Chapter VII: "time and Tide" (1867)

The series of letters published as "Time and Tide by Weare and Tyne" were addressed[13] to Thomas Dixon, a working cork-cutter of Sunderland, whose portrait by Professor Legros is familiar to visitors at the South Kensington Museum. He was one of those thoughtful, self-educated working men in whom, as a class, Ruskin had been taking a deep interest for the past twelve years, an interest which had purchased him a practical insight into their various capacities and aims, and the right to speak without fear or favour. At this time there was an agitation for Parliamentary reform, and the better representation of the working classes; and it was on this topic that the letters were begun, though the writer went on to criticise the various social ideals then popular, and to propose his own. He had already done something of the sort in "Unto this Last"; but "Time and Tide" is much more complete, and the result of seven years' further thought and experience. His "Fors Clavigera" is a continuation of these letters, but written at a time when other work and ill health broke in upon his strength. "Time and Tide" is not only the statement of his social scheme as he saw it in his central period, but, written as these letters were--at a stroke, so to speak--condensed in exposition and simple in language, they deserve the most careful reading by the student of Ruskin.

[Footnote 13: During February, March and April, 1867, and published in the _Manchester Examiner_ and _Leeds Mercury_.]

Before this work was ended, Carlyle had come back from Mentone to Chelsea, and was begging his friend, in the warmest terms, to come and see him. Shortly afterward, a passage which Ruskin would not retract gave offence to Carlyle. But the difference was healed, and later years reveal the sage of Chelsea as kindly and affectionate as ever. This friendship between the two greatest writers of their age, between two men of vigorous individuality, outspoken opinions, and widely different tastes and sympathies, is a fine episode in the history of both.

In May, Ruskin was invited to Cambridge to receive the honorary degree of LL.D., and to deliver the Rede Lecture. The _Cambridge Chronicle_ of May 24th, 1867, says: "The body of the Senate House was quite filled with M.A.'s and ladies, principally the latter, whilst there was a large attendance of undergraduates in the galleries, who gave the lecturer a most enthusiastic reception." A brief report of the lecture was printed in the newspaper; but it was not otherwise published, and the manuscript seems to have been mislaid for thirty years. I take the liberty of copying the opening sentences as a specimen of that Academical oratory which Mr. Ruskin then adopted, and used habitually in his earlier lectures at Oxford.

The title of the discourse was "The Relation of National Ethics to National Arts."

"In entering on the duty to-day entrusted to me, I should hold it
little respectful to my audience if I disturbed them by expression
of the diffidence which they know that I must feel in first
speaking in this Senate House; diffidence which might well have
prevented me from accepting such duty, but ought not to interfere
with my endeavour simply to fulfil it. Nevertheless, lest the
direction which I have been led to give to my discourse, and the
narrow limits within which I am compelled to confine the treatment
of its subject may seem in anywise inconsistent with the purpose of
the founder of this Lecture--or with the expectations of those by
whose authority I am appointed to deliver it, let me at once say
that I obeyed their command, not thinking myself able to teach any
dogma in the philosophy of the arts, which could be of any new
interest to the members of this University: but only that I might
obtain the sanction of their audience, for the enforcement upon
other minds of the truth, which--after thirty years spent in the
study of art, not dishonestly, however feebly--is manifest to me as
the clearest of all that I have learned, and urged upon me as the
most vital of all I have to declare."

He then distinguished between true and false art, the true depending upon sincerity, whether in literature, music or the formative arts: he reinforced his old doctrine of the dignity of true imagination as the attribute of healthy and earnest minds; and energetically attacked the commercial art-world of the day, and the notion that drawing-schools were to be supported for the sake of the gain they would bring to our manufacturers.

In this lecture we see the germ of the ideas, as well as the beginning of the style, of the Oxford Inaugural course, and the "Eagle's Nest"; something quite different in type from the style and teaching of the addresses to working men, or to mixed popular audiences at Edinburgh or Manchester, or even at the Royal Institution. At this latter place, on June 4th, Sir Henry Holland in the chair, he lectured on "The Present State of Modern Art, with reference to advisable arrangement of the National Gallery," repeating much of what he had said in "Time and Tide" about the taste for the horrible and absence of true feeling for pure and dignified art in the theatrical shows of the day, and in the admiration for Gustave Doré, then a new fashion. Mr. Ruskin could never endure that the man who had illustrated Balzac's "Contes Drôlatiques" should be chosen by the religious public of England as the exponent of their sacred ideals.

In July after a short visit to Huntly Burn near Abbotsford, he went to Keswick for a few weeks, from whence he wrote the rhymed letters to his cousin at home, quoted (with the date wrongly given as 1857) in "Præterita" to illustrate his "heraldic character" of "Little Pigs" and to shock exoteric admirers. Like, for example, Rossetti and Carlyle, Ruskin was fond of playful nicknames and grotesque terms of endearment. He never stood upon his dignity with intimates; and was ready to allow the liberties he took, much to the surprise of strangers.

He reached Keswick by July 4, and spent his time chiefly in walks upon the hills, staying at the Derwentwater Hotel. He wrote:

"Keswick, _19th July, '67, Afternoon, 1/2 past 3_.

"My dearest Mother,

"As this is the last post before Sunday I send one more line to say
I've had a delightful forenoon's walk--since 1/2 past ten--by St.
John's Vale, and had pleasant thoughts, and found one of the most
variedly beautiful torrent beds I ever saw in my life; and I feel
that I gain strength, slowly but certainly, every day. The great
good of the place is that I can be content without going on great
excursions which fatigue and do me harm (or else worry me with
problems;)--I am _content_ here with the roadside hedges and
streams; and this contentment is the great thing for health,--and
there is hardly anything to annoy me of absurd or calamitous human
doing; but still this ancient cottage life--very rude and miserable
enough in its torpor--but clean, and calm, not a vile cholera and
plague of bestirred pollution, like back streets in London. There
is also much more real and deep beauty than I expected to find, in
some of the minor pieces of scenery, and in the cloud effects."

"_July 16_.

"I have the secret of extracting sadness from all things, instead
of joy, which is no enviable talisman. Forgive me if I ever write
in a way that may pain you. It is best that you should know, when I
write cheerfully, it is no pretended cheerfulness; so when I am
sad--I think it right to confess it."

"_30th July._

"Downes[14] arrived yesterday quite comfortably and in fine
weather. It is not bad this morning, and I hope to take him for a
walk up Saddleback, which, after all, is the finest, to my mind, of
all the Cumberland hills--though that is not saying much; for they
are much lower in effect, in proportion to their real height, than
I had expected. The beauty of the country is in its quiet roadside
bits, and rusticity of cottage life and shepherd labour. Its
mountains are sorrowfully melted away from my old dreams of them."

[Footnote 14: The gardener at Denmark Hill.]

Next day he "went straight up the steep front of Saddleback by the
central ridge to the summit. It is the finest thing I've yet seen,
there being several bits of real crag-work, and a fine view at the
top over the great plains of Penrith on one side, and the
Cumberland hills, as a chain, on the other. Fine fresh wind
blowing, and plenty of crows. Do you remember poor papa's favourite
story about the Quaker whom the crows ate on Saddleback? There were
some of the biggest and hoarsest-voiced ones about the cliff that
I've ever had sympathetic croaks from;--and one on the top, or near
it, so big that Downes and Crawley, having Austrian tendencies in
politics, took it for a 'black eagle.' Downes went up capitally,
though I couldn't get him down again, because he _would_ stop to
gather ferns. However, we did it all and came down to Threlkeld--of
the Bridal of Triermain,

"'The King his way pursued
By lonely Threlkeld's waste and wood,'

"in good time for me to dress and, for a wonder, go out to dinner
with Acland's friends the Butlers."

As an episode in this visit to Keswick, ten days were given to the
neighbourhood of Ambleside, "to show Downes Windermere."

"Waterhead, Windermere,

"_10th August, 1867, Evening_.

"I was at Coniston to-day. Our old Waterhead Inn, where I was so
happy playing in the boats, _exists_ no more.--Its place is grown
over with smooth Park grass--the very site of it forgotten! and, a
quarter of a mile down the lake, a vast hotel built in the railroad
station style--making up, I suppose, its fifty or eighty beds, with
coffee-room--smoking-room--and every pestilent and devilish
Yankeeism that money can buy, or speculation plan.

"The depression, whatever its cause, does not affect my strength. I
walked up a long hill on the road to Coniston to-day (gathering
wild raspberries)--then from this new Inn, two miles to the foot of
Coniston Old Man; up it; down again--(necessarily!)--and back to
dinner, without so much as warming myself--not that there was much
danger of doing that at the top; for a keen west wind was blowing
drifts of cloud by at a great pace, and one was glad of the
shelter of the pile of stones, the largest and _oldest_ I ever saw
on a mountain top. I suppose the whole mountain is named from it.
It is of the shape of a beehive, strongly built, about 15 feet high
(so that I made Downes follow me up it before I would allow he had
been at the top of the Old Man) and covered with lichen and short
moss. Lancaster sands and the Irish sea were very beautiful, and so
also the two lakes of Coniston and Windermere, lying in the vastest
space of sweet cultivated country I have ever looked over,--a great
part of the view from the Rigi being merely over black pine forest,
even on the plains. Well, after dinner, the evening was very
beautiful, and I walked up the long hill on the road back from
Coniston--and kept ahead of the carriage for two miles: I was sadly
vexed when I had to get in: and now--I don't feel as if I had been
walking at all--and shall probably lie awake for an hour or
two--and feeling as if I had not had exercise enough to send me to
sleep."

"LANGDALE, _13th August, Evening._

"It is perfectly calm to-night, not painfully hot--and the full
moon shining over the mountains, opposite my window, which are the
scene of Wordsworth's 'Excursion.' It was terribly hot in the
earlier day, and I did not leave the house till five o'clock. Then
I went out, and in the heart of Langdale Pikes found the loveliest
rock-scenery, chased with silver waterfalls, that I ever set foot
or heart upon. The Swiss torrent-beds are always more or less
savage, and ruinous, with a terrible sense of overpowering strength
and danger, lulled. But here, the sweet heather and ferns and star
mosses nestled in close to the dashing of the narrow
streams;--while every cranny of crag held its own little placid
lake of amber, trembling with falling drops--but quietly
trembling--not troubled into ridgy wave or foam--the rocks
themselves, _ideal_ rock, as hard as iron--no--not quite that, but
_so_ hard that after breaking some of it, breaking solid white
quartz seemed like smashing brittle loaf sugar, in comparison--and
cloven into the most noble masses; not grotesque, but majestic and
full of harmony with the larger mountain mass of which they formed
a part. Fancy what a place! for a hot afternoon after five, with no
wind--and absolute solitude; no creature--except a lamb or two--to
mix any ruder sound or voice with the plash of the innumerable
streamlets."

It was during this tour that he looked at a site on the hill above Bowness-on-Windermere, where Mr. T. Richmond, the owner, proposed building him a house. He liked the view, but found it too near the railway station.

After spending September with his mother at Norwood under the care of Dr. Powell, he was able to return home, prepare "Time and Tide" for publication, and write the preface on Dec. 14th. On the 19th the book was out, and immediately bought up. A month later the second edition was issued.