Read Ebook: The Eagle's Nest Ten Lectures on the Relation of Natural Science to Art Given Before the University of Oxford in Lent Term 1872 by Ruskin John

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Nothing, surely, can be more simple than this; yet the sum of art judgment and of art practice is in this. You are to recognize, or know, beautiful and noble things--notable, notabilia, or nobilia; and then you are to give the best possible account of them you can, either for the sake of others, or for the sake of your own forgetful or apathetic self, in the future.

Now as I gave you and asked you to remember without failing, an aphorism which embraced the law of wise knowledge, so, to-day, I will ask you to remember, without fail, one, which absolutely defines the relation of wise art to it. I have, already, quoted our to-day's aphorism to you, at the end of my fourth lecture on sculpture. Read the few sentences at the end of that lecture now, down to

"THE BEST, IN THIS KIND, ARE BUT SHADOWS."

That is Shakspeare's judgment of his own art. And by strange coincidence, he has put the words into the mouth of the hero whose shadow, or semblance in marble, is admittedly the most ideal and heroic we possess, of man; yet, I need not ask you, whether of the two, if it were granted you to see the statue by Phidias, or the hero Theseus himself, you would choose rather to see the carved stone, or the living King. Do you recollect how Shakspeare's Theseus concludes his sentence, spoken of the poor tradesmen's kindly offered art, in the "Midsummer Night's Dream"?

"The best in this kind are but shadows: and the worst are no worse, if imagination amend them."

It will not burden your memories painfully, I hope, though it may not advance you materially in the class list, if you will learn this entire sentence by heart, being, as it is, a faultless and complete epitome of the laws of mimetic art.

It is the widest, as the clearest experience I have to give you; for the beginning of all my own right art work in life, depended not on my love of art, but of mountains and sea. All boys with any good in them are fond of boats, and of course I liked the mountains best when they had lakes at the bottom; and I used to walk always in the middle of the loosest gravel I could find in the roads of the midland counties, that I might hear, as I trod on it, something like the sound of the pebbles on sea-beach. No chance occurred for some time to develop what gift of drawing I had; but I would pass entire days in rambling on the Cumberland hill-sides, or staring at the lines of surf on a low sand; and when I was taken annually to the Water-colour Exhibition, I used to get hold of a catalogue before-hand, mark all the Robsons, which I knew would be of purple mountains, and all the Copley Fieldings, which I knew would be of lakes or sea; and then go deliberately round the room to these, for the sake, observe, not of the pictures, in any wise, but only of the things painted.

And through the whole of following life, whatever power of judgment I have obtained, in art, which I am now confident and happy in using, or communicating, has depended on my steady habit of always looking for the subject principally, and for the art, only as the means of expressing it.

Suppose we have the existence and essence of Shakspeare to investigate, and give permanent account of; we shall see that, as the scope and bearing of the science become nobler, art becomes more helpful to it; and at last, in its highest range, even necessary to it; but still only as its minister.

We examine Shakspeare, first, with the science of chemistry, which informs us that Shakspeare consists of about seventy-five parts in the hundred of water, some twelve or fifteen of nitrogen, and the rest, lime, phosphorus, and essential earthy salts.

We next examine him by the science of anatomy, which tells us that Shakspeare has seven cervical, twelve dorsal, and five lumbar vertebrae; that his fore arm has a wide sphere of rotation; and that he differs from other animals of the ape species by being more delicately prehensile in the fingers, and less perfectly prehensile in the toes.

We next approach Shakspeare with the science of natural history, which tells us the colour of his eyes and hair, his habits of life, his temper, and his predilection for poaching.

There ends, as far as this subject is concerned, our possible science of substantial things. Then we take up our science of ideal things: first of passion, then of imagination; and we are told by these that Shakspeare is capable of certain emotions, and of mastering or commanding them in certain modes. Finally, we take up our science of theology, and ascertain that he is in relation, or in supposed relation, with such and such a Being, greater than himself.

In natural history, I at first intended to begin with the lower types of life; but as the enlarged schools now give me the means of extending the use of our examples, we will at once, for the sake of more general service, take up ornithology, of the uses of which, in general culture, I have one or two grave words to say.

"That to this mountain daisy's self were known The beauty of its star-shaped shadow, thrown On the smooth surface of this naked stone,"

much more you would have yearned to inform the bright little nest-builder of your sympathy; and to explain to her, on art principles, what a pretty thing she was making.

Whether it has occurred to you or not, I assure you that it is so. The greatest artists, indeed, will condescend, occasionally, to be scientific;--will labour, somewhat systematically, about what they are doing, as vulgar persons do; and are privileged, also, to enjoy what they have made more than birds do; yet seldom, observe you, as being beautiful, but very much in the sort of feeling which we may fancy the bullfinch had also,--that the thing, whether pretty or ugly, could not have been better done; that they could not have made it otherwise, and are thankful it is no worse. And, assuredly, they have nothing like the delight in their own work which it gives to other people.

I have some difficulty in proceeding with what I want to say, because I know you must partly think I am jesting with you. I feel indeed some disposition to smile myself; not because I jest, but in the sense of contrast between what, logically, it seems, ought to be; and what we must confess, not jestingly, to be the facts. How great also,--how quaint, the confusion of sentiment in our minds, as to this matter! We continually talk of honouring God with our buildings; and yet, we dare not say, boldly, that, in His sight, we in the least expect to honour ourselves by them! And admitting, though I by no means feel disposed to admit, that here and there we may, at present, be honouring Him by work that is worthy of the nature He gave us, in how many places, think you, are we offending Him by work that is disgraceful to it?

"And anone, as I the day espide, No lenger would I in my bed abide, But unto a wood that was fast by, I went forth alone boldely, And held the way downe by a brook side,

Till I came to a laund of white and green, So faire one had I never in been, The ground was green, ypoudred with daisie, The floures and the greves like hie, All greene and white, was nothing els seene.

There sat I downe among the faire flours, And saw the birds trip out of hir hours, There as they rested hem all the night, They were so joyfull of the dayes light, They began of May for to done honours.

They coud that service all by rote, There was many a lovely note, Some sang loud, as they had plained, And some in other manner voice yfained, And some all out with the full throte.

They proyned hem and made hem right gay, And daunceden and lepten on the spray, And evermore two and two in fere, Right so as they had chosen hem to yere In Feverere, upon saint Valentines day."

You recollect, perhaps, the dispute that follows between the cuckoo and the nightingale, and the promise which the sweet singer makes to Chaucer for rescuing her.

"And then came the Nightingale to me And said Friend, forsooth I thanke thee That thou hast liked me to rescue, And one avow to Love make I now That all this May, I will thy singer be.

I thanked her, and was right well apaied, Yea, quoth she, and be not thou dismaied, Tho' thou have heard the cuckoo erst than me; For, if I live, it shall amended be, The next May, if I be not affraied."

"If I be not affraied." Would she not put the "if" more timidly now, in making the same promise to any of you, or in asking for the judgment between her and her enemy, which was to be past, do you remember, on this very day of the year, so many years ago, and within eight miles of this very spot?

"And this shall be without any Nay On the morrow after St. Valentine's day, Under a maple that is faire and green Before the chamber window of the Queen At Woodstoke, upon the greene lawn.

This, then, was the old English science of the song of birds; and perhaps you are indignant with me for bringing any word of it back to you? You have, I doubt not, your new science of song, as of nest-building: and I am happy to think you could all explain to me, or at least you will be able to do so before you pass your natural science examination, how, by the accurate connection of a larynx with a bill, and by the action of heat, originally derived from the sun, upon the muscular fibre, an undulatory motion is produced in the larynx, and an opening and shutting one in the bill, which is accompanied, necessarily, by a piping sound.

"Pall Mall Gazette," January 29th, 1869.

THE POWER OF MODESTY IN SCIENCE AND ART.

Yet it can scarcely be necessary for me to point out to you, in so many terms, that what we call theology, if true, is a science; and if false, is not theology; or that the distinction even between natural science and theology is illogical: for you might distinguish indeed between natural and unnatural science, but not between natural and spiritual, unless you had determined first that a spirit had no nature. You will find the facts to be, that entirely true knowledge is both possible and necessary--first of facts relating to matter, and then of the forces and passions that act on or in matter;--that, of all these forces, the noblest we can know is the energy which either imagines, or perceives, the existence of a living power greater than its own; and that the study of the relations which exist between this energy, and the resultant action of men, are as much subjects of pure science as the curve of a projectile. The effect, for instance, upon your temper, intellect, and conduct during the day, of your going to chapel with or without belief in the efficacy of prayer, is just as much a subject of definite science, as the effect of your breakfast on the coats of your stomach. Which is the higher knowledge, I have, with confidence, told you; and am not afraid of any test to which you may submit my assertion.

I use this word always meaning it to be understood literally, and in its full force.

He does not want any towers or towns. Here you are to be contented with three square windows of a country gentleman's house. He does not want resplendent banditti. Behold! here is a brown cow and a white one: what would you have more? And this scarcely-falling rapid of the Tees--here pausing to circle round a pool, and there laughing as it trips over a ledge of rock, six or seven inches high, is more to him--infinitely more--than would be the whole colossal drainage of Lake Erie into Lake Ontario, which Carlyle has justly taken for a type of the Niagara of our national precipitous ????????.

Now I put a chromo-lithotint beside it.

The most complete rest and refreshment I can get, when I am overworked, in London is in seeing a French play. But the French act so perfectly that I am obliged to make sure beforehand that all is to end well, or it is as bad as being helplessly present at some real misery.

But, some time afterwards, I was speaking of it to a lady who knew French character well; and asked her how it was possible for a people so quick in feeling to endure the action before them of a sorrow so poignant. She said, "It is because they have not sympathy enough: they are interested only by the external scene, and are, in truth, at present, dull, not quick in feeling. My own French maid went the other evening to see that very play: when she came home, and I asked her what she thought of it, she said 'it was charming, and she had amused herself immensely.' 'Amused! but is not the story very sad?' 'Oh, yes, mademoiselle, it is bien triste, but it is charming; and then, how pretty Frou-Frou looks in her silk dress!'"

"For we know all" "that was done in Troy according to the will of the gods, and we know everything that is upon the all-nourishing earth."

All heavenly and earthly knowledge, you see. I will read you Pope's expansion of the verses; for Pope never alters idly, but always illustrates when he expands.

"Oh stay, oh pride of Greece!

Ulysses, stay, Oh cease thy course, and listen to our lay. Blest is the man ordained our voice to hear, The song instructs the soul, and charms the ear. Approach! Thy soul shall into raptures rise; Approach! and learn new wisdom from the wise. We know whate'er the kings of mighty name Achieved at Ilion in the field of Fame, Whate'er beneath the Sun's bright journey lies. Oh, stay, and learn new wisdom from the wise."

Is it not singular that so long ago the danger of this novelty of wisdom should have been completely discerned? Is it not stranger still that three thousand years have passed by, and we have not yet been able to learn the lesson, but are still eager to add to our knowledge, rather than to use it; and every day more passionate in discovering,--more violent in competition,--are every day more cold in admiration, and more dull in reverence?

THE POWER OF CONTENTMENT IN SCIENCE AND ART.

But to-day I use the word in a widely different sense. I think you must have felt, in what amplification I was able to give you of the idea of wisdom as an unselfish influence in Art and Science, how the highest skill and knowledge were founded in human tenderness, and that the kindly Art-wisdom which rejoices in the habitable parts of the earth, is only another form of the lofty Scientific charity, which rejoices 'in the truth.' And as the first order of Wisdom is to know thyself--though the least creature that can be known--so the first order of Charity is to be sufficient for thyself, though the least creature that can be sufficed; and thus contented and appeased, to be girded and strong for the ministry to others. If sufficient to thy day is the evil thereof, how much more should be the good!

?? ??? ?? ??? ???? ???????? ??? ???????, ???? ?' ????? ????????? ??? ???????? ??' ???????; ???' ??? ?????????? ??????, ??? ??????? ?????. ????? ??? ??? ????', ??' ??? ????? ?????? ??????? ????? ?? ???? ?????? ???????; ????? ?', ???? ??????? ??? ????? ????????????.

"No one ever rowed past this way in his black ship, before he had listened to the honey-sweet singing of our lips. But he stays pleased, though he may know much. For we know all things which the Greeks and Trojans did in the wide Trojan plain, by the will of the gods, and we know what things take place in the much nourishing earth." And this, remember, is absolutely true. No man ever went past in the black ship,--obeying the grave and sad law of life by which it is appointed for mortals to be victors on the ocean,--but he was tempted, as he drew near that deadly island, wise as he might be, by the voices of those who told him that they knew everything which had been done by the will of God, and everything which took place in earth for the service of man.

E, volta nostra poppe nel mattino De' remi facemmo ale al folle volo--

the song of the sirens becomes fatal as never yet it has been in time. We think ourselves privileged, first among men, to know the secrets of Heaven, and fulfil the economy of earth; and the result is, that of all the races that yet have been put to shame by their false wisdom or false art,--which have given their labour for that which is not bread, and their strength for that which satisfieth not,--we have most madly abandoned the charity which is for itself sufficing, and for others serviceable, and have become of all creatures the most insufficient to ourselves, and the most malignant to our neighbours. Granted a given degree of knowledge--granted the '??? ??????? ?????' in science, in art, and in literature,--and the present relations of feeling between France and Germany, between England and America, are the most horrible at once in their stupidity and malignity, that have ever taken place on the globe we inhabit, even though all its great histories, are of sin, and all its great songs, of death.

I pointed out to you, in a former lecture, that the excellence of sculpture had been confined in past time to the Athenian and Etrurian vales. The absolute excellence of painting has been reached only by the inhabitants of a single city in the whole world; and the faultless manner of religious architecture holds only for a period of fifty years out of six thousand. We are at present tormenting ourselves with the vain effort to teach men everywhere to rival Venice and Athens,--with the practical result of having lost the enjoyment of Art altogether;--instead of being content to amuse ourselves still with the painting and carving which were possible once, and would be pleasant always, in Paris, and London, at Strasbourg, and at York.

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, ? That rich charm, which the least possession had for us, was in consequence of the poorness of our treasures. That miraculous aspect of the nature around us, was because we had seen little, and knew less. Every increased possession loads us with a 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.

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