enough dwelt on in the preface. 
 
 49. The Monument of Can Signorio della Scala, at Verona. 
 
 Note that the low sarcophagus on the left, of much 
 finer time than the richer tomb, has on its side a has' 
 
NOTES ON PE OUT. 
 
 259 
 
 relief representing tlie Madonna enthroned between two 
 angels, a third angel presents to her the dead knight’s 
 soul, kneeling. 
 
 60. The large drawing of the subject, No. 50, has lost all 
 these particulars. Was it all Prout’s fault, shall we say ? 
 Was there anyone, in his time, of English travellers, who 
 would have thanked him for a madonna and a dead old 
 Scaliger, done ever so clearly ? 
 
 56. Venice. Ducal Palace from the West. 
 
 57. Venice. Ducal Palace from the East. 
 
 58. St. Michael’s Mount, Normandy. 
 
 I have put No. 58 in this eccentric manner, after the 
 Ducal Palace, that the reader may feel, for good and all, 
 Prout’s intense appreciation of local character—his gayety 
 with the gay, and his strength with the strong. Cornish- 
 bred, his own heart is indeed in the rocks, and towers, 
 and sands of the fraternal Norman shore—and it fails 
 him in Venice, where the conditions alike of her mas- 
 quing and her majesty were utterly strange to him. 
 Still, the sense of light, and motion, and splendor above 
 the Riva dei Schiavoni ; and of gloom, and iron-fastness, 
 and poverty, midst the silent sands of Avranches, are ren¬ 
 dered by the mirror of him, as if you had but turned its 
 face from sun to shade. 
 
 The St. Michael’s is an entirely grand drawing. The 
 St. Raphael’s—for that is indeed the other name of the 
 Ducal Palace *—on this side, has many faults ; but is 
 yet, out and out, the best Ducal Palace that has as yet 
 been done. It is not an architectural drawing—does not 
 
 * The angel Michael is the angle statue on the 3 outhwest (seen in 
 No. 56), with the inscription, “ With my sword I guard the good, and 
 cleanse the evil.’ The angel Raphael holds in his hands the nations 
 prayer to him, “Raphael, the dreadful (“ reverende ), make thou the 
 deep quiet, we beseech thee.” 
 
NOTES ON PROTJT. 
 
 260 
 
 in the least pretend to be. No one had ever drawn the trace¬ 
 ries of the Ducal Palace till I did myself. Canaletto, in 
 his way, is just as false as Prout—Turner no better. Not 
 one of them painted anything but their general impres¬ 
 sions ; and not a soul in England knew that there was a 
 system in Venetian architecture at all, until I made the 
 measured (to half and quarter inches) elevation of it (No. 
 105), and gave the analysis of its tracery mouldings and 
 their development, from those of the Franciscans at the 
 Frari (“ Stones of Venice,” vol. ii.). This study of Prout’s, 
 then, I repeat, does not pretend to architectural accu¬ 
 racy ; and it has even one very considerable fault. Prout’s 
 mind had been so formed among buildings solid at the 
 base, and aerial at the top, that he not only could not 
 enjoy, he could not even see, the national audacity of 
 the great builder of the Ducal Palace, in supporting its 
 wall on, virtually, two rows of marble piles ; and, at the 
 further end, just where the shafts at the angle let the 
 winds blow through them as frankly as the timbers of 
 Calais pier,* he blackens them all up inside, as if the 
 backing wall were solid and the arches were only niches. 
 
 * The real and marvellous structure of the angle is admirably 
 shown in the photograph, No. 106a, though the quantity of light 
 penetrating the shafts is a little exaggerated in effect by uniting 
 with the light sides of the shafts. Taking the lens to the photo¬ 
 graph, you will see this line is destroyed by the modern gas-lamp 
 stuck across the Italian sculpture, and you may admire at leisure 
 the other improvements made by the art of the nineteenth century 
 on the effect of the piazzetta. The combination of the fore and 
 mizzen masts of the huge steamer whose hull, with its boat, blocks 
 out the whole lagoon ; and of the upright near gas-lamp, with the 
 pillar of St. Mark—the introduction of the steamer's painted 
 funnel to form a foundation for the tower of San Giorgio—the 
 bathing establishment anchored beyond the pillars, just where 
 the Bucentaur used to lie close to the quay to receive the Doge ; 
 and, finally, the bills pasted on the sheds at the base of St. 
 Mark’s column, advising us of improving works of a liberal tone, 
 such as the “ Storia della Natura,” and the “ Misteri della In- 
 quisizione di Spagna.” In this same Loggia of Sansovino’s, against 
 

 NOTES ON PROUT. 
 
 261 
 
 For all that, there never was anything so true to the 
 general splendor and life of the palace done before, nor 
 ever will be again.* * 
 
 There are two points—technical both and spiritual 
 both—which the reader must note in this drawing. 
 
 The first, how thankful Prout is for the clusters of 
 doves along the upper line of the cornice. “ They might 
 as well be jackdaws,” you think? Well, as aforesaid, 
 Prout is not a colorist, else he would have made his 
 boats black and his doves gray; but then he would have 
 been Carpaccio, and not Prout. This is really all you 
 can expect him to do for a dove, with his poor Cumber¬ 
 land plumbago ; and, after all, the glory of the creatures 
 is not in being pigeons, but in being Venetians. Swal¬ 
 low or sparrow, daw or dove, sea-gull by Achilles’ isle or 
 chough by Cornish cliff—that they are living with us by 
 shore and altar, under cottage eaves and around palace 
 council chambers, that is their glory—and, if we knew it, 
 our peace. 
 
 The other point is more definitely technical, yet has its 
 lesson in other directions also. I have already again and 
 again insisted on Prout’s way of taking up his stitches, 
 and carrying one part of his work into another. Look 
 back to what is said of the Como in preface. He is no 
 more content with his Ducal Palace till he has got it well 
 into fugue with its crowd than he was with these old 
 houses by the harbor. He won’t break the corner of its 
 
 which these sheds are built, the “ Misteri ” of the Government 
 Lottery are also revealed weekly to the popular mind. 
 
 * And in the great drawing (No. 60) lent by Lord Coleridge the 
 upper story is singularly and gracefully accurate in the pinnacled 
 Gothic of its central window, and in the various elevations and 
 magnitudes of the rest. The two upper windows in the shade at 
 the nearest angle are the oldest portion of the Palace visible, and 
 Prout has carefully noted their different curve. The bright and 
 busy figures are true to old times only, for the building is now being 
 restored, and no man with a heart will ever draw the patched 
 skeleton of it more. 
 
262 
 
 NOTE8 ON PROUT. 
 
 arcade, but just flutes, as it were, a single pillar with the 
 mast of a boat, and then carries the mast down—stopping 
 the arch-mouldings for it, observe, as he draws them, so 
 deliberate is he, and, getting well down so to his figures, 
 rivets the rent of the canal across with the standing one, 
 just under Michael Steno’s central window, and then car¬ 
 ries all away to the right, with the sitting figures and lev¬ 
 elled sails in harmony with the courses of the palace, and 
 to the left, with the boats. Hide one of these founda¬ 
 tional forms with your hand, and see how the palace goes 
 to pieces! There are many compositions in the room 
 more felicitous ; but there is no other in which the op¬ 
 posite influence to the “little rift within the lute”—the 
 stitch in time that saves nine—is so delicately and so in¬ 
 tensely illustrated as by the service of this single boat- 
 spar to every shaft of the whole Ducal Palace. 
 
 With respect to these Venice drawings there are two 
 metaphysical problems—in my own mind, of extreme in¬ 
 solubility—and on which I therefore do not enlarge, 
 namely, why Prout, practical among all manner of Corn¬ 
 ish and Kentish boats, could not for the life of him draw 
 a gondola ; and the second, why, not being able to draw 
 a gondola, he yet never gave the grand Adriatic fishing- 
 boat, with its colored sail, instead. These, and other 
 relative questions still more abstruse—as, for instance, 
 why he could draw the domes of Dresden rightly, and 
 yet made the Madonna della Salute look like the Na¬ 
 tional Gallery or Bethlehem Hospital—I must for the 
 present leave for the reader’s own debate, and only at 
 speed give some account of the points to be illustrated 
 by the supplementary drawings. 
 
 People often ask me—and people who have been long 
 at Venice too—-of the subject No. 55, where those square 
 pillars are, and what they are. The corner of the Piaz- 
 zetta from which this view is taken was once the sweetest 
 of all sacred niches in that great marble withdrawing- 
 room of the Piazzetta of St. Mark’s. Mv old sketch, No. 
 J07, shows approximately the color of the marble walls 
 
NOTES ON PROUT. 
 
 263 
 
 and pavement of it, and the way the white flowers of the 
 Greek pillars—purest Byzantine — shone through the 
 dark spots of lichen. The Daguerreotype, No. 114, 
 taken under my own direction, gives the light and shade 
 of them, chosen just where the western sunlight catches 
 the edge of the cross at the base of the nearer one ; and 
 my study, No. 108, shows more fully the character of the 
 Byzantine chiselling — entirely freehand, flinging the 
 marble acanthus-leaves here and there as they would 
 actually grow. It is through work of this kind that the 
 divine Greek power of the days of Hesiod came down to 
 animate the mosaic workers in St. Mark’s, in the elev¬ 
 enth century. 
 
 They worked under a Greek princess, of whom the 
 reader will find some legend (though yet I have not been 
 able to do more than begin her story) in the second num¬ 
 ber of “ St. Mark’s Rest.” * In the third I have given some 
 account of the entire series of mosaics which were com¬ 
 pleted by her husband under the influence of his Greek 
 queen (true queen , mind you, at that time, the Duke of 
 Venice then wearing the king’s diadem, not the republi¬ 
 can cap); and I besought my readers at Venice and else¬ 
 where to help me to get some faithful record of these 
 mosaics before they perished by modern restoration. I 
 have never made a more earnest appeal for anything— 
 and indeed I believe, had it been for a personal gift— 
 another Splugen drawing, or the like—I should have got 
 it by this time easily enough. But there are always 
 twenty people who will do what they feel to be kind, for 
 one who will take my advice about an important public 
 object. And—if they only knew it—the one real kind- 
 
 * My readers continually complain that they can’t get my 
 presently issuing books. There is not a bookseller in London, 
 however, who is not perfectly well aware that the said books are 
 always to be had by a post-card sent to my publisher, Mr. G. 
 Allen, Sunnyside, Orpington, Kent, to whom subscriptions for the 
 object stated in the text are to be sent (or the books may be 
 had of the Fine Art Society). 
 
264 
 
 NOTES ON PROTJT. 
 
 ness they can show to me is in listening to me—under¬ 
 standing, in the first place, that I know my business 
 better at sixty than I did at five-and-twenty ; and in the 
 second, that my happiness, such as yet remains to me, 
 does not at all consist in the things about me in my 
 own parlor, but in the thought that the principles I have 
 taught are being acted upon, and the great buildings and 
 great scenes I have tried to describe saved, so far as may 
 yet be possible, from destruction and desecration. At 
 this very hour, the committees of Venetian builders are 
 meeting to plot the total destruction, and re-erection 
 according to their own notions, and for their own emolu¬ 
 ment, of the entire west front of St. Mark’s—that which 
 Barbarossa knelt under, and before which Dandolo took 
 his vow for Palestine! And in the meantime the Chris¬ 
 tian populace of all Europe is quarrelling about their 
 little parish reredoses and wax-candles ! * 
 
 And so it comes to pass, that the floor of St. Mark’s is 
 already destroyed, together with the north and south 
 sides ; only the west front and roof mosaics are yet left, 
 and these are instantly threatened. I have got an abso¬ 
 lutely faithful and able artist, trained by Mr. Burne 
 Jones, to undertake the copying of the whole series of 
 mosaics yet uninjured. He is doing this for love and 
 mere journeyman’s wages—how carefully and thorough¬ 
 ly the three examples in this room (114, 115, 116) will 
 enough show; but he has been six months at work alone, 
 unable to employ assistants, and all that I have yet got 
 for him by the eagerest appeals I could make at Venice 
 and here is—some hundred and seventy pounds, and half 
 of that from a single personal friend ! f 
 
 * It may perhaps not he quite too late to contradict a report that 
 appeared in some Irish paper, that I had been lately in Dublin, 
 giving some opinion or other about reredoses. I have not been 
 in Ireland these ten years—never shall be in Ireland more—and 
 care no more about any modern churches or church furniture 
 than about the drop-scene at Drury Lane—not so much indeed, 
 if the truth were all told. 
 
 f £ s. d, by report from Mr. Allen, of 12th November. 
 
NOTES ON TROUT. 
 
 265 
 
 I will have a little circular drawn up, stating these and 
 other relative facts clearly, before the close of the pres¬ 
 ent exhibition. Before its opening, I can allow myself 
 now little more than the mere explanation of what it 
 contains. 
 
 And now I really haven’t time to talk any more, and 
 yet I’ve ever so much to say, if I could, of the following 
 drawings at Arqua and Nuremberg, 77 and 70. I must 
 at least say at once why these, like Venice and St. Mi¬ 
 chael’s Mount, go side by side. 
 
 In the first place, I believe that the so-called Petrarch’s 
 house at Arqua (67) can only be built on the site of the 
 real one—it can’t be of Petrarch’s time ; but the tomb is 
 true, and just looking from that, to the building of Diir- 
 er’s house. (70)—which is assuredly authentic—and of 
 Bubens’s, No. 81, what a quantity of the lives of the men 
 we are told by these three slight sketches ! One of the 
 things I hope to do at Sheffield is to get a connected and 
 systematic series of drawings of the houses and the 
 tombs of great men. The tombs, of course, generally tell 
 more of their successors than of themselves ; but the 
 two together will be historical more than many volumes. 
 Their houses, I say ; yes, and the things they saw from 
 their houses—quite the chief point with many of the best 
 men and women. Casa Guidi windows, often of much 
 more import than Casa Guidi; and in this house of Al¬ 
 bert’s, its own cross-timbers are little matter, but those 
 Nuremberg walls around it are everything. 
 
 73. Kelso. 
 
 I now gather together, as I best may, the supplement¬ 
 ary drawings which have come in since I arranged my 
 series, and one or two others which did not properly be¬ 
 long to it. This one of Kelso is chiefly valuable as show¬ 
 ing his mode of elementary study with washes of two 
 tints—one warm, the other a little cooler. The system 
 was afterward expanded into his color practice. 
 
266 
 
 NOTES ON PROUT. 
 
 74. Entrance to North Transept of Rouen. 
 
 Unfinished, and extremely interesting, as showing his 
 method of rubbing in the tint with the stump or his fin¬ 
 ger, before adding the pencil lines. 
 
 75. Study of Dutch Boats. 
 
 These boat sketches might be multiplied countlessly 
 —and I would fain have given many and talked much of 
 them, but have neither room nor time. Note in this the 
 careful warping of the mast by the strain of the heavy 
 sail. 
 
 76. Neudersdorf. ) 
 
 77. Gutenfels. ) 
 
 Two lovely Rhine realities ; when the river was some¬ 
 thing better than a steam-tramway. 
 
 78. An Old Rhine Bridge, at Rheinfelden. 
 
 A favorite Turner subject, and drawn and engraved 
 with great care in “ Modern Painters.” As a Prout, it is 
 inferior—small in manner and forced, but, as usual, 
 wholly true to the place. 
 
 79. Munich. 
 
 Notable chiefly for the effort made to draw the atten¬ 
 tion away from the ugly arcade under the houses by the 
 crowd of near figures. Compare the insistance on beau¬ 
 tiful arcades in the Como and Domo d’Ossola. 
 
 80. Ypres. 
 
 Wholly lovely, and to be classed with the Abbeville 
 and Evreux as one of the most precious records of former 
 domestic architecture. 
 
 81. Rubens’s House, Antwerp. 
 
 The kind of domestic architecture that destroyed all 
 reverence for what preceded it, and brought us down 
 to—what we are. 
 
NOTES ON PROUT. 
 
 267 
 
 Note the beginning of modern anatomies and sciences 
 and pseudo-classicalisms in the monstrous skulls of 
 beasts. 
 
 82. Caen. ) 
 
 83. Falaise. ) 
 
 Two of the most careful and finished pieces of his 
 later work, but rather architectural studies than pictures, 
 and alas! the architecture of the worst school. So little 
 can the taste be really formed without study of sculpture 
 as the queen of edifying law. See notes on Supplement¬ 
 ary Sketches. 
 
 86. Portico di Ottavia, Rome. 
 
 All the life and death of Rome is in this quite invalu¬ 
 able drawing; but I have no time to talk of the life and 
 death of Rome, and perhaps the enlightened modern 
 
 student would onlv care for a view of the new tobacco 
 
 •/ 
 
 manufactory under the Palatine. 
 
 87. Well at Strasburg. 
 
 We don’t want wells neither, in these days of wisdom, 
 having Thirlmere turned on for us, or Loch Katrine, at 
 our pleasure. But—from the days of Jacob’s well till— 
 thirty years ago, such things were pleasant in human 
 eyes. 
 
 88. Well at Strasburg. 
 
 I close our Prout pencilling with seven examples of his 
 superb work on stone; all by his own hand, and as liter¬ 
 ally and thoroughly his, touch for touch, as the pencil 
 sketches themselves, and even more wonderful in their 
 easy mastery of the more difficult material. 
 
 What a disgrace it is to modern landscape painters 
 that this book of Prout’s, “ Sketches in Flanders and Ger¬ 
 many,” should remain, to this day, the only work of true 
 artistic value produced, that is to say, by the artist s own 
 hand, purchasable by the public of Europe, in illustra¬ 
 tion of their national architecture ! 
 
268 
 
 NOTES ON PROUT. 
 
 89. Well at Nuremberg. 
 
 This study is one of the most beautiful, but also one 
 of the most imaginative, that ever Prout made—highly 
 exceptional and curious. 
 
 The speciality of Nuremberg is, that its walls are of 
 stone, but its windows, especially those in the roof, for 
 craning up merchandise—are of wood. All the project¬ 
 ing windows and all the dormers in this square are of 
 wood. But Prout could not stand the inconsistency, and 
 deliberately petrifies all the wood. Very naughty of him ! 
 I have nothing to say in extenuation of this offence ; and, 
 alas ! secondly, the houses have, in reality, only three 
 stories, and he has put a fourth on, out of his inner 
 consciousness ! 
 
 I never knew him do such a thing before or since ; but 
 the end of it is, that this drawing of Nuremberg is im¬ 
 mensely more Nurembergy than the town itself, and a 
 quite glorious piece of mediaeval character. 
 
 90. Ulm. 
 
 91. Prague.—Tower of the Gate. 
 
 92. Prague.—Stadthaus. —The realization of sketch No. 
 
 93. Brunswick. —Bathhaus. 
 
 94. Coblentz. 
 
 I have always held this lithograph to show all Prout’s 
 qualities in supreme perfection, and proudly finish our 
 series of pencil and chalk work with it. 
 
 We now come to a large series of early color studies, 
 promising better things than ever came of them ; and then 
 the examples of Prout, for which we are simply to blame 
 the public taste he had to meet, and not him. There were 
 no pre-Raphaelites in those days. On the walls at the 
 Scala Palace, in that sketch of Verona, No. 49, Prout has 
 written, conscientiously, “ brick ; ” but do you think if he 
 
NOTES ON PROUT. 
 
 269 
 
 had painted it of brick, anybody would have bought the 
 drawing ? Since those days, all the work of Walker, of 
 Boyce, of Alfred Hunt, of Albert Goodwin, of John Brett 
 (the whole school of them, mind you, founded first on the 
 strong pre-Raphaelite veracities which were all but shrieked 
 down at the first seeing of them, and which I had to stand 
 up alone for, against a whole national clamor of critical 
 vituperation), all that affectionate and laborious painting 
 from nature has familiarized you, now, with birds, and 
 ivy, and blossoms, and berries, and mosses, and rushes, 
 and ripples, and trickles, and wrinkles, and twinkles ; 
 and, of course, poor old Prout’s conventional blue wash 
 won’t look its best afterward. Be thankful to them (and 
 somewhat also—I say it not in pride, but as a part of the 
 facts—to “Modern Painters” and me), and indulgent to 
 the old workman, who did the best he could for his cus¬ 
 tomers, and the most he could for his money. 
 
 95. The English Cottage. —See preface. 
 
 96. Launceston. 
 
 Had this drawing been brought to me as an early 
 Turner, I should have looked twice, and thrice, at it be¬ 
 fore saying no. If Prout had only had just ever so little 
 more pride, and some interest in British history, he would 
 have been a painter, indeed ! and no mean pencil draughts¬ 
 man. But he just missed it—and a miss is as bad as a 
 mile, or a million of miles ; and I say nothing more of the 
 series of water-colors here, except only that many a good 
 lesson may be learned from them in chiaroscuro, and in 
 flat tinting, by modest students. 
 
270 
 
 NOTES ON PROUT . 
 
 SUPPLEMENTARY DRAWINGS. 
 
 There are—or ought to be, if I get them together in 
 time —eleven of my own, namely : 
 
 104. Calais. 
 
 104a. The Aventine. 
 
 105. Ducal Palace and Bridge of Sighs. 
 
 106. Ducal Palace, Foliage of Southwest Angle. 
 
 107. Pillar of the Piazzetta. 
 
 108. Chiaroscuro Study of the Same Pillar. 
 
 109. The Casa d’Oro. 
 
 110. Window on the Grand Canal. 
 
 111. Abbeville Crocket. 
 
 112. Oak-leaf. 
 
 113. Moss and Oxalis. 
 
 I meant, when first this exhibition was planned, to have 
 made it completely illustrative of the French flamboyant 
 architecture, which Prout had chiefly studied ; but I have 
 been too much interrupted by other duties ; and I can 
 only now point out, once more—after thirty years of reit¬ 
 erating this vital fact to architects in vain—that until 
 they are themselves absolute masters of sculptural sur¬ 
 face, founded on natural forms, they do not know the 
 meaning of any good work, in any school. 
 
NOTES ON PROUT. 
 
 271 
 
 Sculptural surface , observe : They fancy they have 
 chosen an ornament when they have got its outline ; but 
 in sculpture the surface is everything ; the outline follows, 
 and is compelled by it. Thus, in the piece of Ducal Palace 
 sculpture, No. 106, the entire value of it depends on the 
 chiaroscuro of its surfaces ; and it would be as absurd to 
 think of sketching it without shade, as a piece of rippled 
 lagoon. And in every minutest finial and crocket of that 
 French flamboyant, the surfaces are studied to a perfec¬ 
 tion not less subtle, though relieved by more violent 
 shade. The fast study, No. Ill, shows the action of the 
 curved stems and flow of surfaces in one of the crockets 
 of Abbeville. See photograph No. 6, and the study of 
 oak-leaves, No. 112, will show how the natural forms of 
 vegetation lend themselves to every need of such atten¬ 
 tive design. I have painted this bit of leafage in two 
 stages, showing—if anyone cares to know it—the way 
 Hunt used his body color ; laying it first with extreme 
 care in form and gradation, but in pure white ; and then 
 glazing over it—never disturbing it, or mixing it in the 
 slightest degree with his clear color. And it is only by 
 this management of opaque color that architectural detail 
 can be drawn at speed, with any useful result. See the 
 bit of honeysuckle ornament, for instance, at the top of 
 the pillar in No. 108, and fancy the time it would have 
 taken to express the bossy roundness of it in any other 
 way. All disputes about the use of body color, begin 
 and end in the “to be or not to be” of accurate form. 
 
 Then there are three drawings of St. Mark’s mosaics 
 by Mr. Rooke : 
 
 114. Floral Decoration. 
 
 115. Madonna and David. 
 
 116. The Prophets. 
 
 Then some variously illustrated photographs, etc. 
 
272 
 
 NOTES ON PllOUT. 
 
 117. Abbeville. 
 
 118. Picture of Abbeville. 
 
 106a. Venice, the Piazzetta. 
 
 11. Lithograph of Modern Strasburg. 
 
 119. (?) Improvements in Modern London. 
 
 Then, in the glass case, there is a little bit of real Vene¬ 
 tian sixteenth century silk-work—put there to show pre¬ 
 cisely what Shakespeare meant by “ Valance of Venice gold 
 in needlework ” (“ Taming of the Shrew ”); and secondly, 
 to show the use of minute points of color—no less than of 
 form in decoration carried on ; and finally, there is the 
 Meissonier, above referred to, Napoleon, in 1814, on the 
 Chaussee of Vitry, just after the battle of Arcis-sur-Aube. 
 
 “ The French horsemen, though inferior to none in the 
 world for audacity and prowess, were overmatched by 
 their opponents and driven back to the bridge of Arcis. 
 Napoleon, who was on the other side, instantly rode for¬ 
 ward to the entrance of the bridge, already all but choked 
 up with fugitives, and drawing his sword, exclaimed, 
 ‘ Let me see which of you will pass before me ! * These 
 words arrested the flight, and the division Friant travers¬ 
 ing the streets of Arcis, in double-quick time passed the 
 bridge, formed on either side of its other extremity, and 
 by their heavy fire drove back the allied horse. 
 
 * % * * * % * 
 
 “ Napoleon was repeatedly in imminent danger, nearly 
 all his staff were killed or wounded. ‘ Fear nothing/ 
 said he, to the generals who urged him to retire : ‘ the 
 bullet is not yet cast which is to kill me.’ He seemed to 
 court rather than fear death, his air was resolute but som¬ 
 bre, and as long as the battle raged, by the light of the 
 
NOTES ON PE OUT. 
 
 273 
 
 burning houses behind and tlio flash of the enemies’ guns 
 in front, he continued to face the hostile batteries. 
 
 * * * * * * * 
 
 “On leaving Arcis, instead of taking the road to Chalons 
 or to Paris, he moved on the Chaussee of Vitry, direct 
 toward the lihine. His letter to the Empress Marie 
 Louise was in these terms : 
 
 “ ‘ M y love > 1 have been for some days constantly on 
 horseback ; on the 20th I took Arcls-sur-Aube. The 
 enemy attacked me there at eight in the evening. J 
 beat him the same evening. I took two guns and retook 
 two. The next day the enemy’s army put itself in array 
 to protect the march of its columns on Bar-sur-Aube, 
 and I resolved to approach the Marne and its environs. 
 This evening I shall beat St. Dizier. Farewell, my love. 
 
 Embrace my son.’” (See “Alison,” vol. x., pp. 396 to 
 406.) 
 
 It would be difficult to find a more perfect example of 
 the French realistic school than this picture. It is, of 
 couise, conventional, and founded on photographic effect 
 —the white horse in reality would have looked like a 
 ghost in the twilight, and not one of the details of the 
 housings been in the least visible—had these been so, 
 much more should the details of the landscape have been. 
 But in its kind it is without rivalship, and I purpose that 
 it shall remain in St. George’s schools—for a monument 
 of War-sorrow, where War has been unjust. 
 
 18 
 
II.-HUNT. 
 
 142. The Buttekfly. 
 
 Before saying anything more of the Hunt series, I want 
 my readers once more clearly to understand what I have 
 brought it here for ; namely, to show them what real 
 painting is, as such, wholly without inquiry concerning its 
 sentiment or story. The Prouts are here for an exactly 
 opposite reason—not at all to show you what mere pencil¬ 
 ling is, as such—but what it can pencil for us of European 
 scenery and history. Whereas this butterfly is here, not 
 at all to teach you anything you didn’t know about but¬ 
 terflies ; nor the peach and grapes to teach you anything 
 you didn’t know about those familiar fruits ; nor even that 
 boy in his father’s boots to teach you anything you didn’t 
 know before about boys and boots. They are here merely 
 to show you what is meant by Painting, as distinguished 
 from daubing, from plastering, from rough casting, from 
 chromo-tinting, from tray-varnishing, from paper-staining, 
 and in general from the sort of things that people in gen¬ 
 eral do when you put a brush into their hands, and a pot 
 within reach of them. 
 
 Now, that little brown-red butterfly (which Mr. Gurney 
 is so fortunate in possessing) is a piece of real painting ; 
 and it is as good as Titian or anybody else ever did. And 
 if you can enjoy it you can enjoy Titian and all other 
 good painters ; and if you can’t see anything in it, you 
 can’t see anything in them, and it is all affectation and 
 pretence to say that you care about them. 
 
 And with this butterfly, in the drawing I put first, 
 please look at the mug and loaf in the one I have put last, 
 of the Hunt Series, No. 171, The whole art of painting 
 
NOTES ON HUNT . 
 
 275 
 
 is in that mug—as the fisherman's genius was in the bot¬ 
 tle. If you can feel how beautiful it is, how ethereal, how 
 heathery and heavenly, as well as to the uttermost, muggy: 
 you have an eye for color, and can enjoy heather, heaven, 
 and everything else below and above. If not, you must 
 enjoy what you can, contentedly, but it won’t be paint¬ 
 ing ; and in mugs it will be more the beer than the 
 crockery ; and on the moors, rather grouse than heather. 
 
 Going back to No. 142, you will perhaps ask me why 
 the poppy is so poor and the butterfly so rich ? Mainly 
 because the poppy withered and the butterfly was pinned 
 and permanent. But there are other reasons, of which 
 more presently. 
 
 144. Herring and Pilchard. 
 
 Supreme painting again, and done with his best pains ; 
 for these two subjects, and 
 
 146. Dead Chicken 
 
 Were done by the old man, in all kindness and care, at 
 my own request, for me to give as types of work to coun¬ 
 try schools of Art. Yet no kindness or care could alto¬ 
 gether enable him to work rightly under the direction of 
 another mind ; and the project was ultimately given up 
 by me, the chicken finished as it is, having been one of 
 my chief disappointments. And here anent, let me enter 
 into some general account of the tenor of his drawings. 
 They may be broadly divided into the following classes, 
 into one or other of which every work of importance from 
 his hand will distinctly fall. 
 
 Class 1. 
 
 Drawings illustrative of rural life in its vivacity and 
 purity, without the slightest endeavor at idealization, 
 and still less with any wish either to caricature, or deplore 
 its imperfections. All the drawings belonging to this 
 class are, virtually, faultless, and most of them very beau¬ 
 tiful. It is, I am glad to say, thoroughly represented in 
 
NOTES ON nUNT. 
 
 this room, which contains several examples of the highest 
 quality, namely, 121, 168, 171, 172, 173, 175. 
 
 Besides two pieces of still life (169 and the interior, 
 No. 174), properly belonging to the group 
 
 Class 2. 
 
 Country life, with endeavor to add interest to it by 
 passing sentiment. 
 
 The drawings belonging to this class are almost always 
 over-finished, and liable to many faults. There are three 
 in this collection—120, 165, 166. 
 
 Class 3. 
 
 Country life, with some expression of its degradation, 
 either by gluttony, cowardice, or rudeness. 
 
 The drawings of this class are usually very clever and 
 apt to be very popular ; but they are on the whole dis¬ 
 honorable to the artist. There are five examples here, 
 namely, 157, 158, 161, 163, 164. 
 
 Class 4. 
 
 Flower-pieces. Fruit is often included in these ; but 
 they form a quite separate class, being necessarily less 
 finished drawings—the flowers sooner changing their 
 form. Including the fungi among these, there are eight 
 fine ones in th,e room, 148, 150, 149, 154, 152, 147, 151, 
 156. 
 
 Class 5. 
 
 Fruit-pieces, on which a great part of the artist’s repu¬ 
 tation very securely rests. Five first-rate ones are here, 
 and several of interesting, though inferior, quality. 
 
 Class 6. 
 
 Dead animals. Alas ! if he could but have painted 
 living ones, instead of those perpetual bunches of grapes. 
 But it could not be. To a weakly, sensitive, nervous tem¬ 
 perament, the perpetual changes of position, and perpet¬ 
 ual suggestions of new beauty in an animal, are entirely 
 
NOTES ON UUNT. 
 
 277 
 
 ruinous ; in ten minutes they put one in a fever. Only 
 the very greatest portrait-painters—Sir Joshua and Ve¬ 
 lasquez—can draw animals rightly. 
 
 I begin with this last class and reascend to the high¬ 
 est. 
 
 138. Dead Hake and Game. 
 
 A most notable drawing of early practice, quite won¬ 
 derful in textures of fur and in work of shadows, but 
 tentative, and in many points failing. 
 
 141. Dead Dove. (A.) 
 
 A pure water-color drawing, before his style was per¬ 
 fectly formed. Full of interest, but too conventional and 
 slight in background. 
 
 139. Dead Dove. (B.) 
 
 Finished work of central time. 
 
 145. Dead Dove. (C.) 
 
 Replica, I suppose, of B, with completer background, 
 and of highest quality. I must be pardoned for saying 
 so of my own drawing; but of course, after long and af¬ 
 fectionate relations with the painter, it would be strange 
 if I had not some of his best works. 
 
 143. Pine, Melon, and Grapes. 
 
 We were obliged to put this drawing low down, for, in 
 spite of its dark background, it killed everything we put 
 near it. To my mind, it is the most majestic piece of 
 work in the room. The grapes are of the Rubens Vint¬ 
 age, and the shadows have the darkness of Tintoret. It 
 is wholly free from any pettiness of manner, and evidences 
 spring and succulence of foliage ; it is as if the strength 
 of nature were in it, rather than of human hand. I never 
 saw it until now, and have learned from it more than after 
 my fifty years of labor I thought anything but a Vene¬ 
 tian picture could have taught me. 
 
278 
 
 NOTES ON HUNT. 
 
 132. “Love what you study, study what you love.” 
 
 All modern painters in a nutshell of a sentence, and the 
 painted nutshell perfect.—See Preface. 
 
 130. Grapes. 
 
 Consummate. Can’t be better anywhere. 
 
 131. Mr. Sibeth’s Quinces. 
 
 All that's best in this kind. 
 
 125. Bullaces. 
 
 Very fine, but conventional in background. 
 
 129. Grapes. 
 
 Perfect work, but wasted. Why he did so many grapes, 
 and scarcely ever sloes, or finely russet apples, or growing 
 strawberries, always mystified me. 
 
 126. Plums. 
 
 Finest work, but a little dull. My own favorites of 
 his plums were such variegated ones as 133 and 135 ; but 
 I somehow never got any. This drawing, however, was 
 the one of which Hunt said to me innocently—seeing it 
 again after some ten years—“It's very nice ; isn’t it? ” 
 
 128. Plums. 
 
 The bit of oak-leaf here is very wonderful, and inter¬ 
 esting as an example, and what Hunt meant by saying to 
 me once, “ I like to see things ‘ Fudged ’ out.” It is to 
 be remembered, however, that this was his own special 
 liking ; and it must not be followed by the general stu¬ 
 dent. The finest forms of anything cannot be “fudged” 
 out, but must be drawn, if possible, with the first line, at 
 least with the last one, for ever. 
 
 149. Dr. Drage’s Fungi. 
 
 A perfect gem ; “ Venetian red ” in its best earthly 
 splendor ; it could only be more bright in clouds. 
 
NOTES ON HUNT. 
 
 279 
 
 147. Me. Fry's Hawthorn. 
 
 A little overworked, but very glorious. Soft and 
 scented, I think, if you only wait a little, and make-be¬ 
 lieve very much. 
 
 155. (Mine.) Hawthorn and Birds’ Nests. 
 
 The hawthorn this time a little underworked, but very 
 good ; and nests as good as can be. 
 
 148. Lilac. (Mr. Sibeth’s.) 
 
 Fine, but curiously redundant. The upper branch 
 by itself, or the lower with only the laburnum, or both 
 together without the third, would have been beautiful; 
 but two’s company, and three’s none. 
 
 150. Vase with Bose and Basket with Fruit. } 
 
 151. Flowers and Fruit. ) 
 
 Two resplendent ones ; everything that he could do 
 best in this kind—absolutely right in color, absolutely 
 in light and shade, and without any rivalship in past or 
 present art. 
 
 162. The Gamekeeper. 
 
 Early study. Please observe that Hunt learned his 
 business, not in spots but in lines. Compare the en¬ 
 tirely magnificent sketch of the river-side, No. 124, which 
 is as powerful in lines as Rembrandt, and the St. Mar¬ 
 tin’s Church, No. 123, which is like a bit of Hogarth. 
 
 157. The Invalid. 
 
 Full of humor ; but there is no place for humor in 
 true painting. So also the Wasp, No. 163. If I could 
 have the currant-pie without the boy, I should be content. 
 
 161. Gypsies. 
 
 Very powerful; historic in its kind. 
 
 166. Praying Boy. (Mr. Quilter’s.) 
 
280 
 
 NOTES ON HUNT. 
 
 Over-finished, as its companion, No. 165, an endeavor 
 at doing what he did not understand. So also the large 
 study of himself, No. 176, with the Mulatto, No. 122, 
 and Wanderer, No. 120. His mode of work was entirely 
 unfitted for full life-size. 
 
 121. Mr. Qitilter’s Stable-boy. 
 
 Mr. Orrock’s Shy Sitter, and The Blessing. 
 
 On the contrary, he is here again in his utmost 
 strength—and in qualities of essential painting—uncon¬ 
 querable. In the pure faculty of painter’s art—in what 
 Correggio, and Tintoret, and Velasquez, and Kubens, 
 and Rembrandt, meant by painting —that single bunch 
 of old horse-collars is worth all Meissonier’s horse-bridles 
 —boots, breeches, epaulettes, and stars together. 
 
 The other drawings of the highest class need no com¬ 
 mentary. There is not much in the two little candle¬ 
 lights, Nos. 168, 175, but all that is, of the finest, and 
 the three drawings with which I close our series, “ The 
 Shy Sitter," No. 172, “ The Fisherman’s Boy," No. 173, 
 and “ The Blessing," No. 171, things that the old painter 
 was himself unspeakably blessed in having power to do. 
 The strength of all lovely human life is in them ; and 
 England herself lives only, at this hour, in so much as, 
 from all that is sunk in the luxury—sick in the penury— 
 and polluted in the sin of her great cities, Heaven has 
 yet hidden for her, old men and children such as these, 
 by their fifties in her fields and on her shores, and fed 
 them with Bread and Water. 
 
APPENDICES. 
 
 APPENDIX L 
 
 Every human action gains in honor, in grace, in all true magnifi¬ 
 cence, by its regard to things that are to come. It is the far sight, the 
 quiet and confident patience, that, above all other attributes, separate 
 man from man, and near him to his Maker ; and there is no action nor 
 art whose majesty we may not measure by this test. Therefore, when 
 we build, let us think that we build for ever. Let it not be for 
 present delight, nor for present use alone ; let it be such work as our 
 descendants will thank us for, and let us think, as we lay stone on 
 stone, that a time is to come when those stones will be held sacred be¬ 
 cause our hands have touched them, and that men will say, as they look 
 upon the labor and wrought substance of them, “ See ! this our fathers 
 did for us.” For, indeed, the greatest glory of a building is not in its 
 stones, nor in its gold. Its glory is in its Age, and in that deep sense 
 of voicefulness, of stern watching, of mysterious sympathy, nay, even 
 of approval or condemnation, which we feel in walls that have long 
 been washed by the passing waves of humanity. It is in their lasting 
 witness against men, in their quiet contrast with the transitional char- 
 | acter of all things, in the strength which, through the lapse of seasons 
 and times, and the decline and birth of dynasties, and the changing of 
 the face of the earth, and of the limits of the sea, maintains its sculp¬ 
 tured shapeliness for a time insuperable, connects forgotten and follow¬ 
 ing ages with each other, and half constitutes the identity, as it concen¬ 
 trates the sympathy, of nations ; it is in that golden stain of time, that 
 we are to look for the real light, and color, and preciousness of archi¬ 
 tecture ; and it is not until a building has assumed this character, till 
 it has been intrusted with the fame, and hallowed by the deeds of men, 
 fill its walls have been witnesses of suffering, and its pillars rise out of 
 die shadows of death, that itsexistence, more lasting as it is than that of 
 he natural objects of the world around it, can be gifted with even so 
 nuch as these possess, of language and of life.— <k The Seven Lamps 
 j)f Architecture,” pp. 172, 173. 
 
 But so far as it can be rendered consistent with the inherent charao- 
 
282 
 
 APPENDICES. 
 
 ter, the picturesque or extraneous sublimity of architecture has just this 
 of nobler function in it than that of any other object whatsoever, that 
 it is an exponent of age, of that in which, as has been said, the greatest 
 glory of the building consists ; and therefore, the external signs of this 
 glory, having power and purpose greater than any belonging to their 
 mere sensible beauty, may be considered as taking rank among pure 
 and essential characters; so essential to my mind, that I think a build¬ 
 ing cannot be considered as in its prime until four or five centuries have 
 passed over it; and that the entire choice and arrangement of its details 
 should have reference to their appearance after that period, so that 
 none should be admitted which would suffer material injury either by 
 the weather-staining, or the mechanical degradation which the lapse of 
 such a period would necessitate. 
 
 It is not my purpose to enter into any of the questions which the 
 application of this principle involves. They are of too great interest 
 and complexity to be even touched upon within my present limits, but 
 this is broadly to be noticed, that those styles of architecture which are 
 picturesque in the sense above explained with respect to sculpture, that 
 is to say, whose decoration depends on the arrangement of points of 
 shade rather than on purity of outline, do not suffer, but commonly 
 gain in richness of effect when their details are partly worn away ; 
 hence such styles, pre-eminently that of French Gothic, should always 
 be adopted when the materials to be employed are liable to degradation, 
 as brick, sandstone, or soft limestone; and styles in any degree depen¬ 
 dent on purity of line, as the Italian Gothic, must be practised alto¬ 
 gether in hard and undecomposing materials—granite, serpentine, or 
 ci-ystalline marbles. There can be no doubt that the nature of the 
 accessible materials influenced the formation of both styles; and it 
 should still more authoritatively determine our choice of either.— Ibid., 
 pp. 179, 180. 
 
 APPENDIX II. 
 
 Tiie essence of picturesque character has been already defined to be 
 a sublimity not inherent in the nature of the thing, but caused by 
 something external to it; as the ruggedness of a cottage-roof possesses 
 something of a mountain aspect, not belonging to the cottage as such. 
 And this sublimity may be either in mere external ruggedness, and 
 other visible character, or it may lie deeper, in an expression of sorrow 
 and old age, attributes which are both sublime ; not a dominant expres¬ 
 sion, but one mingled with such familiar and common characters as 
 prevent the object from becoming perfectly pathetic in its sorrow, or 
 perfectly venerable in its age. 
 
 For instance, I cannot find words to express the intense pleasure I 
 
APPENDICES. 
 
 2S3 
 
 have always in first finding myself, after some prolonged stay in Eng¬ 
 land, at the foot of the old tower of Calais church. The large neglect, 
 the noble unsightliness of it; the record of its years written so visibly, 
 yet without sign of weakness or decay ; its stern wasteness and gloom, 
 eaten away by the Channel winds, and overgrown with the bitter sea 
 grasses ; its slates and tiles all shaken and rent, and yet not falling ; its 
 desert of brickwork, full of bolts, and holes, and ugly fissures, and yet 
 strong, like a bare brown rock ; its carelessness of what any one thinks 
 or feels about it, putting forth no claim, having no beauty nor desirable¬ 
 ness, pride nor grace ; yet neither asking for pity ; not as ruins are, use¬ 
 less and piteous, feebly or fondly garrulous of better days ; but useful 
 still, going through its own daily work,—as some old fisherman beaten 
 gray by storm, yet drawing his daily nets: so it stands, with no com¬ 
 plaint about its past youth, in blanched and meagre massiveness and 
 serviceableness, gathering human souls together underneath it; the 
 sound of its bells for prayer still rolling through its rents ; and the gray 
 peak of it seen far across the sea, principal of the three that rise above 
 the waste of surfy sand and hillocked shore,—the lighthouse for life, 
 and the belfry for labor, and this for patience and praise. 
 
 I cannot tell the half of the strange pleasures and thoughts that come 
 about me at the sight of that old tower; for, in some sort, it is the epit¬ 
 ome of all that makes the Continent of Europe interesting, as opposed 
 to new countries ; and, above all, it completely expresses that agedness 
 in the midst of active life which binds the old and the new into har¬ 
 mony. We, in England, have our new street, our new inn, our green 
 shaven lawn, and our piece of ruin emergent from it—a mere specimen 
 of the middle ages put on a bit of velvet carpet to be shown, which, but 
 for its size, might as well be on a museum shelf at once, under cover. 
 But, on the Continent, the links are unbroken between the past and 
 present, and in such use as they can serve for, the gray-lieaded wrecks 
 are suffered to stay with men ; while in unbroken line, the generations 
 of spared buildings are seen succeeding each in its place. And thus in 
 its largeness, in its permitted evidence of slow decline, in its poverty, 
 in its absence of all pretence, of all show and care for outside aspect, 
 that Calais tower has an infinite of symbolism in it, all the more striking 
 because usually seen in contrast with English scenes expressive of feel¬ 
 ings the exact reverse of these. — “ Modern Painters,” vol. iv., pp. 2, 3. 
 
 APPENDIX III. 
 
 And, in some sort, the hunter of the picturesque is better than many 
 other pleasure-seekers ; inasmuch as he is simple-minded, and capable 
 of unostentatious and economical delights, which, if not very helpful 
 
284 
 
 APPENDICES. 
 
 to other people, are at all events utterly uninjurious, even to the vic¬ 
 tims or subjects of his picturesque fancies; while to many others his 
 work is entertaining and useful. And, more than all this, even that 
 delight which he seems to take in misery is not altogether unvirtuous. 
 Through all his enjoyment there runs a certain undercurrent of tragical 
 passion—a real vein of human sympathy ;—it lies at the root of all 
 those strange morbid hauntings of his; a sad excitement, such as other 
 people feel at a tragedy, only less in degree, just enough, indeed, to 
 give a deeper tone to his pleasure, and to make him choose for his sub¬ 
 ject the broken stones of a cottage wall rather than of a roadside bank, 
 the picturesque beauty of form in each being supposed precisely the 
 same; and, together with this slight tragical feeling, there is also a 
 humble and romantic sympathy, a vague desire, in his own mind, to 
 live in cottages rather than in palaces ; a joy in humble things, a con¬ 
 tentment and delight in makeshifts, a secret persuasion (in many re¬ 
 spects a true one) that there is in these ruined cottages a happiness often 
 quite as great as in kings’ palaces, and a virtue and nearness to God 
 infinitely greater and holier than can commonly be found in any other 
 kind of place ; so that the misery in which he exults is not, as he sees 
 it, misery, but nobleness—“ poor and sick in body, and beloved by the 
 Gods.” And thus, being nowise sure that these things can be mended 
 at all, and very sure that he knovrs not how to mend them, and also 
 that the strange pleasure he feels in them must have some good reason 
 in the nature of things, he yields to his destiny, enjoys his dark canal 
 without scruple, and mourns over every improvement in the town, and 
 every movement made by its sanitary commissioners, as a miser would 
 over a planned robbery of his chest; in all this being not only innocent, 
 but even respectable and admirable, compared with the kind of person 
 who has no pleasure in sights of this kind, but only in fair facades, trim 
 gardens, and park palings, and who would thrust all poverty and mis¬ 
 ery out of his way, collecting it into back alleys, or sweeping it finally 
 out of the world, so that the street might give wider play for his char¬ 
 iot wheels, and the breeze less offence to his nobility.—“ Modern Paint¬ 
 ers,” vol. iv., pp. 11, 12. 
 
 APPENDIX IV. 
 
 I do not doubt that you are greatly startled at my saying that greater 
 pleasure is to be received from inferior Art than from the finest. But 
 what do you suppose makes all men look back to the time of childhood 
 with so much regret (if their childhood has been, in any moderate 
 degree, healthy or peaceful) ? That rich charm, which the least pos¬ 
 session had for us, was in consequence of the poorness of our treasures. 
 
APPENDICES. 
 
 285 
 
 That miraculous aspect of the nature around us was because we had 
 seen little and knew less. Every increased possession loads us with 
 new weariness ; every piece of new knowledge diminishes the faculty 
 of admiration ; and Death is at last appointed to take us from a scene 
 in which, if we were to stay longer, no gift could satisfy us, and no 
 miracle surprise. . . . 
 
 In your educational series is a lithograph drawing, by Prout, of an 
 old house in Strasbourg. The carvings of its woodwork are in a style 
 altogether provincial, yet of which the origin is very distant. The 
 delicate Renaissance architecture of Italy was affected, even in its finest 
 periods, by a tendency to throw out convex masses at the bases of its 
 pillars ; the wood-carvers of the sixteenth century adopted this bulged 
 form as their first element of ornamentation, and these windows of 
 Strasbourg are only imitations by the German peasantry of what, in its 
 finest type, you must seek as far away as the Duomo of Bergamo. 
 
 But the burgher, or peasant, of Alsace enjoyed his rude imitation, 
 adapted, as it was, boldly and frankly to the size of his house and the 
 grain of the larch logs of which he built, infinitely more than the re¬ 
 fined Italian enjoyed the floral luxuriance of his marble ; and all the 
 treasures of a great exhibition could not have given him the tenth part 
 of the exultation with which he saw the gable of his roof completed 
 over its jutting fret-work; and wrote among the rude intricacies of its 
 sculpture, in flourished black letter, that “He and his wife had built 
 their house with God’s help, and prayed Him to let them live long in it 
 —they and their children.” 
 
 But it is not only the rustic method of architecture which I wish you 
 to note in this plate ; it is the rustic method of drawing also. The manner 
 in which these blunt timber-carvings are drawn by Prout is just as pro¬ 
 vincial as the carvings themselves. Born in a far-away district in Eng¬ 
 land, and learning to draw, unlielped, with fishing-boats for his models ; 
 making his way instinctively until he had command of his pencil enough 
 to secure a small income by lithographic drawing ; and finding pictu¬ 
 resque character in buildings from which all the finest lines of their 
 carving had been effaced by time; possessing also an instinct in the 
 expression of such subjects so peculiar as to win for him a satisfying 
 popularity, and far better, to enable him to derive perpetual pleasure 
 in the seclusion of country hamlets, and the quiet streets of deserted 
 cities. Prout had never any motive to acquaint himself with the re¬ 
 finements, or contend with the difficulties of a more accomplished art. 
 So far from this, his manner of work was, by its very imperfection, in 
 the most perfect sympathy with the subjects he enjoyed. The broad 
 chalk touches in which he has represented to us this house at Stras¬ 
 bourg are entirelv sufficient to give true idea of its effect. To liav e 
 drawn its ornaments with the subtlety of Leonardesque delineation 
 would only have exposed their faults and mocked their rusticity, a he 
 
286 
 
 APPENDICES. 
 
 drawing would have become painful to you from the sense of the time 
 which it had taken to represent what was not worth the labor, and to 
 direct your attention to what could only, if closely examined, be a mat¬ 
 ter of offence. But here you have a simple and provincial draughtsman 
 happily and adequately expressing a simple and provincial architecture; 
 nor could builder or painter have become wiser, but to their loss.— 
 “Works of John Ruskin,” vol. iv., “Eagle’s Nest,” pp. 76, 77, 78, 
 79, 80. 
 

 CATALOGUE OF DEA WINGS. i 
 
 PEOUT LIST. 
 
 1 Calais Town, . 
 
 2 Calais Old Pier, 
 
 3 Figure Studies, 
 
 4 Abbeville. West Front of S 
 
 Wulfran, 
 
 5 Abbeville. Northwest Tower 
 
 of S. Wulfran, 
 
 6 Abbeville. Photo, 
 
 7 Amiens, . 
 
 8 Dieppe. Chapel of the Holy 
 
 Sepulchre, . 
 
 9 Evreux, . 
 
 10 Strasburg, 
 
 11 Strasburg. Litho, 
 
 12 Lisieux, . 
 
 13 Lisieux. Water-color Drawing 
 
 14 Bayeux, .... 
 
 15 Tours, Shop at, 
 
 16 Rouen. The Tour de Beurre, 
 
 17 Rouen. Staircase, Maelon, 
 
 18 Ghent, 
 
 19 Antwerp, . 
 
 20 Augsburgh, 
 
 21 Brunswick, 
 
 22 Dresden, . 
 
 23 Prague. The Bridge, 
 
 24 Prague. Stadt Haus, 
 
 Contributed by 
 
 Mr. S. G. Prout 
 
 << 
 
 Mr. Ruskin 
 
 u 
 
 tt 
 
 Mr. S. G. Prout 
 
 Mr. Ruskin 
 
 u 
 
 a 
 
 tt 
 
 a 
 
 Mr. J. C. Ottway 
 Mr. Ruskin 
 
 u 
 
 tt 
 
 tt 
 
 tt 
 
 tt 
 
 Col. T. H. Sale 
 Mr. James Knowles 
 Mr. Ruskin 
 
 6t 
 
 Mr. John Simon 
 
 i 
 
288 
 
 CATALOGUE OF DRAWINGS. 
 
 Contributed by 
 
 25 Bramburg, . 
 
 26 Nuremberg, . 
 
 27 Lahnstein, . 
 
 28 The Drachenfels, 
 
 29 Islands of the Rhine, 
 
 30 The Pfalz, . 
 
 31 Worms, . 
 
 32 Worms. Pencil, 
 
 33 Four Studies of Peasants at 
 
 Ratisbonne, . 
 
 34 An Old Water-mill, . 
 
 35 Ulm,. 
 
 36 Ulm. Water-color Drawing, . 
 
 37 Swiss Costumes, 
 
 38 Old Hulk, .... 
 
 39 Chillon, . 
 
 40 Chillon. The Dungeon, . 
 
 41 Montreux, . . . . 
 
 42 Martigny. The Waterfall, 
 
 43 Martigny. Village, . 
 
 44 A Castle,. 
 
 45 Mayence,. 
 
 46 Brieg,. 
 
 47 Domo d’Ossola, 
 
 48 Como,. 
 
 49 Verona,. 
 
 50 Verona. Water-color Drawing, 
 
 51 Verona. Three Pencil Draw¬ 
 
 ings, . 
 
 52 Ghent,. 
 
 53 Sunrise,. 
 
 54 Swiss Village, .... 
 
 55 Place of St. Mark’s, Venice, 
 
 56 Venice. Ducal Palace from the 
 
 West,. 
 
 57 Venice. Ducal Palace from the 
 
 Mr. S. G. Prout 
 Mr. Ruskin 
 Mr. W. H. Urwick 
 Mr. S. G. Prout 
 
 Mr. Ruskin 
 
 Mr. G. W. Reid, F.S.A 
 Mr. Ruskin 
 
 <( 
 
 Mr. Alfred Hunt 
 
 Mr. Ruskin 
 
 Mr. C. S. Whitmore 
 
 Mr. S. G. Prout 
 
 Fine Art Society 
 
 Mr. Ruskin 
 << 
 
 Mr. S. G. Prout 
 
 Mr. Ruskin 
 
 Mr. S. G. Prout 
 
 Mr. A. Hunt 
 
 Mr. C. S. Whitmore 
 
 Mr. S. G. Prout 
 
 Mr. Ruskin 
 <( 
 
 tt 
 
 Mr. J. C. Ottway 
 
 Mr. Ruskin 
 Mr. W. J. Stuart 
 Mr. W. Scrivener 
 Mr. Ruskin 
 
 (i 
 
 tt 
 
 East, 
 
CATALOGUE OF DRAWINGS. 
 
 289 
 
 58 S. Michael’s Mount, Normandy, 
 
 59 The Grand Canal, Venice. Near 
 
 the Rialto, . 
 
 GO The Doge’s Palace, Venice, 
 
 61 Verona, .... 
 
 62 Sunset, .... 
 
 63 The Grand Canal, Venice, 
 
 64 The Bridge of Sighs, 
 
 65 Bologna. San Jacopo, 
 
 66 Bologna. The Tower of Gail 
 
 senda, .... 
 
 67 Arqua. Petrarch’s House, 
 
 68 Arqua. Petrarch’s Tomb, 
 
 69 Vauxhall, 
 
 70 Nuremberg. Diirer’s House, 
 
 71 Rome. Coliseum, . 
 
 72 Rome. Fountain of Egeria, 
 
 73 Kelso, .... 
 
 74 Rouen, .... 
 
 75 Study of Dutch Boats, 
 
 76 Neudersdorf, . 
 
 77 Gutenfels, 
 
 78 An Old Rhine Bridge at Rheins 
 
 felden, .... 
 
 79 Munich, .... 
 
 80 Ypres, .... 
 
 81 Rubens’ House, Antwerp, 
 
 82 Caen, .... 
 
 83 Falaise, .... 
 
 84 Old Gateway at Monmouth, 
 
 85 Old Hulk, 
 
 86 Portico di Ottavia, Rome, 
 
 87 Well at Strasburg, . 
 
 88 Well at Strasburg, . 
 
 89 Well at Nuremberg, 
 
 90 Ulm, .... 
 
 Contributed by 
 
 Mr. Ruskin 
 
 n 
 
 The Right Hon. Lord 
 Coleridge 
 Mr. J. Rhodes 
 Mr. J. C. Scrivener 
 Mr. Ruskin 
 
 <( 
 
 <( 
 
 a 
 
 Mr. S. G. Prout 
 
 cc 
 
 Mr. H. Moore 
 Mr. Ruskin 
 
 tt 
 
 Mr. J. W. Gibbs 
 Mr. Ruskin 
 
 ft 
 
 tt 
 
 tt 
 
 if 
 
 tt 
 
 ft 
 
 ft 
 
 tt 
 
 tt 
 
 Mr. A. F. Payne 
 Mr. Keeling 
 Mr. Duncan 
 Mr. Robinson 
 Mr. Ruskin 
 
 « 
 
 ft 
 
 19 
 
290 
 
 CATALOGUE OF DRAWINGS. 
 
 Contributed by 
 
 91 Prague. Tower of the Gate, Mr. Ruskin 
 
 92 Prague. Stadthaus, . . “ 
 
 93 Brunswick. Rathhaus, . “ 
 
 94 Coblenz, .... “ 
 
 95 English Cottage, . . . “ 
 
 96 Launceston, . . . Mr. W. Eastlake 
 
 97 Wreck of an East Indiaman,. Hon. H. Strutt 
 
 98 Frankfort, .... Mr. A. T. Hollingsworth 
 
 99 Marine View, . . . Mr. Safe 
 
 100 Verona, .... Mr. J. J. Wigzell 
 
 101 Interior of St. Julien at Tours Mr. S. Castle 
 
 102 A Bridge, .... Mr. A. F. Payne 
 
 103 View of a Church, . . Rev. J. Townsend 
 
 HUNT LIST. 
 
 120 The Wanderer, 
 
 121 The Eavesdropper, 
 
 122 Head of a Mulatto Girl, 
 
 123 St. Martin’s Church, 
 
 124 Somerset House, . 
 
 125 Bullaces, . 
 
 126 Plums, . 
 
 127 Black Grapes and Straw¬ 
 
 berries, . . . . 
 
 128 Magnum Bonum Plums, 
 
 129 Black and White Grapes, 
 
 130 Grapes, . . . . 
 
 131 Quinces, . 
 
 132 “ Love what you study, study 
 
 what you love,” 
 
 133 Plums and Blackberries, 
 
 134 Black Grapes and Peach, 
 
 135 Fruit, . . . . . 
 
 136 Black and White Grapes, 
 
 Mr. Jas. Orrock 
 Mr. W. Quilter 
 Mr. F. Wigan 
 Mr. Ellis 
 
 Mr. J. C. Robinson 
 Mr. Jas. Orrock 
 Mr. Ruskin 
 
 Mr. Edmund Sibeth 
 
 M 
 
 U 
 
 Mr. W. J. Galloway 
 Mr. Edmund Sibeth 
 
 Mr. Geo. Gurney 
 Mr. Jas. Orrock 
 Mr. Ruskin 
 Mr. Alfred Harris 
 Mr. Jas. Orrock 
 
CATALOGUE OF DRAWINGS. 
 
 291 
 
 137 Grapes, Casket, and Peaches, 
 
 138 Hare (dead), 
 
 139 A Pigeon, .... 
 
 140 Acorn, . 
 
 141 A Pigeon, .... 
 
 142 Flowers and Fruit with But¬ 
 
 terfly, . 
 
 143 Pine, Melon, and Grapes, 
 
 144 Herrings and Red Mullet, 
 
 145 A Pigeon, .... 
 
 146 Dead Chicken, 
 
 147 A Bird’s Nest, with May-blos¬ 
 
 som, . 
 
 148 Lilac and Bird’s Nest, . 
 
 149 Fungi, .... 
 
 150 Vase with Rose, and Basket 
 
 with Fruit, 
 
 151 Flowers and Fruit, 
 
 152 Apple Blossom, 
 
 153 Dog-roses and Bird’s Nest, . 
 
 154 Primrose and Bird’s Nest, 
 
 155 Birds’ Nests and May Blos¬ 
 
 som, . 
 
 156 Primrose, . 
 
 157 The Invalid, 
 
 158 Saturday Morning, 
 
 158a “ Study of a Head,” 
 
 159 The Pitcher Girl, 
 
 159aSketch for the drawing of the 
 
 Fly-catcher, 
 
 160 Sketch for the drawing of the 
 
 Cricketer, 
 
 161 The Gipsies, 
 
 162 The Gamekeeper, 
 
 163 Boy startled by a Wasp, 
 
 164 A Young Artist, 
 
 165 Prayer, , . . , 
 
 Contributed by 
 
 Mr. A. W. Lyon 
 
 u 
 
 Mr. W. Quilter 
 G. Knight 
 Mr. Ruskin 
 
 Mr. Geo. Gurney 
 A. T. Hollingsworth 
 Mr. Geo. Gurney 
 Mr. Ruskin 
 
 << 
 
 Mr. Fry 
 
 Mr. Edmund Sibeth 
 
 Dr. Drage 
 
 Mr. Edmund Sibeth 
 Mr. Jas. Orrock 
 Mr. Geo. Gurney 
 Mr. R. D. Farnworth 
 Mr. Geo. Gurney 
 
 Mr. Ruskin 
 Mr. Jas. Orrock 
 Mr. S. J. Thacker 
 Mr. J. J. Wigzell 
 Mr. G. Peck 
 Mr. Jas. Orrock. 
 
 Mr. H. G. Hine 
 
 Mr. Carl Haag 
 Mr. W. Quilter 
 
 Mr. John Rhodes 
 Mr. George Gurney 
 Dr. Prescott Hewett 
 
292 
 
 CATALOGUE OF DRAWINGS. 
 
 166 Devotion, 
 
 167 Girl’s Head, 
 
 168 Boy with a lighted Candle, 
 
 169 The Blacksmith’s Shop, 
 
 170 By the Wayside, . 
 
 171 The Blessing, 
 
 172 The Shy Sitter, . 
 
 173 My Father’s Boots, 
 
 174 An Interior, 
 
 175 Boy with Lantern, 
 
 176 Portrait of Hunt (painted by 
 
 himself), 
 
 176*Grapes—Muscatel, Peach, and 
 Spray of Raspberries, 
 
 177 Portrait of Sami. Prout, by 
 
 Wm. Hunt, 
 
 178 Portrait of Wm. Hunt, by 
 
 himself, .... 
 
 Contributed by 
 
 Mr. W. Quilter 
 Mr. W. J. Galloway 
 Mr. W. Beacall 
 Mr. W. H. Urwick 
 Mr. S. J. Thacker 
 Mr. Jas. Orrock 
 
 CC 
 
 Mr. John Rhodes 
 Mr. Ruskin 
 Mr. J. J. Elliott 
 
 Mr. Sutton Palmer 
 
 Mr. Haydon 
 Mr. Osier 
 
LIST OF CONTRIBUTORS TO THE EXHIBITION. 
 
 Beacall, Mr. W. Palmer, Mr. Sutton. 
 
 Brown, Dr. John. Payne, Mr. A. F. 
 
 Coleridge, The Right Hon. Peck, Mr. G. 
 
 Lord. 
 
 Drage, Dr. 
 
 Duncan, Mr. E. 
 
 Eastlake, Mr. W. 
 
 Elliott, Mr. J. J. 
 
 Fry, Mr. 
 
 Galloway, Mr. W. J. 
 Gibbs, Mr. J. W. 
 
 Gordon, The Rev. O. 
 Gurney, Mr. Geo. 
 
 Haag, Mr. Carl. 
 
 Harris, Mr. Alfred. 
 Hewett, Mr. Prescott. 
 Hine, Mr. H. G. 
 Hollingsworth, Mr. A. T. 
 Howard-Keeling, Mr. H. 
 Hunt, Mr. A. 
 
 Knowles, Mr. James. 
 
 Lyon, Mr. A. W. 
 
 Moore, Mr. H. 
 
 Orrock, Mr. James. 
 Ottway, Mr. J. C. 
 
 Prout, Mr. G. 
 
 Quaile, Mr. E. 
 
 Quilter, Mr. W. 
 
 Reid, Mr. G. W., F.S.A. 
 Rhodes, Mr. John. 
 Robinson, Mr. J. C. 
 Ruskin, Mr. 
 
 Sale, Colonel. 
 
 Safe, Mr. James W. 
 Scrivener, Mr. W. C. 
 Sibeth, Mr. Edmund. 
 Strutt, The Hon. Henry. 
 Stuart, Mr. W. J. 
 Swinburne, Sir John. 
 Thacker, Mr. S. J. 
 
 The Fine Art Society. 
 Townsend, The Rev. W. J. 
 Urwick, Mr. W. H. 
 
 Wigan, Mr. F. 
 
 Wigzell, Mr. J. J. 
 Whitmore, Mrs. C. S. 
 Willett, Mr. Henry. 
 
CATALOGUE 
 
 OF THE 
 
 DRAWINGS AND SKETCHES 
 
 BY 
 
 J. M. W. TUEI^EE, E.A., 
 
 AT PRESENT EXHIBITED IN TIIE NATIONAL GALLERY. 
 
 REVISED, AND CAST INTO PROGRESSIVE GROUPS, WITH EXPLANATORY 
 
 NOTES, 
 
 BY 
 
 JOHN RUSKIN, 
 
 HONORARY STUDENT OF OHRISTOHUBOH, AND HONORARY FELLOW OF CORPUS OHBISTI 
 
 COLLEGE, OXFORD. 
 
 I 
 
I 
 
PREFACE. 
 
 That in the largest, and, I suppose, richest city of the 
 world, the most delicate and precious water-color drawings 
 which its citizens possess should be kept in a cellar, under its 
 National Gallery, in which two-thirds of them are practically 
 invisible, even in the few bright days which London smoke 
 leaves to summer; and in which all are exposed to irreparable 
 injury by damp in winter, is a fact which I must leave the 
 British citizen to explain : stating here only that neither Mr. 
 Burton nor Mr. Eastlake are to be held responsible for such 
 arrangement; but, essentially, the public’s scorn of all art 
 which does not amuse it; and, practically, the members of the 
 Royal Academy, whose primary duty it is to see that works 
 by men who have belonged to their body, which may be edu¬ 
 cationally useful to the nation, should be rightly and suffi¬ 
 ciently exhibited. 
 
 I have had no heart myself, during recent illness, to finish 
 the catalogue which, for my own poor exoneration from the 
 shame of the matter, I began last year. But in its present 
 form it may be of some use in the coming Christmas holidays, 
 and relieve the kindness of Mr. Oldham from unnecessary 
 burden. 
 
 The Trustees of the National Gallery will I trust forgive 
 my assumption that, some day or other, they may enable their 
 keeper to remedy the evils in the existing arrangement; if 
 not by displacing some of the pictures of inferior interest in 
 the great galleries, at least by adding above their marble pil¬ 
 lars and vaulted ceilings, such a dry and skylighted garret as 
 
 | 
 
 I 
 
298 
 
 PREFACE. 
 
 any photographic establishment, opening a new branch, would 
 provide itself with in the slack of the season. Such a room 
 would be all that could be practically desired for the Turner 
 drawings ; and modern English indolence, if assisted in the 
 gratification of its languid curiosity by a lift, would not, I 
 trust, feel itself aggrieved by the otherwise salutary change. 
 
INTRODUCTORY CLASSIFICATION. 
 
 The confused succession of the drawings at present placed 
 in the water-color room of the National Gallery was a conse¬ 
 quence of their selection at different periods, by the gradually 
 extended permission of the Trustees, from the mass of the in¬ 
 ferior unexhibited sketches in the possession of the nation. 
 I think it best, in this catalogue, to place the whole series in 
 an order which might conveniently become permanent, should 
 the collection be eventually transferred to rooms with suffi¬ 
 cient light to see it by : and for the present the student will 
 find no difficulty, nor even a delay of any consequence, in find¬ 
 ing the title of any drawing by reference to the terminal 
 index, in which, by the number in the existing arrangement, 
 he is referred to that in the proposed one, followed in the 
 text. 
 
 The collection as at present seen consists of four hundred 
 drawings, in wooden sliding frames, contained in portable 
 cabinets ; and of about half that number grouped in fixed 
 frames originally intended for exhibition in the schools of 
 Kensington, and in which the drawings were chosen therefore 
 for their instructive and exemplary, more than their merely 
 attractive qualities. I observed, however, that the number of 
 these partly detracted from their utility; and have now again 
 chosen out of them a consecutive and perfectly magistral 
 group, of which it may safely be recommended that every stu¬ 
 dent of landscape art should copy every one in succession, as 
 he gains the power to do so. 
 
 This first, or “ Scholar’s ” group, consists of sixty-five draw¬ 
 ings arranged, at present, in thirty frames: but eventually, 
 
300 
 
 INTRODUCTORY CLASSIFICATION. 
 
 each of these drawings should be separately framed, and placed 
 where it can be perfectly seen and easily copied. 
 
 The drawings originally exhibited at Kensington, out of 
 which this narrower group is now selected, were for several 
 years the only pencil and water-color drawings by Turner 
 accessible to the public in the National collection. I there¬ 
 fore included among them many samples of series which were 
 at that time invisible, but to which, since the entire mass of 
 drawings is now collected, it is proper that the drawings 
 which, by their abstraction, would break the unity of subjects, 
 should be restored. I have therefore, in this catalogue, placed 
 in complete order all the important local groups of sketches 
 (in Rome, Naples, Savoy, etc.), and retained in the miscellane¬ 
 ous framed collection only those which could be spared with¬ 
 out breaking the sequence of the cabinet drawings. And fur¬ 
 ther, I have excluded from this framed collection some of 
 minor importance, which it seems to me might, not only with¬ 
 out loss, but with advantage to the concentrated power of the 
 London examples, be spared, on loan for use in provincial 
 Art schools. 
 
 The Kensington series of framed groups, originally num¬ 
 bering 153, has by these two processes of elimination been 
 reduced in the following catalogue to one hundred, of which 
 thirty form the above-described “ Scholar’s group,” absolutely 
 faultless and exemplary. The remainder, of various charac¬ 
 ter and excellence (which, though often of far higher reach 
 than that of the Scholar’s group, is in those very highest 
 examples not unaffected by the master’s peculiar failings), I 
 have in the following catalogue called the “ Student’s group ” ; 
 meaning that it is presented to the thoughtful study of the 
 general public, and of advanced artists ; but that it is only 
 with discrimination to be copied, and only with qualification 
 to be praised. Whereas, in the Scholar’s group, there is not 
 one example which may not in every touch be copied with 
 benefit, and in every quality, without reserve, admired. 
 
 After these two series follow in this catalogue, the four 
 hundred framed drawings in the cabinets, re-arranged and 
 completed by the restorations out of the Kensington series. 
 
INTRODUCTORY CLASSIFICATION. 
 
 301 
 
 with brief prefatory explanations of the nature of each group. 
 One or two gaps still require filling ; but there being some 
 difficulty in choosing examples fit for the exact places, I pub¬ 
 lish the list as it stands. The present numbers are given in 
 order in the terminal index. 
 
 For many reasons I think it best to make this hand-cata¬ 
 logue direct and clear, with little comment on separate draw¬ 
 ings. I may possibly afterward issue a reprint of former 
 criticism of the collection, with some further practical advice 
 to scholars. 
 
PRIMARY SYNOPSIS. 
 
 The following general plan of the new arrangement will 
 facilitate reference in the separate heads of it. The marginal 
 figures indicate the number of frames in each series. 
 
 First Hundred. 
 
 GROUP. 
 
 I. The Scholar’s Group,.30 
 
 n. The Student’s Group,.70 
 
 100 
 
 Second Hundred. 
 
 HI. Scotland. Pencil. (Early), 
 
 IV. Still Life. Color. (Mid. Time), 
 Y. Switzerland. Color. (Early), 
 
 VI. Mountains. Color. (Late), 
 
 YIL Venice. Color. (Late), 
 
 . 15 
 . 5 
 
 . 10 
 . 50 
 . 20 
 
 100 
 
 Third Hundred. 
 
 Vm. Savoy. Pencil (Early), . . . .25 
 
 IX. Vignettes to Rogers’ Italy. (Mid. Time), . 25 
 
 X. Rome. (Mid. Time), . . . . .30 
 
 XI. Tivoli. (Mid. Time),.5 
 
 XH. Naples. (Mid. Time),.15 
 
 100 
 
DR A WINGS AND SKETCHES BY TURNER . 
 
 303 
 
 Fourth Hundred. 
 
 GROUP. 
 
 XIH. Vignettes to Rogers’ Poems. (Late), 
 
 XIV. Rivers of England. (Late), . 
 
 XV. Ports of England. (Late), 
 
 XVI. Venice. (Latest), 
 
 XVH. Various. (Latest), 
 
 35 
 
 15 
 
 5 
 
 25 
 
 20 
 
 100 
 
 Fifth Hundred. 
 
 XVIII. Finest Color on Gray. (Late), . . .25 
 
 XIX. Finest Color on Gray. (Latest), . . .25 
 
 XX. Studies on Gray for Rivers of France. (Late), 15 
 XXL The Seine,.35 
 
 100 
 
 GROUP I. 
 
 (First Hundred.) 
 
 The Scholar’s Group. 
 
 It consists of sixty-five drawings in thirty frames, originally 
 chosen and arranged for exhibition at Kensington, togethei 
 with upward of a hundred more (as explained in the preface), 
 out of which this narrower series, doubly and trebly sifted, is 
 now recommended to the learner, for constant examination, 
 and progressive practice ; the most elementary examples being 
 first given. Their proper arrangement would be on a scieen 
 in perfect light, on a level with the eye the three largest only 
 above the line of the rest. When several drawings are in the 
 1 same frame, they are lettered a, b, c, etc., either from left to 
 right, or from above downward. The numbers on the light 
 hand of the page are those by which they are indicated in the 
 
304 
 
 CATALOGUE OF DRAWINGS AND 
 
 existing arrangement; the letter K standing for Kensington, 
 to prevent confusion with the numbers of those in cabinets, 
 which were always at the National Gallery. 
 
 2 . 
 
 3. 
 
 4. 
 
 1. a. Tower of St. Mary Redcliffe, Bristol, 
 
 b. Transept and Tower, York Cathedral. 
 
 Tower of Boston, Lincolnshire. 
 
 Carnarvon Castle, ...... 
 
 Wells Cathedral. 
 
 Malmesbury Abbey. Sketch from nature for 
 the drawing in the English series, . 
 
 Study of sailing boat,. 
 
 Head of rowing boat. 
 
 Stern of rowing boat. 
 
 5. a. b. Sketches of boats in light and shade, . 
 
 c. Diagram of a Dutch boat. 
 
 Study of spars of merchant-brig, . 
 
 Study of cottage roof in color, 
 
 Gate of Carisbrook Castle. Water - colored 
 
 drawing, half way completed, . 
 a. Sketch from nature at Ivy Bridge, afterward 
 realized in the oil picture, 
 
 c. 
 
 a. 
 
 b. 
 
 а. 
 
 б . 
 
 c. 
 
 6 . 
 
 7. 
 
 8 . 
 
 9 . 
 
 K 
 
 k 145 
 
 K 4 
 K 18 
 
 K 17 
 
 K 10 
 
 K 13 
 K 14 
 
 K 21 
 
 b. Sketch of the bed of a stream, on the spot, 
 half finished. 
 
 10. a. Sketch from nature of the tree on the left in 
 
 “ Crossing the Brook,” . . . . k 16 
 
 b. c. Studies of animals. 
 
 d. Sketch from nature at Ivy Bridge, realized 
 in the finished drawing in this collec¬ 
 tion. 
 
 e. Sketch from nature in Val d’Aosta, amplified 
 afterward into the “Battle of Fort Rock,” 
 now placed in the upper rooms of the 
 
 
 Gallery,. 
 
 . . K 41 
 
 11. 
 
 Doric columns and entablature, 
 
 . k 33 
 
 12. 
 
 Part of the portico of St. Peter’s, 
 
 . K 11 
 
 13. 
 
 Glass balls, partly filled with water. 
 
 (Study of 
 
 
 reflection and refraction), 
 
 . . K 121 
 

 SKETCHES BY TURNER. 
 
 
 
 305 
 
 14 . 
 
 Four sketches on the Seine, for drawings 
 
 in the 
 
 
 
 Rivers of France. On gray paper, 
 
 • 
 
 • 
 
 k 70 
 
 15 . 
 
 Two studies of marine. On gray, 
 
 * 
 
 • 
 
 k 143 
 
 16 . 
 
 Four sketches at Calais. On gray, 
 
 • 
 
 • 
 
 K 71 
 
 17 . 
 
 Four sketches on the Seine, 
 
 • 
 
 • 
 
 k 73 
 
 
 а. Marly. 
 
 б. Near St. Germain. 
 
 
 
 
 
 c. Chateau of La Belle Gabrielle. 
 
 d. Near St. Germain. 
 
 
 
 
 18. Two studies of the Arch of Titus, Rome, on white, 
 
 stained gray, with lights taken out, . . k 120 
 
 19. Two outline sketches of Cockermouth Castle, . k G2 
 
 20. Two outline sketches of park scenery, . . k GO 
 
 21. Rome from Monte Mario. Finest pure pencil, . k 101 
 
 22. Rome from Monte Mario. Pencil outline with 
 
 color, . ....... k 103 
 
 23. Rome. The Coliseum. Color, unfinished, . k 107 
 
 24. Study of cutter. (Charcoal), . . . . k 45 
 
 25. Study of pilot boat. (Sepia), . . . . k 4G 
 
 26. Two pencil studies, Leeds, and Bolton Abbey, . k 6 
 
 27. Four pencil sketches at and near York, . . k 148 
 
 28. Two pencil sketches, at Cologne and on the 
 
 Rhine, ....... k 147 
 
 29. Four sketches in color at Petworth, . . . k 7G 
 
 30. Four sketches in color on the Loire and Meuse, k 138 
 
 GROUP II 
 
 (First Hundred.') 
 
 The Student’s Group. 
 
 The Student’s group is arranged so as to exhibit Turner s 
 methods of work, from his earliest to his latest time of power. 
 All his essential characters as an artist are shown in it; his 
 highest attainments, with his peculiar faults—faults of inher¬ 
 ent nature, that is to say ; as distinguished from those which, 
 20 
 
306 
 
 CATALOGUE OF DRAWINGS AND 
 
 after the year 1845, were signs merely of disease. No work 
 of his declining time is admitted into this series. 
 
 It begins (No. 31) with three examples of the earliest ef¬ 
 forts by him existing in the National collection of his draw¬ 
 ings. Then follow examples of his methods of study with 
 pencil and pen, from first to last: then, examples of his work 
 similarly progressive, in transparent color on white paper; 
 and, finally, examples of his use of body color on gray paper 
 —a method only adopted late in life, as one proper for none 
 but a consummate master. 
 
 The entire series is contained in seventy frames, selected, 
 as those of the Scholar’s group are, from the collection first 
 arranged for Kensington ; and close the first hundred of the 
 frames here permanently catalogued. 
 
 31. Three early sketches at Clifton, when he was 
 
 twelve or thirteen years old. He went on for 
 several years working thus in pencil and 
 color; then saw the necessity of working in 
 pencil outline only, and never ceased that 
 method of work to the close of life, . . k 1 
 
 32. a. Carew Castle. Early pencil outline, after he 
 
 had determined its method, . . . . k 144 
 
 b. Lancaster, of later date. Both drawings real¬ 
 ized in the England series. 
 
 33. a. Kirkstall Abbey, . . . . . . k 5 
 
 b. Holy Island Cathedral. Subjects realized in 
 
 the Liber Studiorum. 
 
 34. Sketch from nature of the Liber subject, “ Source 
 
 of the Arveron,”. k 39 
 
 35. Sketch from nature for the drawing at Farnley, 
 
 “ Mont Blanc from the Valley of Chamouni,” . k 40 
 
 36. Foreground studies, laurel, etc., . . . . k 51 
 
 37. Studies of market ware at Rotterdam, . . k 54 
 
 38. Study of sheep, . . . . . . . k 52 
 
 39. Memoranda of coast incidents, . : . . . k 20 
 
 40. Sketches at York, . . . . . . k 149 
 
 41. Two Egremont subjects, . % $ * • . k 61 
 
SKETCHES BY TURNER. 
 
 SOT 
 
 42. Two Bridge subjects,. K 14G 
 
 43. Studies from Claude, etc.,. k 118 
 
 44. Twelve leaves from a notebook at Venice (all 
 
 drawn as richly on the other sides), . . k 115 
 
 45. Four leaves of a notebook on journey to Scotland 
 
 b J sea,. k H2 
 
 46. a. Sketches at Andernach,. k 116 
 
 b. Sketches on the Rhine. 
 
 c. Sketches on Lago Maggiore. 
 
 The leaves a b are out of a notebook containing 
 270 such. 
 
 47. 
 
 Sketches at Naples, .... 
 
 . K 117 
 
 48. 
 
 At Dresden,. 
 
 . K 119 
 
 49. 
 
 Cologne Cathedral, and Rhine subject, 
 
 . k 147 
 
 50. 
 
 Sketches in Rouen, with engraving of 
 
 finished 
 
 
 drawing made from one of them, . 
 
 . k 55 
 
 These twenty drawings (31-50) are enough to show the 
 method of the artist’s usual work from nature. He never 
 sketched in tinted shade but at home, in making studies for 
 pictures, or for engravers, as in the series of the Liber Studi- 
 orum. When he wanted light and shade in painting from 
 nature, he always gave color also, for it was as easy to him 
 to give the depth of shade he wanted in different tints, as in 
 one ; and the result was infinitely more complete and true. 
 The series of water-color sketches and drawings which next 
 follow, represent, therefore, his progress in color and chiar¬ 
 oscuro simultaneously; and I have placed under the next 
 following numbers, examples of his water-color work from 
 the beginning of its effective power, to the end. But these 
 are not, as in the Scholar’s group, all equally exemplary. 
 The absolutely safe and right models are already given in the 
 Scholar’s group : here, there are instances given of methods 
 questionable—or distinctly dangerous, as well as of the best. 
 Thus Turner drew for several years almost exclusively in 
 neutral tint, as in No. 51: but it is not at all certain that this 
 practice should be enforced as academical; and again, the 
 drawing of Folkestone is an instance of delicacy of work like 
 
308 
 
 CATALOGUE OF DRAWINGS AND 
 
 that of a miniature, applied to a large surface; this is cer¬ 
 tainly a practice liable to lead to the loss of simplicity and 
 power:—it is one on the whole to be deprecated ; and it 
 gravely limited Turner’s power of making large and manly 
 drawings, at the time when it was most desirable for public 
 instruction that he should have done so. 
 
 The drawings of Edinburgh, and Ivy Bridge, are types of 
 his finest manner, unaffected by this weakness of minute exe¬ 
 cution. The drawings of Rochester and Dover show his 
 minutest execution rightly applied, and his consummate skill 
 in composition. 
 
 51. 
 
 52. 
 
 53. 
 
 54. 
 
 55. 
 
 56. 
 
 57. 
 
 58. 
 
 59. 
 
 60 . 
 61. 
 62. 
 
 63. 
 
 64. 
 
 65. 
 
 66 . 
 
 67. 
 
 68 . 
 
 69. 
 
 70. 
 
 View of Tivoli. Neutral tint (one of multitudes, 
 which had to be done before the great Tivolis 
 could be), ....... 
 
 Ruins of the Savoy Chapel. Neutral tint, . 
 
 Early study of a cottage,. 
 
 The Castle of Aosta; in color, with the pencil 
 study for it below : one of the series out 
 of which Group VIII. (third hundred) was 
 
 chosen, . 
 
 Angry Swans,. 
 
 Study of pigs and donkeys, .... 
 
 Study of ducks, ....... 
 
 Study of storm-clouds ; with the plate afterward 
 engraved from it by Turner himself beneath, 
 Three studies at sea, ...... 
 
 Study of evening and night skies, 
 
 Shields. Engraved for Ports of England, . 
 Rochester. Engraved for Rivers of England, 
 Dover. Engraved for Ports of England, 
 Folkestone. Large drawing unfinished, 
 Edinburgh from the Calton Hill. Finished drawing, 
 Ivy Bridge. Finished drawing, .... 
 
 Battle of Fort Rock. Finished drawing, 
 
 The Source of the Arveron. Unfinished, large, . 
 Grenoble. Unfinished, large, .... 
 
 Grenoble. “ “ .... 
 
 k 9 
 
 K 8 
 
 K 12 
 
 k 27 
 k 122 
 k 53 
 k 58 
 
 k 64 
 k 65 
 k 63 
 k 68 
 k 69 
 k 67 
 k 44 
 k 35 
 k 42 
 K 41 
 k 125 
 k 126 
 £ 127 
 
SKETCHES BY TURNER. 
 
 309 
 
 The two last drawings are among the most exquisite frag¬ 
 ments existing of his central manner. They are beginnings 
 of a favorite subject, which he seems to have found beyond his 
 power on this scale, and afterward finished on a reduced one. 
 They may properly close the examples of his work in pure 
 water-color. Two specimens of his sketching in oil—a rare 
 practice with him—follow ; and then, a magnificent selection 
 from the body-color drawings of his best time, which contain 
 the most wonderful things he ever did in his own special 
 manner. 
 
 71. 
 
 72. 
 
 73. 
 
 74. 
 
 75. 
 
 76. 
 
 77. 
 
 78. 
 
 79. 
 
 80. 
 81. 
 82. 
 
 83. 
 
 84. 
 
 85. 
 
 86 . 
 
 87. 
 
 88 . 
 
 89. 
 
 90. 
 
 Rocks in Bolton glen,. 
 
 Torrent bed. One of the studies made at the 
 date of Ivy Bridge, ..... 
 
 Sunset and Twilight: the last at Petworth, 
 Pen-outline sketches for the Rivers of France, . 
 Tancarville, and three other French subjects, 
 Four French subjects, . 
 
 Rocks on the Meuse, and three other subjects, . 
 Luxembourg, and three other subjects, 
 
 Two of Honfleur, two unknown, . 
 
 Honfleur, and three other subjects, 
 
 Dijon, and three other subjects, . 
 
 Interiors, ..... 
 
 Saumur, Huy, and Dinant, . 
 a, Town on Loire ; b, Carrara mountains, 
 
 Nantes, and Dressing for Tea, 
 
 Harfleur, Caudebec, and two others, 
 
 Saumur, and two others, 
 
 Orleans and Nantes, . 
 
 Dinant, etc., .... 
 
 Havre, etc.,. . . • • 
 
 k 128 
 
 k 34 
 k 132 
 k 77 
 k 81 
 k 80 
 k 82 
 k 83 
 k 84 
 k 85 
 k 86 
 k 75 
 k 133 
 k 139 
 K 135 
 k 136 
 k 137 
 k 134 
 k 78 
 k 79 
 
 Henceforward to the close of the Student s group are placed 
 examples of his quite latest manner : in outline, more or less 
 fatigued and hasty, though full of detail—in color, sometimes 
 extravagant—and sometimes gloomy ; but every now and then 
 manifesting more than his old power in the treatment of sub* 
 jects under aerial and translucent effect. 
 
310 CATALOGUE OF DRAWINGS AND 
 
 91. Fribourg, Swiss. Pen outline over pencil, . k 152 
 
 92. Fribourg, Swiss. Pen outline over pencil, . k 153 
 
 93. Swiss Fortress and Grenoble,. . . . k 142 
 
 94. Lausanne, and another subject, . . . k 93 
 
 95. Fluelen and Kussnacht,. k 95 
 
 96. Lake of Annecy, and Landeck, . . . k 96 
 
 97. Venice, . . . k 97 
 
 98. Venice, .. k 98 
 
 99. Lucerne and Zurich,. k 99 
 
 100. Lake Lucerne. Morning, . . . . k 100 c. 
 
 SECOND HUNDRED. 
 
 (i Cabinet Drawings.) 
 
 The second century of the drawings, as rearranged, forms 
 a mixed group, containing both early and late work, which I 
 have thrown together in a cluster, in order to make the 
 arrangement of the following three hundred drawings more 
 consistent. 
 
 The first thirty drawings of this hundred are all early ; and 
 of consummate value and interest. The remaining seventy 
 were made at the time of the artist’s most accomplished 
 power ; but are for the most part slight, and intended rather 
 to remind himself of what he had seen, than to convey any 
 idea of it to others. Although, as I have stated, they are 
 placed in this group because otherwise they would have inter¬ 
 fered with the order of more important drawings, it cannot 
 but be interesting to the student to see, in close sequence, the 
 best examples of the artist’s earliest and latest methods of 
 sketching. 
 
SKETCHES BY TURNER. 
 
 311 
 
 GROUP IIL 
 
 (Second Hundred.) 
 
 Fifteen pencil drawings of Scottish scenery made on his 
 first tour in Scotland, and completed afterward in light and 
 shade, on tinted paper touched with white. Several of his 
 best early colored drawings were made from these studies, 
 and are now in the great collection at Farnley. 
 
 They are all remarkable for what artists call “ breadth ” of 
 effect (carried even to dulness in its serene rejection of all 
 minor elements of the picturesque—craggy chasms, broken 
 waterfalls, or rustic cottages); and for the labor given in 
 careful pencil shading, to round the larger masses of moun¬ 
 tain, and show the relation of the clouds to them. The moun¬ 
 tain forms are always perfect, the clouds carefully modelled; 
 when they cross the mountains they do so solidly, and there 
 is no permission of the interferences of haze or rain. The 
 composition is always scientific in the extreme. 
 
 I do not know the localities, nor are they of much conse¬ 
 quence. Their order is therefore founded, at present, only on 
 the character of subject ; but I have examined this series less 
 carefully than any of the others, and may modify its sequence 
 in later editions of this catalogue. The grand introductory 
 upright one is, I think, of Tummel bridge, and with the one 
 following, 102, shows the interest which the artist felt from 
 earliest to latest days in all rustic architecture of pontifical 
 character. 
 
 The four following subjects, 103-106, contain materials 
 used in the Liber composition called “ Ben Arthur ” ; 114 is 
 called at Farnley “ Loch Fyne.” 
 
 The reference numbers in the right hand column are hence¬ 
 forward to the cabinet frames as at present arranged, unless 
 the prefixed K indicate an insertion of one out of the Ken¬ 
 sington series. 
 
312 CATALOGUE OF DRAWINGS AND 
 
 101. Scotland. (Bridges on the Tummel ?), . . 311 
 
 102. Scotland. Bridges and village, .... 313 
 
 103. Scotland. Argyllshire? ..... 309 
 
 104. Scotland. Argyllshire ? . • . . .310 
 
 105. Scotland. Argyllshire ?.307 
 
 106. Scotland. Study of trees,. k 22a 
 
 107. Scotland. Study of trees, . . . . . k 22 b 
 
 108. Scotland. Study of trees,.30G 
 
 109. Scotland, . 346 
 
 110. Scotland, ..347 
 
 111. Scotland, ........ 348 
 
 112. Scotland,.349 
 
 113. Scotland. LochFyne?.312 
 
 114. Scotland. LochFyne?.314 
 
 115. Scotland,.308 
 
 GKOUP IY. 
 
 (Second Hundred.) 
 
 STUDIES OF BIRDS AND FISH. 
 
 Placed immediately after the Scottish series in order to 
 show the singularly various methods of the Master’s study. 
 These sketches are, however, at least ten years later in date. 
 They are all executed with a view mainly to color, and, in 
 color, to its ultimate refinements, as in the gray down of the 
 birds, and the subdued iridescences of the fish. 
 
 There is no execution in water-color comparable to them 
 for combined rapidity, delicacy, and precision—the artists of 
 the world may be challenged to approach them ; and I know 
 of only one piece of Turner’s own to match them—the Dove 
 at Farnley. 
 
 
 • •••••• 
 
 116. Teal, . 
 
 117. Teal, . 
 
 . k 59 
 . 375 
 
SKETCHES BY TURNER. 
 
 313 
 
 118. (Not yet placed.) * 
 
 119. Perch,.373 
 
 120. Trout and other fish.374 
 
 GROUP V. 
 
 (Second Hundred.) 
 
 COLORED SKETCHES IN SWITZERLAND. 
 
 These quite stupendous memoranda were made on his first 
 Swiss journey, 1803, and are at the maximum of his early 
 power. Several of very high quality were made from those 
 on the St. Gothard; a beautiful one at Farnley from 126 ; and 
 the greatest of the Liber mountain subjects, from 123, 125, 
 and 127. 
 
 121. On the pass of St. Gothard, above Amsteg, . . 324 
 
 122. The old road, pass of St. Gothard, . . . 320 
 
 123. The old Devil’s Bridge, pass of St. Gothard, . 321 
 
 124. Bonneville, Savoy, . . • . . • • 323 
 
 125. The Source of the Arveron, as it was in 1803, . 319 
 
 126. The Mer-de-glace of Chamouni, looking upstream, 325 
 
 127. The Mer-de-glace of Chamouni, looking down¬ 
 
 stream, 322 
 
 128. Contamines, Savoy,. K 38 
 
 (Two subjects still wanting to this series, may, I believe, be 
 furnished out of the reserves in tin cases.) 
 
 * I may possibly afterward, with the permission of the Trustees, be 
 able to supply this gap with a drawing of a Jay, given me by Mr. W. 
 Kingsley, or with some purchased example—there being no more than 
 these four in the National collection. 
 
314 
 
 CATALOGUE OF DRAWINGS AND 
 
 GROUP VI. 
 
 (Second Hundred.) 
 
 Fifty sketches on liis later Continental journeys, made in 
 pencil outline only on the spot, and colored from memory. 
 Of the finest quality of pure Turnerian art, which is in sum, 
 as explained in my various university lectures over and over 
 again, the true abstraction of the color of Nature as a distinct 
 subject of study, with only so much of light and shade as may 
 explain the condition and place of the color, without taint¬ 
 ing its purity. In the modern French school, all the color 
 is taken out of Nature, and only the mud left. By Turner, 
 all the mud is taken out of Nature, and only the color left. 
 Tones of chiaroscuro, which depend upon color, are however 
 often given in full depth, as in the Nos. 138, 139, 179, and 180. 
 
 131. 
 
 The Red Gorge, 
 
 
 
 
 72 
 
 132. 
 
 The Allee Blanche, . 
 
 
 
 
 47 
 
 133. 
 
 The Via Mala, .... 
 
 
 
 
 73 
 
 134. 
 
 Miner’s Bridge, 
 
 
 
 
 80 
 
 135. 
 
 Altorf, ..... 
 
 
 
 
 100 
 
 136. 
 
 Martigny, .... 
 
 
 
 
 81 
 
 137. 
 
 Mont Righi at dawn, 
 
 
 
 
 96 
 
 138. 
 
 Mont Righi at sunset, 
 
 
 
 
 45 
 
 139. 
 
 Fort l’Ecluse, .... 
 
 
 
 
 42 
 
 140. 
 
 Bent d’Oches, from Lausanne, 
 
 
 
 
 41 
 
 141. 
 
 Lausanne, .... 
 
 
 
 
 44 
 
 142. 
 
 Lausanne, .... 
 
 
 
 
 50 
 
 143. 
 
 Lausanne, .... 
 
 
 
 
 91 
 
 144. 
 
 Lausanne, .... 
 
 
 
 
 92 
 
 145. 
 
 Lausanne, .... 
 
 
 
 
 95 
 
 146. 
 
 Vevay, ..... 
 
 
 
 c 
 
 46 
 
 147. 
 
 Baden (Swiss), 
 
 • 
 
 
 • 
 
 49 
 
SKETCHES BY TURNER. 
 
 148. Baden (Swiss), .... 
 
 149. Baden (Swiss), .... 
 
 150. Heidelberg, ..... 
 
 151. Heidelberg,. 
 
 152. Heidelberg, • 
 
 153. Coblentz, Bridge of boats, 
 
 154. Coblentz, Bridge of boats, 
 
 155. Coblentz, Bridge on tlie Moselle, 
 
 156. Coblentz, Bridge on the Moselle, . 
 
 157. Fortress, ..... 
 
 158. Fortress,. 
 
 159. Biver scene, ..... 
 
 160. River scene, ..... 
 
 161. Rheinfelden, just above Basle, Swiss, 
 
 162. Rheinfelden,. 
 
 163. Rheinfelden, ..... 
 
 164. Rheinfelden, ..... 
 
 165. Rheinfelden, . 
 
 166. Fortress,. 
 
 167. Lake Lucerne, from Kussnacht, 
 
 168. Mont Pilate, from Kussnacht, 
 
 169. Lake Lucerne, from Brunnen, 
 
 170. Lake Lucerne, from Brunnen, 
 
 171. Zurich,. 
 
 172. Zurich,. 
 
 173. Lucerne, . 
 
 174. Schaff hausen, .... 
 
 175. Constance ..... 
 
 176. Splugen,. 
 
 177. Bellinzona,. 
 
 178. Fluelen,. 
 
 179. Aart,. 
 
 180. Goldau,. 
 
 315 
 
 83 
 
 85 
 
 284 
 282 
 283 
 
 279 
 k 94 b 
 
 280 
 k 94 ci 
 
 48 
 
 82 
 
 78 
 
 79 
 
 86 
 
 87 
 
 88 
 
 89 
 
 90 
 77 
 43 
 
 290 
 k 100 a 
 k 100 5 
 289 
 
 287 
 
 288 
 
 285 
 
 286 
 75 
 94 
 99 
 
 97 
 
 98 
 
316 
 
 CATALOGUE OF DRAWINGS AND 
 
 GROUP m 
 
 (Second Hundred.) 
 
 TWENTY SKETCHES IN VENICE, 
 
 Characteristic of Turner’s entirely final manner, when the 
 languor of age made him careless, or sometimes reluctant in 
 outline, while yet his hand had lost none of its subtlety, nor 
 his eye of its sense for color. From the last but one (199) 
 he painted the best of his late Academy pictures, now in the 
 upper gallery, and 188 has itself been carried forward nearly 
 to completion. 
 
 181. 
 
 The Approach to Venice, . 
 
 • 
 
 51 
 
 182. 
 
 The Ducal Palace and Riva, 
 
 • 
 
 52 
 
 183. 
 
 The Riva (dei Schiavoni), .... 
 
 • 
 
 53 
 
 184. 
 
 The Riva, from the Canal of Chioggia, 
 
 • 
 
 54 
 
 185. 
 
 Church of Salute, from the Riva, 
 
 • 
 
 55 
 
 186. 
 
 The Riva, looking west, .... 
 
 • 
 
 56 
 
 187. 
 
 The Riva, from the outlet of the Canal of the 
 
 
 
 Arsenal, ...... 
 
 • 
 
 57 
 
 188. 
 
 The Canal of the Arsenal, .... 
 
 • 
 
 58 
 
 189. 
 
 Bridge over the Canal of the Arsenal, . 
 
 • 
 
 59 
 
 190. 
 
 San Giorgio, ...... 
 
 • 
 
 60 
 
 191. 
 
 The Steps of the Salute, .... 
 
 • 
 
 61 
 
 192. 
 
 The Grand Canal, with the Salute, 
 
 • 
 
 62 
 
 193. 
 
 The Casa Grimani, ..... 
 
 • 
 
 63 
 
 194. 
 
 San Simeon Piccolo, ..... 
 
 • 
 
 64 
 
 195. 
 
 Fishing Boat, ...... 
 
 • 
 
 65 
 
 196. 
 
 Moonrise, ....... 
 
 • 
 
 66 
 
 197. 
 
 The Giudecca, with Church of Redentore, 
 
 • 
 
 67 
 
 198. 
 
 Looking down the Giudecca, 
 
 • 
 
 68 
 
 199. 
 
 Looking up the Giudecca, .... 
 
 • 
 
 69 
 
 200. 
 
 Farewell to Venice,. 
 
 • 
 
 70 
 
SKETCHES BT TURNER 
 
 317 
 
 THIRD HUNDRED. 
 
 The third century of drawings consists entirely of sketches 
 or compositions made in Italy, or illustrative of Italian scen¬ 
 ery and history. It opens with a group of pencil sketches 
 made in Savoy and Piedmont in 1803, showing the artist’s 
 first impressions of the Italian Alps. Then follow the vig¬ 
 nettes made to illustrate Rogers’ poem of “ Italy,” many of 
 which were composed from the preceding pencil sketches; 
 and then follow fifty sketches made on his first visit to south¬ 
 ern Italy, divided into three groups, illustrative of Rome, 
 Tivoli, and Naples. 
 
 GROUP VIII. 
 
 (Third Hundred.) 
 
 TWENTY-FIVE SKETCHES IN SAVOY AND PIEDMONT, 
 
 With very black, soft pencil, on dark tinted paper, touched 
 with white. Of the highest value and interest. Made, I be¬ 
 lieve, in 1803; at all events on his first Continental journey : 
 all in complete chiaroscuro, and in his grandest manner. 
 They are absolutely true to the places; no exaggeration is 
 admitted anywhere or in any respect, and the compositions, 
 though in the highest degree learned, and exemplary of con¬ 
 structive principles in design, are obtained simply by selection, 
 not alteration, of forms—and by the introduction either of 
 clouds, figures, or entirely probable light and shade. 
 
 All are rapid and bold ; some, slight and impetuous ; but 
 they cannot be too constantly studied, or carefully copied, by 
 landscape students, since, "whatever their haste, the conception 
 is always entirely realized ; and the subject disciplined into a 
 complete picture, balanced and supported from corner to cor¬ 
 ner, and concluded in all its pictorial elements. 
 
318 
 
 CATALOGUE OF ERA WINGS AND 
 
 Observe also that although these sketches give some of the 
 painter’s first, strongest, and most enduring impressions of 
 mountain scenery, and architecture of classical dignity—their 
 especial value to the general student is that they are in no 
 respect distinctively Tarnerian, but could only be known by 
 their greater strength and precision from studies such as 
 Gainsborough or Wilson might have made at the same spots : 
 and they are just as useful to persons incapable of coloring, 
 in giving them the joy of rightly treated shade, as to the ad¬ 
 vanced colorist in compelling him to reconsider the founda¬ 
 tions of effect, which he is too often beguiled into forgetting. 
 
 201. Town of Grenoble,. k 32 a 
 
 202. Grenoble, with Mont Blanc, . . . . k 31 b 
 
 203. Grenoble, with Mont Blanc, .... 5 
 
 204. Boad from Grenoble to Voreppe, . . . k 30 a 
 
 205. Entrance to the Chartreuse, .... 9 
 
 206. Entrance to the Chartreuse, .... 10 
 
 207. Entrance to the Chartreuse, .... 12 
 
 208. Bridges at the Chartreuse, . . . . 11 
 
 209. Cascade of the Chartreuse, .... 14 
 
 210. Gate of the Chartreuse (looking forward), . 17 
 
 211. Gate of the Chartreuse (looking back), . . 18 
 
 212. Gate of the Chartreuse (looking back, farther 
 
 off),.19 
 
 213. Chain of Alps of the Chartreuse, ... 3 
 
 214. Alps of the Chartreuse (the Liber subject), . k 31 a 
 
 215. Val d’lsere,. k 29 b 
 
 216. Yal d’lsere, with Mont Blanc, . . . . k 30 b 
 
 217. Martigny, ........ 24 
 
 218. Hospice of St. Bernard, . . . . . k 25 a 
 
 219. Descent to Aosta, ...... 22 
 
 220. Town of Aosta, . . . . . . k 25 b 
 
 221. East gate of Aosta (Italy vignette), . . . k 26 a 
 
 222. Triumphal arch of Aosta, . . . . . k 26 b 
 
 223. Near Aosta, ....... 23 
 
 224. Ascent to Courmayeur, . . . . . k 29 a 
 
 225. Descent to Ivrea,.25 
 
SKETCHES BT TURNER. 
 
 3U) 
 
 GROUP IX. 
 
 (Third Hundred.) 
 
 The vignettes to Rogers’ “ Italy ” are of Turner’s best time, 
 and contain some of his very best work ; the more interesting 
 because, with few exceptions, they are quickly, and even 
 slightly, executed. Whether slight, or carried on to comple¬ 
 tion, they are in the highest degree exemplary to the student 
 of water-color; one only excepted, the “Venice,” which, 
 whether painted during some fit of slight illness, or perhaps 
 hurriedly by candlelight under some unexpected call from the 
 engraver, is utterly different from the rest, and wholly un¬ 
 worthy of the painter. This is therefore excluded from the 
 series, and placed among the supplementary studies. The 
 total number of vignettes executed by Turner for Rogers’ 
 “Italy” was twenty-five; but one, the “Dead-house of St. 
 Bernard,” is irrevocably in America, and the exclusion of the 
 “ Venice ” leaves the total number in these cases, twenty-three. 
 To complete them to a symmetrical twenty-five I have placed 
 with them, to terminate their series, the two of the later series 
 executed for Rogers’ “Poems,” which have most in common 
 with the earlier designs of the “Italy.” 
 
 The twenty-three Italian ones are arranged with little varia¬ 
 tion from the order in w r hich they are placed as the illustra¬ 
 tions of the poems ; the reasons for admitted variations will 
 be comprehended without difficulty. The two that are added 
 are bold compositions from materials in Italy ; the last was 
 the illustration of Rogers’ line, “The shepherd on Tornaro s 
 misty brow,” beginning a description of sunrise as the type 
 of increasing knowledge and imagination in childhood. But 
 there is no such place known as Tornaro, and the composition, 
 both in the color of sea and boldness of precipice, resembles 
 only the scenery of the Sicilian Islands. 
 
320 CATALOGUE OF DRAWINGS AND 
 
 226. The Lake of Geneva,.210 
 
 227. The Lake of Lucerne (from Tell’s Chapel), . . 213 
 
 228. St. Maurice,.205 
 
 229. Martigny,.212 
 
 230. Hospice of St. Bernard,.211 
 
 231. Aosta, . 203 
 
 232. Hannibal passing the Alps,.204 
 
 233. The Battle of Marengo,.207 
 
 234. The Lake of Como, ...... 215 
 
 235. Isola Bella, Lago Maggiore,.208 
 
 236. Verona. Moonlight, ...... 217 
 
 237. Padua. Moonlight. The Canal for Venice, . 223 
 
 238. Florence, ........ 214 
 
 239. Galileo’s Villa, Arcetri, ...... 221 
 
 240. Composition,.202 
 
 241. Rome,.216 
 
 242. St. Peter’s,.-218 
 
 243. The Campagna,.219 
 
 244. Tivoli, The Temple of the Sybil, .... 224 
 
 245. Banditti, ........ 222 
 
 246. Naples, ........ 201 
 
 247. Amalfi, ......... 225 
 
 248. Paestum, ........ 206 
 
 249. The Garden, ....... 220 
 
 250. The Cliffs of Sicily. Sunrise, .... 230 
 
 GROUP X. 
 
 (Third Hundred.) 
 
 THIRTY SKETCHES IN PENCIL, SOMETIMES TOUCHED WITH 
 
 COLOR, AT ROME. 
 
 This group, with the two following, exemplify the best 
 drawings made by Turner from Nature. All his powers were 
 at this period in perfection ; none of his faults had developed 
 themselves; and his energies were taxed to the utmost to 
 
SKETCHES BY TURNER . 
 
 321 
 
 seize, both in immediate admiration, and for future service, 
 the loveliest features of some of the most historically interest¬ 
 ing scenery in the world. 
 
 There is no exaggeration in any of these drawings, nor any 
 conventionalism but that of outline. They are, in all re¬ 
 spects, the most true and the most beautiful ever made by the 
 painter ; but they differ from the group first given (VII.) 
 in being essentially Turnerian, representing those qualities of 
 form and color in which the painter himself most delighted, 
 and which persons of greatly inferior or essentially different 
 faculties need not hope for benefit by attempting to copy. 
 The quantity of detail given in their distances can only be 
 seen, in a natural landscape, by persons possessing the strong¬ 
 est and finest faculties of sight: and the tones of color 
 adopted in them can only be felt by persons of the subtlest 
 color-temperament, and happily - trained color-disposition. 
 To the average skill, the variously imperfect ocular power, 
 and blunted color-feeling of most of our town-bred students, 
 the qualities of these drawings are—not merely useless, but, 
 in the best parts of them, literally invisible. 
 
 On the other hand, to students of fine faculty and well- 
 trained energy, no drawings in the world are to be named 
 with these fifty (251-300), as lessons in landscape drawing : 
 
 251. 
 
 Rome from Monte Mario (finest pencil), . 
 
 . K 101 
 
 252. 
 
 Rome from Monte Mario (partly colored), 
 
 . k 103 
 
 253. 
 
 Villas on Monte Mario, .... 
 
 326 
 
 254. 
 
 Stone pines on Monte Mario, . 
 
 263 
 
 255. 
 
 The Castle of St. Angelo, 
 
 262 
 
 256. 
 
 The Bridge and Castle of St. Angelo, 
 
 . k 102 
 
 257. 
 
 The Tiber and Castle of St. Angelo, 
 
 255 
 
 258. 
 
 The Tiber and the Capitol, 
 
 264 
 
 259. 
 
 The Tiber and the Apennines,. 
 
 268 
 
 260. 
 
 Study in Rome, . 
 
 266 
 
 261. 
 
 Foreground in Rome, .... 
 
 332 
 
 262. 
 
 Foreground in Rome, with living acanthus, 
 
 . k 111 6 
 
 263. 
 
 Foreground in Rome, .... 
 
 257 
 
 264. 
 
 St. Peter’s, from the West, 
 
 267 
 
 21 
 
CATALOGUE OF DBA WINGS AND 
 
 265. St. Peter’s, from the South (pencil), . . 250 
 
 266. Colored sketch of the same subject, . . 273 
 
 267. St. Peter’s and the Vatican, .... 269 
 
 268. The Colonnade of Bernini (beneath), . . 256 
 
 269. The Portico of St. Peter’s, .... 258 
 
 270. The Arch of Septimius Severus (pencil on gray), 253 
 
 271. The Basilica of Constantine (color), . . . k 108 
 
 272. The Coliseum and Basilica of Constantine, . 272 
 
 273. The Coliseum and Arch of Constantine, . . 331 
 
 274. The Coliseum and Arch of Titus, . . . 328 
 
 275. The Coliseum—seen near, with flock of goats,. 275 
 
 276. The Coliseum (study of daylight color),. . 271 
 
 277. The Coliseum in pale sunset, with new moon,. 265 
 
 278. The Palatine, ....... 274 
 
 279. The Alban Mount,.260 
 
 280. Rome and the Apennines, .... 327 
 
 GROUP XI. 
 
 (Third Hundred .) 
 
 Five sketches from nature at Tivoli; three in pencil, two 
 in color. Unsurpassable. 
 
 281. 
 
 282. 
 
 283. 
 
 284. 
 
 285. 
 
 The Temple of Vesta (in distance), . . . 302 
 
 The Temple of Vesta (near), . . . . .252 
 
 General view from the valley, .... 303 
 The same subject in color, ..... 340 
 The Town with its Cascades, and the Campagna, . 339 
 
 GROUP xn. 
 
 [Third Hundred.) 
 
 Fifteen sketches, at or near Rome and Naples. The three 
 Campagna ones, with the last four of the Neapolitan group, 
 are exemplary of all Turner’s methods of water-color paint¬ 
 ing at the acme of his sincere power. 
 
SKETCHES BY TURNER. 323 
 
 286. Campagna. Warm sunset. Inestimable, . 329 
 
 287. Campagna. Slighter, but as fine. Morning, . 330 
 
 288. Campagna. Snowy Apennines in distance, . 338 
 
 289. 
 
 290. Nymphseum of Alexander Severus, . . . k 105 
 
 291. Study for the great picture of the Loggie of 
 
 Vatican,. k 111 a 
 
 292. Naples, from the South (pencil), . . . 333 
 
 293. Queen Joanna’s Palace and St. Elmo (pencil),. 305 
 
 291. Villas at Posilipo (pencil), .... 301 
 
 295. Naples and Vesuvius, from the North (color). 
 
 296. The Castle of the Egg. Light against dark, . 304 
 
 297. The Castle of the Egg. Dark against light, . 334 
 
 298. Vesuvius. Beginning of finished drawing, . 335 
 
 299. Monte St. Angelo and Capri. Morning, . 336 
 
 300. Monte St. Angelo and Capri. Evening, . . 337 
 
 FOURTH HUNDRED. 
 
 The fourth century of drawings are all of the later middle 
 period of Turner’s career, where the constant reference to the 
 engraver or the Academy-visitor, as more or less the critic or 
 patron of his work, had betrayed him into mannerisms and 
 fallacies which gradually undermined the constitution of his 
 intellect: while yet his manual skill, and often his power of 
 imagination, increased in certain directions. Some of the 
 loveliest, and executively the most wonderful, of his drawings 
 belong to this period ; but few of the greatest, and none of 
 the absolutely best, while many are inexcusably faultful or 
 false. With few exceptions, they ought not to be copied by 
 students, for the best of them are inimitable in the modes of 
 execution peculiar to Turner, and are little exemplary other¬ 
 wise. 
 
 The initial group of this class, the thirteenth in consecutive 
 order, contains the best of the vignettes executed in illustra¬ 
 tion of Rogers’ “Pleasures of Memory,” “Voyage of Colurrv- 
 
324 
 
 CATALOGUE OF DRAWINGS AND 
 
 bus,” and other minor poems. In most cases they are far 
 more highly finished than those of the “ Italy ; ” but few show 
 equal power, and none the frank sincerity. The two best of 
 all had much in common with the Italian series, and have 
 been placed with it; but “ The Twilight ” (301), “ Green¬ 
 wich” (306), “Bolton Abbey” (311), “ Vallombre” (316), and 
 “Departure of Columbus” (321), are among the subtlest exam¬ 
 ples of the artist’s peculiar manner at this period ; and all, as 
 now arranged up to the number 325, have a pretty connection 
 and sequence, illustrative of the painter’s thought, no less than 
 of the poet’s. 
 
 They have a farther interest, as being the origin of the 
 loveliest engravings ever produced by the pure line ; and I 
 hope in good time that proofs of the plates may be exhibited 
 side by side with the drawings. In arranging the twenty-five 
 excellent ones just described, I have thrown out several un¬ 
 worthy of Turner—which, however, since they cannot be sep¬ 
 arated from their proper group, follow it, numbering from 326 
 to 335; the gaps being filled up by various studies for vignettes 
 of the “Italy” as well as the “Poems,” which I extricated 
 from the heaps of loose sketches in the tin cases. 
 
 GKOUP XIII. 
 
 (Fourth Hundred.) 
 
 301. 
 
 Twilight,. 
 
 . 226 
 
 302. 
 
 Gypsies,. 
 
 . 231 
 
 303. 
 
 The Native Village, .... 
 
 . 227 
 
 304. 
 
 Greenwich, .. 
 
 . 234 
 
 305. 
 
 The Water-gate of the Tower, 
 
 . 235 
 
 306. 
 
 St. Anne’s Hill,. 
 
 . 228 
 
 307. 
 
 St. Anne’s Hill, ..... 
 
 . 229 
 
 308. 
 
 The Old Oak in Life, .... 
 
 . 232 
 
 309. 
 
 The Old Oak in Death, 
 
 . . 233 
 
 310. 
 
 The Boy of Egremont, 
 
 . 236 
 
SKETCHES BY TURNER. 325 
 
 311. Bolton Abbey,.237 
 
 312. St. Herbert’s Isle, Derwentwater. (Ideal), . . 238 
 
 313. Lodore,.239 
 
 314. Loch Lomond,.240 
 
 315. Jacqueline’s Cottage. (Ideal), .... 241 
 
 316. The Falls at Vallombre. (Ideal), . . . 243 
 
 317. The Alps at Daybreak. (Ideal),* .... 242 
 
 318. The Captive. (Ideal),.245 
 
 319. St. Julian’s Well. (Ideal),.244 
 
 320. Columbus at La Rabida,.246 
 
 321. Departure of Columbus, ..... 247 
 
 322. Dawn on the last day of the Voyage, . . . 248 
 
 323. Morning in America,.249 
 
 324. Cortez and Pizarro,.250 
 
 325. Datur Hora Quieti,.397 
 
 Next follow the inferior ones; among which the pretty 
 “ Rialto ” is degraded because there is no way over the bridge, 
 and the “Ducal Palace” for its coarse black and red color. 
 So also the “Manor-house,” though Mr. Goodall made a quite 
 lovely vignette from it ; as also from the “Warrior Ghosts.” 
 
 326. The English Manor-house, .... 399 
 
 327. The English School,.396 
 
 328. The English Fair,.398 
 
 329. Venice. The Ducal Palace, .... 391 
 
 330. Venice. The Rialto, . . . . • 394 
 
 331. The Simoom, .393 
 
 332. The War-spirits, ..400 
 
 333. The Warrior Ghosts,.395 
 
 334. Studv for the Warrior Ghosts, . . . k 87a 
 
 335. Second study for the same vignette, . . k 876 
 
 * And the figures absurd ; but by Rogers’ fault, not Turner’s. See 
 the very foolish poem. 
 
326 
 
 CATALOGUE OF DRAWINGS AND 
 
 GROUP XIV. 
 
 (Fourth Hundred.) 
 
 RIVERS OF ENGLAND. 
 
 This most valuable group consists of fifteen finished draw¬ 
 ings, which always remained in Turner’s possession, he refus¬ 
 ing to sell separately, and the public of his time not caring 
 to buy in mass. 
 
 They were made for publication by engraving; and were 
 skilfully engraved ; but only in mezzotint. They are of the 
 highest quality, in so far as work done for engraving can be, 
 and all finished with the artist’s best skill. Two of the series 
 of fifteen are placed in the Student’s group, and room thus 
 made for two of the “ Ports,” which are consecutive with the 
 following group : 
 
 336. 
 
 Stangate Creek, 
 
 (on River) Medway, 
 
 
 . 161 
 
 337. 
 
 Totness, 
 
 it 
 
 Dart, 
 
 
 . 162 
 
 338. 
 
 Dartmouth, 
 
 a 
 
 Dart, 
 
 
 . 163 
 
 339. 
 
 Dartmouth Castle, 
 
 a 
 
 Dart, 
 
 
 . 164 
 
 340. 
 
 Okehampton Castle, “ 
 
 Okement, 
 
 
 . 165 
 
 341. 
 
 Arundel Castle, 
 
 a 
 
 Arun, 
 
 
 . 166 
 
 342. 
 
 Arundel Park, 
 
 a 
 
 Arun, 
 
 
 . 167 
 
 343. 
 
 More Park, 
 
 a 
 
 Colne, . 
 
 
 . 168 
 
 344. 
 
 Newcastle, 
 
 tt 
 
 Tyne, . 
 
 
 . 171 
 
 345. 
 
 Kirkstall Abbey, 
 
 a 
 
 Aire, 
 
 
 . 173 
 
 346. 
 
 Kirkstall Lock, 
 
 a 
 
 Aire, 
 
 
 . 172 
 
 347. 
 
 Brougham Castle, 
 
 a 
 
 Lowther, 
 
 
 . 174 
 
 348. 
 
 Norham Castle, 
 
 a 
 
 Tweed, . 
 
 
 . 175 
 
 349. 
 
 Whitby, 
 
 
 
 
 . 170 
 
 350. 
 
 Scarborough, 
 
 • 
 
 • • • 
 
 
 . 169 
 
* • 
 
 SKETCHES BY TURNER. 
 
 327 
 
 GROUP XV. 
 
 (Fourth Hundred .) 
 
 PORTS OF ENGLAND. 
 
 Five finished drawings, nearly related in style to the Rivers ; 
 but nobler, and two of them (“The Humber” and “Sheer¬ 
 ness ”) among the greatest of Turner’s existing works. 
 
 The “Whitby” and “Scarborough” belong nominally to 
 this group, but in style they are like the Rivers, with which I 
 have placed them ; of course consulting in these fillings up of 
 series, the necessary divisions into five adopted for the sake 
 of portability. The seven drawings were illustrated in their 
 entirety to the best of my power in the text of the work in 
 which they were published—the “Harbors of England.” 
 
 Five finished drawings of very high quality, made for mez¬ 
 zotint engraving, and admirably rendered by Mr. Lupton 
 under Turner’s careful superintendence. 
 
 351. The Humber,.378 
 
 352. The Medway,.376 
 
 353. Portsmouth, ..379 
 
 354. Sheerness, ..380 
 
 355. Ramsgate,.377 
 
 GROUP XVI. 
 
 (Fourth Hundred.) 
 
 Twenty-five sketches, chiefly in Venice. Late time, extrav¬ 
 agant, and showing some of the painter’s worst and final 
 faults; but also, some of his peculiar gifts in a supreme de¬ 
 gree. 
 
323 
 
 CATALOGUE OF DRAWINGS 
 
 AND 
 
 
 356. 
 
 The Ducal Palace, 
 
 
 
 
 . 351 
 
 357. 
 
 The Custom House, 
 
 
 
 
 . 355 
 
 358. 
 
 The Grand Canal, 
 
 
 
 
 . 352 
 
 359. 
 
 Casa Grimani and Rialto, 
 
 
 
 
 . 354 
 
 360. 
 
 The Rialto, . 
 
 
 
 
 . 353 
 
 361. 
 
 Grand Canal above Rialto, 
 
 
 
 
 . 356 
 
 362. 
 
 On the Cross-canal between Bridge of 
 
 Sighs and 
 
 
 Rialto, 
 
 
 
 
 . 358 
 
 363. 
 
 The same, nearer, 
 
 
 
 
 . 359 
 
 364. 
 
 Cross-canal near Arsenal, 
 
 
 
 
 . 357 
 
 365. 
 
 San Stefano, 
 
 
 
 
 . 360 
 
 366. 
 
 South side of St. Mark’s, 
 
 
 
 
 . 291 
 
 367. 
 
 Ducal Palace, 
 
 
 
 
 . 292 
 
 368. 
 
 Boats on the Giudecca, . 
 
 
 
 
 . 293 
 
 369. 
 
 Steamers, 
 
 
 
 
 . 361 
 
 370. 
 
 9 
 
 • • • • • • 
 
 
 
 
 . 362 
 
 371. 
 
 Tours, .... 
 
 
 
 
 . 363 
 
 372. 
 
 9 
 
 • • • • • • 
 
 
 
 
 . 364 
 
 373. 
 
 9 
 
 • • • • • • 
 
 
 
 
 . 365 
 
 374. 
 
 9 
 
 • • • • • • 
 
 
 
 
 . 366 
 
 375. 
 
 ?. 
 
 
 
 
 . 367 
 
 376. 
 
 9 
 
 • • • • • • 
 
 
 
 
 . 368 
 
 377. 
 
 ?. 
 
 
 
 
 . 369 
 
 378. 
 
 9 
 
 • • • t • • 
 
 
 
 
 . 370 
 
 379. 
 
 Arsenal, Venice, . 
 
 
 
 
 . 371 
 
 380. 
 
 Fish Market, 
 
 
 
 
 372 
 
 
 GROUP XVII. 
 
 
 
 
 
 (Fourth Hundred.) 
 
 
 
 
 
 VARIOUS. (LATEST.) 
 
 
 
 
 381. 
 
 ?. 
 
 
 
 • 
 
 . 381 
 
 382. 
 
 ?. 
 
 • • 
 
 • 
 
 • 
 
 . 382 
 
 383. 
 
 Saumur, 
 
 • • 
 
 • 
 
 • 
 
 . 383 
 
 384. 
 
 Namur, 
 
 • • 
 
 • 
 
 • 
 
 . 384 
 
SKETCITES BY TURNER. 329 
 
 385. 
 
 • • • • • , , 
 
 
 
 • 
 
 . 385 
 
 386. 
 
 Chateau d’Arc? 
 
 
 
 
 . 386 
 
 387. 
 
 North Transept, Rouen, 
 
 
 
 
 . 387 
 
 388. 
 
 Avignon, .... 
 
 
 
 
 . 388 
 
 389. 
 
 Namur, .... 
 
 
 
 
 . 389 
 
 390. 
 
 9 
 
 • • • • • « # 
 
 
 
 
 . 390 
 
 391. 
 
 Rome,. 
 
 
 
 
 . 251 
 
 392. 
 
 The Cascades, Tivoli, . 
 
 
 
 
 . 254 
 
 393. 
 
 Rome,. 
 
 
 
 
 . 257 
 
 394 
 
 Rome, The Coliseum, . 
 
 
 
 
 . 261 
 
 395. 
 
 Rome, ..... 
 
 
 
 
 . 270 
 
 396. 
 
 Studies of Sky, 
 
 
 
 
 . 296 
 
 397. 
 
 Scotland ? . . . . 
 
 
 
 
 . 297 
 
 398. 
 
 The Tiber, .... 
 
 
 
 
 . 298 
 
 399. 
 
 The Capitol from Temple of? 
 
 
 
 
 . 299 
 
 400. 
 
 Bridges in the Campagna, 
 
 
 
 
 . 300 
 
 GROUP XVIII, 
 
 (Fifth Hundred.) 
 
 FINEST COLOR ON GRAY. (LATE.) 
 
 Twenty-five rapid studies in color on gray paper. Of his 
 best late time, and in his finest manner, giving more condi¬ 
 tions of solid form than have ever been expressed by means 
 at once so subtle and rapid. 
 
 401. 
 
 Full sails on Seine, 
 
 . 101 
 
 402. 
 
 The breeze beneath the Coteau, . 
 
 . 102 
 
 403. 
 
 Heavy barges in a gust, 
 
 . 103 
 
 404. 
 
 French lugger under the Heve, 
 
 . 104 
 
 405. 
 
 The steamer, .... 
 
 . 105 
 
 406. 
 
 Havre, .. 
 
 . 106 
 
 407. 
 
 Havre, ...... 
 
 . 107 
 
 408. 
 
 Harfleur,. 
 
 . 108 
 
330 
 
 CATALOGUE OF DRAWINGS AND 
 
 
 
 409. 
 
 Honfleur in distance, . 
 
 • 
 
 
 
 . 113 
 
 410. 
 
 Honfleur ? Compare Seine series, 
 
 
 
 . 110 
 
 411. 
 
 Cherbourg, .... 
 
 
 
 
 . Ill 
 
 412. 
 
 Cherbourg, .... 
 
 
 
 
 . 112 
 
 413. 
 
 Street with canal, . 
 
 
 
 
 . 109 
 
 414. 
 
 Rouen, .... 
 
 
 
 
 . 114 
 
 415. 
 
 The Gray Castle, . 
 
 
 
 
 . 115 
 
 416. 
 
 Nantes, .... 
 
 
 
 
 . 116 
 
 417. 
 
 Nantes ? 
 
 
 
 
 . 117 
 
 418. 
 
 Angers? .... 
 
 
 
 
 . 118 
 
 419. 
 
 Beaugency, .... 
 
 
 
 
 . 119 
 
 420. 
 
 Beaugency, .... 
 
 
 
 
 . 120 
 
 421. 
 
 Chateau de Blois,. 
 
 
 
 
 . 121 
 
 422. 
 
 Chateau Hamelin, 
 
 
 
 
 . 122 
 
 423. 
 
 ?. 
 
 
 
 
 . 123 
 
 424. 
 
 ?. 
 
 
 
 
 . 124 
 
 425. 
 
 Tours ? The Scarlet Sunset, 
 
 
 
 
 . 125 
 
 This last magnificent drawing belongs properly to the next 
 group, which is almost exclusively formed by drawings in 
 which the main element is color, at once deep and glowing. 
 But the consistency of the group is in color and treatment; 
 and in the uniform determination of the artist that every sub¬ 
 ject shall at least have a castle and a crag in it—if possible a 
 river; or by Fortune’s higher favor—blue sea, and that all 
 trees shall be ignored, as shady and troublesome excres¬ 
 cences. In default of locality, I have put here and there a 
 word of note or praise. 
 
 GROUP XIX. 
 
 (Fifth Hundred.) 
 
 FINEST COLOR ON GRAY. (LATEST.) 
 
 426. Rhine. (Yellow raft essential), . . . .176 
 
 427. Too red and yellow. Full of power in form, . 177 
 
 428. Delicate, and very lovely, ..... 178 
 
SKETCHES BY TURNER. 
 
 331 
 
 429. 
 
 430. 
 
 431. 
 
 432. 
 
 433. 
 
 434. 
 
 435. 
 
 436. 
 
 437. 
 
 438. 
 
 439. 
 
 440. 
 
 441. 
 
 442. 
 
 443. 
 
 444. 
 
 445. 
 
 446. 
 
 447. 
 
 448. 
 
 449. 
 
 450. 
 
 Rhine ? or Danube ? Very grand, 
 
 Bacharach. Wonderful, but too wild, . 
 
 Best quality—all but the white chalk, . 
 Heidelberg. Rosy tower, and a tree or two ! 
 
 Lovely,. 
 
 Such things are , though you mayn’t believe it, 
 Dinant, Meuse. A mighty one, .... 
 Dinant. Bronzed sunset. Firm and good, . 
 Luxembourg. Splendid, ..... 
 
 Forced, and poor, 
 
 Highest quality, .... 
 Supreme of the set, except, . 
 Probably the grandest drawing of 
 
 Luxembourg. 
 
 Luxembourg. 
 
 Luxembourg. 
 
 Luxembourg. 
 
 this date, 
 Luxembourg. 
 
 179 
 
 180 
 181 
 
 182 
 
 183 
 
 184 
 
 185 
 
 186 
 
 187 
 
 188 
 189 
 
 190 
 
 Too blue and red, but noble, . 191 
 Meuse. Admirable, but incomplete, . . . 192 
 
 Coast of Genoa ? Good, but dull, . . . 193 
 
 Coast of Genoa ? Highest quality, . . . 194 
 
 Italian lakes? Supreme of all, for color, . . 195 
 
 Marseilles ? Splendid, but harsh, . . .196 
 
 Riviera? Fine, but a little hard and mannered, . 197 
 Sorrento coast ? Sunset. Lovely, . . . 198 
 
 Vico ? coast of Sorrento. The same type: poorer, 199 
 The Vermilion Palace, . . . . . .200 
 
 I know scarcely any of their subjects except the Luxem- 
 bourgs ; and have therefore left them in their first rough 
 arrangement; although subjects probably Genovese and South 
 Italian are mixed with others from Germany and the Rhine. 
 
 GROUP XX. 
 
 [Fifth Hundred.) 
 
 STUDIES ON OKAY FOR RIVERS OF FRANCE. (LATE.) 
 
 451. Four studies at Marly and Rouen, 
 
 452. Two studies in France and 
 
 Two studies for a picture, . ... 
 
 . 27 
 
332 CATALOGUE OF DRAWINGS AND 
 
 453. Four studies in France, . . . . .28 
 
 454. Four studies in France, ..... 29 
 
 455. Two studies at Boulogne and 
 
 Two studies at Ambleteuse, . . . .30 
 
 456. Four studies at Calais, . . . . . . 31 . 
 
 457. Four studies in France,.32 
 
 458. Four English marine studies, . . . .33 
 
 459. Rouen, in France : two marine studies, . . 34 
 
 460. On the Rhine, St. Germain, Dieppe, on the Seine, 35 
 
 (The above ten, pen and ink on gray.) 
 
 461. Orleans, Tours (color on gray), . . . .36 
 
 462. On the Seine ? (color on gray), . . . .38 
 
 463. Luxembourg? Huy on the Meuse (color on gray), 39 
 
 464. Honfleur, Honfleur ? (color on gray), . . .40 
 
 465. Liber Studiorum subjects, two Lake of Thun, 
 
 Mont St. Gothard, Ville de Thun (pencil), . 37 
 
 GROUP XXL 
 (Fifth Hundred.) 
 
 THE SEINE. 
 
 In this series the best drawings are as far as possible put 
 together—geographical order being ignored, rather than mix 
 the second-rate ones with those of entirely satisfactory quality. 
 But the course of subject for the most part is in ascent of the 
 river; and the two vignettes begin and end the whole. 
 
 466. Chateau Gaillard. Vignette, .... 151 
 
 467. Havre. Sunset in the port, . . . . .157 
 
 468. Havre. Twilight outside the port, . . . 158 
 
 469. Tancarville, ........ 153 
 
 470. Tancarville and Quilleboeuf, ..... 154 
 
 471. Quilleboeuf, ........ 127 
 
 472. Between Quilleboeuf and Villequier, . . . 128 
 
 473. Honfleur, ..159 
 

 SKETCHES 
 
 BY TURNER. 
 
 
 333 
 
 474. 
 
 Harfleur, 
 
 • • 
 
 
 
 . 126 
 
 475. 
 
 Caudebec, 
 
 • • 
 
 
 
 . 129 
 
 476. 
 
 Lillebonne, . 
 
 • • 
 
 
 
 . 134 
 
 477. 
 
 Lillebonne, . 
 
 • • 
 
 
 
 . 135 
 
 478. 
 
 La Chaise de Gargantua, 
 
 
 
 . 130 
 
 479. 
 
 Jumieges, 
 
 • • 
 
 
 
 . 155 
 
 480. 
 
 Vernon, 
 
 • • 
 
 
 
 . 152 
 
 481. 
 
 Rouen, looking up river, 
 
 
 
 . 131 
 
 482. 
 
 Rouen, looking down river, . 
 
 
 
 . 132 
 
 483. 
 
 Rouen Cathedral, . 
 
 • • 
 
 
 
 . 133 
 
 484. 
 
 Pont de l’Arche, . 
 
 • • 
 
 
 
 . 136 
 
 485. 
 
 Chateau Gaillard, . 
 
 
 
 
 . 137 
 
 486. 
 
 Mantes, 
 
 • • 
 
 
 
 . 139 
 
 487. 
 
 Between Mantes and Vernon, 
 
 
 
 . 138 
 
 488. 
 
 St. Germain, 
 
 * • 
 
 
 
 . 146 
 
 489. 
 
 Bridges of St. Cloud and Sevres, 
 
 
 
 . 147 
 
 490. 
 
 Bridge of Sevres, . 
 
 • • 
 
 
 
 . 148 
 
 491. 
 
 Lantern of St. Cloud, 
 
 • • 
 
 
 
 . 156 
 
 492. 
 
 Barriere de Passy, 
 
 • • 
 
 
 
 . 141 
 
 493. 
 
 The Flower-market, 
 
 • • 
 
 
 
 . 144 
 
 494. 
 
 The Dog-market, . 
 
 • • 
 
 
 
 . 143 
 
 495. 
 
 Pont Neuf, . 
 
 • • 
 
 
 
 . 142 
 
 496. 
 
 St. Denis, 
 
 
 
 
 . 145 
 
 497. 
 
 The Bridge of Meulan, 
 
 
 
 
 . 140 
 
 498. 
 
 Melun, . 
 
 • • 
 
 
 
 . 149 
 
 499. 
 
 Troyes, 
 
 • • 
 
 
 
 . 150 
 
 500. 
 
 Vignette. Light towers of the Heve, . 
 
 
 . 160 
 
TERMINAL INDEX 
 
 In the first column are the numbers in the existing arrangement; in 
 the second the numbers in this Catalogue ; and in the third the page in 
 this Catalogue. The stars indicate the drawings not included in the 
 revised Catalogue, as adapted rather for exhibition in the provinces. 
 
 FIRST SECTION. 
 Kensington Series. 1 to 153. 
 
 1 . 
 
 31 
 
 • 
 
 306 
 
 25 a 
 
 
 
 218 
 
 • • 
 
 318 
 
 *2 
 
 
 
 
 25 b 
 
 
 
 220 
 
 • 
 
 318 
 
 3 a, b , and c 
 
 1 
 
 • 
 
 304 
 
 26 a 
 
 
 
 221 
 
 • 
 
 318 
 
 4 
 
 3 
 
 • 
 
 304 
 
 26 b 
 
 
 
 222 
 
 • 
 
 318 
 
 5 a and b . 
 
 33 
 
 • 
 
 306 
 
 27 
 
 
 
 54 
 
 • 
 
 308 
 
 6 a and b . 
 
 26 
 
 • 
 
 305 
 
 *28 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 *7 
 
 
 
 
 29 a 
 
 
 
 224 
 
 • 
 
 318 
 
 8 
 
 52 
 
 • 
 
 308 
 
 29 b 
 
 
 
 215 
 
 • 
 
 318 
 
 9 
 
 51 
 
 • • 
 
 308 
 
 30 a 
 
 
 
 204 
 
 • 
 
 318 
 
 10 
 
 6 
 
 • 
 
 304 
 
 30 b 
 
 
 
 216 
 
 • 
 
 318 
 
 11 
 
 12 
 
 • 
 
 304 
 
 31 a 
 
 
 
 214 
 
 • 
 
 318 
 
 12 
 
 53 
 
 • 
 
 308 
 
 31 b 
 
 
 
 202 
 
 • 
 
 318 
 
 13 
 
 7 
 
 • 
 
 304 
 
 *32 
 
 
 
 201 
 
 • 
 
 318 
 
 14 
 
 8 
 
 • 
 
 304 
 
 33 
 
 
 
 11 
 
 • 
 
 304 
 
 *15 
 
 
 
 
 34 
 
 
 
 72 
 
 • 
 
 309 
 
 16 a to e 
 
 10 
 
 • 
 
 304 
 
 35 
 
 
 
 65 
 
 • 
 
 308 
 
 17 and c 
 
 5 
 
 • 
 
 304 
 
 *36 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 18 a , b, and c 
 
 4 
 
 • 
 
 304 
 
 *37 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 *19 
 
 
 
 
 38 
 
 
 
 128 
 
 • 
 
 313 
 
 20 . 
 
 39 
 
 • 
 
 306 
 
 39 
 
 
 
 34 
 
 • 
 
 306 
 
 21 a and b . 
 
 9 
 
 • 
 
 304 
 
 40 
 
 
 
 35 
 
 • 
 
 306 
 
 22 a . 
 
 106 
 
 • 
 
 312 
 
 41 
 
 
 
 67 
 
 • 
 
 808 
 
 22 6 . 
 
 107 
 
 • 
 
 312 
 
 42 
 
 
 
 66 
 
 • 
 
 308 
 
 *23 
 
 
 
 
 *43 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 *24 
 
 
 
 
 44 
 
 • 
 
 • 
 
 64 
 
 • 
 
 308 
 
DRAWINGS AND SKETCHES BY TURNER. 335 
 
 45 
 
 • 
 
 • 
 
 24 
 
 • 
 
 305 
 
 46 
 
 • 
 
 • 
 
 25 
 
 • 
 
 305 
 
 *47 
 
 *48 
 
 *49 
 
 *50 
 
 51 
 
 
 
 36 
 
 • 
 
 306 
 
 52 
 
 
 
 38 
 
 • 
 
 306 
 
 53 
 
 
 
 56 
 
 • 
 
 308 
 
 54 
 
 
 
 37 
 
 • 
 
 306 
 
 55 
 
 
 
 50 
 
 • 
 
 307 
 
 *56 
 
 *57 
 
 58 
 
 
 
 57 
 
 • 
 
 308 
 
 59 
 
 
 
 116 
 
 • 
 
 312 
 
 *60 
 
 
 
 20 
 
 # 
 
 305 
 
 61 
 
 
 
 41 
 
 
 306 
 
 *62 
 
 
 
 19 
 
 • 
 
 305 
 
 63 
 
 
 
 60 
 
 • 
 
 308 
 
 64 
 
 
 
 58 
 
 • 
 
 308 
 
 65 
 
 
 
 59 
 
 • 
 
 308 
 
 *66 
 
 67 
 
 
 
 63 
 
 • 
 
 308 
 
 68 
 
 
 
 61 
 
 • 
 
 308 
 
 69 
 
 
 
 62 
 
 • 
 
 308 
 
 70 
 
 
 
 14 
 
 • 
 
 305 
 
 71 
 
 
 
 16 
 
 • 
 
 305 
 
 *72 
 
 73 
 
 
 
 17 
 
 • 
 
 305 
 
 *74 
 
 75 
 
 
 
 82 
 
 • 
 
 309 
 
 76 
 
 
 
 29 
 
 • 
 
 305 
 
 77 
 
 
 
 74 
 
 • 
 
 309 
 
 78 
 
 
 
 89 
 
 • 
 
 309 
 
 79 
 
 
 
 90 
 
 • 
 
 309 
 
 80 
 
 
 
 76 
 
 • 
 
 309 
 
 81 
 
 
 
 75 
 
 • 
 
 309 
 
 82 
 
 
 
 77 
 
 • 
 
 309 
 
 83 
 
 
 
 78 
 
 • 
 
 309 
 
 84 
 
 
 
 79 
 
 • 
 
 309 
 
 85 
 
 
 
 80 
 
 • 
 
 309 
 
 86 
 
 
 
 81 
 
 
 309 
 
 87 a 
 
 
 
 334 
 
 • 
 
 325 
 
 87 6 
 
 
 
 335 
 
 • 
 
 325 
 
 *88 
 
 *89 
 
 *90 
 
 *91 
 
 *92 
 
 93 . 
 
 
 94 
 
 • 
 
 310 
 
 94 a . 
 
 
 156 
 
 • 
 
 315 
 
 94 6 . 
 
 
 154 
 
 • 
 
 315 
 
 95 . 
 
 
 95 
 
 • 
 
 310 
 
 96 . 
 
 
 96 
 
 • 
 
 310 
 
 97 . 
 
 
 97 
 
 • 
 
 310 
 
 98 . 
 
 
 98 
 
 • 
 
 310 
 
 99 . 
 
 
 99 
 
 # 
 
 310 
 
 100 a . 
 
 
 169 
 
 • 
 
 315 
 
 100 6 . 
 
 
 170 
 
 • 
 
 315 
 
 100 c . 
 
 
 100 
 
 • 
 
 310 
 
 101 . 
 
 
 251 
 
 • 
 
 321 
 
 102 . 
 
 
 256 
 
 • 
 
 321 
 
 103 . 
 
 
 252 
 
 • 
 
 321 
 
 104 
 
 
 
 
 
 105 . 
 
 
 290 
 
 • 
 
 323 
 
 106 
 
 
 
 
 
 107 . 
 
 
 23 
 
 0 
 
 305 
 
 108 . 
 
 
 271 
 
 • 
 
 322 
 
 *109 
 
 *110 
 
 111 a . 
 
 • 
 
 291 
 
 • 
 
 . 323 
 
 Ill 6 . 
 
 • 
 
 262 
 
 • 
 
 . 321 
 
 112 . 
 
 • 
 
 45 
 
 • 
 
 . 307 
 
 *113 ’ 
 
 *114 
 
 115 . 
 
 
 44 
 
 
 . 307 
 
 116 . 
 
 
 46 
 
 
 . 307 
 
 117 . 
 
 
 47 
 
 
 . 307 
 
 118 . 
 
 
 43 
 
 
 . 307 
 
 119 . 
 
 
 48 
 
 
 . 307 
 
 120 . 
 
 
 18 
 
 
 . 305 
 
 121 . 
 
 
 13 
 
 
 . 304 
 
 122 . 
 
 
 55 
 
 
 . 308 
 
 *123 
 
 *124 
 
 125 . 
 
 • 
 
 68 
 
 • 
 
 . 308 
 
 126 . 
 
 • 
 
 69 
 
 • 
 
 . 308 
 
 127 . 
 
 • 
 
 70 
 
 • 
 
 . 308 
 
 128 . 
 
 ♦ 
 
 71 
 
 • 
 
 . 309 
 
 *129 
 
336 CATALOGUE OF DRAWINGS AND 
 
 *130 
 
 
 
 
 
 142 
 
 
 . 93 
 
 • • 
 
 310 
 
 *131 
 
 
 
 
 
 143 
 
 
 . 15 
 
 • • 
 
 305 
 
 132 
 
 
 73 
 
 
 . 309 
 
 144 
 
 
 . 32 
 
 • • 
 
 306 
 
 133 
 
 
 83 
 
 
 . 309 
 
 145 
 
 
 2 
 
 • • 
 
 304 
 
 134 
 
 
 88 
 
 
 . 309 
 
 146 
 
 
 . 42 
 
 • • 
 
 307 
 
 135 
 
 
 85 
 
 
 . 309 
 
 147 
 
 
 . 28 
 
 • • 
 
 305 
 
 136 
 
 
 86 
 
 
 . 309 
 
 148 
 
 
 . 27 
 
 • • 
 
 305 
 
 137 
 
 
 87 
 
 
 . 309 
 
 149 
 
 
 . 40 
 
 • • 
 
 306 
 
 138 
 
 
 30 
 
 
 . 305 
 
 *150 
 
 
 
 
 
 139 
 
 
 84 
 
 
 . 309 
 
 *151 
 
 
 
 
 
 *140 
 
 
 
 
 
 152 
 
 • 
 
 . 91 
 
 o • 
 
 310 
 
 *141 
 
 
 
 
 
 153 
 
 • 
 
 . 92 
 
 ■* , 
 
 310 
 
 
 
 
 
 SECOND 
 
 SECTION. 
 
 
 
 
 
 Drawings now 
 
 FRAMED 
 
 AND PLACED 
 
 in Cabinets. 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 Nos. 1 
 
 to 400. 
 
 
 
 
 The stars, as 
 
 in the first section, indicate drawings recommended for 
 
 provincial exhibition. 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 *1 
 
 
 
 
 
 23 
 
 
 . 223 
 
 o • 
 
 318 
 
 *2 
 
 
 
 
 
 24 
 
 
 . 217 
 
 • • 
 
 318 
 
 3 
 
 • • 
 
 213 
 
 • 
 
 . 318 
 
 25 
 
 
 . 225 
 
 • • 
 
 318 
 
 *4 
 
 
 
 
 
 *26 
 
 
 . 451 
 
 • • 
 
 331 
 
 5 
 
 • • 
 
 203 
 
 • 
 
 . 318 
 
 *27 
 
 
 . 452 
 
 • • 
 
 331 
 
 *6 
 
 
 
 
 
 *28 
 
 
 . 453 
 
 • • 
 
 332 
 
 *7 
 
 
 
 
 
 *29 
 
 
 . 454 
 
 • • 
 
 332 
 
 *8 
 
 
 
 
 
 *30 
 
 
 . 455 
 
 # # 
 
 332 
 
 9 
 
 • • 
 
 205 
 
 
 . 318 
 
 *31 
 
 
 . 456 
 
 • • 
 
 332 
 
 10 
 
 • • 
 
 206 
 
 • 
 
 . 318 
 
 *32 
 
 
 . 457 
 
 • • 
 
 332 
 
 11 
 
 • • 
 
 208 
 
 • 
 
 . 318 
 
 *33 
 
 
 . 458 
 
 • • 
 
 332 
 
 12 
 
 • • 
 
 207 
 
 • 
 
 . 318 
 
 *34 
 
 
 . 459 
 
 • • 
 
 332 
 
 *13 
 
 
 
 
 
 *35 
 
 
 . 460 
 
 • • 
 
 332 
 
 14 
 
 • • 
 
 209 
 
 • 
 
 . 318 
 
 *36 
 
 
 461 
 
 • • 
 
 332 
 
 *15 
 
 
 
 
 
 *37 
 
 
 . 465 
 
 • • 
 
 332 
 
 *16 
 
 
 
 
 
 *38 
 
 
 . 462 
 
 • • 
 
 332 
 
 17 
 
 • • 
 
 210 
 
 • 
 
 . 318 
 
 *39 
 
 
 . 463 
 
 • • 
 
 332 
 
 18 
 
 • • 
 
 211 
 
 • 
 
 . 318 
 
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 464 
 
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 332 
 
 19 
 
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 212 
 
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 41 
 
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 314 
 
 *20 
 
 
 
 
 
 42 
 
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 314 
 
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 22 
 
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 44 
 
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 314 
 
SKETCHES BT TURNER. 337 
 
 45 
 
 
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 314 
 
 90 
 
 
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 315 
 
 46 
 
 
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 92 
 
 
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 48 
 
 
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 97 
 
 
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 53 
 
 
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 98 
 
 
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 54 
 
 
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 55 
 
 
 # 
 
 185 
 
 
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 316 
 
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 314 
 
 56 
 
 
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 101 
 
 
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 329 
 
 57 
 
 
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 102 
 
 
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 58 
 
 
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 103 
 
 
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 59 
 
 
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 104 
 
 
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 60 
 
 
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 61 
 
 
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 106 
 
 
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 62 
 
 
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 107 
 
 
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 63 
 
 
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 64 
 
 
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 109 
 
 
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 65 
 
 
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 67 
 
 
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 114 
 
 
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 *71 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
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 72 
 
 
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 117 
 
 
 
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 73 
 
 
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 *74 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
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 75 
 
 
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 89 
 
 
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 22 
 
338 
 
 
 CATALOGUE OF 
 
 DRAWINGS 
 
 AND 
 
 
 
 
 135 
 
 
 477 
 
 . 
 
 333 
 
 180 
 
 
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 430 
 
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 331 
 
 136 
 
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 484 
 
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 4 
 
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 139 
 
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 486 
 
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 434 
 
 
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 145 
 
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 146 
 
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 147 
 
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 489 
 
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 192 
 
 
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 442 
 
 
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 444 
 
 
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 150 
 
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 499 
 
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 195 
 
 
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 • 
 
 466 
 
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 152 
 
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 480 
 
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 447 
 
 
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 154 
 
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 155 
 
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 479 
 
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 200 
 
 
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 156 
 
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 491 
 
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 157 
 
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 467 
 
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 202 
 
 
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 158 
 
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 468 
 
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 203 
 
 
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 159 
 
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 204 
 
 
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 500 
 
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 336 
 
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 163 
 
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 338 
 
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 235 
 
 
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 164 
 
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 209 
 
 
 Reserved 
 
 
 
 
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 211 
 
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 167 
 
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 212 
 
 
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 . 
 
 350 
 
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 214 
 
 
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 344 
 
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 320 
 
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 . 
 
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 218 
 
 
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 174 
 
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 243 
 
 
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 177 
 
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 222 
 
 
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SKETCHES BY TURNER. 339 
 
 225 
 
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 270 . 
 
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 271 . 
 
 
 276 
 
 
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 227 
 
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 272 . 
 
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 231 
 
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 *276 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 232 
 
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 304 
 
 
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 233 
 
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 305 
 
 
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 278 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 234 
 
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 306 
 
 
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 *279 . 
 
 • 
 
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 280 . 
 
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 236 
 
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 *281 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 237 
 
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 151 
 
 
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 285 . 
 
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 174 
 
 
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 286 . 
 
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 287 . 
 
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 288 . 
 
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 289 . 
 
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 . 
 
 318 
 
 
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 290 . 
 
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 366 
 
 
 
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 251 
 
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 399 
 
 
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 256 
 
 
 268 
 
 
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 • 
 
 294 
 
 
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 323 
 
 257 
 
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 263 
 
 
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 302 . 
 
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 281 
 
 
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 258 
 
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 259 
 
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 • 
 
 296 
 
 
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 260 
 
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 279 
 
 
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 # 
 
 293 
 
 
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 261 
 
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 394 
 
 
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 306 . 
 
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 108 
 
 
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 307 . 
 
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 105 
 
 
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 263 
 
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 254 
 
 
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 308 . 
 
 • 
 
 115 
 
 
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 264 
 
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 309 . 
 
 • 
 
 103 
 
 
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 312 
 
 265 
 
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 277 
 
 
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 322 
 
 310 . 
 
 • 
 
 104 
 
 
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 312 
 
 266 
 
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 311 . 
 
 • 
 
 101 
 
 
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 312 
 
 267 
 
 • 
 
 264 
 
 
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 321 
 
 312 . 
 
 • 
 
 113 
 
 
 • 
 
 312 
 
 268 
 
 • 
 
 259 
 
 
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 313 . 
 
 • 
 
 102 
 
 
 • 
 
 312 
 
 269 
 
 • 
 
 267 
 
 
 • 
 
 322 
 
 314 . 
 
 • 
 
 114 
 
 
 • 
 
 312 
 
340 DRAWINGS AND SKETCHES BY TURNER. 
 
 *315 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 *358 
 
 • 
 
 • 
 
 362 
 
 • • 
 
 328 
 
 *316 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 *359 
 
 • 
 
 • 
 
 363 
 
 • 
 
 328 
 
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 • 
 
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 365 
 
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 • 
 
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 369 
 
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 319 . 
 
 • 
 
 125 
 
 
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 371 
 
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 • 
 
 123 
 
 
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 1 
 
 • 
 
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 372 
 
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 • 
 
 127 
 
 
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 • 
 
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 373 
 
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 323 . 
 
 • 
 
 124 
 
 
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 374 
 
 
 328 
 
 324 . 
 
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 121 
 
 
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 375 
 
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 328 
 
 325 . 
 
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 126 
 
 
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 376 
 
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 326 . 
 
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 253 
 
 
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 321 
 
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 377 
 
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 327 . 
 
 • 
 
 280 
 
 
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 322 
 
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 378 
 
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 328 . 
 
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 274 
 
 
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 379 
 
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 329 . 
 
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 286 
 
 
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 287 
 
 
 
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 373 
 
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 331 . 
 
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 374 
 
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 332 . 
 
 
 261 
 
 
 
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 375 
 
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 334 . 
 
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 297 
 
 
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 355 
 
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 335 . 
 
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 298 
 
 
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 351 
 
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 336 . 
 
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 299 
 
 
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 353 
 
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 327 
 
 337 . 
 
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 300 
 
 
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 354 
 
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 338 . 
 
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 288 
 
 
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 323 
 
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 381 
 
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 339 . 
 
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 285 
 
 
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 322 
 
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 382 
 
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 328 
 
 340 . 
 
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 284 
 
 
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 322 
 
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 383 
 
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 328 
 
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 385 
 
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 329 
 
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 386 
 
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 329 
 
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 387 
 
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 329 
 
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 388 
 
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 346 . 
 
 • 
 
 109 
 
 
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 312 
 
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 389 
 
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 329 
 
 347 . 
 
 • 
 
 110 
 
 
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 312 
 
 *390 
 
 • 
 
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 390 
 
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 329 
 
 348 . 
 
 • 
 
 111 
 
 
 • 
 
 312 
 
 391 
 
 • 
 
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 329 
 
 • 
 
 325 
 
 349 . 
 
 • 
 
 112 
 
 
 • 
 
 312 
 
 *392 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 *350 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 393 
 
 • 
 
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 331 
 
 • 
 
 325 
 
 *351 . 
 
 • 
 
 356 
 
 
 • 
 
 328 
 
 394 
 
 • 
 
 • 
 
 330 
 
 • 
 
 325 
 
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 • 
 
 358 
 
 
 • 
 
 328 
 
 395 
 
 • 
 
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 333 
 
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 325 
 
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 • 
 
 360 
 
 
 • 
 
 328 
 
 396 
 
 • 
 
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 327 
 
 • 
 
 325 
 
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 • 
 
 359 
 
 
 • 
 
 328 
 
 397 
 
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 325 
 
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 325 
 
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 • 
 
 357 
 
 
 • 
 
 328 
 
 398 
 
 • 
 
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 328 
 
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 325 
 
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 • 
 
 361 
 
 
 • 
 
 328 
 
 399 
 
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 326 
 
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 364 
 
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 328 
 
 400 
 
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 332 
 
 i. 
 
 335 
 
GUIDE 
 
 TO 
 
 TILE PRINCIPAL PICTURES 
 
 IN THE 
 
 ACADEMY OF FINE ARTS 
 
 AT 
 
 VENICE. 
 
 ARRANGED FOR ENGLISH TRAVELLERS 
 
 BY 
 
 JOHN RUSKIN, 
 
 BLADE PBOFE6SOB OF FINE ART, OXFORD, AND HONORARY ASSOCIATE OF THE ACADEMY 
 
 OF VENICE. 
 

 
 
 
GUIDE, ETC. 
 
 PABT I. 
 
 Over the entrance gate of the Academy are three of the 
 most precious pieces of sculpture in Venice ; her native work, 
 dated ; and belonging to the school of severe Gothic which 
 indicates the beginning of her Christian life in understanding 
 of its real claims upon her. 
 
 St. Leonard on the left, St. Christopher on the right, under 
 Gothic cusped niches. The Madonna in the centre, under a 
 simple gable ; the bracket-cornice beneath bearing date 1345; 
 the piece of sculpture itself engaged in a rectangular panel, 
 which is the persistent sign of the Greek schools ; descending 
 from the Metopes of the Parthenon. 
 
 You see the infant sprawls on her knee in an ungainly man¬ 
 ner ; she herself sits with quiet maiden dignity, but in no 
 manner of sentimental adoration. 
 
 That is Venetian naturalism ; showing their henceforward 
 steady desire to represent things as they really (according to 
 the workman’s notions) might have existed. It begins first 
 in this century, separating itself from the Byzantine formal¬ 
 ism—the movement being the same which was led by Giotto 
 in Florence fifty years earlier. These sculptures are the re¬ 
 sult of his influence, from Padua, and other such Gothic pow¬ 
 er, rousing Venice to do and think for herself, instead of 
 letting her Greek subjects do all for her. This is one of her 
 first performances, independently of them. She has not yet 
 the least notion of making anybody stand rightly on their 
 feet; you see how St. Leonard and St. Christopher point their 
 
344 GUIDE TO THE PRINCIPAL PICTURES IN 
 
 toes. Clearly, until we know liow to do better than this, in 
 perspective and such matters, our painting cannot come to 
 much. Accordingly, all the Venetian painting of any impor¬ 
 tance you are now to see in the Academy is subsequent to 
 these sculptures. But these are, fortunately, dated—1378 
 and 1384. Twenty years more will bring us out of the four¬ 
 teenth century. And therefore, broadly, all the painter’s art 
 of Venice begins in the fifteenth ; and we may as well at once 
 take note that it ends with the sixteenth. There are only 
 these two hundred years of painting in Venice. Now, with¬ 
 out much pause in the corridor, though the old well in the 
 cortile has its notabilities if one had time—up the spiral 
 stairs, and when you have entered the gallery and got } T our 
 admission tickets — (quite a proper arrangement that you 
 should pay for them ; if I were a Venetian prefect, you should 
 pay a good deal more for leave to come to Venice at all, that 
 I might be sure you cared to come)—walk straight forward 
 till you descend the steps into the first room in the arrange¬ 
 ment of the Academy catalogue. On your right, at the bot¬ 
 tom of the steps, you see a large picture (16) in a series of 
 compartments, of which the central one, the Crowning of the 
 Virgin, was painted by a Venetian vicar (vicar of St. Agnes), 
 in 1380. A happy, faithful, cheerful vicar he must have been ; 
 and any vicar, rector, or bishop who could do such a thing 
 now would be a blessing to his parish, and delight to his 
 diocese. Symmetrical, orderly, gay, and in the heart of it 
 nobly grave, this work of the old Plebanus has much in it of 
 the future methods of Venetian composition. The two an¬ 
 gels peeping over the arms of the throne may remind you to 
 look at its cusped arches, for we are here in central Gothic 
 time, thirty years after the sea-fayade of the Ducal Palace had 
 been built. 
 
 Now, on the opposite side of the room, over the door lead¬ 
 ing into the next room, you see (1) in the Academy catalogue 
 “The work of Bartholomew Vivarini of Murano, 1464,” show¬ 
 ing you what advance had been made in eighty years. The 
 figures still hard in outline — thin (except the Madonna’s 
 throat, which always, in Venice, is strong as a pillar), and 
 
THE VENICE ACADEMY OF FINE ARTS. 
 
 345 
 
 much marked in sinew and bone (studied from life, mind you, 
 not by dissection); exquisitely delicate and careful in pure 
 color ; in character, portraits of holy men and women, such 
 as then were. There is no idealism here whatever. Monks 
 and nuns had indeed faces and mien like these saints, when 
 they desired to have the saints painted for them. 
 
 A noble picture ; not of any supreme genius, but complete¬ 
 ly containing the essence of Venetian art. 
 
 Next, going under it, through the door, you find yourself 
 in the principal room of the Academy, which please cross 
 quietly to the window opposite, on the left of which hangs a 
 large picture which you will have great difficulty in seeing at 
 all, hung as it is against the light ; and which, in any of its 
 finer qualities, you absolutely cannot see ; but may yet per¬ 
 ceive what they are, latent in that darkness, which is all the 
 honor that the kings, nobles, and artists of Europe care to 
 bestow on one of the greatest pictures ever painted by 
 Christendom in her central art-power. Alone worth an entire 
 modern exhibition-building, hired fiddlers and all; here you 
 have it jammed on a back wall, utterly unserviceable to 
 human kind, the little angels of it fiddling unseen, unheard 
 by anybody’s heart. It is the best John Bellini in the Acad¬ 
 emy of Venice ; the third best in Venice, and probably in the 
 world. Repainted, the right-hand angel, and somewhat 
 elsewhere ; but on the whole perfect; unspeakably good, and 
 right in all ways. Not inspired with any high religious 
 passion ; a good man’s work, not an enthusiast’s. It is, in 
 principle, merely the perfecting of Vivarini’s; the saints, 
 mere portraits of existing men and women; the Madonna, 
 idealized only in that squareness of face and throat, not in 
 anywise the prettier for it, otherwise a quite commonplace 
 Venetian woman. Such, and far lovelier, you may see living to¬ 
 day, if you can see—and may make manifest, if you can paint. 
 
 And now, }'ou may look to the far end of the room, where 
 Titian’s “ Assumption ” has the chairs put before it ; every¬ 
 body being expected to sit down, and for once, without ask¬ 
 ing what o’clock it is at the railroad station, reposefully 
 admire. 
 
346 GUIDE TO THE PRINCIPAL PICTURES IN 
 
 Of which, hear first what I wrote, very rightly, a quarter 
 of a century ago. 
 
 “The traveller is generally too much struck by Titian’s 
 great picture of ‘ The Assumption ’ to be able to pay proper 
 attention to the other works in this gallery. Let him, how¬ 
 ever, ask himself candidly how much of his admiration is de¬ 
 pendent merely on the picture’s being larger than any other 
 in the room, and having bright masses of red and blue in it; 
 let him be assured that the picture is in reality not one whit 
 the better either for being large or gaudy in color, and he 
 will then be better disposed to give the pains necessary to dis¬ 
 cover the merit of the more profound works of Bellini and 
 Tintoret. ” 
 
 I wrote this, I have said, very rightly, not quite rightly. 
 For if a picture is good, it is better for being large, because 
 it is more difficult to paint large than small; and if color is 
 good, it may be better for being bright. 
 
 Nay, the fault of this picture, as I read it now, is in not be¬ 
 ing bright enough. A large piece of scarlet, two large pieces 
 of crimson, and some very beautiful blue, occupy about a 
 fifth part of it ; but the rest is mostly fox color or dark 
 brown : majority of the apostles under total eclipse of brown. 
 St. John, there being nobody else handsome to look at, is 
 therefore seen to advantage; also St. Peter and his beard ; 
 but the rest of the lower canvas is filled with little more than 
 flourishings of arms and flingings of cloaks, in shadow and 
 light. 
 
 However, as a piece of oil painting, and what artists call 
 “ composition,” with entire grasp and knowledge of the ac¬ 
 tion of the human body, the perspectives of the human face, 
 and the relations of shade to color in expressing form, the 
 picture is deservedly held unsurpassable. Enjoy of it what 
 you can ; but of its place in the history of Venetian art ob¬ 
 serve these three following points: 
 
 I. The throned Madonnas of Vivarini and Bellini were to 
 Venice what the statue of Athena in the Brazen House was to 
 Athens. Not at all supposed to be Athena, or to be Madon¬ 
 nas ; but symbols, by help of which they conceived the pres- 
 
THE VENICE ACADEMY OF FINE ARTS. 347 
 
 ence with them of a real Goddess. But this picture of Ti¬ 
 tian’s does not profess to symbolize any Virgin here with us, 
 but only to show how the Virgin was taken away from us a 
 long time ago. And professing to represent this, he does not 
 in the least believe his own representation, nor expect any¬ 
 body else to believe it. He does not, in his heart, believe the 
 Assumption ever took place at all. He is merely putting to¬ 
 gether a stage decoration of clouds, little boys, with wings 
 stuck into them, and pantomime actors in studied positions, 
 to amuse his Venice and himself. 
 
 II. Though desirous of nothing but amusement, he is not, 
 at heart, half so much amused by his work as John Bellini, or 
 one-quarter so much amused as the innocent old vicar. On 
 the contrary, a strange gloom has been cast over him, he 
 knows not why ; but he likes all his colors dark, and puts 
 great spaces of brown, and crimson passing into black, where 
 the older painters would have made all lively. Painters call 
 this “ chiaroscuro.” So also they may call a thunder-cloud in 
 the sky of spring; but it means more than light and shade. 
 
 HI. You see that in all the three earlier pictures everybody 
 is quiet. Here, everybody is in a bustle. If you like to look at 
 my pamphlet on the relation of Tintoret to Michael Angelo, you 
 will see how this comes to pass, and what it means. And that 
 is all I care for your noticing in the Assumption, just now. 
 
 Next, look on right and left of it, at the two dark pictures 
 over the doors (63, 25). 
 
 Darkness visible, with flashes of lightning through it. The 
 thunder-cloud upon us, rent with fire. 
 
 Those are Tintorets ; finest possible Tintorets ; best pos¬ 
 sible examples of what, in absolute power of painting, is su- 
 premest work, so far as I know, in all the world. 
 
 Nothing conies near Tintoret for colossal painter’s power as 
 such. But you need not think to get any good of these pic¬ 
 tures ; it would take you twenty years’ work to understand 
 the fineness of them as painting ; and for the rest, there is 
 little good in them to be got. Adam and Eve no more sat in 
 that warm-weather picnic manner, helping each other politely 
 to apples, on the occasion of their fall, than the Madonna went 
 
348 GUIDE TO THE PRINCIPAL PICTURES IN 
 
 up all bending about in ber red and blue cloak on tbe occasion 
 of ber Assumption. But of tbe wrong and tbe truth, tbe error 
 and tbe glory, of these pictures, I have no time to speak now ; 
 nor you to bear. All that you have to notice is that painting 
 has now become a dark instead of bright art, and in many 
 ways a frightful and unpleasant art, or else I will add once 
 for all, referring you for proof of it to tbe general examples of 
 Venetian work at this late epoch, supplied as a luxury to for¬ 
 eign courts, a lascivious art.* 
 
 Nevertheless, up to tbe time when Tintoret painted tbe Cru¬ 
 cifixion in tbe Scuola di San Rocco, Venice bad not in heart 
 abjured ber religion. Tbe time when tbe last chord of its faith 
 gives way cannot be discerned, to-day and hour ; but in that 
 day and boar of which, for external sign, we may best take 
 tbe death of Tintoret in 1594, tbe Arts of Venice are at an end. 
 
 I have therefore now shown you the complete course of 
 their power, from 1380 at tbe Academy gates, to 1594—say, 
 broadly, two centuries (ber previous art being only arcliitect- 
 ual, mosaic, or decorative sculpture). We will now go through 
 tbe rooms, noticing what is best worth notice in each of tbe 
 epochs defined ; essentially, you observe, three. Tbe first we 
 may call tbe Vivarini epoch, bright, innocent, more or less 
 elementary, entirely religious art — reaching from 1400 to 
 1480 ; the second (which for reasons presently to be shown, 
 we will call the Carpaccian epoch), sometimes classic and 
 mythic, as well as religious, 1480-1520 ; the third, supreme¬ 
 ly powerful art corrupted by taint of death, 1520-1600, which 
 we will call the Tintoret epoch. 
 
 Of course the lives of the painters run in and out across 
 
 * One copy of Titian’s work bearing such commercial value, and show¬ 
 ing what was briefly the Gospel preached by Missionary Venice to for¬ 
 eign nations in the sixteenth century, you will find presently in the 
 narrow corridor, No. 347 : on which you will usually also find some 
 modern copyist employed, for missionary purposes ; but never on a 
 Vivarini. And in thus becoming dark, terrific, and sensual, Venetian 
 art led the way to the mere naturalism and various baseness of follow¬ 
 ing European art with the rubbish of which that corridor (Sala ix.. 
 Numbers 27G to 353) is mostly filled. 
 
THE VENICE ACADEMY OF FINE ARTS. 349 
 
 these limits ; yet if you fasten these firmly in your mind—80, 
 40, 80—you will find you have an immense advantage and 
 easy grip of the whole history of Venetian art. 
 
 In the first epoch, however, I do not mean to detain you; 
 but the room you first entered, into which I will now ask you 
 to return, is full of pictures which you will find interesting if 
 you have time to decipher them, and care for Christianity and 
 its expressions. One only I will ask you to look at, after 
 Titian’s Assumption; the little Ascension by Nicolo Semite- 
 colo, low down, on the right of the vicar’s picture in Number 
 16. For that Ascension is painted in real belief that the As¬ 
 cension did take place ; and its sincerity ought to be pleasant 
 to you, after Titian’s pretence. 
 
 Now, returning up the steps, and taking the corridor to 
 your right, opposite the porter’s table, enter the little room 
 through the first door on your right ; and therein, just on 
 your right as you go in, is Mantegna’s St. George, No. 273 ; 
 to which give ten minutes quietly, and examine it with a mag¬ 
 nifying glass of considerable power. For in that you have a 
 perfect type of the Italian methods of execution corresponding 
 to the finish of the Dutch painters in the north ; but far more 
 intellectual and skilful. You cannot see more wonderful work 
 in minute drawing with the point of the brush ; the virtue of 
 it being that, not only every touch is microscopically minute, 
 but that, in this minuteness, every touch is considered, and 
 every touch right. It is to be regarded, however, only as a 
 piece of workmanship. It is wholly without sentiment, though 
 the distant landscape becomes affecting through its detailed 
 truth—the winding road under the rocks, and the towered 
 city, being as full of little pretty things to be searched out as 
 a natural scene would be. 
 
 And I have brought you first, in our now more complete 
 review, to this picture, because it shows more clearly than any 
 other through what tremendous work the Italian masters ob¬ 
 tained their power. 
 
 Without the inherited strength won by this precision of 
 drawing in the earlier masters, neither Titian nor Tintoiet 
 could have existed. 
 
350 GUIDE TO THE PRINCIPAL PICTURES IN 
 
 Return into the corridor, and walk along it to the end with¬ 
 out wasting time ;—there is a Bonifazio, No. 326, worth a 
 painter’s while to stop at, but in general mere Dutch rubbish. 
 Walk straight on, and go in at the last door on the left, with¬ 
 in which you will find 
 
 456, Cima da Conegliano. An entirely sincere and noble 
 picture of the central epoch. Not supreme in any artistic 
 quality, but good and praiseworthy in all ; and, as a concep¬ 
 tion of its subject, the most beautiful you will find in Venice. 
 Grudge no time upon it ; but look at nothing else here ; re¬ 
 turn into the corridor, and proceed by it into the great room. 
 
 Opposite you is Titian’s great “ Presentation of the Virgin,” 
 interesting to artists, and an unusually large specimen of 
 Titian’s rough work. To me, simply the most stupid and un¬ 
 interesting picture ever painted by him : if you can find any¬ 
 thing to enjoy in it, you are very welcome. I have nothing 
 more to say of it, except that the color of the landscape is as 
 false as a piece of common blue tapestry, and that the “ cele¬ 
 brated ” old woman with her basket of eggs is as dismally 
 ugly and vulgar a filling of spare corner as was ever daubed 
 on a side-scene in a hurry at Drury Lane. 
 
 On the other side of the room, 543, is another wide waste 
 of canvas; miserable example of the W'Ork subsequent to Paul 
 Veronese ; doubly and trebly mischievous in caricaturing and 
 defiling all that in the master himself is noble : to look long 
 at such a thing is enough to make the truest lovers of Vene¬ 
 tian art ashamed of Venice, and of themselves. It ought to 
 be taken down and burned. 
 
 Turn your back to it, in the centre of the room ; and make 
 up your mind for a long stand ; for opposite you, so standing, 
 is a Veronese indeed, of the most instructive and noble kind 
 (489) ; and beneath it, the best picture in the Academy of 
 Venice, Carpaccio’s “Presentation” (488). 
 
 Of the Veronese, I will say nothing but that the main in¬ 
 structiveness of it is in the exhibition of his acquired and in¬ 
 evitable faults (the infection of his fera), with his own quiet¬ 
 est and best virtues. It is an artist’s picture, and even only 
 
THE VENICE ACADEMY OF FINE ARTS. 551 
 
 to be rightly felt by very good artists ; the aerial perspectives 
 in it being extremely subtle, and rare, to equal degree, in the 
 painter’s work. To the general spectator, I will only observe 
 that he has free leave to consider the figure of the Virgin exe¬ 
 crable ; but that I hope, if he has a good opera-glass, he will 
 find something to please him in the little rose-bush in the 
 glass vase on the balustrade. I would myself give all the 
 bushes—not to say all the trees—and all the seas, of Claude 
 and Poussin, in one bunch and one deluge—for this little rose¬ 
 bush and its bottle. 
 
 488. “The Presentation in the Temple.” Signed “Victor 
 Carpaccio, 1510.” From the Church of St. Job. 
 
 You have no similar leave, however, good general spectator, 
 to find fault with anything here ! You may measure yourself, 
 outside and in—your religion, your taste, your knowledge of 
 art, your knowledge of men and things—by the quantity of 
 admiration which honestly, after due time given, you can feel 
 for this picture. 
 
 You are not required to think the Madonna pretty, or to 
 receive the same religious delight from the conception of the 
 scene, which you would rightly receive from Angelico, Filippo 
 Lippi, or Perugino. This is essentially Venetian—prosaic, 
 matter of fact—retaining its supreme common-sense through 
 all enthusiasm. 
 
 Nor are you required to think this a first-rate work in Vene¬ 
 tian color. This is the best picture in the Academy precisely 
 because it is not the best piece of color there ; because the 
 great master has subdued his own main passion, and restrained 
 his color-faculty, though the best in Venice, that you might 
 not say the moment you came before the picture, as you do of 
 the Paris Bourdone (492), “ What a piece of color! ” 
 
 To Paris, the Duke, the Senate, and the Miracle are all 
 merely vehicles for flashes of scarlet and gold on marble and 
 silk ; but Carpaccio, in this picture of the Presentation, does 
 not want you to think of his color, but of your Christ. 
 
 To whom the Madonna also is subjected—to whom all is 
 subjected; you will not find such another Infant Christ in 
 
352 GUIDE TO THE PRINCIPAL PICTURES IN 
 
 Venice. (But always look carefully at Paul Veronese’s, for it 
 is one of the most singular points in the character of this 
 usually decorative and inexpressive painter, that his Infant 
 Christs are always beautiful.) 
 
 For the rest, I am not going to praise Carpaccio’s work. 
 Give time to it; and if you don’t delight in it, the essential 
 faculty of enjoying good art is wanting in you, and I can’t 
 give it to you by ten minutes’ talk ; but if you begin really to 
 feel the picture, observe that its supreme merit is in the ex¬ 
 actly just balance of all virtue—detail perfect, yet inconspic¬ 
 uous ; composition intricate and severe, but concealed under 
 apparent simplicity ; and painter’s faculty of the supremest, 
 used nevertheless with entire subjection of it to intellectual 
 purpose. Titian, compared to Carpaccio, paints as a circus- 
 rider rides—there is nothing to be thought of in him but his 
 riding. But Carpaccio paints as a good knight rides ; his rid¬ 
 ing is the least of him ; and to himself—unconscious in its 
 ease. 
 
 When you have seen all you can of the picture as a whole, 
 go near, and make out the little pictures on the edge of St. 
 Simeon’s robe ; four quite lovely ones ; the lowest admitting, 
 to make the whole perfect, delightful grotesque of fairy an¬ 
 gels within a heavenly castle wall, thrusting down a troop of 
 supine devils to the deep. The other three, more beautiful 
 in their mystery of shade ; but I have not made them out yet. 
 There is one solemn piece of charge to a spirit folding its arms 
 in obedience ; and I think the others must be myths of crea¬ 
 tion, but can’t tell yet, and must now go on quickly to note 
 merely the pictures you should look at, reserving talk of them 
 for a second number of this Guide. 
 
 483, 500, 524, containing all you need study in Bonifazio. 
 In 500, he is natural and does his best; in 483, he pretends to 
 religion, which he has not; in 524, to art, wdiich he has not. 
 The last is a monstrous example of the apathy with which tho 
 later Italian artists, led by Raphael, used this horrible subject 
 to exhibit their ingenuity in anatomical posture, and excite 
 the feeble interest of vulgar spectators. 
 
TEE VENICE ACADEMY OF FINE ARTS. 353 
 
 503. Quiet Tintoret; very noble in senators, poor in Ma¬ 
 donna. 
 
 519. Quiet Paul Veronese ; very noble in St. Jerome’s robe 
 and Lion, and in little St. John’s back. Not particularly so 
 in anybody’s front, but a first-rate picture in the picture way. 
 
 507. Dashing Tintoret; fearfully repainted, but grand yet 
 in the lighter figures of background. 
 
 496-502. Dashing Paul Veronese—splendid in art; in con¬ 
 ception of Evangelists—all that Venice wanted of them, at 
 that day. You must always, however, judge her as you would 
 a sailor—what would be ridiculous or bombastic in others has 
 often some honesty in it with her. Think of these Evangelists 
 as a kind of figure-heads of ships. 
 
 Enter now the great room with the Veronese at the end of 
 it, for which the painter (quite rightly) was summoned before 
 the Inquisition of State : you will find his examination, trans¬ 
 lated by a friend to whom I owe much in my old Venetian 
 days, in the Appendix to my second Guide ; but you must not 
 stop now at this picture, if you are in a hurry, for you can see 
 the like of it, and better, in Paris ; but you can see nothing in 
 all the world, out of Venice, like certain other pictures in this 
 room. 
 
 Glancing round it, you see it may be generally described a3 
 full of pictures of street architecture, with various more or less 
 interesting transactions going on in the streets. Large Cana¬ 
 lettos, in fact ; only with the figures a little more interesting 
 than Canaletto’s figures ; and the buildings, on the whole, red 
 and white or brown and white, instead of, as with Canaletto, 
 black and white. And on consideration, and observation, you 
 will perceive, if you have any perception of color, that V ene¬ 
 tian buildings, and most others, being really red and white or 
 brown and white, not black and white, this is really the right 
 manner of painting them, and these are true and sufficient rep¬ 
 resentations of streets, of landscapes, and of interiors of houses, 
 with the people, as I said, either in St. Mark’s Place, 555, or 
 23 
 
354 GUIDE TO TIIE PRINCIPAL PICTURES IN 
 
 at Grand Cairo, 540, or before the Castle of St. Angelo at 
 Rome, 546, or by the old Rialto here, 564, being themselves 
 also more or less interesting, if you will observe them, first in 
 their dresses, which are very curious and pretty, and after¬ 
 ward in many other particulars, of which for the present I 
 must leave you to make out what you can ; for of the pictures 
 by Carpaccio in this room I must write an entirely separate 
 account (begun already for one of them only, the Dream of 
 St. Ursula, 533),* and of the Gentile Bellini you can only know 
 the value after good study of St. Mark’s itself. Observe, how¬ 
 ever, at least in this, and in 548 and 564, the perfectly true 
 representation of what the Architecture of Venice was in her 
 glorious time ; trim, dainty—red and white like the blossom 
 of a carnation—touched with gold like a peacock’s plumes, 
 and frescoed, even to its chimney-pots, with fairest arabesque 
 —its inhabitants, and it together, one harmony of work and 
 life—all of a piece, you see them, in the wonderful palace- 
 perspective on the left in 548, with everybody looking out of 
 their windows. And in this picture of St. Mark’s, painted by 
 John Bellini’s good brother, true as he could, hue for hue, and 
 ray for ray, you see that all the tossing of its now white marble 
 foliage against the sky, which in my old book on Venice I com¬ 
 pared to the tossed spray of sea waves (believing then, as I 
 do still, that the Venetians in their living and breathing days 
 of art were always influenced in their choice of guiding lines 
 of sculpture by their sense of the action of wind or sea), were 
 not, at all events, meant to be like sea foam white in anger, 
 but like light spray in morning sunshine. They were all over¬ 
 laid with gold. 
 
 Not yet in vicious luxury. Those porches of St. Mark’s, so 
 please you, English friends, were not thus gilt for the wedding 
 of Miss Kilmansegg, nor are those pictures on the vaults ad¬ 
 vertisements, like yours in your railway stations; all the arts 
 
 * Of which, with her legend, if you care to hear more, you will find 
 more in the three numbers of “ Fors Clavigera ” now purchaseable of my 
 agent in Venice (Mr. Bunney, Fondamenta San Biagio, 2143), from 
 whom all my recent publications on Venice may be also procured. 
 
THE VENICE ACADEMY OF FINE ARTS. 355 
 
 of England bent on recommending you cheap bathing ma¬ 
 chines and painless pills. Here are purer baths and medicines 
 told of ; here have been more ingenious engineers. From the 
 Sinai desert, from the Sion rock, from the defiles of Lebanon, 
 met here the ghosts of ancient builders to oversee the work, 
 of dead nations, to inspire it — Bezaleel and the maids of 
 Israel who gave him their jewels ; Hiram and his forgers in 
 the vale of Siddim, his woodmen of the Syrian forests ; David 
 the lord of war, and his Son the Lord of Peace, and the mul¬ 
 titudes that kept holy day when the cloud filled the house they 
 had built for the Lord of All—these in their myriads stood 
 by, to watch, to guide ; it might have been, had Venice willed, 
 to bless. 
 
 Literally so, mind you. The wreathen work of the lily cap¬ 
 itals and their archivolts, the glass that keeps unfaded their 
 color—the design of that color itself, and the stories that are 
 told in the glow of it—all these w r ere brought by the Jew or the 
 Tyrian, bringing also the treasures of Persia and Egypt; and 
 with these, laboring beside them as one brought up with them, 
 stood the Athena of Corinth, and the Sophia of Byzantium. 
 
 Not in vicious luxury these, yet—though in Tyrian splendor 
 glows St. Mark’s : nor those quiet and trim little houses on 
 the right, joining the Campanile. You are standing (the 
 work is so completely done that you may soon fancy yourself 
 so) in old St. Mark’s Place, at the far end of it, before it was 
 enlarged ; you may find the stone marking the whole length 
 of it in the pavement, just opposite the easternmost door of 
 the Cafe Florian. And there were none of those pompous 
 loggie then, where you walk up and down before the cafe, 
 but these trim, dainty, happily inhabited houses, mostly in 
 white marble and gold, with disks of porphyry ; and look 
 at the procession coming toward you underneath them - 
 what a bed of moving flowers it is! Not Birnam Wood com¬ 
 ing, gloomy and terrible, but a very bloom and garland of 
 good and knightly manhood—its Doge walking in the midst 
 of it—simple, valiant, actual, beneficent, magnificent king. Do 
 you see better sights than this in St. Mark s Place now, in 
 jour dajs of progress? 
 
356 GUIDE TO THE PRINCIPAL PICTURES IN 
 
 Now, just to get some little notion how the figures are 
 “put in” by these scrupulous old formalists, take the pains 
 to look closely at the first you come upon of the procession 
 on the extreme left—the three musicians, namely, with the 
 harp, violin, aud lute. Look at them as portraits only ; you 
 will not find more interesting ones in all the rooms. And 
 then you will do well to consider the picture as a reality for 
 a little while, and so leave the Academy with a vision of liv¬ 
 ing Venice in your heart. We will look at no more painting 
 to-day. 
 
 PART IL 
 
 If you have looked with care at the three musicians, or any 
 other of the principal figures, in the great town or landscape 
 views in this principal room, you will be ready now with better 
 patience to trace the order of their subjects, and such character 
 or story as their treatment may develop. I can only help 
 you, however, with Carpaccio’s, for I have not been able to 
 examine, or much think of, Mansueti’s, recognizing, never¬ 
 theless, much that is delightful in them. 
 
 By Carpaccio, then, in this room,* there are in all eleven 
 important pictures, eight from the legend of St. Ursula, and 
 three of distinct subjects. Glance first at the series of St. 
 Ursula subjects, in this order : 
 
 I. —539. Maurus the King of Brittany receives the English 
 ambassadors: and has talk with his daughter touching their 
 embassy. 
 
 II. —533. St. Ursula’s Dream. 
 
 HI.—537. King Maurus dismisses the English ambassa¬ 
 dors with favorable answer from his daughter. (This is the 
 most beautiful piece of painting in the rooms.) 
 
 * Or at least in the Academy : the arrangement may perhaps he altered 
 before this Guide can be published ; at all events we must not count 
 on it. 
 
THE VENICE ACADEMY OF FINE ARTS . 35T 
 
 IV. —549. The King of England receives the Princess’s 
 favorable answer. 
 
 V. —542. The Prince of England sets sail for Brittany_ 
 
 there receives his bride, and embarks with her on pilgrimage. 
 
 VI. —546. The Prince of England and his bride, voyaging 
 on pilgrimage with the eleven thousand maidens, arrive at 
 Borne, and are received by the Pope, who, “ with certain Car¬ 
 dinals,” joins their pilgrimage. (The most beautiful of all the 
 series, next to the Dream.) 
 
 VII. —544. The Prince, with his bride, and the Pope with 
 his Cardinals, and the eleven thousand maids, arrive in the 
 land of the Huns, and receive martyrdom there. In the 
 second part of the picture is the funeral procession of St. 
 Ursula. 
 
 VIII. —St. Ursula, with her maidens, and the pilgrim Pope, 
 and certain Cardinals, in glory of Paradise. I have always 
 forgotten to look for the poor bridegroom in this picture, and 
 on looking, am by no means sure of him. But I suppose it is 
 he who holds St. Ursula’s standard. The architecture and 
 landscape are unsurpassably fine ; the rest much imperfect; 
 but containing nobleness only to be learned by long dwelling 
 on it. 
 
 In this series, I have omitted one picture, 544, which is of 
 scarcely any interest—except in its curious faults and unwor¬ 
 thiness. At all events, do not at present look at it, or think 
 of it ; but let us examine all the rest without hurry. 
 
 In the first place, then, we find this curious fact, intensely 
 characteristic of the fifteenth as opposed to the nineteenth 
 century—that the figures are true and natural, but the land¬ 
 scape false and unnatural, being by such fallacy made entirely 
 subordinate to the figures. I have never approved of, and 
 only a little understand, this state of things. The painter is 
 never interested in the ground, but only in the creatures that 
 tread on it. A castle tower is left a mere brown bit of canvas, 
 and all his coloring kept for the trumpeters on the top of it. 
 The fields are obscurely green ; the sky imperfectly blue ; and 
 the mountains could not possibly stand on the very small 
 foundations they are furnished with. 
 
358 GUIDE TO THE PRINCIPAL PICTURES IN 
 
 Here is a Religion of Humanity, and nothing else—to pur¬ 
 pose ! Nothing in the universe thought worth a look, unless 
 it is in service or foil to some two-legged creature showing 
 itself off to the best advantage. If a flower is in a girl’s hair, 
 it shall be painted properly ; but in the fields, shall be only a 
 spot; if a striped pattern is on a boy’s jacket, we paint all the 
 ins and outs of it, and drop not a stitch ; but the striped 
 patterns of vineyard or furrow in field, the enamelled mossy 
 mantles of the rocks, the barred heraldry of the shield of the 
 sky—perhaps insects and birds may take pleasure in them, 
 not we. 
 
 To his own native lagunes and sea, the painter is yet less 
 sensitive. His absurd rocks, and dotty black hedges round 
 bitumen-colored fields (542), are yet painted with some 
 grotesque humor, some modest and unworldly beauty ; and 
 sustain or engird their castellated quaintnesses in a manner 
 pleasing to the pre-Rapliaelite mind. But the sea—waveless 
 as a deal board—and in that tranquillity, for the most part re¬ 
 flecting nothing at its edge—literally, such a sea justifies that 
 uncourteous saying of earlier Venice of her Doge’s bride— 
 “ Mare sub pede pono.”* 
 
 Of all these deficiencies, characteristic not of this master 
 only, but of his age, you will find various analysis in the third 
 volume of “ Modern Painters,” in the chapter on mediaeval 
 landscape ; with begun examination of the causes which led 
 gradually to more accurate observance of natural phenomena, 
 until, by Turner, the method of Carpaccio’s mind is precisely 
 reversed, and the Nature in the background becomes princi¬ 
 pal ; the figures in the foreground, its foil. I have a good 
 deal more, however, to say on this subject now—so much 
 more, indeed, that in this little Guide there is no proper room 
 for any of it, except the simple conclusion that both the 
 
 * On the scroll in the hand of the throned Venice on the Piazzetta side 
 of the Ducal Palace, the entire inscription is, 
 
 “ Fortis, justa, trono furias, mare sub pede, pono.” 
 
 “ Strong, and just, I put the furies beneath my throne, and the sea 
 
 beneath my fool,” 
 
TEE VENICE ACADEMY OF FINE ARTS. 350 
 
 painters are wrong in whatever they either definitely misrep¬ 
 resent, or enfeeble by inharmonious deficiency. 
 
 In the next place, I want you to notice Carpaccio’s fancy in 
 what he does represent very beautifully—the architecture, 
 real and ideal, of his day. 
 
 His fancy, I say ; or phantasy ; the notion he has of what 
 architecture should be ; of which, without doubt, you see his 
 clearest expression in the Paradise, and in the palace of the 
 most Christian King, St. Ursula’s father. 
 
 And here I must ask you to remember, or learn if you do 
 not know, the general course of transition in the architecture 
 of Venice—namely, that there are three epochs of good build¬ 
 ing in Venice ; the first lasting to 1300, Byzantine, in the style 
 of St. Mark’s ; the second, 1300 to 1480, Gothic, in the stylo 
 of the Ducal Palace ; and the third, 1480 to 1520, in a manner 
 which architects have yet given no entirely accepted name to, 
 but which, from the name of its greatest designer, Brother 
 Giocondo, of Verona,* I mean, myself, henceforward to call 
 “ Giocondine.” 
 
 Now, the dates on these pictures of Carpaccio’s run from 
 1480 to 1485, so that you see he was painting in the youthful 
 gush, as it were, and fullest impetus of Giocondine architec¬ 
 ture, which all Venice, and chiefly Carpaccio, in the joy of art, 
 thought was really at last the architecture divinely designed, 
 and arrived at by steady progress of taste, from the Creation 
 to 1480, and then the ne plus ultra, and real Babel-stylo with¬ 
 out bewilderment—its top truly reaching to heaven—style 
 which was never thenceforth to be bettered by human thought 
 or skill. Of which Giocondine manner, I really think you had 
 better at once see a substantially existent piece. It will not 
 take long—say an hour, with lunch ; and the good door-keeper 
 will let you come in again without paying.f 
 
 So (always supposing the day fine), go down to your boat, 
 
 * Called “ the second Founder of Venice,” for his engineering work 
 on the Brenta. Ilis architecture is chiefly at Verona; the style being 
 adopted and enriched at Venice by the Lombardi. 
 
 t If you have already seen the school of St. John, or do not like the 
 interruption, continue at page 365. 
 
3G0 GUIDE TO TIIE PRINCIPAL PICTURES IN 
 
 and order yourself to be taken to the church of the Frari. 
 Landing just beyond it, your gondoliers will show you the 
 way, up the calle beside it, to the desolate little courtyard of 
 the School of St. John the Evangelist. It might be one of the 
 most beautiful scenes among the cities of Italy, if only the 
 good Catholics of Venice would employ so much of their 
 yearly alms in the honor of St. John the Evangelist as to main¬ 
 tain any old gondolier, past rowing, in this courtyard by way 
 of a Patmos, on condition that he should suffer no wildly 
 neglected children to throw stones at the sculptures, nor 
 grown-up creatures to defile them ; but with occasional ablu¬ 
 tion by sprinkling from garden water-engine, suffer the weeds 
 of Venice to inhabit among the marbles where they listed. 
 
 How beautiful the place might be, I need not tell you. 
 Beautiful it is, even in its squalid misery; but too probably, 
 some modern designer of railroad stations will do it up with 
 new gilding and scrapings of its gray stone. The gods for¬ 
 bid ; understand, at all events, that if this happens to it, you 
 are no more to think of it as an example of Giocondine art. 
 But, as long as it is let alone there, in the shafts and capitals 
 you will see, on the whole, the most characteristic example in 
 Venice of the architecture that Carpaccio, Cima, and John 
 Bellini loved. 
 
 As a rule, observe, square-piered, not round-pillared ; the 
 square piers either sculptured all up with floral tracery, or, 
 if plain, decorated half-way up, by a round panel of dark-col¬ 
 ored marble or else a bas-relief, usually a classic profile; the 
 capitals, of light leafage, playing or springing into joyful spi¬ 
 rals at the angles ; the mouldings and cornices on the whole 
 very flat or square cut—no solid round mouldings anywhere, 
 but all precise, rectangular, and shallow. The windows and 
 doors either square-headed or round—never pointed ; but, if 
 square-headed, having often a Greek gable or pediment above, 
 as here on the outer wall ; and, if round-headed, often com¬ 
 posed of two semicircles side by side, with a circle between ; * 
 
 * In returning to your boat, just walk round to tlie back of tbe cliurch 
 of the Frari, and look at the windows of the Scuola di San Rocco, which 
 
THE VENICE ACADEMY OF FINE ARTS. 
 
 301 
 
 the wall decoration being either of round inlaid marbles, 
 among floral sculpture, or of fresco. Little to be conceived 
 from words; but if you will look well inside and outside of 
 the cortile of the Evangelist, you will come away with a very 
 definite primary notion of Giocondine work. 
 
 Then back, with straight speed to the Academy ; and before 
 landing there, since you can see the little square in front of 
 it, from your boat, read on. 
 
 The little square has its name written up at the corner, you 
 see—“Field of Charity,” or rather of the Charity, meaning 
 the Madonna of Charity, and church dedicated to her. Of 
 which you see the mere walls, variously defaced, remaining 
 yet in their original form, traces of the great circular window 
 in the front yet left, also of the pointed windows at the sides 
 —filled up, many a year ago, and the square holes below cut 
 for modern convenience ; there being no space in the length 
 and breadth of Italy to build new square-lioled houses on, the 
 Church of Charity must be used for makeshift. 
 
 Have you charity of imagination enough to cover this little 
 field with fresh grass—to tear down the iron bridge which 
 some accursed Englishman, I suppose, greedy for filthy job, 
 persuaded the poor Venetians to spoil their Grand Canal with, 
 at its noblest bend—and to fill the pointed lateral windows 
 with light tracery of quatrefoiled stone ? So stood, so bloomed, 
 the church and its field, in early fourteenth century—dismal 
 time ! the church in its fresh beauty then, built toward the 
 close of the thirteenth centurv, on the site of a much more 
 ancient one, first built of wood ; and, in 1119, of stone ; but 
 still very small, its attached monastery receiving Alexander 
 IH. in 1177 ; here on the little flowery field landed the Pon¬ 
 tiff Exile, whose foot was to tread so soon on the Lion and 
 the Adder. 
 
 And some hundred years later, putting away, one finds not 
 
 will fix the form in yonr mind. It is an entirely bad one ; but took the 
 fancy of men, for a time, and of strong ones, too. But don t stop long 
 just now to look at this later building ; keep the St. John s coitile for 
 your type of Giocondine work, pure. 
 
362 GUIDE TO THE PRINCIPAL PICTURES IN 
 
 why, her little Byzantine church, more gravely meditative 
 Venice, visited much by Dominican and Franciscan friars, and 
 more or less in cowled temper herself, built this graver and 
 simpler pile ; which, if any of my readers care for either 
 Turner or me, they should look at with some moments’ pause ; 
 for I have given Turner’s lovely sketch of it to Oxford, painted 
 as he saw it fifty years ago, with bright golden sails grouped 
 in front of it where now is the ghastly iron bridge.* 
 
 Most probably (I cannot yet find any direct document of 
 it), the real occasion of the building of the church whose wall* 
 yet stand, was the founding of the Confraternita di S. Maria 
 della Carita, on St. Leonard’s day, 6th November, 1260, ^ 
 which brotherhood, in 1310, fought side by side with the school 
 of the Painters in St. Luke’s field, against one body of the 
 conspirators for Bajamonte, and drove them back, achieving 
 the right thenceforward of planting their purple standard 
 there, in St. Luke’s field, with their stemma (all this bears on 
 Carpaccio’s pictures presently, so have patience yet a minute 
 or two) ; and so increasing in number and influence, bought in 
 1344, from the Monks of the Church of Charity, the ground 
 on which you are presently going to see pictures ; and built 
 on it their cloister, dedicated also to St. Mary of Charity ; and 
 over the gate of it, by which you are going to enter, put St. 
 Mary of Charity, as they best could get her carved, next year, 
 1345 ; and so you have her there, with cowled members of the 
 confraternity kneeling to her ; happy angels fluttering about 
 her; the dark blue of her eyes not yet utterly faded from 
 them. Blue^yed as Athena she—the Greek tradition yet 
 prevailing to that extent—a perfect type, the whole piece, of 
 
 * “Very convenient for tlie people,” say you, modern man of "busi¬ 
 ness. Yes; very convenient to them also to pay two centesimi every 
 time they cross—six for three persons, into the pockets of that English 
 engineer ; instead of five for three persons, to one of their own boat¬ 
 men, who now take to begging, drinking, and bellowing for the 
 wretched hordes at the tables d’hote, whose ears have been rent by 
 railroad whistles till they don’t know a howl from a song—instead of 
 ferrying. 
 
 f Archivio Veneto. (Venezia, 187G.) Tom. XII., Parte i., p. 112. 
 
THE VENICE ACADEMY OF FINE ARTS. 303 
 
 purest central fourteenth-century Gothic thought and work 
 untouched, and indubitable of date, being inscribed below its 
 bracket cornice, 
 
 MCCCXLV. I LO TEMPO DE MIS. 
 
 MARCHO ZULIAN FO FATO STO LAVORIER. 
 
 To wit—“ 1345, in the time” (of the Guardianship) “ of 
 Messer Mark Julian, was made this labored thing.” 
 
 And all seemed to bid fair for Venice and her sacred schools • 
 
 9 
 
 Heaven surely pleased with these her endeavors, and labored 
 things. 
 
 Yes, with these, and such other, I doubt not. But other 
 things, it seems, had been done in Venice, with which Heaven 
 was not pleased ; assuming always that there is a Heaven, for 
 otherwise—what followed was of course only process of Dar¬ 
 winian development. But this was what followed. That 
 Madonna, with her happy angels and humble worshippers, was 
 carved as you see her over the Scuola cloister door—in 1345. 
 And “ on the 25th of January, 1347,* on the day, to wit, of 
 the conversion of St. Paul, about the hour of vespers, there 
 came a great earthquake in Venice, and as it were in all the 
 world ; and fell many tops of bell-towers, and houses, and 
 chimneys, and the church of St. Basil : and there was so great 
 fear that all the people thought to die. And the earth ceased 
 not to tremble for about forty days ; and when it remained 
 quiet, there came a great mortality, and the people died of 
 various evil. And the people were in so great fear, that father 
 would not go to visit son, nor son father. And this death 
 lasted about six months ; and it was said commonly that there 
 died two parts out of three, of all the people of Venice.” 
 
 These words you may read (in Venetian dialect), after j T ou 
 have entered the gate beneath the Madonna ; they are engraved 
 under the Gothic arch on your right hand ; with other like 
 words, telling the various horror of that Plague ; and how the 
 guardian of the Scuola died by it, and about ten of his officers 
 with him, and three hundred of the brethren. 
 
 * 1348, in our present calendar. 
 
304 GUIDE TO THE PRINCIPAL PICTURES IN 
 
 Above the inscription, two angels hold the symbol of the 
 Scuola ; carved as you see, conspicuously also on the outer 
 sculptures in various places ; and again on the well in the 
 midst of the cloister. The first sign this, therefore, of all 
 chosen by the greater schools of Venice, of which, as aforesaid, 
 “ The first was that of St. Mary of Charity, which school has 
 its wax candles red, in sign that Charity should be glowing ; 
 and has for its bearing a yellow ”( meaning golden *) “ cross, 
 traversing two little circles also yellow ; with red and green 
 quartering the parts which the cross describes—those who in¬ 
 stituted such sign desiring to show thereby the union that 
 Charity should have with Faith and Hope/’f 
 
 The golden “ anchored ” cross stands for Faith, the golden 
 outer circle for Charity, the golden inner for Hope—all on 
 field quartered gules and vert, the colors of Charity and 
 Hope. 
 
 Such the first symbol of Venetian Brotherhoods J—in read¬ 
 ing which, I delay you, that you may be better prepared to 
 understand the symbolism running through every sign and 
 color in Venetian art at this time, down even to its tinting of 
 wax candles ; art which was indeed all the more symbolic for 
 being rude, and complicated much with the use of signals and 
 heraldries at sea, too distant for any art in them to be visible) 
 but serviceably intelligible in meaning. 
 
 How far the great Scuola and cloisters of the Carita, for 
 monks and confraternity together, reached from the gate under 
 which you are pausing, you may see in Durer’s wood-cut of 
 the year 1500 (Correr Museum), which gives the apse with 
 attached chapels ; and the grand double cloister reaching back 
 nearly to the Giudecca ; a water-wheel—as I suppose—out- 
 
 * Ex Cruce constat aurea, ueu flava ; ejus speciei, quam artis hujus- 
 modi Anctores “ ancoratam'’ vocant. 
 
 | In tabulam Graecam insigni sodalitio S. M. Caritatis, Venetiarum, 
 ab amplissimo Cardinali Bessarione dono datam, Disserattio.—(St. Mark’s 
 library, 33331, page 14G.) 
 
 \ At least according to tlie authority above quoted ; as far as I have 
 consulted the original documents myself, I find the school of St. Theodore 
 primal. 
 
THE VENICE ACADEMY OF FINE ARTS. 365 
 
 side, on the (now filled up and paved) canal, moved by the 
 tide, for molinary work in the kitchens. Of all which nothing 
 now remains but these pillars and beams, between you and the 
 gallery staircase ; and the well with two brothers on each side 
 holding their Stemma, a fine free-hand piece of rough living 
 work. You will not, I think, find that you have ill spent your 
 hour of rest when you now return into the Carpaccio room, 
 where we will look first, please, at No. IV. (549), in which 
 many general points are better shown than in the rest. 
 
 Here is the great King of ideal England, under an octagonal 
 temple of audience ; all the scene being meant to show the 
 conditions of a state in perfect power and prosperity. 
 
 A state, therefore, that is at once old and young ; that has 
 had a history for centuries past, and will have one for cen¬ 
 turies to come. 
 
 Ideal, founded mainly on the Venice of his own day ; 
 mingled a little with thoughts of great Rome, and of great 
 antagonist Genoa : but, in all spirit and hope, the Venice of 
 1480-1500 is here living before you. And now, therefore, 
 you can see at once what she meant by a “ Campo,” allowing 
 for the conventional manner of representing grass, which of 
 course at first you will laugh at; but which is by no means 
 deserving of your contempt. Any hack draughtsman of Dal- 
 ziel’s can sketch for you, or any member of the Water-color or 
 Dudley Societies dab for you, in ten minutes, a field of hay 
 that you would fancy you could mow, and make cocks of. 
 But this green ground of Carpaccio’s, with implanted flowers 
 and tufts of grass, is traditional from the first Greek-Christian 
 mosaics, and is an entirely systematic ornamental ground, and 
 to be understood as such, primarily, and as grass only sym¬ 
 bolically. Careless indeed, more than is usual with him— 
 much spoiled and repainted also ; but quite clear enough in 
 expression for us of the orderliness and freshness of a Venetian 
 campo in the great times ; garden and city you see mingled 
 inseparably, the wild strawberry growing at the steps of the 
 king’s court of justice, and their marble sharp and bright out 
 of the turf. Clean everything, and pure—no cigars in any¬ 
 body’s poisoned mouth—no voiding of perpetual excrement 
 
3CG GUIDE TO THE PRINCIPAL PICTURES IN 
 
 of saliva on the precious marble or living flowers. Perfect 
 peace and befittingness of behavior in all men and creatures. 
 Your very monkey in repose, perfect in his mediteval dress ; 
 the Darwinian theory in all its sacredness, breadth, divinity, 
 and sagacity—but reposeful, not venturing to thrust itself into 
 political council. Crowds on the bridges and quays, but untu- 
 multuous, close set as beds of flowers, richly decorative in their 
 mass, and a beautiful mosaic of men, and of black, red, blue, 
 and golden bonnets. Ruins, indeed, among the prosperity ; 
 but glorious ones—not shells of abandoned speculation, but 
 remnants of mighty state long ago, now restored to nature’s 
 peace ; the arches of the first bridge the city had built, broken 
 down by storm, yet what was left of them spared for memory’s 
 sake. (So stood for a little while, a few years ago, the broken 
 Ponte-a-Mare at Pisa ; so at Rome, for ages, stood the Ponte 
 Rotto, till the engineers and modern mob got at it, making 
 what was in my youth the most lovely and holy scene in Rome, 
 now a place where a swineherd could not stand without hold¬ 
 ing his nose, and which no woman can stop at.) 
 
 But here, the old arches are covered with sweet weeds, like 
 native rock, and (for once !) reflected a little in the pure water 
 under the meadowy hills. Much besides of noteworthy, if 
 you are yourself worthy of noting it, you may find in this 
 lovely distance. But the picture, it may be complained, seems 
 for the most part—distance, architecture, and scattered, crowd; 
 while of foreground objects, we have principally cloaks, and 
 very curiously thin legs.* Well, yes—the distance is indeed 
 the prettiest part of this picture ; and since, in modern art and 
 drama, we have been accustomed, for anatomical and other 
 reasons, to depend on nothing else but legs, I admit the suj^ply 
 of legs to be here scanty, and even of brachial, pectoral, and 
 other admirable muscles. If you choose to look at the faces 
 instead, you will find something in them ; nevertheless, Car¬ 
 paccio has been, on the whole, playing with himself, and with 
 us, in his treatment of this subject. For Carpaccio, is, in the 
 
 * Not in the least unnaturally tliin, however, in the forms of persons 
 of sedentary life. 
 
TIIE VENICE ACADEMY OF FINE ARTS. 367 
 
 most vital and conclusive sense, a man of genius, wlio will not 
 at all supply you, nor can in the least supply himself, with 
 sublimity and pathos to order ; but is sublime, or delightful, 
 or sometimes dull, or frequently grotesque, as Heaven wills 
 it ; or—profane persons will say—as the humor takes him. 
 And his humor here has been dominant. For since much de¬ 
 pends on the answer brought back from St. Ursula, besides 
 the young Prince’s happiness, one should have thought, the 
 return of the embassy might have been represented in a loftier 
 manner. But only two of the ambassadors are here ; the king 
 is occupied in hearing a cause which will take long—(see how 
 gravely his minister is reading over the documents in ques¬ 
 tion) ; meantime the young prince, impatient, going down 
 the steps of the throne, makes his own private inquiries, 
 proudly : “ Your embassy has, I trust, been received, gentle¬ 
 men, with a just understanding of our diplomatic relations? ” 
 “ Your Royal Highness,” the lowly and gravely bowing prin¬ 
 cipal ambassador replies, “ must yourself be the only fitting 
 judge of that matter, on fully hearing our report.” Meantime, 
 the charge d’affaires holds St. Ursula’s answer—behind his 
 back. 
 
 A piece of play, very nearly, the whole picture ; a painter 
 living in the midst of a prosperous city, happy in his own 
 power, entirely believing in God, and in the saints, and in 
 eternal life ; and, at intervals, bending his whole soul to the 
 expression of most deep and holy tragedy—such a man needs 
 must have his times of play ; which Carpaccio takes, in his 
 work. Another man, instead of painting this piece with its 
 monkey, and its little fiddler, and its jesting courtiers, would 
 have played some ape-tricks of his own—spent an hour or two 
 among literal fiddlers, and living courtiers. Carpaccio is not 
 heard of among such—amuses himself still with pencil in hand, 
 and us also, pleasantly, for a little while. You shall be serious 
 enough, soon, with him, if you will. 
 
 But I find this Guide must run into greater division, for I 
 can’t get the end of it properly done yet for some days ; 
 during the winter the gallery was too cold for me to think 
 quietly in ; and SQ I am obliged; as Uate always lately obliges 
 
36S GUIDE TO THE PRINCIPAL PICTURES IN 
 
 me, to do tliis work from pen to print—at speed ; so that, 
 quitting Carpaccio for the nonce, I will tell you a little more 
 about the general contents of the rooms ; and so afterward 
 take up St. Ursula’s pilgrimage, undisturbed.* Now, there¬ 
 fore, I will simply follow the order of the room circuit, noting 
 the pieces worth study, if you have proper time. 
 
 From before this picture which has so long held us, go 
 down the steps on the right of it, into the lower room. 
 
 Turning round immediately, you have good sight of two 
 Paul Veroneses, one on each side of the step>s. The upper 
 group of the picture on your left (603), Madonna borne by 
 angels at her knees, and encompassed by a circlet of them, is 
 the loveliest piece of Veronese in these galleries, nor can you 
 see a better in the world; but, considered as a whole, the 
 picture is a failure ; all the sub-celestial part of it being wholly 
 dull. Nevertheless, for essential study of Veronese’s faculty, 
 you cannot find anything better in Venice than that upper 
 group ; and the opposite picture, though confused, is worth 
 attentive pause from all painters. 
 
 597. Le Brun. Sent from Paris, you see, in exchange for 
 the Cena of Paul Veronese. 
 
 The Cena of Paul Veronese being worth—at moderate 
 estimate of its eternal and intrinsic art-value—I should say, 
 roughly, about ten good millions of sterling ducats, or twenty 
 ironclads ; and the Le Brun, worth, if it were put to proper 
 use, precisely what its canvas may now be worth to make a 
 packing-case of ; but, as hung here, in negative value, and 
 effectual mischief, in disgracing tho rooms, and keeping fine 
 pictures invisibly out of the way—a piece of vital poverty and 
 calamity much more than equivalent to the presence of a dirty, 
 torn rag, which the public would at once know to be worth¬ 
 less, in its place instead. 
 
 569, 570. Standard average portrait-pieces, fairly repre- 
 
 * This I am now doing in a separate Guide to the works of Carpaccio 
 in Venice ; these two parts, now published, contain all I have to say 
 about the Academy. 
 
THE VENICE ACADEMY OF FINE ARTS. 
 
 369 
 
 sentative of Tintoret’s quiet work, and of Venetian magis¬ 
 trates—Camerlenglii di Comune. Compare 587; very beau¬ 
 tiful. 
 
 581, 582, 583. Spoils of the Church of the Carita, whose 
 ruins you have seen. Venice being of all cities the only one 
 which has sacked herself, not in revolution, but mere blun¬ 
 dering beggary ; suppressing every church that had blessed 
 her, and every society that had comforted. But at all events 
 you see the pictures here ; and the Cima is a fine one ; but 
 what time you give to this painter should be spent chiefly 
 with his John the Baptist at the Madonna dell’ Orto. 
 
 586. Once a Bonifazio of very high order ; sorrowfully 
 repainted with loss of half its life. But a picture, still, de¬ 
 serving honor. 
 
 From this room you find access either to the modern pict¬ 
 ures, or by the door on the left hand of the Cima, to the col¬ 
 lection of drawings. The well-known series by Raphael and 
 Lionardo are of the very highest historical value and artistic 
 interest; but it is curious to find, in Venice, scarcely a scratch 
 or blot remaining of elementary study by any great Venetian 
 master. Her painters drew little in black and white, and 
 must have thrown such sketches, when they made them, away 
 for mere waste paper. For all discussion of their methods 
 of learning to draw with color from the first, I must refer my 
 readers to my Art lectures. 
 
 The Lionardo drawings here are the finest I know ; none 
 in the Ambrosian library equal them in execution. 
 
 The staircase leading out of this room descends into the 
 Hall of Titian’s Assumption, where I have said nothing yet of 
 his last picture (33), nor of that called in the Guide-books an 
 example of his first style (35). 
 
 It has always been with me an intended piece of work to 
 trace the real method of Titian’s study, and the changes of 
 his mind. But I shall never do it now ; * and am hitherto 
 
 * For reasons which any acute reader may enough discover in my 
 lecture on Michael Angelo and Tintoret. 
 
 24 
 
370 GUIDE TO THE PRINCIPAL PICTURES IN 
 
 entirely unacquainted with his early work. If this be indeed 
 his, and a juvenile piece, it indicates a breadth of manner, and 
 conventionally artistic way of looking at nature, entirely pe¬ 
 culiar to him or to his era. The picture which he left unfin¬ 
 ished might most fittingly be called the Shadow of Death. It 
 is full of the profoundest metaphysical interest to me; but 
 cannot be analyzed here. 
 
 In general, Titian is ill-represented in his own Venice. 
 The best example of him, by far, is the portrait group of the 
 Pesaro family in the Frari. The St. Mark in the Sacristy of 
 the Salute was, in my early days, entirely glorious ; but has 
 been daubed over into ruin. The roof of the Sacristy in the 
 Salute, with the fresco of St. Christopher,* and the portrait 
 of the Doge Grimani before Faith, in the Ducal Palace, are 
 all the remnants of him that are worth study here, since the 
 destruction in the Peter Martyr .\ The St. John the Baptist 
 in this gallery (366), is really too stupid to be endured, and 
 the black and white scrabble of landscape in it is like a bad 
 copy of Ruysdael. 
 
 45. The Miracle of St. Mark ; a fine, but much-overrated, 
 Tintoret. If any painter of real power wishes to study this 
 master, let him be content with the Paradise of the Ducal 
 Palace, and the School of St. Roch, where no harmful repaint¬ 
 ing has yet taken place. The once mighty pictures in the 
 Madonna dell’ Orto are destroyed by restoration ; and those 
 which are scattered about the other churches are scarcely 
 worth pursuit, while the series of St. Roch remains in its 
 purity. 
 
 In the next room to this (Sala III.) the pictures on the 
 
 * An admirable account of this fresco is given by Mr. Edward Cheney, 
 in “ Original Documents Relating to Venetian Painters and their Pictures 
 in the Eighteenth Century,” pp. GO, 61. 
 
 f Of the portrait of the Doge Andrea Gritti, in my own possession at 
 Oxford, I leave others to speak, when I can speak of it no more. But 
 it must be named here as the only fragment left of another great picture 
 destroyed by fire, which Tintoret had so loved and studied that he re* 
 placed it from memory. 
 
THE VENICE ACADEMY OF FINE ARTS. 371 
 
 ceiling, brought from the room of the State Inquisitors, are 
 more essential, because more easy, Tintoret-work, than the St. 
 Mark, and very delightful to me ; I only wish the Inquisitors 
 were alive to enjoy them again themselves, and inquire into a 
 few things happening in Venice, and especially into the relig¬ 
 ious principles of her “ Modern Painters.” 
 
 We have made the round of the rooms, all but the Pina- 
 coteca Contarini, Sala V. and VI., and the long gallery, Sala 
 X.-XIV., both containing many smaller pictures of interest; 
 but of which I have no time, nor much care, to speak—except 
 in complaint that detestable daubs by Callot, Dujardin, and 
 various ignoti, should be allowed to disgrace the sixth sala, and 
 occupy some of the best of the very little good light there is 
 in the Academy; thrusting the lovely little Tintoret, 179— 
 purest work of his heart and fairest of his faculty—high be¬ 
 yond sight of all its delicious painting ; and the excellent quiet 
 portrait, 168, into an unregarded corner. I am always puzzled 
 by the smaller pictures of John Bellini; many of them here, 
 of whose authorship there can be little doubt, being yet of 
 very feeble merit. 94 is fine ; and the five symbolical pictures, 
 234-238, in the inner room, Sala VI., are interesting to my¬ 
 self ; but may probably be little so to others. The first is, 
 (I believe), Domestic Love, the world in her hand becoming 
 the color of Heaven ; the second, Fortitude quitting the ef¬ 
 feminate Dionysus ; the third (much the poorest and least in¬ 
 telligible), Truth, or Prudence ; the fourth, Lust; and the fifth, 
 Fortune as Opportunity, in distinction from the greater and 
 sacred Fortune appointed of Heaven. 
 
 And now, if you are yet unfatigued,* you had better go 
 back into the great room, and give thorough examination to 
 the wonderful painting, as such, in the great Veronese, con¬ 
 sidering what all its shows and dexterities at last came to, and 
 reading, before it, his examination concerning it, given in 
 Appendix, which shows you that Venice herself felt what they 
 were likely to come to, though in vain ; and then, for contrast 
 with its reckless power, and for final image to be remembered 
 
 * If you are, end with 179, and remember it well. 
 
372 THE VENICE ACADEMY OF FINE ARTS. 
 
 of sweet Italian art in its earnestness, return into the long 
 gallery (through the two great rooms, turning your back on 
 the Veronese, then out by the door opposite Titian’s huge 
 picture ; then out of the corridor by the first door on the right, 
 and walk down the gallery), to its little Sala X., where, high 
 on your left, 360, is the Beata Catherine Vigri’s St. Ursula ; 
 Catherine Vigri herself, it may be, kneeling to her. Truly a 
 very much blessed Catherine, and, I should say, far more than 
 half-way to a saint, knowing, however, of her, and her work, 
 only this picture. Of which I will only say in closing, as I 
 said of the Vicar’s picture in beginning, that it would be well 
 if any of us could do such things nowadays—and more especi¬ 
 ally, if our vicars and young ladies could. 
 
APPENDIX. 
 
 The little collection of “ Documents relating to Venetian” Painters 
 already referred to (p. 370), as made with excellent judgment by Mr. 
 Edward Cheney, is, I regret to say, “ communicated ” only to the author's 
 friends, of whom I, being now one of long standing, emboldened also 
 by repeated instances of help received from him, venture to trespass on 
 the modest book so far as to reprint part of the translation which it gives 
 of the questioning of Paul Veronese. 
 
 “It is well known,” says Mr. Cheney in his prefatory remarks, “to 
 the students of Venetian history, that the Roman Inquisition was allowed 
 little influence, and still less power, in the states of the Signory ; and 
 its sittings were always attended by lay members, selected from the 
 Senate, to regulate and report its proceedings. 
 
 “The sittings of the Holy Office were held in the chapel of St. 
 Theodore, fronting the door leading from St. Mark’s Church to the 
 Fondamenta di Canonica.” 
 
 On Saturday, the 8th July, 1573, Master Paul Caliari, of Verona, a 
 painter, residing in the parish of St. Samuel, was brought before the 
 Sacred Tribunal ; and being asked his name and surname, answered as 
 above ; and being asked of his profession, answered: 
 
 “ A. I invent and draw figures. 
 
 Q. Do you know the reason why you have been summoned ? 
 
 A. No, my lord. 
 
 Q. Can you imagine it V 
 
 A. I can imagine it. 
 
 Q. Tell us what you imagine. 
 
 A. For the reason which the Reverend Prior of SS. Giovanni and 
 Paolo, whose name I know not, told me that he had been here, and that 
 your illustrious lordships had given him orders that I should substitute 
 the figure of the Magdalen for that of a dog ; and I replied that I would 
 willingly have done this, or anything else for my own credit and the 
 advantage of the picture, but that I did not think the figure of the 
 
374 
 
 APPENDIX. 
 
 Magdalen would be fitting (!!)* or would look well, for many reason;*, 
 which I will always assign whenever the opportunity is given me. 
 
 Q. What picture is that which you have named ? 
 
 A. It is the picture representing the lastf supper that Jesus took with 
 His disciples in the house of Simon. 
 
 Q. Where is this picture ? 
 
 A. In the refectory of the Friars of SS. Giovanni and Paolo. 
 
 Q. Is it painted on the wall, on panel, or on cloth f 
 A. On cloth. 
 
 Q. How many feet is it in height ? 
 
 A. It is about seventeen feet. 
 
 Q. How wide ? 
 
 A. About thirty-nine feet. 
 
 Q. In this supper of our Lord have you painted any attendants ? 
 
 A. Yes, my lord. 
 
 Q. Say how many attendants, and what each is doing. 
 
 A. First, the master of the house, Simon ; besides, I have placed be- 
 /ow him a server, who I have supposed to have come for his own amuso- 
 
 * I must interpolate two notes of adimration. After all one has heard of 
 the terrors of the Inquisition, it seems, nevertheless, some people ventured to 
 differ with it in opinion, on occasion. And the Inquisition was entirely right, 
 too. See next note. 
 
 t “Cena ultima che,” etc. : the last, that is to say, of the two which Veronese 
 supposed Christ to have taken with this host; but he had not carefully enough 
 examined the apparently parallel passages. They are confusing enough, and 
 perhaps the reader will be glad to refer to them in their proper order. 
 
 I. There is first, the feast given to Christ by St. Matthew after he was called; 
 the circumstances of it told by himself; only saying “ the house” instead of 
 “my house” (Matt. ix. 9-13). This is the feast at which the objection is 
 taken by the Pharisees—“ Why eateth your Master with publicans and sin¬ 
 ners ? ” the event being again related by St. Luke (v. 29), giving Matthew the 
 name of Levi. No other circumstance of interest takes place on this occasion. 
 
 II. “ One of the Pharisees desired Him that He would eat with him : and 
 He went into the Pharisee’s house, and sat down to meat ” (Luke viii. 36). 
 
 To this feast came the Magdalen, and “ stood at His feet, behind Him, 
 weeping.” And you know the rest. The same lesson given to the Pharisees 
 who forbade the feast of Matthew, here given—in how" much more pathetic 
 force—to the Pharisee at whose feast Jesus now sat. Another manner of 
 sinner this, who stands uncalled, at the feast, weeping ; who in a little while 
 will stand weeping—not for herself. The name of the Pharisee host is given 
 in Christ’s grave address to him—“ Simon, I have somewhat to say unto thee.” 
 
 III. The supper at Bethany, in the house of Simon “the Leper,” where 
 Lazarus sat at table, where Martha served, and where her sister Mary poured 
 the ointment on Christ’s head, “for my burial ” (Mark xiv. 3 ; Matt. xxvi. 7; 
 and John xii. 2, where in the following third verse doubtless some copyist, 
 confusing her with the Magdalen, added the clause of her wiping His feet with 
 
APPENDIX. 
 
 375 
 
 ment to see the arrangement of the table. There are besides several 
 others,* * * * § which, as there are many figures in the picture, I do not rec¬ 
 ollect. 
 
 Q. What is the meaning of those men dressed in the German 
 fashion V f each with a halbert in his hand ? 
 
 A. It is now necessary that I should say a few words4 
 
 The Court. Say on. 
 
 A. We painters take the same license that is permitted to poets, and 
 jesters (!). I have placed those two halberdiers—the one eating, the 
 other drinking §—by the staircase, to be supposed ready to perform any 
 duty that may be required of them ; it appearing to me quite fitting that 
 the master of such a house, who was rich and great (as I have been 
 told), should have such attendants. 
 
 Q. That fellow dressed like a buffoon, with the parrot on his wrist— 
 for what purpose is he introduced into the canvas ? 
 
 A. For ornament, as is usually done. | 
 
 Q. At the table of the Lord whom have you placed ? 
 
 A. The twelve apostles. 
 
 her hair—so also, more palpably, in John xi. 2). Here the objection ia made 
 by Judas, and the lesson given—“ The poor ye have always with you.” 
 
 We cannot seriously suppose Simon the Leper to be the same person as Simon 
 the Pharisee; still less Simon the Pharisee to be the same as Matthew the 
 publican : but in Veronese’s mind their three feasts had got confused, and he 
 thinks of them as two only, and calls this which he represents here the last of 
 the two, though there is nothing whatever to identify it as first, last, or middle. 
 There ia no Magdalen, no Mary, no Lazarus, no hospitable Levi, no supercili¬ 
 ous Simon. Nothing but a confused meeting of very mixed company ; half of 
 them straggling about the table without sitting down; and the conspicuous 
 brown dog, for whom the Inquisitors would have had him substitute the Mag¬ 
 dalen—which, if he had done, the picture would have been right in all other 
 particulars, the scarlet-robed figure opposite Christ then becoming Simon the 
 Pharisee ; but he cannot be Matthew the apostle, for Veronese distinctly 
 names the twelve apostles after “ the master of the house and the text written 
 on the balustrade on the left is therefore either spurious altogether, or added 
 by Veronese to get rid of the necessity of putting in a Magdalen to satisfy his 
 examiners, or please the Prior of St. John and Paul. 
 
 * Yes, there certainly are “ several others”—some score of idlers about, I 
 should say. But this longer answer of the painter’s was probably little attend¬ 
 ed to, and ill reported by the secretary. 
 
 t My lords have suspicions of leaning toward the principles—no less than 
 the taste—of Holbein ; and of meaning some mischief. 
 
 f He instantly feels the drift of this last question, and that it must not be 
 passed lightly. Asks leave to speak—(usually no license but of direct answer 
 being given). 
 
 § On the right. One has got all the eating and drinking to himself, however, 
 as far as I can see. 
 
 1 Alas, everything is for ornament—if you would own it, Master Paul! 
 
376 APPENDIX. 
 
 Q. What is St. Peter doing, who is the first ? * * * § 
 
 A. He is cutting up a lamb, to send to the other end of the table. 
 
 Q. What is he doing, who is next to him ? 
 
 A. He is holding a plate to receive what St. Peter will give him. 
 
 Q. Tell us what he is doing, who is next to this last ? 
 
 A. He is using a fork as a toothpick, f 
 
 Q. Who do you really think were present at that supper ? 
 
 A. I believe Christ and His apostles were present; but in the fore* 
 ground of the picture I have placed figures for ornament, of my own in¬ 
 vention. 
 
 Q. Were you commissioned by any person to paint Germans, and buf¬ 
 foons, and such like things in this picture ? 
 
 A. No, my lord ; my commission was to ornament the picture as I 
 judged best, which, being large, requires many figures, as it appears to 
 me. 
 
 Q. Are the ornaments that the painter is in the habit of introducing 
 in his frescoes and pictures suited and fitting to the subject and to the 
 principal persons represented, or does he really paint such as strike his 
 own fancy without exercising his judgment or his discretion ? % 
 
 A. I design my pictures with all due consideration as to what is fit¬ 
 ting, and to the best of my judgment. 
 
 Q. Does it appear to you fitting that at our Lord’s last supper § you 
 should paint buffoons, drunkards, Germans, | dwarfs, and similar inde¬ 
 cencies ? 
 
 A. No, my lord. 
 
 Q. Why, then, have you painted them ? 
 
 A. I have done it because I supposed that these were not in the place 
 where the supper was served. 
 
 Q. Are you not aware that in Germany,^ - and in other places infected 
 with heresy, they are in the habit of painting pictures full of scurrility 
 for the purpose of ridiculing and degrading the Holy Church, and thus 
 teaching false doctrines to the ignorant and foolish ? 
 
 A. Yes, my lord, it is bad ; but I return to what I said before ; I 
 thought myself obliged to do as others—my predecessors—had done 
 before me. 
 
 Q. And have your predecessors, then, done such things ? 
 
 A. Michael-Angelo, in the Papal Chapel in Rome, has painted our 
 
 * Very curious that no question is asked as to what Christ Himself is doing. 
 One would have greatly desired Veronese’s answer. 
 
 t Scarcely seen, between the two pillars. I must needs admit that Raphael 
 would have invented some more dignifiedly apostolic action. 
 
 J Admirably put, my lord. 
 
 § Not meaning the Cena, of course ; but what Veronese also meant. 
 
 || and The gist of the business, at last. 
 
APPENDIX . 
 
 377 
 
 Lord Jesus Christ, His mother, St. John, and St. Peter, and all the 
 Court of Heaven, from the Virgin Mary downward, all naked, and in 
 various attitudes, with little reverence. 
 
 Q. Do you not know that in a painting like the Last Judgment, where 
 drapery is not supposed, dresses are not required, and that disembodied 
 spirits only are represented ; but there are neither buffoons, nor dogs, 
 nor armor, nor any other absurdity ? And does it not appear to you 
 that neither by this nor any other example you have done right in 
 painting the picture in this manner, and that it can be proved right and 
 decent ? 
 
 A. Illustrious Lord, I do not defend it; but I thought I was doing 
 right. I had not considered all these things, never intending to com¬ 
 mit any impropriety ; the more so as figures of buffoons are not supposed 
 to be in the same place where our Lord is. 
 
 Which examination ended, my lords decreed that the above-named 
 Master Paul should be bound to correct and amend the picture which 
 had been under question, within three months, at his own expense, 
 under penalties to be imposed by the Sacred Tribunal.” 
 
 This sentence, however severe in terms, was merely a matter of form. 
 The examiners were satisfied there was no malice prepense in their 
 fanciful Paul: and troubled neither him nor themselves farther. He 
 did not so much as efface the inculpated dog ; and the only correction 
 or amendment he made, so far as I can see, was the addition of the in¬ 
 scription, which marked the picture for the feast of Levi.