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happy era, in the sloughs of which we are still sticking, was the invitation of Raphael to Rome to decorate the Vatican for Pope Julius II., when he wrote upon its walls the Mene Tekel Upharsin of the arts of Christianity.' And from that spot and that hour, the intellect and the art of Italy date their degradation," and so going on from worse to worse, not only in Italy, but wherever Modernism" has prevailed, the world has been becoming more corrupt, more cruel, more ignorant, more foul and abominable in every way, until at last, principally, as it would seem, from the general prevalence of the "accursed" Renaissance school of architecture

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"Where from his fair Gothic chapel beside the Seine, the King St Louis had gone forth, followed by his thousands, in the cause of Christ, another king was dragged forth from the gates of his renaissance palace to die by the hands of the thousands of his people gathered in another crusade, or what shall it be called? whose sign was not the cross, but the guillotine." *

Now, this rabid nonsense was actually addressed to the people of Edinburgh, in the form of lectures. Is it mere midsummer madness?the simple raving of a lunatic? Does Mr Ruskin write from a cell in Bedlam, or is he to be considered still amenable to the treatment and arguments applicable to sane men? That we may not be supposed to have exaggerated or misrepresented anything, we give one passage, out of many on the subject, word for word:

"And in examining into the spirit of these three epochs, observe I don't mean to compare their bad men. I don't mean to take Tiberius as a type of Classicalism, nor Ezzelin as a type of Medievalism, nor Robespierre as a type of Modernism. Bad men are like each other in all epochs; and in the Roman, the Paduan, or the Parisian, sensuality and cruelty admit of little distinction in the manners of their manifestation. But among men comparatively virtuous, it is important to study the phases of character; and it is into these only that it is necessary for us to inquire. Consider, therefore, first, the essential difference in character be tween three of the most devoted military heroes whom the three great epochs of

Lecture, p. 138.

the world have produced, all three devoted to the service of their country, all of them dying therein. I mean Leonidas in the Classical period; St Louis in the Medieval period; and Lord Nelson in the Modern period.

"Leonidas had the most rigid sense of duty, and died with the most perfect faith in the gods of his country, fulfilling the accepted prophecy of his death. St Louis had the most rigid sense of duty, and the most perfect faith in Christ. Nelson had the most rigid sense of duty,

and

"You must supply my pause with your charity."

Now, if this passage has any meaning at all, it means that Leonidas was a better man, and St Louis a better Christian, than Nelson; that the age of Leonidas was more heroic, and the age of Louis IX. more Christian than the present century. The death of Leonidas is the hackneyed theme of every schoolboy; so familiar, indeed, as the standard instance of heroic self-immolation at the shrine of honour and patriotism, that it requires a moment's thought to recall the fact that the point of honour was mistaken, and that patriotism would have been better served by his preserving his life than by his throwing it away. We need only refer to the story as told in Mr Grote's History,† to be reminded of this at once. So long as he repelled the Persians from the Pass of Thermopyla-so long as he stood as a barrier between the invader and his country, Leonidas and his band deserve the same rank in history (and a higher one cannot be awarded) as that which was earned by the brigade of Guards who held Houguemont on the day when the fate of Europe hung upon the issue of Waterloo. But when his flank was turned-when resistance became impossible, rational duty and rational honour would have required Leonidas to reserve the lives of his men for future combats, and his own for the future service of his country. The Spartan sense of duty, the Spartan point of honour, required him to offer up both-a worse than useless sacrifice on the altar of patriotism. He

+ Vol. v. p. 120.

flung them away, not recklessly, not wantonly, but coolly and deliberately, with high and devoted heroism. Posterity has justly awarded to him high honour, but honour not so high as that with which a future posterity will encircle the names of Havelock and Neill, of Clyde and Hodson, of the hero who held the lines at Balaklava, and the hero who captured the princes of Delhi-warriors of the age that has given birth to Florence Nightingale!-the age which Mr Ruskin tells us denies Christ!

Mr Ruskin says that Leonidas, St Louis, and Nelson, all died in the service of their country. As to one of the three, he is manifestly and ignorantly wrong. St Louis died in an attempt to baptise the King of Turis against his will; an object about as legitimate as if the Sultan were to besiege Paris for the purpose of circumcising the Emperor of the French. His sanctity displayed itself in "pursuing with blind and cruel zeal the enemies of the faith." France was exhausted of men and treasures. The flower of her troops panted and died on the burning sands of Africa, and he closed the last of the crusades by an inglorious death, which was immediately followed by the ignominious retreat of the remains of an army of six-and-thirty thousand men, whom he had lured on to destruction by the hope of plunder.* This is Mr Ruskin's idea of dying in the service of his country. St Louis's sole argument in favour of Christianity consisted, to use his own language, in thrusting his sword as far as it would go into the belly of any disputant who might happen to be opposed to him!+ This is Mr Ruskin's idea of the most rigid sense of duty, and most perfect faith -the type of an age which confessed Christ.

We almost fear to approach the example which Mr Ruskin has given as the type of an age

* GIBBON'S Decline and Fall, chap. 59.

denying Christ. Our reverence for the character of Nelson is so deep, our disgust at the cowardly and malignant insinuation lurking under the hypocritical mask of charity so intense, that we can hardly trust ourselves with words to express it. Insinuation is to calumny what an equivocation is to a lie; it is slander guarded; baser, meaner, more cowardly than simple falsehood. We shall, however, as far as possible suppress these feelings, and proceed to supply Mr Ruskin's pause, not with charity, for Nelson needs, and Mr Ruskin deserves none, but with a few words of simple truth.

No doubt Mr Ruskin intended to awaken in the minds of his hearers a recollection of the charges once so rife against Nelson, and now so fully proved to be groundless, with regard to the execution of Caracciolo. Party spirit long perverted, and the carelessness of successive biographers obscured the truth. But since Sir Harris Nicholas's publication of the Nelson Despatches, we should have supposed it to be impossible for any one honestly to repeat these slanders.+

The facts are few and simple. Caracciolo was a commodore in the service of the King of Naples, and commanded a ship, called the Tancredi, with credit. He accompanied the King in his flight to Palermo. By the permission of the King he returned to Naples, to avoid the confiscation of his estates by the Republican government. He deserted the cause of the master whose commission he held, and accepted the command of the Republican marine. He took an active part in the war, and fired upon the flag of the King and his allies the English. He was captured, and brought to the Foudroyant, then the flagship of Nelson, who was High Admiral of the allied navy. From Hardy, and the other gallant men who served under Nelson, and who had known Caracciolo

"L'omme lay quand il ot medire de la loy Crestienne, ne doit pas deffendre la loy Crestienne ne mais que de l'espée, dequoi il doit donner parmi le ventre dedens tant comme elle y peut entrer."-JOINVILLE, p. 12; cited by GIBBON, Decline and Fall, chap. 59.

Despatches and Letters of Lord Nelson, vol. iii. p. 398; Appendix, C, p. 499.

in former days, he received far more compassion and consideration than he deserved. Nelson had but one duty to perform, and he performed it as he did every duty that he owed to his country. He ordered a courtmartial, composed of officers in the Neapolitan service, to be immediately held. Caracciolo was tried, convicted, sentenced, and hanged. He died, as he deserved, the ignominious death of a deserter and a traitor. Had Nelson shrunk from the performance of this act of justice, he would have been false to his country, to her allies, and to himself. The story of his having acted under the influence of Lady Hamilton has been refuted over and over again. It was in silence and in solitude that he performed his stern and painful duty. He communicated with no one but his officers, and to them his commands were given in the fewest possible words. There is not one particle of evidence that Lady Hamilton took any part whatever in the transaction. The ignorant blunders of Miss Williams, the spiteful insinuations of Lord Holland, the malignant calumnies of Captain Brenton, and the revengeful slanders of Captain Foote, have been repeatedly disproved. Yet Mr Ruskin has the insolent audacity to crave "charity"() for one who was perhaps the most perfect realisation of the ideal of a hero that the world has seen.

There is nothing more painful in Mr Ruskin's writings than the total want of reverence for things divine or human that pervades them. The treasures of ancient art, from which successive ages have drank deep draughts of inspiration, are to him nothing but stumblingblocks in a dark valley of ruin.* He sees nothing but " a faded concoction of fringes, muscular arms, and curly heads" in Raphael's impersonation of the Redeemer and his Apostles, and a "pleasant piece of furniture for the corner of a boudoir" in the Virgin mother of our Lord.

The same unhappy tone of mind shows itself wherever sacred subjects are referred to. It is painful to find a person of Mr Ruskin's education adopting, when he has occasion to

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speak of the high and solemn mysteries of religion, a tone of familiarity which has hitherto been confined to the lowest and most ignorant sectaries. Still more offensive is his habit of dealing damnation around on all who disagree with him. Thus Mr Corbould paints an "Iphigenia and "a Daughter of Jephthah," in a manner not accordant with Mr Ruskin's taste, and forth with Mr Corbould believes in no Deity!" Now we must confess that Mr Corbould's "Dream of Fair Women" did not quite realise our ideas with regard to the half-dozen women most celebrated for beauty recorded in history, sacred or profane. We believe, however, that Mr Corbould was only in part answerable for this shortcoming. The principal figure, we have been told, was a portrait, and we believe that what we cannot help considering the somewhat questionable taste of representing that lady, whoever she may be, as the centre of a group of what Mr Thackeray calls Clipstone Street nymphs"-ladies who assume for the nonce the character of Cleopatra or Meg Merrilees, Joan of Arc or Fair Rosamond-is not chargeable on Mr Corbould. But be this as it may, what absurd insolence to ground upon it a charge of atheism against the artist! Mr Corbould may, however, console himself. He only shares the common fate of the whole nation. We have all (except, of course, Mr Ruskin) "wholly rejected all these heathenish, Jewish, and other such beliefs, and have accepted for things worshipful, absolutely nothing but pairs of ourselves; taking for idols, gods, or objects of veneration, the infinitesimal points of humanity, Mr and Mrs P., and the Misses and Master P's." +

Now of this we can only say to Mr Ruskin, like Sir Andrew Aguecheek, "In sooth thou wast in very gracious fooling last night when thou spokest of Pigrogromitus, and of the Vapians passing the equinoxtal of Quebus; 'twas very good, i' faith."

Mr Ruskin has become powerless for blame. Mr Mulready and Mr Maclise may be well content to share his condemnation with Raphael and

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Murillo. Mr Creswick and Mr David Roberts will not consider themselves in bad company with Claude, Salvator, Poussin, and Canaletto. But his praise is not so harmless.

"Of all mad creatures, if the learned are right,

It is the slaver kills, and not the bite." His fulsome adulation of Turner is simply ridiculous. Turner's fame owes just as much to Mr Ruskin as Shakespeare's does to Mr Charles Kean. We mean no disrespect to that gentleman, who has far too just an estimate of his own merits to suppose that we should design to place him in the same category with Mr Ruskin. We simply use the illustration, because those who would not have known the merits of Shakespeare but for the scenic representations at the Princess's Theatre, are just about upon a par, as to literary knowledge, with those who would not have known the merits of Turner but for Mr Ruskin's writings, in art-knowledge.

But upon some artists of real ability his commendation has had a most mischievous effect. Mr Wallis, Mr Brett, and Mr Windus, have been perhaps the principal sufferers. We mention their names with sincere respect for their talents, and a hope that they may shake themselves free from the incubus that has had so pernicious an effect upon their genius. There is another artist, with higher and longer established claims to admiration, to whom we must address a few words of respectful remonstrance.

Mr Noel Paton early proved how richly he was endowed by nature with the gift of playful fancy. His Oberon and Titania," to which we have already referred, is a living witness of this. His picture of "Home" established his right to the highest place as a master of all that is pathetic in art, of all that can touch the deepest sympathies of human nature; and in addition to this, it proved that he thoroughly knew how to make every detail of a pic ture contribute to the main object and main interest, still retaining its subordinate place, and not obtruding its faultless execution on the eye. His "Dante and Beatrice" (a picture

which, as far as we know, was never exhibited, but which we once had the good fortune to see) was a chaste and poetic embodiment of the creation of the great Florentine worthy of the original conception, and admirable in drawing and execution. With these gifts of genius, what malign influence has induced Mr Paton to stoop to the cataleptic contortions, the crude colour, and the microscopic niggling of "The Bluidy Tryste," and, still worse, to the accumulated horrors of "In Memoriam ?" We make this remonstrance with feelings of respect and admiration for the artist, and gratitude for the delight we have received from his works. We implore him to retrace his steps; and we can suggest to him no safer guide, no better teacher, and, in the present day, we may add, no higher example, than his former self.

We have heard a good deal, from time to time, of the powers of Mr Ruskin's eloquence; and we must admit that here and there we have met with passages which induced us to say with Lorenzo,

"The fool hath planted in his memory An army of good words." But, upon examination, we have invariably found that these grandiloquent sentences were like the little boy's india-rubber ball, immortalised by the pencil of Leech and the pen of Punch:

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'Scientific Governess, loq.-'My dear, if you puncture this ball, it will collapse. Do you understand me?'

"Little Boy. O yes! You mean, if I prick it, it will go squash.'

So, when we pricked Mr Ruskin's rotund periods with the smallest possible point of common-sense, we have invariably found that they "go squash."

We were for some time puzzled as to the source from which this peculiar style of eloquence is derived, but we have at last discovered it. Apropos of Mr Hook's very clever picture "Luff, Boy," Mr Ruskin breaks forth with the following rhapsody on things in general :—

"War with France? It may be. And they say good ships are building at Cherbourg. War with Russia? That also

is conceivable; and the Russians invent machines that explode under water by ineans of knobs. War with the fiend in ourselves? That may not so easily come to pass, he and we being in close treaty hitherto, yet perhaps in good time may be looked for. And against enemies foreign or international, French, Sclavonic, or demoniac, what arms have we to count upon? I hear of good artillerypractice at Woolwich; of new methods of sharpening sabres, invented by Sikhs; of a modern condition of the blood of Nessus, which sets sails on fire, and makes an end of Herculean ships like Phoenixes. All which may perhaps be well, or perhaps ill, for us." *

Now, it came into our head when we read this oracular passage, that, like Mr Sneer in the Critic, we had "heard something like it before," and after slight search we found the great architype of all Mr Ruskin's eloquence in the captain of the "Cautious Clara."

"My name's Jack Bunsby ! And what I says I stands to; whereby-why not? If so, what odds? can any man say otherwise? No. Awast, then."

Our readers see that Jack Bunsby

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was no less infallible than John Ruskin. We shall soon find that he was fully as oracular :—

"Do I believe that this here son and heir's gone down, my lads? Mayhap. Do I say so? Which? If a skipper stands out by Sin' George's Channel, makin' for the Downs, what's right The Goodwins. He a-head of him? isn't forced to run upon the Goodwins, but he may. The bearings of this observation lays in the application on it. That an't no part of my duty. Awast, then. Keep a bright look-out for'ard, and good-luck to you."

Mystery and unintelligibility have in all ages been the grand resource of those who wished to impose upon the gullibility of the world, and to pass for being wiser than their neighbours. Quacks religious, quacks moral, quacks political, and quacks literary, have resorted to them no less than quacks medical and quacks legal, and nowhere will they be found in greater abundance than in the ponderous tomes with which, year after year, Mr Ruskin burdens our groaning table.

Notes, 1859, p. 26.

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