The Pleasures of Life by Sir John Lubbock
S >>
Sir John Lubbock >> The Pleasures of Life
Pages:
1 |
2 |
3 |
4 |
5 |
6 |
7 |
8 |
9 | 10 |
11 |
12 |
13 |
14 |
15 |
16
And many will doubtless have felt
"O Love! what hours were thine and mine
In lands of Palm and Southern Pine,
In lands of Palm, of Orange blossom,
Of Olive, Aloe, and Maize and Vine."
What is true of space holds good equally of
time.
"In peace, Love tunes the shepherd's reed.
In war, he mounts the warrior's steed;
In halls, in gay attire is seen;
In hamlets, dances on the green.
Love rules the court, the camp, the grove,
And men below, and saints above;
For love is heaven, and heaven is love." [11]
Even when, as among some Eastern races, Religion and Philosophy have
combined to depress Love, truth reasserts itself in popular sayings, as
for instance in the Turkish proverb, "All women are perfection, especially
she who loves you."
A French lady having once quoted to Abd-el-Kader the Polish proverb, "A
woman draws more with a hair of her head than a pair of oxen well
harnessed;" he answered with a smile, "The hair is unnecessary, woman is
powerful as fate."
But we like to think of Love rather as the Angel of Happiness than as a
ruling force: of the joy of home when "hearts are of each other sure."
"It is the secret sympathy,
The silver link, the silken tie,
Which heart to heart, and mind to mind
In body and in soul can bind." [12]
What Bacon says of a friend is even truer of a wife; there is "no man that
imparteth his joys to his friend, but he joyeth the more; and no man that
imparteth his griefs to his friend, but he grieveth the less."
Let some one we love come near us and
"At once it seems that something new or strange
Has passed upon the flowers, the trees, the ground;
Some slight but unintelligible change
On everything around." [13]
We might, I think, apply to love what Homer says of Fate:
"Her feet are tender, for she sets her steps
Not on the ground, but on the heads of men."
Love and Reason divide the life of man. We must give to each its due. If
it is impossible to attain to virtue by the aid of Reason without Love,
neither can we do so by means of Love alone without Reason.
Love, said Melanippides, "sowing in the heart of man the sweet harvest of
desire, mixes the sweetest and most beautiful things together."
No one indeed could complain now, with Phaedrus in Plato's Symposium, that
Love has had no worshippers among the Poets. On the contrary, Love has
brought them many of their sweetest inspirations; none perhaps nobler or
more beautiful than Milton's description of Paradise:
"With thee conversing, I forget all time,
All seasons, and their change, all please alike.
Sweet is the breath of morn, her rising sweet
With charm of earliest birds; pleasant the sun
When first on this delightful land he spreads
His orient beams on herb, tree, fruit, and flower
Glistering with dew, fragrant the fertile earth
After soft showers; and sweet the coming on
Of grateful evening mild; then silent night
With this her solemn bird and this fair moon,
And these the gems of heaven, her starry train:
But neither breath of morn when she ascends
With charm of earliest birds, nor rising sun
On this delightful land, nor herb, fruit, flower
Glistering with dew, nor fragrance after showers,
Nor grateful evening mild, nor silent night
With this her solemn bird, nor walk by moon
Or glittering starlight, without thee is sweet."
Moreover, no one need despair of an ideal marriage. We unfortunately
differ so much in our tastes; love does so much to create love, that even
the humblest may hope for the happiest marriage if only he deserves it;
and Shakespeare speaks, as he does so often, for thousands when he says
"She is mine own,
And I as rich in having such a jewel
As twenty seas, if all their sands were pearls,
The water nectar, and the rocks pure gold."
True love indeed will not be unreasonable or exacting.
"Tell me not, sweet, I am unkind
That from the nursery
Of thy chaste breast and quiet mind
To war and arms I fly.
True! a new mistress now I chase,
The first foe in the field,
And with a stronger faith embrace
A sword, a horse, a shield.
Yet this inconstancy is such
As you too shall adore,
I could not love thee, dear, so much,
Loved I not honor more." [14]
And yet
"Alas! how light a cause may move
Dissension between hearts that love!
Hearts that the world in vain had tried,
And sorrow but more closely tied,
That stood the storm, when waves were rough,
Yet in a sunny hour fall off,
Like ships that have gone down at sea,
When heaven was all tranquillity." [15]
For love is brittle. Do not risk even any little jar; it may be
"The little rift within the lute,
That by and by will make the music mute,
And ever widening slowly silence all." [16]
Love is delicate; "Love is hurt with jar and fret," and you might as well
expect a violin to remain in tune if roughly used, as Love to survive if
chilled or driven into itself. But what a pleasure to keep it alive by
"Little, nameless, unremembered acts
Of kindness and of love." [17]
"She whom you loved and chose," says Bondi,
"Is now your bride,
The gift of heaven, and to your trust consigned;
Honor her still, though not with passion blind;
And in her virtue, though you watch, confide.
Be to her youth a comfort, guardian, guide,
In whose experience she may safety find;
And whether sweet or bitter be assigned,
The joy with her, as well as pain divide.
Yield not too much if reason disapprove;
Nor too much force; the partner of your life
Should neither victim be, nor tyrant prove.
Thus shall that rein, which often mars the bliss
Of wedlock, scarce be felt; and thus your wife
Ne'er in the husband shall the lover miss." [18]
Every one is ennobled by true love--
"Tis better to have loved and lost
Than never to have loved at all." [19]
Perhaps no one ever praised a woman more gracefully in a sentence than
Steele when he said of Lady Elizabeth Hastings that "to know her was a
liberal education;" but every woman may feel as she improves herself that
she is not only laying in a store of happiness for herself, but also
raising and blessing him whom she would most wish to see happy and good.
Love, true love, grows and deepens with time. Husband and wife, who are
married indeed, live
"By each other, till to love and live
Be one." [20]
For does it end with life. A mother's love knows no bounds.
"They err who tell us Love can die,
With life all other passions fly,
All others are but vanity.
In Heaven Ambition cannot dwell,
Nor Avarice in the vaults of Hell;
Earthly these passions of the Earth;
They perish where they have their birth,
But Love is indestructible;
Its holy flame forever burneth,
From Heaven it came, to Heaven returneth;
Too oft on Earth a troubled guest,
At times deceived, at times opprest,
It here is tried and purified,
Then hath in Heaven its perfect rest:
It soweth here with toil and care,
But the harvest time of Love is there.
"The mother when she meets on high
The Babe she lost in infancy,
Hath she not then, for pains and fears,
The day of woe, the watchful night,
For all her sorrow, all her tears,
An over-payment of delight?" [21]
As life wears on the love of husband or wife, of friends and of children,
becomes the great solace and delight of age. The one recalls the past, the
other gives interest to the future; and in our children, it has been truly
said, we live our lives again.
[1] _Filicaja_. Translated by Leigh Hunt.
[2] Not from passion itself.
[3] Pope.
[4] Wordsworth.
[5] Browne.
[6] Malory, _Morte d' Arthur_.
[7] I avail myself of Dr. Jowett's translation.
[8] Burns.
[9] Malory, _Morte d' Arthur_.
[10] Symonds.
[11] Scott.
[12] Scott.
[13] Trench.
[14] Lovelace.
[15] Moore.
[16] Tennyson.
[17] Wordsworth.
[18] Bondi. Tr. by Glassfors.
[19] Tennyson.
[20] Swinburne.
[21] Southey.
CHAPTER V.
ART.
"High art consists neither in altering, nor in improving nature; but
in seeking throughout nature for 'whatsoever things are lovely,
whatsoever things are pure;' in loving these, in displaying to the
utmost of the painter's power such loveliness as is in them, and
directing the thoughts of others to them by winning art, or gentle
emphasis. Art (caeteris paribus) is great in exact proportion to the
love of beauty shown by the painter, provided that love of beauty
forfeit no atom of truth."--RUSKIN.
CHAPTER V.
ART.
The most ancient works of Art which we possess are representations of
animals, rude indeed, but often strikingly characteristic, engraved on, or
carved in, stag's-horn or bone; and found in English, French, and German
caves, with stone and other rude implements, and the remains of mammalia,
belonging apparently to the close of the glacial epoch: not only of the
deer, bear, and other animals now inhabiting temperate Europe, but of
some, such as the reindeer, the musk sheep, and the mammoth, which have
either retreated north or become altogether extinct. We may, I think,
venture to hope that other designs may hereafter be found, which will give
us additional information as to the manners and customs of our ancestors
in those remote ages.
Next to these in point of antiquity come the sculptures and paintings on
Assyrian and Egyptian tombs, temples, and palaces.
These ancient scenes, considered as works of art, have no doubt many
faults, and yet how graphically they tell their story! As a matter of fact
a king is not, as a rule, bigger than his soldiers, but in these
battle-scenes he is always so represented. We must, however, remember that
in ancient warfare the greater part of the fighting was, as a matter of
fact, done by the chiefs. In this respect the Homeric poems resemble the
Assyrian and Egyptian representations. At any rate, we see at a glance
which is the king, which are officers, which side is victorious, the
struggles and sufferings of the wounded, the flight of the enemy, the city
of refuge--so that he who runs may read; while in modern battle-pictures
the story is much less clear, and, indeed, the untrained eye sees for some
time little but scarlet and smoke.
These works assuredly possess a grandeur and dignity of their own, even
though they have not the beauty of later art.
In Greece Art reached a perfection which has never been excelled, and it
was more appreciated than perhaps it has ever been since.
At the time when Demetrius attacked the city of Rhodes, Protogenes was
painting a picture of Ialysus. "This," says Pliny, "hindered King
Demetrius from taking Rhodes, out of fear lest he should burn the picture;
and not being able to fire the town on any other side, he was pleased
rather to spare the painting than to take the victory, which was already
in his hands. Protogenes, at that time, had his painting-room in a garden
out of the town, and very near the camp of the enemies, where he was daily
finishing those pieces which he had already begun, the noise of soldiers
not being capable of interrupting his studies. But Demetrius causing him
to be brought into his presence, and asking him what made him so bold as
to work in the midst of enemies, he answered the king, 'That he understood
the war which he made was against the Rhodians, and not against the
Arts.'"
With the decay of Greece, Art sank too, until it was revived in the
thirteenth century by Cimabue, since whose time its progress has been
triumphal.
Art is unquestionably one of the purest and highest elements in human
happiness. It trains the mind through the eye, and the eye through the
mind. As the sun colors flowers, so does art color life.
"In true Art," says Ruskin, "the hand, the head, and the heart of man go
together. But Art is no recreation: it cannot be learned at spare moments,
nor pursued when we have nothing better to do."
It is not only in the East that great works, really due to study and
labor, have been attributed to magic.
Study and labor cannot make every man an artist, but no one can succeed in
art without them. In Art two and two do not make four, and no number of
little things will make a great one.
It has been said, and on high authority, that the end of art is to please.
But this is a very imperfect definition. It might as well be said that a
library is only intended for pleasure and ornament.
Art has the advantage of nature, in so far as it introduces a human
element, which is in some respects superior even to nature. "If," says
Plato, "you take a man as he is made by nature and compare him with
another who is the effect of art, the work of nature will always appear
the less beautitiful, because art is more accurate than nature."
Bacon also, in _The Advancement of Learning_, speaks of "the world being
inferior to the soul, by reason whereof there is agreeable to the spirit
of man a more ample greatness, a more exact goodness, and a more absolute
variety than can be found in the nature of things."
The poets tell us that Prometheus, having made a beautiful statue of
Minerva, the goddess was so delighted that she offered to bring down
anything from Heaven which could add to its perfection. Prometheus on this
prudently asked her to take him there, so that he might choose for
himself. This Minerva did, and Prometheus, finding that in heaven all
things were animated by fire, brought back a spark, with which he gave
life to his work.
In fact, Imitation is the means and not the end of Art. The story of
Zeuxis and Parrhasius is a pretty tale; but to deceive birds, or even man
himself, is but a trifling matter compared with the higher functions of
Art. To imitate the _Iliad_, says Dr. Young, is not imitating Homer, but
as Sir J. Reynolds adds, the more the artist studies nature "the nearer he
approaches to the true and perfect idea of art."
"Following these rules and using these precautions, when you have clearly
and distinctly learned in what good coloring consists, you cannot do
better than have recourse to Nature herself, who is always at hand, and in
comparison of whose true splendor the best colored pictures are but faint
and feeble." [1]
Art, indeed, must create as well as copy. As Victor Cousin well says, "The
ideal without the real lacks life; but the real without the ideal lacks
pure beauty. Both need to unite; to join hands and enter into alliance. In
this way the best work may be achieved. Thus beauty is an absolute idea,
and not a mere copy of imperfect Nature."
The grouping of the picture is of course of the utmost importance. Sir
Joshua Reynolds gives two remarkable cases to show how much any given
figure in a picture is affected by its surroundings. Tintoret in one of
his pictures has taken the Samson of Michael Angelo, put an eagle under
him, placed thunder and lightning in his right hand instead of the jawbone
of an ass, and thus turned him into a Jupiter. The second instance is even
more striking. Titian has copied the figure in the vault of the Sistine
Chapel which represents the Deity dividing light from darkness, and has
introduced it into his picture of the battle of Cadore, to represent a
general falling from his horse.
We must remember that so far as the eye is concerned, the object of the
artist is to train, not to deceive, and that his higher function has
reference rather to the mind than to the eye.
No doubt
"To gild refined gold, to paint the lily,
To throw a perfume on the violet,
To smooth the ice, or add another hue
Unto the rainbow, or with taper-light
To seek the beauteous eye of heaven to garnish,
Is wasteful and ridiculous excess." [2]
But all is not gold that glitters, flowers are not all arrayed like the
lily, and there is room for selection as well as representation.
"The true, the good, and the beautiful," says Cousin, "are but forms of
the infinite: what then do we really love in truth, beauty, and virtue? We
love the infinite himself. The love of the infinite substance is hidden
under the love of its forms. It is so truly the infinite which charms in
the true, the good, and the beautiful, that its manifestations alone do
not suffice. The artist is dissatisfied at the sight even of his greatest
works; he aspires still higher."
It is indeed sometimes objected that Landscape painting is not true to
nature; but we must ask, What is truth? Is the object to produce the same
impression on the mind as that created by the scene itself? If so, let any
one try to draw from memory a group of mountains, and he will probably
find that in the impression produced on his mind the mountains are loftier
and steeper, the valleys deeper and narrower, than in the actual reality.
A drawing, then, which was literally exact would not be true, in the sense
of conveying the same impression as Nature herself.
In fact, Art, says Goethe, is called Art simply because it is not Nature.
It is not sufficient for the artist to choose beautiful scenery, and
delineate it with accuracy. He must not be a mere copyist. Something
higher and more subtle is required. He must create, or at any rate
interpret, as well as copy.
Turner was never satisfied merely to reach to even the most glorious
scenery. He moved, and even suppressed, mountains.
A certain nobleman, we are told, was very anxious to see the model from
whom Guido painted his lovely female faces. Guido placed his
color-grinder, a big coarse man, in an attitude, and then drew a beautiful
Magdalen. "My dear Count," he said, "the beautiful and pure idea must be
in the mind, and then it is no matter what the model is."
Guido Reni, who painted St. Michael for the Church of the Capuchins at
Rome, wished that he "had the wings of an angel, to have ascended unto
Paradise, and there to have beheld the forms of those beautiful spirits,
from which I might have copied my Archangel. But not being able to mount
so high, it was in vain for me to seek for his resemblance here below; so
that I was forced to look into mine own mind, and into that idea of beauty
which I have formed in my own imagination." [3]
Science attempts, as far as the limited powers of Man permit, to reproduce
the actual facts in a manner which, however bald, is true in itself,
irrespective of time and scene. To do this she must submit to many
limitations; not altogether unvexatious, and not without serious
drawbacks. Art, on the contrary, endeavors to convey the impression of the
original under some especial aspect.
In some respects, Art gives a clearer and more vivid idea of an unknown
country than any description can convey. In literature rock may be rock,
but in painting it must be granite or slate, and not merely rock in
general.
It is remarkable that while artists have long recognized the necessity of
studying anatomy, and there has been from the commencement a professor of
anatomy in the Royal Academy, it is only of late years that any knowledge
of botany or geology has been considered desirable, and even now their
importance is by no means generally recognized.
Much has been written as to the relative merits of painting, sculpture,
and architecture. This, if it be not a somewhat unprofitable inquiry,
would at any rate be out of place here.
Architecture not only gives intense pleasure, but even the impression of
something ethereal and superhuman.
Madame de Stael described it as "frozen music;" and a cathedral is a
glorious specimen of "thought in stone," whose very windows are
transparent walls of gorgeous hues.
Caracci said that poets paint in their words and artists speak in their
works. The latter have indeed one great advantage, for a glance at a
statue or a painting will convey a more vivid idea than a long and minute
description.
Another advantage possessed by Art is that it is understood by all
civilized nations, whilst each has a separate language.
Even from a material point of view Art is most important. In a recent
address Sir F. Leighton has observed that the study of Art "is every day
becoming more important in relation to certain sides of the waning
material prosperity of the country. For the industrial competition between
this and other countries--a competition, keen and eager, which means to
certain industries almost a race for life--runs, in many cases, no longer
exclusively or mainly on the lines of excellence of material and solidity
of workmanship, but greatly nowadays on the lines of artistic charm and
beauty of design."
The highest service, however, that Art can accomplish for man is to become
"at once the voice of his nobler aspirations, and the steady
disciplinarian of his emotions; and it is with this mission, rather than
with any aesthetic perfection, that we are at present concerned." [4]
Science and Art are sisters, or rather perhaps they are like brother and
sister. The mission of Art is in some respects like that of woman. It is
not Hers so much to do the hard toil and moil of the world, as to surround
it with a halo of beauty, to convert work into pleasure.
In science we naturally expect progress, but in Art the case is not so
clear; and yet Sir Joshua Reynolds did not hesitate to express his
conviction that in the future "so much will painting improve, that the
best we can now achieve will appear like the work of children," and we may
hope that our power of enjoying it may increase in an equal ratio.
Wordsworth says that poets have to create the taste for their own works,
and the same is, in some degree at any rate, true of artists.
In one respect especially modern painters appear to have made a marked
advance, and one great blessing which in fact we owe to them is a more
vivid enjoyment of scenery.
I have of course no pretensions to speak with authority, but even in the
case of the greatest masters before Turner, the landscapes seem to me
singularly inferior to the figures. Sir Joshua Reynolds tells us that
Gainsborough framed a kind of model of a landscape on his table, composed
of broken stones, dried herbs, and pieces of looking-glass, which he
magnified and improved into rocks, trees, and water; and Sir Joshua
solemnly discusses the wisdom of such a proceeding. "How far it may be
useful in giving hints," he says, "the professors of landscape can best
determine," but he does not recommend it, and is disposed to think, on the
whole, the practice may be more likely to do harm than good!
In the picture of Ceyx and Alcyone, by Wilson, of whom Cunningham said
that, with Gainsborough, he laid the foundation of our School of
Landscape, the castle is said to have been painted from a pot of porter,
and the rock from a Stilton cheese. There is indeed another version of the
story, that the picture was sold for a pot of porter and a cheese, which,
however, does not give a higher idea of the appreciation of the art of
landscape at that date.
Until very recently the general feeling with reference to mountain scenery
has been that expressed by Tacitus. "Who would leave Asia or Africa or
Italy to go to Germany, a shapeless and unformed country, a harsh sky, and
melancholy aspect, unless indeed it was his native land?"
It is amusing to read the opinion of Dr. Beattie, in a special treatise on
_Truth, Poetry and Music_, written at the close of the last century, that
"The Highlands of Scotland are in general a melancholy country. Long
tracts of mountainous country, covered with dark heath, and often obscured
by misty weather; narrow valleys thinly inhabited, and bounded by
precipices resounding with the fall of torrents; a soil so rugged, and a
climate so dreary, as in many parts to admit neither the amenities of
pasturage, nor the labors of agriculture; the mournful dashing of waves
along the firths and lakes: the portentous noises which every change of
the wind is apt to raise in a lonely region, full of echoes, and rocks,
and caverns; the grotesque and ghastly appearance of such a landscape by
the light of the moon: objects like these diffuse a gloom over the fancy,"
etc. [5]
Even Goldsmith regarded the scenery of the Highlands as dismal and
hideous. Johnson, we know, laid it down as an axiom that "the noblest
prospect which a Scotchman ever sees is the high road that leads him to
England"--a saying which throws much doubt on his distinction that the
Giant's Causeway was "worth seeing but not worth going to see." [6]
Madame de Stael declared, that though she would go 500 leagues to meet a
clever man, she would not care to open her window to see the Bay of
Naples.
Nor was the ancient absence of appreciation confined to scenery. Even
Burke, speaking of Stonehenge, says, "Stonehenge, neither for disposition
nor ornament, has anything admirable."
Ugly scenery, however, may in some cases have an injurious effect on the
human system. It has been ingeniously suggested that what really drove Don
Quixote out of his mind was not the study of his books of chivalry, so
much as the monotonous scenery of La Mancha.
Pages:
1 |
2 |
3 |
4 |
5 |
6 |
7 |
8 |
9 | 10 |
11 |
12 |
13 |
14 |
15 |
16