The Crown of Wild Olive

by John Ruskin

  LECTURE VII.

  _HOME VIRTUES._

  _By the fireside, in the Drawing-room. Evening._

  DORA. Now, the curtains are drawn, and the fire's bright and here's yourarm-chair--and you're to tell us all about what you promised.

  L. All about what?

  DORA. All about virtue.

  KATHLEEN. Yes, and about the words that begin with V.

  L. I heard you singing about a word that begins with V, in theplayground, this morning, Miss Katie.

  KATHLEEN. Me singing?

  MAY. Oh tell us--tell us.

  L. 'Vilikens and his----'

  KATHLEEN (_stopping his mouth_). Oh! please don't. Where were you?

  ISABEL. I'm sure I wish I had known where he was! We lost him among therhododendrons, and I don't know where he got to; oh, younaughty--naughty--(_climbs on his knee_).

  DORA. Now, Isabel, we really want to talk.

  L. _I_ don't.

  DORA. Oh, but you must. You promised, you know.

  L. Yes, if all was well; but all's ill. I'm tired, and cross; and Iwon't.

  DORA. You're not a bit tired, and you're not crosser than two sticks;and we'll make you talk, if you were crosser than six. Come here, Egypt;and get on the other side of him.

  (EGYPT _takes up a commanding position near the hearth-brush._)

  DORA (_reviewing her forces_). Now, Lily, come and sit on the rug infront.

  (LILY _does as she is bid._)

  L. (_seeing he has no chance against the odds_.) Well, well; but I'mreally tired. Go and dance a little, first; and let me think.

  DORA. No; you mustn't think. You will be wanting to make us think next;that will be tiresome.

  L. Well, go and dance first, to get quit of thinking; and then I'll talkas long as you like.

  DORA. Oh, but we can't dance to-night. There isn't time; and we want tohear about virtue.

  L. Let me see a little of it first. Dancing is the first of girl'svirtues.

  EGYPT. Indeed! And the second?

  L. Dressing.

  EGYPT. Now, you needn't say that! I mended that tear the first thingbefore breakfast this morning.

  L. I cannot otherwise express the ethical principle, Egypt; whether youhave mended your gown or not.

  DORA. Now don't be tiresome. We really must hear about virtue, please;seriously.

  L. Well. I'm telling you about it, as fast as I can.

  DORA. What! the first of girls' virtues is dancing?

  L. More accurately, it is wishing to dance, and not wishing to tease,nor hear about virtue.

  DORA (_to_ EGYPT). Isn't he cross?

  EGYPT. How many balls must we go to in the season, to be perfectlyvirtuous?

  L. As many as you can without losing your colour. But I did not say youshould wish to go to balls. I said you should be always wanting todance.

  EGYPT. So we do; but everybody says it is very wrong.

  L. Why, Egypt, I thought--

  'There was a lady once, That would not be a queen,--that would she not, For all the mud in Egypt.'

  You were complaining the other day of having to go out a great dealoftener than you liked.

  EGYPT. Yes, so I was; but then, it isn't to dance. There's no room todance: it's--(_Pausing to consider what it is for_).

  L. It is only to be seen, I suppose. Well, there's no harm in that.Girls ought to like to be seen.

  DORA (_her eyes flashing_). Now, you don't mean that; and you're tooprovoking; and we won't dance again, for a month.

  L. It will answer every purpose of revenge, Dora, if you only banish meto the library; and dance by yourselves: but I don't think Jessie andLily will agree to that. You like me to see you dancing, don't you Lily?

  LILY. Yes, certainly,--when we do it rightly.

  L. And besides, Miss Dora, if young ladies really do not want to beseen, they should take care not to let their eyes flash when theydislike what people say; and, more than that, it is all nonsense frombeginning to end, about not wanting to be seen. I don't know any moretiresome flower in the borders than your especially 'modest' snowdrop;which one always has to stoop down and take all sorts of tiresometrouble with, and nearly break its poor little head off, before you cansee it; and then, half of it is not worth seeing. Girls should be likedaisies; nice and white, with an edge of red, if you look close; makingthe ground bright wherever they are; knowing simply and quietly thatthey do it, and are meant to do it, and that it would be very wrong ifthey didn't do it. Not want to be seen, indeed! How long were you indoing your back hair, this afternoon, Jessie?

  (JESSIE _not immediately answering_, DORA _comes to her assistance._)

  DORA. Not above three-quarters of an hour, I think, Jess?

  JESSIE (_putting her finger up_). Now, Dorothy, _you_ needn't talk, youknow!

  L. I know she needn't, Jessie; I shall ask her about those dark plaitspresently. (DORA _looks round to see if there is any way open forretreat._) But never mind; it was worth the time, whatever it was; andnobody will ever mistake that golden wreath for a chignon; but if youdon't want it to be seen, you had better wear a cap.

  JESSIE. Ah, now, are you really going to do nothing but play? And we allhave been thinking, and thinking, all day; and hoping you would tell usthings; and now--!

  L. And now I am telling you things, and true things, and things good foryou; and you won't believe me. You might as well have let me go to sleepat once, as I wanted to.

  (_Endeavours again to make himself comfortable._)

  ISABEL. Oh, no, no, you sha'n't go to sleep, you naughty--Kathleen, comehere.

  L. (_knowing what he has to expect if_ KATHLEEN _comes_). Get away,Isabel, you're too heavy. (_Sitting up._) What have I been saying?

  DORA. I do believe he has been asleep all the time! You never heardanything like the things you've been saying.

  L. Perhaps not. If you have heard them, and anything like them, it isall I want.

  EGYPT. Yes, but we don't understand, and you know we don't; and we wantto.

  L. What did I say first?

  DORA. That the first virtue of girls was wanting to go to balls.

  L. I said nothing of the kind.

  JESSIE. 'Always wanting to dance,' you said.

  L. Yes, and that's true. Their first virtue is to be intenselyhappy;--so happy that they don't know what to do with themselves forhappiness,--and dance, instead of walking. Don't you recollect 'Louisa,'

  'No fountain from a rocky cave E'er tripped with foot so free; She seemed as happy as a wave That dances on the sea.'

  A girl is always like that, when everything's right with her.

  VIOLET. But, surely, one must be sad sometimes?

  L. Yes, Violet; and dull sometimes, and stupid sometimes, and crosssometimes. What must be, must; but it is always either our own fault,or somebody else's. The last and worst thing that can be said of anation is, that it has made its young girls sad, and weary.

  MAY. But I am sure I have heard a great many good people speak againstdancing?

  L. Yes, May; but it does not follow they were wise as well as good. Isuppose they think Jeremiah liked better to have to write Lamentationsfor his people, than to have to write that promise for them, whicheverybody seems to hurry past, that they may get on quickly to the verseabout Rachel weeping for her children; though the verse they pass is thecounter-blessing to that one: 'Then shall the virgin rejoice in thedance; and both young men and old together; and I will turn theirmourning into joy.'

  (_The children get very serious, but look at each other, as if pleased._)

  MARY. They understand now: but, do you know what you said next?

  L. Yes; I was not more than half asleep. I said their second virtue wasdressing.

  MARY. Well! what did you mean by that?

  L. What do _you_ mean by dressing?

  MARY. Wearing fine clothes.

  L. Ah! there's the mistake. _I_ mean wearing plain ones.

 
MARY. Yes, I daresay! but that's not what girls understand by dressing,you know.

  L. I can't help that. If they understand by dressing, buying dresses,perhaps they also understand by drawing, buying pictures. But when Ihear them say they can draw, I understand that they can make a drawing;and when I hear them say they can dress, I understand that they can makea dress and--which is quite as difficult--wear one.

  DORA. I'm not sure about the making; for the wearing, we can all wearthem--out, before anybody expects it.

  EGYPT (_aside, to_ L., _piteously_). Indeed I have mended that tornflounce quite neatly; look if I haven't!

  L. (_aside, to_ EGYPT). All right; don't be afraid. (_Aloud to_ DORA.)Yes, doubtless; but you know that is only a slow way of _un_dressing.

  DORA. Then, we are all to learn dress-making, are we?

  L. Yes; and always to dress yourselves beautifully--not finely, unlesson occasion; but then very finely and beautifully too. Also, you are todress as many other people as you can; and to teach them how to dress,if they don't know; and to consider every ill-dressed woman or childwhom you see anywhere, as a personal disgrace; and to get at them,somehow, until everybody is as beautifully dressed as birds.

  (_Silence; the children drawing their breaths hard, as if they had come from under a shower bath._)

  L (_seeing objections begin to express themselves in the eyes_). Now youneedn't say you can't; for you can: and it's what you were meant to do,always; and to dress your houses, and your gardens, too; and to do verylittle else, I believe, except singing; and dancing, as we said, ofcourse; and--one thing more.

  DORA. Our third and last virtue, I suppose?

  L. Yes; on Violet's system of triplicities.

  DORA. Well, we are prepared for anything now. What is it?

  L. Cooking.

  DORA. Cardinal, indeed! If only Beatrice were here with her sevenhandmaids, that she might see what a fine eighth we had found for her!

  MARY. And the interpretation? What does 'cooking' mean?

  L. It means the knowledge of Medea, and of Circe, and of Calypso, and ofHelen, and of Rebekah, and of the Queen of Sheba. It means the knowledgeof all herbs, and fruits, and balms, and spices; and of all that ishealing and sweet in fields and groves, and savoury in meats; it meanscarefulness, and inventiveness, and watchfulness, and willingness, andreadiness of appliance; it means the economy of your great-grandmothers,and the science of modern chemists; it means much tasting, and nowasting; it means English thoroughness, and French art, and Arabianhospitality; and it means, in fine, that you are to be perfectly andalways 'ladies'--'loaf-givers;' and, as you are to see, imperativelythat everybody has something pretty to put on,--so you are to see, yetmore imperatively, that everybody has something nice to eat.

  (_Another pause, and long drawn breath._)

  DORA (_slowly recovering herself_) _to_ EGYPT. We had better have lethim go to sleep, I think, after all!

  L. You had better let the younger ones go to sleep now: for I haven'thalf done.

  ISABEL (_panic-struck_). Oh! please, please! just one quarter of anhour.

  L. No, Isabel; I cannot say what I've got to say, in a quarter of anhour; and it is too hard for you, besides:--you would be lying awake,and trying to make it out, half the night. That will never do.

  ISABEL. Oh, please!

  L. It would please me exceedingly, mousie: but there are times when wemust both be displeased; more's the pity. Lily may stay for half anhour, if she likes.

  LILY. I can't; because Isey never goes to sleep, if she is waiting forme to come.

  ISABEL. Oh, yes, Lily; I'll go to sleep to-night, I will, indeed.

  LILY. Yes, it's very likely, Isey, with those fine round eyes! (_To_ L.)You'll tell me something of what you've been saying, to-morrow, won'tyou?

  L. No, I won't, Lily. You must choose. It's only in Miss Edgeworth'snovels that one can do right, and have one's cake and sugar afterwards,as well (not that I consider the dilemma, to-night, so grave).

  (LILY, _sighing, takes_ ISABEL's _hand._)

  Yes, Lily dear, it will be better, in the outcome of it, so, than if youwere to hear all the talks that ever were talked, and all the storiesthat ever were told. Good night.

  (_The door leading to the condemned cells of the Dormitory closes on_ LILY, ISABEL, FLORRIE, _and other diminutive and submissive victims._)

  JESSIE (_after a pause_). Why, I thought you were so fond of MissEdgeworth!

  L. So I am; and so you ought all to be. I can read her over and overagain, without ever tiring; there's no one whose every page is so full,and so delightful; no one who brings you into the company of pleasanteror wiser people; no one who tells you more truly how to do right. And itis very nice, in the midst of a wild world, to have the very ideal ofpoetical justice done always to one's hand:--to have everybody foundout, who tells lies; and everybody decorated with a red riband, whodoesn't; and to see the good Laura, who gave away her half sovereign,receiving a grand ovation from an entire dinner party disturbed for thepurpose; and poor, dear, little Rosamond, who chooses purple jarsinstead of new shoes, left at last without either her shoes or herbottle. But it isn't life: and, in the way children might easilyunderstand it, it isn't morals.

  JESSIE. How do you mean we might understand it?

  L. You might think Miss Edgeworth meant that the right was to be donemainly because one was always rewarded for doing it. It is an injusticeto her to say that: her heroines always do right simply for its ownsake, as they should; and her examples of conduct and motive are whollyadmirable. But her representation of events is false and misleading. Hergood characters never are brought into the deadly trial ofgoodness,--the doing right, and suffering for it, quite finally. Andthat is life, as God arranges it. 'Taking up one's cross' does not atall mean having ovations at dinner parties, and being put over everybodyelse's head.

  DORA. But what _does_ it mean then? That is just what we couldn'tunderstand, when you were telling us about not sacrificing ourselves,yesterday.

  L. My dear, it means simply that you are to go the road which you see tobe the straight one; carrying whatever you find is given you to carry,as well and stoutly as you can; without making faces, or calling peopleto come and look at you. Above all, you are neither to load, nor unload,yourself; nor cut your cross to your own liking. Some people think itwould be better for them to have it large; and many, that they couldcarry it much faster if it were small; and even those who like itlargest are usually very particular about its being ornamental, and madeof the best ebony. But all that you have really to do is to keep yourback as straight as you can; and not think about what is upon it--aboveall, not to boast of what is upon it. The real and essential meaning of'virtue' is in that straightness of back. Yes; you may laugh, children,but it is. You know I was to tell about the words that began with V.Sibyl, what does 'virtue' mean, literally?

  SIBYL. Does it mean courage?

  L. Yes; but a particular kind of courage. It means courage of the nerve;vital courage. That first syllable of it, if you look in Max Mueller, youwill find really means 'nerve,' and from it come 'vis,' and 'vir,' and'virgin' (through vireo), and the connected word 'virga'--'a rod;'--thegreen rod, or springing bough of a tree, being the type of perfect humanstrength, both in the use of it in the Mosaic story, when it becomes aserpent, or strikes the rock; or when Aaron's bears its almonds; and inthe metaphorical expressions, the 'Rod out of the stem of Jesse,' andthe 'Man whose name is the Branch,' and so on. And the essential idea ofreal virtue is that of a vital human strength, which instinctively,constantly, and without motive, does what is right. You must train mento this by habit, as you would the branch of a tree; and give theminstincts and manners (or morals) of purity, justice, kindness, andcourage. Once rightly trained, they act as they should, irrespectivelyof all motive, of fear, or of reward. It is the blackest sign ofputrescence in a national religion, when men speak as if it were theonly safeguard of conduct; and assume that, but for the fear of beingburned, or
for the hope of being rewarded, everybody would pass theirlives in lying, stealing, and murdering. I think quite one of thenotablest historical events of this century (perhaps the verynotablest), was that council of clergymen, horror-struck at the idea ofany diminution in our dread of hell, at which the last of Englishclergymen whom one would have expected to see in such a function, roseas the devil's advocate; to tell us how impossible it was we could geton without him.

  VIOLET (_after a pause_). But, surely, if people weren'tafraid--(_hesitates again_).

  L. They should be afraid of doing wrong, and of that only, my dear.Otherwise, if they only don't do wrong for fear of being punished, they_have_ done wrong in their hearts, already.

  VIOLET. Well, but surely, at least one ought to be afraid of displeasingGod; and one's desire to please Him should be one's first motive?

  L. He never would be pleased with us, if it were, my dear. When a fathersends his son out into the world--suppose as an apprentice--fancy theboy's coming home at night, and saying, 'Father, I could have robbed thetill to-day; but I didn't, because I thought you wouldn't like it.' Doyou think the father would be particularly pleased?

  (VIOLET _is silent._)

  He would answer, would he not, if he were wise and good, 'My boy, thoughyou had no father, you must not rob tills'? And nothing is ever done soas really to please our Great Father, unless we would also have done it,though we had had no Father to know of it.

  VIOLET (_after long pause_). But, then, what continual threatenings, andpromises of reward there are!

  L. And how vain both! with the Jews, and with all of us. But the factis, that the threat and promise are simply statements of the Divine law,and of its consequences. The fact is truly told you,--make what use youmay of it: and as collateral warning, or encouragement, or comfort, theknowledge of future consequences may often be helpful to us; but helpfulchiefly to the better state when we can act without reference to them.And there's no measuring the poisoned influence of that notion of futurereward on the mind of Christian Europe, in the early ages. Half themonastic system rose out of that, acting on the occult pride andambition of good people (as the other half of it came of their folliesand misfortunes). There is always a considerable quantity of pride, tobegin with, in what is called 'giving one's self to God.' As if one hadever belonged to anybody else!

  DORA. But, surely, great good has come out of the monastic system--ourbooks,--our sciences--all saved by the monks?

  L. Saved from what, my dear? From the abyss of misery and ruin whichthat false Christianity allowed the whole active world to live in. Whenit had become the principal amusement, and the most admired art, ofChristian men, to cut one another's throats, and burn one another'stowns; of course the few feeble or reasonable persons left, who desiredquiet, safety, and kind fellowship, got into cloisters; and thegentlest, thoughtfullest, noblest men and women shut themselves up,precisely where they could be of least use. They are very fine things,for us painters, now,--the towers and white arches upon the tops of therocks; always in places where it takes a day's climbing to get at them;but the intense tragi-comedy of the thing, when one thinks of it, isunspeakable. All the good people of the world getting themselves hung upout of the way of mischief, like Bailie Nicol Jarvie;--poor littlelambs, as it were, dangling there for the sign of the Golden Fleece; orlike Socrates in his basket in the 'Clouds'! (I must read you that bitof Aristophanes again, by the way.) And believe me, children, I am nowarped witness, as far as regards monasteries; or if I am, it is intheir favour. I have always had a strong leaning that way; and havepensively shivered with Augustines at St. Bernard; and happily made haywith Franciscans at Fesole; and sat silent with Carthusians in theirlittle gardens, south of Florence; and mourned through many a day-dream,at Melrose and Bolton. But the wonder is always to me, not how much, buthow little, the monks have, on the whole, done, with all that leisure,and all that goodwill! What nonsense monks characteristicallywrote;--what little progress they made in the sciences to which theydevoted themselves as a duty,--medicine especially;--and, last andworst, what depths of degradation they can sometimes see one another,and the population round them, sink into; without either doubting theirsystem, or reforming it!

  (_Seeing questions rising to lips._) Hold your little tongues, children;it's very late, and you'll make me forget what I've to say. Fancyyourselves in pews, for five minutes. There's one point of possible goodin the conventual system, which is always attractive to young girls; andthe idea is a very dangerous one;--the notion of a merit, or exaltingvirtue, consisting in a habit of meditation on the 'things above,' orthings of the next world. Now it is quite true, that a person ofbeautiful mind, dwelling on whatever appears to them most desirable andlovely in a possible future will not only pass their time pleasantly,but will even acquire, at last, a vague and wildly gentle charm ofmanner and feature, which will give them an air of peculiar sanctity inthe eyes of others. Whatever real or apparent good there may be in thisresult, I want you to observe, children, that we have no real authorityfor the reveries to which it is owing. We are told nothing distinctly ofthe heavenly world; except that it will be free from sorrow, and purefrom sin. What is said of pearl gates, golden floors, and the like, isaccepted as merely figurative by religious enthusiasts themselves; andwhatever they pass their time in conceiving, whether of the happiness ofrisen souls, of their intercourse, or of the appearance and employmentof the heavenly powers, is entirely the product of their ownimagination; and as completely and distinctly a work of fiction, orromantic invention, as any novel of Sir Walter Scott's. That the romanceis founded on religious theory or doctrine;--that no disagreeable orwicked persons are admitted into the story;--and that the inventorfervently hopes that some portion of it may hereafter come true, doesnot in the least alter the real nature of the effort or enjoyment.

  Now, whatever indulgence may be granted to amiable people for pleasingthemselves in this innocent way, it is beyond question, that to secludethemselves from the rough duties of life, merely to write religiousromances, or, as in most cases, merely to dream them, without taking somuch trouble as is implied in writing, ought not to be received as anact of heroic virtue. But, observe, even in admitting thus much, I haveassumed that the fancies are just and beautiful, though fictitious. Now,what right have any of us to assume that our own fancies will assuredlybe either the one or the other? That they delight us, and appear lovelyto us, is no real proof of its not being wasted time to form them: andwe may surely be led somewhat to distrust our judgment of them byobserving what ignoble imaginations have sometimes sufficiently, or evenenthusiastically, occupied the hearts of others. The principal source ofthe spirit of religious contemplation is the East; now I have here in myhand a Byzantine image of Christ, which, if you will look at itseriously, may, I think, at once and for ever render you cautious in theindulgence of a merely contemplative habit of mind. Observe, it is thefashion to look at such a thing only as a piece of barbarous art; thatis the smallest part of its interest. What I want you to see, is thebaseness and falseness of a religious state of enthusiasm, in which sucha work could be dwelt upon with pious pleasure. That a figure, with twosmall round black beads for eyes; a gilded face, deep cut into horriblewrinkles; an open gash for a mouth, and a distorted skeleton for a body,wrapped about, to make it fine, with striped enamel of blue andgold;--that such a figure, I say, should ever have been thought helpfultowards the conception of a Redeeming Deity, may make you, I think, verydoubtful, even of the Divine approval,--much more of the Divineinspiration,--of religious reverie in general. You feel, doubtless, thatyour own idea of Christ would be something very different from this; butin what does the difference consist? Not in any more divine authority inyour imagination; but in the intellectual work of six interveningcenturies; which, simply, by artistic discipline, has refined this crudeconception for you, and filled you, partly with an innate sensation,partly with an acquired knowledge, of higher forms,--which render thisByzantine crucifix as horrible to you, as it was pleasing to its m
aker.More is required to excite your fancy; but your fancy is of no moreauthority than his was: and a point of national art-skill is quiteconceivable, in which the best we can do now will be as offensive to thereligious dreamers of the more highly cultivated time, as this Byzantinecrucifix is to you.

  MARY. But surely, Angelico will always retain his power over everybody?

  L. Yes, I should think, always; as the gentle words of a child will: butyou would be much surprised, Mary, if you thoroughly took the pains toanalyse, and had the perfect means of analysing, that power ofAngelico,--to discover its real sources. Of course it is natural, atfirst, to attribute it to the pure religious fervour by which he wasinspired; but do you suppose Angelico was really the only monk, in allthe Christian world of the middle ages, who laboured, in art, with asincere religious enthusiasm?

  MARY. No, certainly not.

  L. Anything more frightful, more destructive of all religious faithwhatever, than such a supposition, could not be. And yet, what othermonk ever produced such work? I have myself examined carefully upwardsof two thousand illuminated missals, with especial view to the discoveryof any evidence of a similar result upon the art, from the monkishdevotion; and utterly in vain.

  MARY. But then, was not Fra Angelico a man of entirely separate andexalted genius?

  L. Unquestionably; and granting him to be that, the peculiar phenomenonin his art is, to me, not its loveliness, but its weakness. The effectof 'inspiration,' had it been real, on a man of consummate genius,should have been, one would have thought, to make everything that he didfaultless and strong, no less than lovely. But of all men, deserving tobe called 'great,' Fra Angelico permits to himself the least pardonablefaults, and the most palpable follies. There is evidently within him asense of grace, and power of invention, as great as Ghiberti's:--we arein the habit of attributing those high qualities to his religiousenthusiasm; but, if they were produced by that enthusiasm in him, theyought to be produced by the same feelings in others; and we see theyare not. Whereas, comparing him with contemporary great artists, ofequal grace and invention, one peculiar character remains notable inhim--which, logically, we ought therefore to attribute to the religiousfervour;--and that distinctive character is, the contented indulgence ofhis own weaknesses, and perseverance in his own ignorances.

  MARY. But that's dreadful! And what _is_ the source of the peculiarcharm which we all feel in his work?

  L. There are many sources of it, Mary; united and seeming like one. Youwould never feel that charm but in the work of an entirely good man; besure of that; but the goodness is only the recipient and modifyingelement, not the creative one. Consider carefully what delights you inany original picture of Angelico's. You will find, for one minor thing,an exquisite variety and brightness of ornamental work. That is notAngelico's inspiration. It is the final result of the labour and thoughtof millions of artists, of all nations; from the earliest Egyptianpotters downwards--Greeks, Byzantines, Hindoos, Arabs, Gauls, andNorthmen--all joining in the toil; and consummating it in Florence, inthat century, with such embroidery of robe and inlaying of armour as hadnever been seen till then; nor, probably, ever will be seen more.Angelico merely takes his share of this inheritance, and applies it inthe tenderest way to subjects which are peculiarly acceptant of it. Butthe inspiration, if it exist anywhere, flashes on the knight's shieldquite as radiantly as on the monk's picture. Examining farther into thesources of your emotion in the Angelico work, you will find much of theimpression of sanctity dependent on a singular repose and grace ofgesture, consummating itself in the floating, flying, and above all, inthe dancing groups. That is not Angelico's inspiration. It is only apeculiarly tender use of systems of grouping which had been long beforedeveloped by Giotto, Memmi, and Orcagna; and the real root of it all issimply--What do you think, children? The beautiful dancing of theFlorentine maidens!

  DORA (_indignant again_). Now, I wonder what next! Why not say it alldepended on Herodias' daughter, at once?

  L. Yes; it is certainly a great argument against singing, that therewere once sirens.

  DORA. Well, it may be all very fine and philosophical, but shouldn't Ijust like to read you the end of the second volume of 'Modern Painters'!

  L. My dear, do you think any teacher could be worth your listening to,or anybody else's listening to, who had learned nothing, and altered hismind in nothing, from seven and twenty to seven and forty? But thatsecond volume is very good for you as far as it goes. It is a greatadvance, and a thoroughly straight and swift one, to be led, as it isthe main business of that second volume to lead you, from Dutch cattlepieces, and ruffian-pieces, to Fra Angelico. And it is right for youalso, as you grow older, to be strengthened in the general sense andjudgment which may enable you to distinguish the weaknesses from thevirtues of what you love: else you might come to love both alike; oreven the weaknesses without the virtues. You might end by likingOverbeck and Cornelius as well as Angelico. However, I have perhaps beenleaning a little too much to the merely practical side of things, into-night's talk; and you are always to remember, children, that I do notdeny, though I cannot affirm, the spiritual advantages resulting, incertain cases, from enthusiastic religious reverie, and from the otherpractices of saints and anchorites. The evidence respecting them hasnever yet been honestly collected, much less dispassionately examined:but assuredly, there is in that direction a probability, and more than aprobability, of dangerous error, while there is none whatever in thepractice of an active, cheerful, and benevolent life. The hope ofattaining a higher religious position, which induces us to encounter,for its exalted alternative, the risk of unhealthy error, is often, as Isaid, founded more on pride than piety; and those who, in modestusefulness, have accepted what seemed to them here the lowliest place inthe kingdom of their Father, are not, I believe, the least likely toreceive hereafter the command, then unmistakable, 'Friend, go uphigher.'