Chapter XII: Peace (1)

§ 1. Looking back over what I have written, I find that I have only now the power of ending this work; it being time that it should end, but not of "concluding" it; for it has led me into fields of infinite inquiry, where it is only possible to break off with such imperfect result as may, at any given moment, have been attained.

Full of far deeper reverence for Turner's art than I felt when this task of his defence was undertaken (which may, perhaps, be evidenced by my having associated no other names with his--but of the dead,--in my speaking of him throughout this volume),[1] I am more in doubt respecting the real use to mankind of that, or any other transcendent art; incomprehensible as it must always be to the mass of men. Full of far deeper love for what I remember of Turner himself, as I become better capable of understanding it, I find myself more and more helpless to explain his errors and his sins.

§ 2. His errors, I might say, simply. Perhaps, some day, people will again begin to remember the force of the old Greek word for sin; and to learn that all sin is in essence--"Missing the mark;" losing sight or consciousness of heaven; and that this loss may be various in its guilt: it cannot be judged by us. It is this of which the words are spoken so sternly, "Judge not;" which words people always quote, I observe, when they are called upon to "do judgment and justice." For it is truly a pleasant thing to condemn men for their wanderings; but it is a bitter thing to acknowledge a truth, or to take any bold share in working out an equity. So that the habitual modern practical application of the precept, "Judge not," is to avoid the trouble of pronouncing verdict, by taking, of any matter, the pleasantest malicious view which first comes to hand; and to obtain licence for our own convenient iniquities, by being indulgent to those of others.

These two methods of obedience being just the two which are most directly opposite to the law of mercy and truth.

§ 3. "Bind them about thy neck." I said, but now, that of an evil tree men never gathered good fruit. And the lesson we have finally to learn from Turner's life is broadly this, that all the power of it came of its mercy and sincerity; all the failure of it, from its want of faith. It has been asked of me, by several of his friends, that I should endeavor to do some justice to his character, mistaken wholly by the world. If my life is spared, I will. But that character is still, in many respects, inexplicable to me; the materials within my reach are imperfect; and my experience in the world not yet large enough to enable me to use them justly. His life is to be written by a biographer, who will, I believe, spare no pains in collecting the few scattered records which exist of a career so uneventful and secluded. I will not anticipate the conclusions of this writer; but if they appear to me just, will endeavor afterwards, so far as may be in my power, to confirm and illustrate them; and, if unjust, to show in what degree.

§ 4. Which, lest death or illness should forbid me, this only I declare now of what I know respecting Turner's character. Much of his mind and heart I do not know;--perhaps, never shall know. But this much I do; and if there is anything in the previous course of this work to warrant trust in me of any kind, let me be trusted when I tell you, that Turner had a heart as intensely kind, and as nobly true, as ever God gave to one of his creatures. I offer, as yet, no evidence in this matter. When I _do_ give it, it shall be sifted and clear. Only this one fact I now record joyfully and solemnly, that, having known Turner for ten years, and that during the period of his life when the brightest qualities of his mind were, in many respects, diminished, and when he was suffering most from the evil-speaking of the world, I never heard him say one depreciating word of living man, or man's work; I never saw him look an unkind or blameful look; I never knew him let pass, without some sorrowful remonstrance, or endeavor at mitigation, a blameful word spoken by another.

Of no man but Turner, whom I have ever known, could I say this. And of this kindness and truth[2] came, I repeat, all his highest power. And all his failure and error, deep and strange, came of his faithlessness.

Faithlessness, or despair, the despair which has been shown already (Vol. III., chap. xvi.) to be characteristic of this present century, and most sorrowfully manifested in its greatest men; but existing in an infinitely more fatal form in the lower and general mind, reacting upon those who ought to be its teachers.

§ 5. The form which the infidelity of England, especially, has taken, is one hitherto unheard of in human history. No nation ever before declared boldly, by print and word of mouth, that its religion was good for show, but "would not work." Over and over again it has happened that nations have denied their gods, but they denied them bravely. The Greeks in their decline jested at their religion, and frittered it away in flatteries and fine arts; the French refused theirs fiercely, tore down their altars and brake their carven images. The question about God with both these nations was still, even in their decline, fairly put, though falsely answered. "Either there is or is not a Supreme Ruler; we consider of it, declare there is not, and proceed accordingly." But we English have put the matter in an entirely new light: "There _is_ a Supreme Ruler, no question of it, only He cannot rule. His orders won't work. He will be quite satisfied with euphonious and respectful repetition of them. Execution would be too dangerous under existing circumstances, which He certainly never contemplated."

I had no conception of the absolute darkness which has covered the national mind in this respect, until I began to come into collision with persons engaged in the study of economical and political questions. The entire naïveté and undisturbed imbecility with which I found them declare that the laws of the Devil were the only practicable ones, and that the laws of God were merely a form of poetical language, passed all that I had ever before heard or read of mortal infidelity. I knew the fool had often said in his heart, there was _no_ God; but to hear him say clearly out with his lips, "There is a foolish God," was something which my art studies had not prepared me for. The French had indeed, for a considerable time, hinted much of the meaning in the delicate and compassionate blasphemy of their phrase "_le bon Dieu_," but had never ventured to put it into more precise terms.

6. Now this form of unbelief in God is connected with, and necessarily productive of, a precisely equal unbelief in man.

Co-relative with the assertion, "There is a foolish God," is the assertion, "There is a brutish man." "As no laws but those of the Devil are practicable in the world, so no impulses but those of the brute" (says the modern political economist) "are appealable to in the world." Faith, generosity, honesty, zeal, and self-sacrifice are poetical phrases. None of these things can, in reality, be counted upon; there is no truth in man which can be used as a moving or productive power. All motive force in him is essentially brutish, covetous, or contentious. His power is only power of prey: otherwise than the spider, he cannot design; otherwise than the tiger, he cannot feed. This is the modern interpretation of that embarrassing article of the Creed, "the communion of saints."

7. It has always seemed very strange to me, not indeed that this creed should have been adopted, it being the entirely necessary consequence of the previous fundamental article;--but that no one should ever seem to have any misgivings about it;--that, practically, no one had _seen_ how strong work _was_ done by man; how either for hire, or for hatred, it never had been done; and that no amount of pay had ever made a good soldier, a good teacher, a good artist, or a good workman. You pay your soldiers and sailors so many pence a day, at which rated sum one will do good fighting for you; another, bad fighting. Pay as you will, the entire goodness of the fighting depends, always, on its being done for nothing; or rather, less than nothing, in the expectation of no pay but death. Examine the work of your spiritual teachers, and you will find the statistical law respecting them is, "The less pay, the better work." Examine also your writers and artists: for ten pounds you shall have a Paradise Lost, and for a plate of figs, a Durer drawing; but for a million of money sterling, neither. Examine your men of science: paid by starvation, Kepler will discover the laws of the orbs of heaven for you;--and, driven out to die in the street, Swammerdam shall discover the laws of life for you--such hard terms do they make with you, these brutish men, who can only be had for hire.

§ 8. Neither is good work ever done for hatred, any more than hire--but for love only. For love of their country, or their leader, or their duty, men fight steadily; but for massacre and plunder, feebly. Your signal, "England expects every man to do his duty," they will answer; your signal of black flag and death's head, they will not answer. And verily they will answer it no more in commerce than in battle. The cross bones will not make a good shop-sign, you will find ultimately, any more than a good battle-standard. Not the cross bones, but the cross.

§ 9. Now the practical result of this infidelity in man, is the utter ignorance of all the ways of getting his right work out of him. From a given quantity of human power and intellect, to produce the least possible result, is a problem solved, nearly with mathematical precision, by the present methods of the nation's economical procedure. The power and intellect are enormous. With the best soldiers, at present existing, we survive in battle, and but survive, because, by help of Providence, a man whom we have kept all his life in command of a company forces his way at the age of seventy so far up as to obtain permission to save us, and die, unthanked. With the shrewdest thinkers in the world, we have not yet succeeded in arriving at any national conviction respecting the uses of life. And with the best artistical material in the world, we spend millions of money in raising a building for our Houses of Talk, of the delightfulness and utility of which (perhaps roughly classing the Talk and its tabernacle together), posterity will, I believe, form no very grateful estimate;--while for sheer want of bread, we brought the question to the balance of a hair, whether the most earnest of our young painters should give up his art altogether, and go to Australia,--or fight his way through all neglect and obloquy to the painting of the Christ in the Temple.

§ 10. The marketing was indeed done in this case, as in all others, on the usual terms. For the millions of money, we got a mouldering toy: for the starvation, five years'work of the prime of a noble life. Yet neither that picture, great as it is, nor any other of Hunt's, are the best he could have done. They are the least he could have done. By no expedient could we have repressed him more than he has been repressed; by no abnegation received from him less than we have received.

My dear friend and teacher, Lowell, right as he is in almost everything, is for once wrong in these lines, though with a noble wrongness:--

"Disappointment's dry and bitter root,
Envy's harsh berries, and the choking pool
Of the world's scorn, are the right mother-milk
To the tough hearts that pioneer their kind."

They are not so; love and trust are the only mother-milk of any man's soul. So far as he is hated and mistrusted, his powers are destroyed. Do not think that with impunity you can follow the eyeless fool, and shout with the shouting charlatan; and that the men you thrust aside with gibe and blow, are thus sneered and crushed into the best service they can do you. I have told you they _will_ not serve you for pay. They _cannot_ serve you for scorn. Even from Balaam, money-lover though he be, no useful prophecy is to be had for silver or gold. From Elisha, savior of life though he be, no saving of life--even of children's, who "knew no better,"--is to be got by the cry, Go up, thou bald-head. No man can serve you either for purse or curse; neither kind of pay will answer. No pay is, indeed, receivable by any true man; but power is receivable by him, in the love and faith you give him. So far only as you give him these can he serve you; that is the meaning of the question which his Master asks always, "Believest thou that I am able?" And from every one of His servants--to the end of time--if you give them the Capernaum measure of faith, you shall have from them Capernaum measure of works, and no more.

Do not think that I am irreverently comparing great and small things. The system of the world is entirely one; small things and great are alike part of one mighty whole. As the flower is gnawed by frost, so every human heart is gnawed by faithlessness. And as surely,--as irrevocably,--as the fruit-bud falls before the east wind, so fails the power of the kindest human heart, if you meet it with poison.

§ 11. Now the condition of mind in which Turner did all his great work was simply this: "What I do must be done rightly; but I know also that no man now living in Europe cares to understand it; and the better I do it, the less he will see the meaning of it." There never was yet, so far as I can hear or read, isolation of a great spirit so utterly desolate. Columbus had succeeded in making other hearts share his hope, before he was put to hardest trial; and knew that, by help of Heaven, he could finally show that he was right. Kepler and Galileo could demonstrate their conclusions up to a certain point; so far as they felt they were right, they were sure that after death their work would be acknowledged. But Turner could demonstrate nothing of what he had done--saw no security that after death he would be understood more than he had been in life. Only another Turner could apprehend Turner. Such praise as he received was poor and superficial; he regarded it far less than censure. My own admiration of him was wild in enthusiasm, but it gave him no ray of pleasure; he could not make me at that time understand his main meanings; he loved me, but cared nothing for what I said, and was always trying to hinder me from writing, because it gave pain to his fellow artists. To the praise of other persons he gave not even the acknowledgment of this sad affection; it passed by him as murmur of the wind; and most justly, for not one of his own special powers was ever perceived by the world. I have said in another place that all great modern artists will own their obligation to him as a guide. They will; but they are in error in this gratitude, as I was, when I quoted it as a sign of their respect. Close analysis of the portions of modern art founded on Turner has since shown me that in every case his imitators misunderstood him:--that they caught merely at superficial brilliancies, and never saw the real character of his mind or his work.

And at this day, while I write, the catalogue allowed to be sold at the gates of the National Gallery for the instruction of the common people, describes Calcott and Claude as the greater artists.

§ 12. To censure, on the other hand, Turner was acutely sensitive, owing to his own natural kindness; he felt it, for himself, or for others, not as criticism, but as cruelty. He knew that however little his higher powers could be seen, he had at least done as much as ought to have saved him from wanton insult; and the attacks upon him in his later years were to him not merely contemptible in their ignorance, but amazing in their ingratitude. "A man may be weak in his age," he said to me once, at the time when he felt he was dying; "but you should not tell him so."

§ 13. What Turner might have done for us, had he received help and love, instead of disdain, I can hardly trust myself to imagine. Increasing calmly in power and loveliness, his work would have formed one mighty series of poems, each great as that which I have interpreted,--the Hesperides; but becoming brighter and kinder as he advanced to happy age. Soft as Correggio's, solemn as Titian's, the enchanted color would have glowed, imperishable and pure; and the subtle thoughts risen into loftiest teaching, helpful for centuries to come.

What we have asked from him, instead of this, and what received, we know. But few of us yet know how true an image those darkening wrecks of radiance give of the shadow which gained sway over his once pure and noble soul.

§ 14. Not unresisted, nor touching the heart's core, nor any of the old kindness and truth: yet festering work of the worm--inexplicable and terrible, such as England, by her goodly gardening, leaves to infect her earth-flowers.

So far as in it lay, this century has caused every one of its great men, whose hearts were kindest, and whose spirits most perceptive of the work of God, to die without hope:--Scott, Keats, Byron, Shelley, Turner. Great England, of the Iron-heart now, not of the Lion-heart; for these souls of her children an account may perhaps be one day required of her.

§ 15. She has not yet read often enough that old story of the Samaritan's mercy. He whom he saved was going down from Jerusalem to Jericho--to the accursed city (so the old Church used to understand it). He should not have left Jerusalem; it was his own fault that he went out into the desert, and fell among the thieves, and was left for dead. Every one of these English children, in their day, took the desert bypath as he did, and fell among fiends--took to making bread out of stones at their bidding, and then died, torn and famished; careful England, in her pure, priestly dress, passing by on the other side. So far as we are concerned, that is the account _we_ have to give of them.[3]

§ 16. So far as _they_ are concerned, I do not fear for them;--there being one Priest who never passes by. The longer I live, the more clearly I see how all souls are in His hand--the mean and the great. Fallen on the earth in their baseness, or fading as the mist of morning in their goodness; still in the hand of the potter as the clay, and in the temple of their master as the cloud. It was not the mere bodily death that He conquered--that death had no sting. It was this spiritual death which He conquered, so that at last it should be swallowed up--mark the word--not in life; but in victory. As the dead body shall be raised to life, so also the defeated soul to victory, if only it has been fighting on its Master's side, has made no covenant with death; nor itself bowed its forehead for his seal. Blind from the prison-house, maimed from the battle, or mad from the tombs, their souls shall surely yet sit, astonished, at His feet who giveth peace.

§ 17. Who _giveth_ peace? Many a peace we have made and named for ourselves, but the falsest is in that marvellous thought that we, of all generations of the earth, only know the right; and that to us, at last,--and us alone,--all the scheme of God, about the salvation of men, has been shown. "This is the light in which _we_ are walking, Those vain Greeks are gone down to their Persephone for ever--Egypt and Assyria, Elam and her multitude,--uncircumcised, their graves are round about them--Pathros and careless Ethiopia--filled with the slain. Rome, with her thirsty sword, and poison wine, how did she walk in her darkness! We only have no idolatries--ours are the seeing eyes; in our pure hands at last, the seven-sealed book is laid; to our true tongues entrusted the preaching of a perfect gospel. Who shall come after us? Is it not peace? The poor Jew, Zimri, who slew his master, there is no peace for him: but, for us? tiara on head, may we not look out of the windows of heaven?"

§ 18. Another kind of peace I look for than this, though I hear it said of me that I am hopeless.

I am not hopeless, though my hope may be as Veronese's, the dark-veiled.

Veiled, not because sorrowful, but because blind. I do not know what my England desires, or how long she will choose to do as she is doing now;--with her right hand casting away the souls of men, and with her left the gifts of God.

In the prayers which she dictates to her children, she tells them to fight against the world, the flesh, and the devil. Some day, perhaps, it may also occur to her as desirable to tell those children what she means by this. What is the world which they are to "fight with," and how does it differ from the world which they are to "get on in"? The explanation seems to me the more needful, because I do not, in the book we profess to live by, find anything very distinct about fighting with the world. I find something about fighting with the rulers of its darkness, and something also about overcoming it; but it does not follow that this conquest is to be by hostility, since evil may be overcome with good. But I find it written very distinctly that God loved the world, and that Christ is the light of it.

§ 19. What the much-used words, therefore, mean, I cannot tell. But this, I believe, they _should_ mean. That there is, indeed, one world which is full of care, and desire, and hatred: a world of war, of which Christ is not the light, which indeed is without light, and has never heard the great "Let there be." Which is, therefore, in truth, as yet no world; but chaos, on the face of which, moving, the Spirit of God yet causes men to hope that a world will come. The better one, they call it: perhaps they might, more wisely, call it the real one. Also, I hear them speak continually of going to it, rather than of its coming to them; which, again, is strange, for in that prayer which they had straight from the lips of the Light of the world, and which He apparently thought sufficient prayer for them, there is not anything about going to another world; only something of another government coming into this; or rather, not another, but the only government,--that government which will constitute it a world indeed. New heavens and new earth. Earth, no more without form and void, but sown with fruit of righteousness. Firmament, no more of passing cloud, but of cloud risen out of the crystal sea--cloud in which, as He was once received up, so He shall again come with power, and every eye shall see Him, and all kindreds of the earth shall wail because of Him.

Kindreds of the earth, or tribes of it![4]--the "earth-begotten," the Chaos children--children of this present world, with its desolate seas and its Medusa clouds: the Dragon children, merciless: they who dealt as clouds without water: serpent clouds, by whose sight men were turned into stone;--the time must surely come for their wailing.

20. "Thy kingdom come," we are bid to ask then! But how shall it come? With power and great glory, it is written; and yet not with observation, it is also written. Strange kingdom! Yet its strangeness is renewed to us with every dawn.

When the time comes for us to wake out of the world's sleep, why should it be otherwise than out of the dreams of the night? Singing of birds, first, broken and low, as, not to dying eyes, but eyes that wake to life, "the casement slowly grows a glimmering square;" and then the gray, and then the rose of dawn; and last the light, whose going forth is to the ends of heaven.

This kingdom it is not in our power to bring; but it is, to receive. Nay, it has come already, in part; but not received, because men love chaos best; and the Night, with her daughters. That is still the only question for us, as in the old Elias days, "If ye will receive it." With pains it may be shut out still from many a dark place of cruelty; by sloth it may be still unseen for many a glorious hour. But the pain of shutting it out must grow greater and greater:--harder, every day, that struggle of man with man in the abyss, and shorter wages for the fiend's work. But it is still at our choice; the simoom-dragon may still be served if we will, in the fiery desert, or else God walking in the garden, at cool of day. Coolness now, not of Hesperus over Atlas, stooped endurer of toil; but of Heosphorus over Sion, the joy of the earth.[5] The choice is no vague or doubtful one. High on the desert mountain, full descried, sits throned the tempter, with his old promise--the kingdoms of this world, and the glory of them. He still calls you to your labor, as Christ to your rest;--labor and sorrow, base desire, and cruel hope. So far as you desire to possess, rather than to give; so far as you look for power to command, instead of to bless; so far as your own prosperity seems to you to issue out of contest or rivalry, of any kind, with other men, or other nations; so long as the hope before you is for supremacy instead of love; and your desire is to be greatest, instead of least;--first, instead of last;--so long you are serving the Lord of all that is last, and least;--the last enemy that shall be destroyed--Death; and you shall have death's crown, with the worm coiled in it; and death's wages with the worm feeding on them; kindred of the earth shall you yourself become; saying to the grave, "Thou art my father;" and to the worm, "Thou art my mother, and my sister."

I leave you to judge, and to choose, between this labor, and the bequeathed peace; this wages, and the gift of the Morning Star; this obedience, and the doing of the will which shall enable you to claim another kindred than of the earth, and to hear another voice than that of the grave, saying, "My brother, and sister, and mother."

FOOTNOTES:

[1] It is proper, however, for the reader to know, that the title
which I myself originally intended for this book was "_Turner and the
Ancients_;" nor did I purpose to refer in it to any other modern
painters than Turner. The title was changed; and the notes on other
living painters inserted in the first volume, in deference to the
advice of friends, probably wise; for unless the change had been
made, the book might never have been read at all. But, as far as I am
concerned, I regretted the change then, and regret it still.

[2] It may perhaps be necessary to explain one or two singular points
of Turner's character, not in defence of this statement, but to show
its meaning. In speaking of his truth, I use the word in a double
sense;--truth to himself, and to others.

Truth to himself; that is to say, the resolution to do his duty by
his art, and carry all work out as well as it could be done. Other
painters, for the most part, modify their work by some reference to
public taste, or measure out a certain quantity of it for a certain
price, or alter facts to show their power. Turner never did any of
these things. The thing the public asked of him he would do, but
whatever it was, only as _he_ thought it ought to be done. People did
not buy his large pictures; he, with avowed discontent, painted small
ones; but instead of taking advantage of the smaller size to give,
proportionally, less labor, he instantly changed his execution so as
to be able to put nearly as much work into his small drawings as into
his large ones, though he gave them for half the price. But his aim
was always to make the drawing as good as he could, or as the subject
deserved, irrespective of price. If he disliked his theme, he painted
it slightly, utterly disdainful of the purchaser's complaint. "The
purchaser must take his chance." If he liked his theme, he would give
three hundred guineas' worth of work for a hundred, and ask no
thanks. It is true, exceptionally, that he altered the engravings
from his designs, so as to meet the popular taste, but this was
because he knew the public could not be got otherwise to look at his
art at all. His own drawings the entire body of the nation repudiated
and despised: "the engravers could make something of them," they
said. Turner scornfully took them at their word. If that is what you
like, take it. I will not alter my own noble work one jot for you,
but these things you shall have to your minds;--try to use them, and
get beyond them. Sometimes, when an engraver came with a plate to be
touched, he would take a piece of white chalk in his right hand and
of black in his left: "Which will you have it done with?" The
engraver chose black or white, as he thought his plate weak or heavy.
Turner threw the other piece of chalk away, and would reconstruct the
plate, with the added lights or darks, in ten minutes. Nevertheless,
even this concession to false principles, so far as it had influence,
was injurious to him: he had better not have scorned the engravings,
but either done nothing with them, or done his best. His best, in a
certain way, he did, never sparing pains, if he thought the plate
worth it: some of his touched proofs are elaborate drawings.

Of his earnestness in his main work, enough, I should think, has been
already related in this book; but the following anecdote, which I
repeat here from my notes on the Turner Gallery, that there may be
less chance of its being lost, gives, in a few words, and those his
own, the spirit of his labor, as it possessed him throughout his
life. The anecdote was communicated to me in a letter by Mr.
Kingsley, late of Sidney College, Cambridge; whose words I give:--"I
had taken my mother and a cousin to see Turner's pictures; and, as my
mother knows nothing about art, I was taking her down the gallery to
look at the large Richmond Park, but as we were passing the
Sea-storm, she stopped before it, and I could hardly get her to look
at any other picture: and she told me a great deal more about it than
I had any notion of, though I had seen many sea-storms. She had been
in such a scene on the coast of Holland during the war. When, some
time afterwards, I thanked Turner for his permission for her to see
the pictures, I told him that he would not guess which had caught my
mother's fancy, and then named the picture; and he then said, 'I did
not paint it to be understood, but I wished to show what such a scene
was like: I got the sailors to lash me to the mast to observe it; I
was lashed for four hours, and I did not expect to escape, but I felt
bound to record it if I did. But no one had any business to like the
picture.' 'But,' said I, 'my mother once went through just such a
scene, and it brought it all back to her.' 'Is your mother a
painter?' 'No.' 'Then she ought to have been thinking of something
else.' These were nearly his words; I observed at the time, he used
'record' and 'painting,' as the title 'author' had struck me before."

He was true to others. No accusation had ever been brought forward
against Turner by his most envious enemies, of his breaking a
promise, or failing in an undertaken trust. His sense of justice was
strangely acute; it was like his sense of balance in color, and shone
continually in little crotchets of arrangement of price, or other
advantages, among the buyers of his pictures. For instance, one of my
friends had long desired to possess a picture which Turner would not
sell. It had been painted with a companion; which was sold, but this
reserved. After a considerable number of years had passed, Turner
consented to part with it. The price of canvases of its size having,
in the meantime, doubled, question arose as to what was then to be
its price. "Well," said Turner, "Mr. ---- had the companion for so
much. You must be on the same footing." This was in no desire to do
my friend a favor; but in mere instinct of equity. Had the price of
his pictures fallen, instead of risen in the meantime, Turner would
have said, "Mr. ---- paid so much, and so must you."

But the best proof to which I can refer in this character of his mind
is in the wonderful series of diagrams executed by him for his
lectures on perspective at the Royal Academy. I had heard it said
that these lectures were inefficient. Barely intelligible in
expression they might be; but the zealous care with which Turner
endeavored to do his duty, is proved by a series of large drawings,
exquisitely tinted, and often completely colored, all by his own
hand, of the most difficult perspective subjects; illustrating not
only directions of line, but effects of light, with a care and
completion which would put the work of any ordinary teacher to utter
shame. In teaching generally, he would neither waste his time nor
spare it; he would look over a student's drawing, at the
academy,--point to a defective part, make a scratch on the paper at
the side, saying nothing; if the student saw what was wanted, and did
it, Turner was delighted, and would go on with him, giving hint after
hint; but if the student could not follow, Turner left him. Such
experience as I have had in teaching, leads me more and more to
perceive that he was right. Explanations are wasted time. A man who
can see, understands a touch; a man who cannot, misunderstands an
oration.

One of the points in Turner which increased the general falseness of
impression respecting him was a curious dislike he had to _appear_
kind. Drawing, with one of his best friends, at the bridge of St.
Martin's, the friend got into great difficulty over a colored sketch.
Turner looked over him a little while, then said, in a grumbling
way--"I haven't got any paper I like; let me try yours." Receiving a
block book, he disappeared for an hour and a half. Returning, he
threw the book down, with a growl, saying--"I can't make anything of
your paper." There were three sketches on it, in three distinct
states of progress, showing the process of coloring from beginning to
end, and clearing up every difficulty which his friend had got into.
When he gave advice, also, it was apt to come in the form of a keen
question, or a quotation of some one else's opinion, rarely a
statement of his own. To the same person producing a sketch, which
had no special character: "What are you in _search_ of?" Note this
expression. Turner knew that passionate seeking only leads to
passionate finding. Sometimes, however, the advice would come with a
startling distinctness. A church spire having been left out in a
sketch of a town--"Why did you not put that in?" "I hadn't time."
"Then you should take a subject more suited to your capacity."

Many people would have gone away considering this an insult, whereas
it was only a sudden flash from Turner's earnest requirement of
wholeness or perfectness of conception. "Whatever you do, large or
small, do it wholly; take a slight subject if you will, but don't
leave things out." But the principal reason for Turner's having got
the reputation of always refusing advice was, that artists came to
him in a state of mind in which he knew they could not receive it.
Virtually, the entire conviction of the artists of his time
respecting him was, that he had got a secret, which he could tell, if
he liked, that would make them all Turners. They came to him with
this general formula of request clearly in their hearts, if not
definitely on their lips: "You know, Mr. Turner, we are all of us
quite as clever as you are, and could do all that very well, and we
should really like to do a little of it occasionally, only we haven't
quite your trick; there's something in it, of course, which you only
found out by accident, and it is very ill-natured and unkind of you
not to tell us how the thing is done; what do you rub your colors
over with, and where ought we to put in the black patches?" This was
the practical meaning of the artistical questioning of his day, to
which Turner very resolvedly made no answer. On the contrary, he took
great care that any tricks of execution he actually did use should
not be known.

His _practical_ answer to their questioning being as follows:--"You
are indeed, many of you, as clever as I am; but this, which you think
a secret, is only the result of sincerity and toil. If you have not
sense enough to see this without asking me, you have not sense enough
to believe me, if I tell you. True, I know some odd methods of
coloring. I have found them out for myself, and they suit me. They
would not suit you. They would do you no real good; and it would do
me much harm to have you mimicking my ways of work, without knowledge
of their meaning. If you want methods fit for you, find them out for
yourselves. If you cannot discover them, neither could you use them."

[3] It is strange that the last words Turner ever attached to a
picture should have been these:--

"The priest held the poisoned cup."

Compare the words of 1798 with those of 1850.

[4] Compare Matt. xxiv. 30.

[5] Ps. xlviii. 2.--This joy it is to receive and to give, because
its officers (governors of its acts) are to be Peace, and its
exactors (governors of its dealings), Righteousness.--Is. lx. 17.

THE END.

LOCAL INDEX

TO

MODERN PAINTERS.

Aiguille Blaitière, iv. 186, 188, 399;
Bouchard, iv. 39, 186, 200, 209-211;
de Chamouni, iv. 163, 183;
des Charmoz, iv. 177, 190, 191,192, 206;
du Gouté, iv. 206;
duMoine, iv. 189 (note);
du Plan, iv. 187;
Pourri (Chamouni), iv. 196, 214;
de Varens (Chamouni), iv. 161.

Aletsch glacier, ravine of, iv. 258.

Alps, angle buttress of the chain of Jungfrau and Gemmi, iv. 286.

Amiens, poplar groves of, iii. 181, iv. 348;
banks of the Somme at, iv. 10 (note).

Annecy, lake of, cliffs round, iv. 247.

Apennine, the Lombard, iii. plate 14.

Ardon (Valais), gorge of, iv. 152.

Beauvais, destruction of old houses at, ii. 6 (note).

Berne, scenery of lowland districts of, v. 83, iv. 132.

Bietschhorn, peak of, iv. 178.

Bolton Abbey (Yorkshire), iv. 249.

Breven (Chamouni), precipices of, iv. 229.

Calais, tower of, iv. 26.

Carrara mountains, peaks of, iv. 357;
quarries of, iv. 299.

Chamounix, beauty of pine-glades, v. 82. See Valley.

Chartres, cathedral, sculpture on, v. 35.

Cluse, valley of, iv. 144.

Col d'Anterne, iv. 124.

Col de Ferret, iv. 124.

Cormayeur, valley of, iv. 176.

Cumberland, hills of, iv. 91.

Cyrene, scenery of, v. 300.

Dart, banks of, iv. 297.

Dent de Morcles (Valais), peaks of, iv. 160.

Dent du Midi de Bex, structure of, iv. 241.

Derbyshire, limestone hills of, iv. 100.

Derwent, banks of, iv. 297.

Eiger (Grindelwald), position of, iv. 166.

Engelberg, Hill of Angels, v. 86.

Faïdo, pass of (St. Gothard), iv. 21.

Finster-Aarhorn (Bernese Alps), peak of, iv. 164, 178.

Florence, destruction of old streets and frescoes in, ii. 7 (note).

France, scenery and valleys of, i. 129, 250; iv. 297, 344.

Fribourg, district surrounding, iv. 132;
towers of, iv. 32.

Geneva, restorations in, ii. 6 (note).

Goldau, valley of, iv. 312.

Grande Jorasse (Col de Ferret), position of, iv. 166.

Grindelwald valley, iv. 164.

Highland valley, described, v. 206.

Il Resegone (Comasque chain of Alps), structure, iv. 153.

Jedburgh, rocks near, iv. 131.

Jura, crags of, iv. 152, 157.

Lago Maggiore, effect of, destroyed by quarries, iv. 120.

Langholme, rocks near, iv. 131.

Lauterbrunnen Cliffs, structure of, iv. 149.

Loire, description of its course, v. 164.

Lucca, San Michele, mosaics on, i. 105;
tomb in Cathedral of, ii. 70.

Lucerne, wooden bridges at, iv. 325, 375;
lake, shores of, the mountain-temple, v. 85, 87.

Matlock, via Gellia, v. 207.

Matterhorn (Mont Cervin), structure of, iv. 160, 181, 237, 260;
from Zermatt, iv. 232, 238;
from Riffelhorn, iv. 235.

Milan, sculpture in cathedral, ii. 206.

Montanvert, view from, iv. 178.

Montagne de la Côte, crests of, iv. 206, 208, 212, 282; v. 121.

Montagne de Taconay, iv. 206, 208, 213, 282; v. 131.

Montagne de Tacondy (Chamouni), ridges of, i. 298.

Montagne de Vergi, iv. 247.

Mont Blanc, arrangement of beds in chain of, iv. 174 (note), 394.

Monte Rosa, iv. 165.

Mont Pilate, v. 124; iv. 227.

Monte Viso, peak of, iv. 178.

Niagara, channel of, iv. 95.

Normandy, hills of, iv. 353.

Nuremberg, description of, v. 232-235.

Oxford, Queen's College, front of, i. 104.

Pélerins Cascade (Valley of Chamouni), iv. 282.

Pisa, destruction of works of art in, ii. 6 (note);
mountain scenery round, iv. 357.

Petit Salève, iv. 161.

Rhone, valley of, iv. 95.

Rheinfelden (Switzerland), description of, v. 335 (note).

Riffelhorn, precipices of, iv. 234.

Rochers des Fys (Col d'Anterne), cliff of, iv. 241.

Rome, pursuit of art in, i. 4;
Temple of Antoninus and Faustus, griffin on, iii. 100.

Rouen, destruction of mediæval architecture in, ii. 6 (note).

Saddleback (Cumberland), i. 298.

Sallenche, plain of the Arve at, i. 273;
walk near, iii. 136.

Savoy, valleys of, iv. 125.

Salisbury Crags (Edinburgh), structure of, iv. 149.

Schauffhausen, fall of, i. 349; v. 325.

Schreckhorn (Bernese Alps), iv. 164.

Scotland, hills of, iv. 91, 125.

Sion (Valais), description of (mountain gloom), iv. 338-341.

Switzerland, character of, how destroyed by foreigners, iv. 374;
railways, v. 325.

Taconay, Tacondy. See Montagne.

Tees, banks of, iv. 297.

Thames, description of, v. 288.

Tours, destruction of mediæval buildings in, ii. 6 (note).

Trient, valley of (mountain gloom), iv. 259, 318.

Twickenham, meadows of, v. 293.

Underwalden, pine hills of, v. 87.

Valais, canton, iv. 165;
fairies' hollow in, v. 82.

Valley of Chamouni, iv. 177, 375;
formation of, iv. 165;
how spoiled by quarries, iv. 121;
of Cluse, iv. 144;
of Cormayer, iv. 176;
of Grindewald, iv. 166;
of Frütigen (Canton of Berne), v. 86.

Venice, in the eighteenth century, i. 110;
modern restorations in, ii. 8 (note);
Quay of the Rialto, market scene on, i. 343;
St. Mark's, mosaics on, i. 343;
described, v. 286. See Topical Index.

Verona, griffin on cathedral of, iii. 100;
San Zeno, sculpture on arch in, v. 46.

Villeneuve, mountains of, iv. 246, 287.

Vosges, crags of, iv. 152.

Wales, hills of, iv. 125.

Weisshorn, peak of, 178.

Wetterhorn (Grindelwald), iv. 166, 178.

Wharfe (Yorkshire), shores of, iv. 250, 297.

Yorkshire, limestone hills of, iv. 100, 246; v. 293.

Zermatt, valley of, chapel in, iv. 325.

Zmutt Glacier, iv. 236.

INDEX TO PAINTERS AND PICTURES

REFERRED TO IN "MODERN PAINTERS."

Angelico da Fiesole, angel choirs of, ii. 224;
attained the highest beauty, ii. 136;
cramped by traditional treatment, ii. 178;
decoration of, ii. 219;
distances of, iv. 355;
finish of, ii. 82, iii. 122;
his hatred of fog, iv. 55;
influence of hills upon, iv. 355;
introduction of portraiture in pictures by, ii. 120, iii. 33;
his purity of life, iii. 72;
spiritual beauty of, iii. 33;
treatment of Passion subjects by, ii. 129;
unison of expressional with pictorial power in, iii. 29;
contrast between, and Wouvermans, v. 283;
contrast between, and Salvator, v. 283;
Pictures referred to--
Annunciation, ii. 174;
Crucifixion, i. 82, ii. 220;
Infant Christ, ii. 222;
Last Judgment, i. 85;
Last Judgment and Paradise, ii. 224, iii. 57;
Spirits in Prison at the Feet of Christ, fresco in St. Mark's, ii.
56 (note);
St. Dominic of Fiesole, ii. 56;
Vita di Christo, ii. 219.

Art-Union, Christian Vanquishing Apollyon (ideal stones), iv. 307.

Bandinelli, Cacus, ii. 184;
Hercules, ii. 184.

Bartolomeo, introduction of portraiture by, ii. 120.

Bartolomeo, Fra. Pictures referred to--
Last Judgment, ii. 182;
St. Stephen, ii. 224.

Basaiti, Marco, open skies of, i. 84. Picture--St. Stephen, ii. 224.

Bellini, Gentile, architecture of the Renaissance style, i. 103, 107;
introduction of portraiture in pictures, ii. 120.

Bellini, Giovanni, finish of, ii. 83;
hatred of fog, iv. 56;
introduction of portraiture in pictures, ii. 129;
landscape of, i. 85, iv. 38;
luminous skies of, ii. 44;
unison of expressional and pictorial power in, iii. 29;
use of mountain distances, iv. 355;
refinement and gradation, i. 85.
Pictures referred to--
Madonna at Milan, i. 85;
San Francesco della Vigna at Venice, i. 85;
St. Christopher, ii. 120;
St. Jerome, ii. 216;
St. Jerome in the Church of San. Chrysostome, i. 85.

Berghem, landscape, Dulwich Gallery, i. 37, iii. 126, v. 282.

Blacklock, drawing of the inferior hills, i. 307.

Blake, Illustrations of the Book of Job, iii. 98.

Bonifazio, Camp of Israel, iii. 318;
what subjects treated by, v. 221.

Both, failures of, i. 197, v. 315.

Bronzino, base grotesque, iii. 98.
Pictures referred to--
Christ Visiting the Spirits in Prison, ii. 56.

Buonarotti, Michael Angelo, anatomy interfering with the divinity of
figures, ii. 221;
conception of human form, ii. 124, 126;
completion of detail, iii. 122;
finish of, ii. 83;
influence of mountains upon, iv. 358;
use of symbol, ii. 215;
repose in, ii. 69 (note);
impetuous execution of, ii. 187 (note);
expression of inspiration by, ii. 214.
Pictures referred to--
Bacchus, ii. 186 (note);
Daniel, i. 62;
Jonah, ii. 204;
Last Judgment, ii. 181, 183;
Night and Day, ii. 203, iii. 96;
Pietà of Florence, ii. 185;
Pietà of Genoa, ii. 83;
Plague of the Fiery Serpents, ii. 69 (note);
St. Matthew, ii. 185;
Twilight i. 33;
Vaults of Sistine Chapel, i. 30-33.

Callcott, Trent, i. 189.

Canaletto, false treatment of water, i. 341;
mannerism of, i. 111;
painting in the Palazzo Manfrini, i. 200;
Venice, as seen by, i. 111;
works of, v. 195.

Canova, unimaginative work of, ii. 184;
Perseus, i. 62.

Caracci, The, landscape of, iii. 317, iv. 75;
use of base models of portraiture by, ii. 120.

Caravaggio, vulgarity of, iii. 257;
perpetual seeking for horror and ugliness, ii. 137;
a worshipper of the depraved, iii. 33.

Carpaccio, Vittor, delineation of architecture by, i. 107;
luminous skies of, ii 44;
painting of St. Mark's Church, i. 108.

Castagno, Andrea del, rocks of, iii. 239.

Cattermole, G., foliage of, i. 406;
Fall of the Clyde, i. 116;
Glendearg, i. 116.

Claude, summary of his qualities, v. 244;
painting of sunlight by, iii. 318, v. 315;
feeling of the beauty of form, i. 76, iii. 318, v. 244;
narrowness of, contrasted with vastness of nature, i. 77;
aërial effects of, iii. 318, v. 244;
sincerity of purpose of, iii. 317, v. 244;
never forgot himself, i. 77, v. 244;
true painting of afternoon sunshine, iii. 321, v. 245, 315;
effeminate softness of, v. 244;
landscape of, iii. 318, i. xxxviii. preface, v. 244;
seas of, i. 77, 345, v. 244, 245;
skies of, i. 208, 227;
tenderness of perception in, iii. 318;
transition from Ghirlandajo to, iv. 1;
absence of imagination in, ii. 158;
waterfalls of, i. 300;
treatment of rocks by, iv. 253, 308, iii. 322;
tree drawing of, iii. 118, 333;
absurdities of conception, iii. 321;
deficiency in foreground, i. 179, 399;
distances of, i. 278;
perspective of, i. 409.
Pictures referred to--
Morning, in National Gallery (Cephalus and Procris), i. 317;
Enchanted Castle, i. 208;
Campagna at Rome, i. xl. preface;
Il Mulino, i. xxxix. preface, v. 245, ii. 149;
Landscape, No. 241, Dulwich Gallery, i. 208;
Landscape, No. 244, Dulwich Gallery, i. 284;
Landscape in Uffizii Gallery, i. 339;
Seaport, St. Ursula, No. 30, National Gallery, i. 208;
Queen of Sheba, No. 14, National Gallery, i. 409;
Italian Seaport, No. 5, National Gallery, i. 230;
Seaport, No. 14, National Gallery, i. 22;
Marriage of Isaac and Rebecca, i. 176, 194, 208, 278, 388;
Moses at the Burning Bush, iii. 320;
Narcissus, i. 388;
Pisa, iv. 1;
St. George and the Dragon, v. 246;
Worship of the Golden Calf, v. 246;
Sinon before Priam, i. 169, 279;
Liber Veritatis, No. 5, iv. 308;
Liber V., No. 86, iv. 220;
L. V., No. 91, iv. 253, 254;
L. V., No. 140, iii. 117;
L. V., No. 145, iii. 321;
L. V., No. 180, iii. 321.

Conegilano, Cima da, entire realization of foreground painting, iii. 128;
painting in church of the Madonna dell' Orto, i. 82.

Constable, landscape of, iii. 126;
simplicity and earnestness of, i. 94;
aspen drawing of, iv. 78;
Helmingham Park, Suffolk, iii. 119;
Lock on the Stour, iii. 118;
foliage of, i. 406, iii. 119;
landscape of, iv. 38.

Correggio, choice of background, iii. 316;
painting of flesh by, iii. 97;
leaf drawing of, v. 35;
power of, to paint rain-clouds, v. 136 (note);
love of physical beauty, iii. 33;
morbid gradation, ii. 47;
morbid sentimentalism, ii. 174;
mystery of, iv. 62;
sensuality of, ii. 125, 136;
sidelong grace of, iii. 28;
tenderness of, iii. 42.
Pictures referred to--
Antiope, iii. 63, v. 36, 90, 136;
Charioted Diana, ii. 126;
Madonna of the Incoronazione, ii. 125;
St. Catherine of the Giorno, ii. 126.

Cox, David, drawings of, i. xliii. preface, i. 96;
foliage of, i. 406;
rain-clouds of, i. 248;
skies of, in water-color, i. 257;
sunset on distant hills, i. 96.

Creswick, tree-painting of, i. 397.
Pictures referred to--
Nut-brown Maid, i. 397;
Weald of Kent, i. 407.

Cruikshank, G., iv., 387; Noah Claypole ("Oliver Twist"), v. 266.

Cuyp, principal master of pastoral landscape, v. 194;
tone of, i. 150;
no sense of beauty, i. 76;
sky of, i. 215, 225, 209;
cattle painting of, v. 259;
sunlight of, v. 254, 315;
water of, i. 346;
foliage of, v. 35, 37;
and Rubens, v, 249, 260.
Pictures referred to--
Hilly Landscape, in Dulwich Gallery, No. 169, i. 150, 209;
Landscape, in National Gallery, No. 53, i. 150, v. 37;
Waterloo etchings, i. 92;
Landscape, Dulwich Gallery, No, 83, i. 340, No. 163, v. 37.

Dannaeker, Ariadne, iii. 65.

Dighton, W. E., Hayfield in a Shower, ii. 229;
Haymeadow Corner, ii. 229.

Dolci, Carlo, finish for finish's sake, iii. 113;
softness and smoothness, iii. 113;
St. Peter, ii. 204.

Domenichino, angels of, ii. 222;
landscape of, iii. 317;
Madonna del Rosario, and Martyrdom of St. Agnes, both utterly
hateful, i. 88, ii. 222.

Drummond, Banditti on the Watch, ii. 230.

Durer, Albert, and Salvator, v. 230, 240;
deficiency in perception of the beautiful, iv. 332;
education of, v. 231-232;
mind of, how shown, v. 284;
decision of, iv. 79, ii. 227;
tree-drawing, v. 67;
finish of, iii. 42, 122;
gloomily minute, i. 90;
hatred of fog, iv. 56;
drawing of crests, iv. 201;
love of sea, v. 234.
Pictures referred to--
Dragon of the Apocalypse, iv. 217;
Fall of Lucifer, iv. 201;
The Cannon, v. 234;
Knight and Death, iii. 93, v. 235, 237;
Melancholia, iv. 48, iii. 96, v. 235, 238;
Root of Apple-tree in Adam and Eve, iii. 116, v. 65;
St. Hubert, v. 97, 234;
St. Jerome, v. 234.

Etty, richness and play of color of, ii. 203;
Morning Prayer, ii. 229;
Still Life, ii. 229;
St. John, ii. 229.