by William Morris
'--propter vitam vivendi perdere causas.'--Juvenal.
I stand before you this evening weighted with a disadvantage that I
did not feel last year;--I have little fresh to tell you; I can
somewhat enlarge on what I said then; here and there I may make bold
to give you a practical suggestion, or I may put what I have to say
in a way which will be clearer to some of you perhaps; but my
message is really the same as it was when I first had the pleasure
of meeting you.
It is true that if all were going smoothly with art, or at all
events so smoothly that there were but a few malcontents in the
world, you might listen with some pleasure, and perhaps advantage,
to the talk of an old hand in the craft concerning ways of work, the
snares that beset success, and the shortest road to it, to a tale of
workshop receipts and the like: that would be a pleasant talk
surely between friends and fellow-workmen; but it seems to me as if
it were not for us as yet; nay, maybe we may live long and find no
time fit for such restful talk as the cheerful histories of the
hopes and fears of our workshops: anyhow to-night I cannot do it,
but must once again call the faithful of art to a battle wider and
more distracting than that kindly struggle with nature, to which all
true craftsmen are born; which is both the building-up and the
wearing-away of their lives.
As I look round on this assemblage, and think of all that it
represents, I cannot choose but be moved to the soul by the troubles
of the life of civilised man, and the hope that thrusts itself
through them; I cannot refrain from giving you once again the
message with which, as it seems, some chance-hap has charged me:
that message is, in short, to call on you to face the latest danger
which civilisation is threatened with, a danger of her own breeding:
that men in struggling towards the complete attainment of all the
luxuries of life for the strongest portion of their race should
deprive their whole race of all the beauty of life: a danger that
the strongest and wisest of mankind, in striving to attain to a
complete mastery over nature, should destroy her simplest and
widest-spread gifts, and thereby enslave simple people to them, and
themselves to themselves, and so at last drag the world into a
second barbarism more ignoble, and a thousandfold more hopeless,
than the first.
Now of you who are listening to me, there are some, I feel sure, who
have received this message, and taken it to heart, and are day by
day fighting the battle that it calls on you to fight: to you I can
say nothing but that if any word I speak discourage you, I shall
heartily wish I had never spoken at all: but to be shown the enemy,
and the castle we have got to storm, is not to be bidden to run from
him; nor am I telling you to sit down deedless in the desert because
between you and the promised land lies many a trouble, and death
itself maybe: the hope before you you know, and nothing that I can
say can take it away from you; but friend may with advantage cry out
to friend in the battle that a stroke is coming from this side or
that: take my hasty words in that sense, I beg of you.
But I think there will be others of you in whom vague discontent is
stirring: who are oppressed by the life that surrounds you;
confused and troubled by that oppression, and not knowing on which
side to seek a remedy, though you are fain to do so: well, we, who
have gone further into those troubles, believe that we can help you:
true we cannot at once take your trouble from you; nay, we may at
first rather add to it; but we can tell you what we think of the way
out of it; and then amidst the many things you will have to do to
set yourselves and others fairly on that way, you will many days,
nay most days, forget your trouble in thinking of the good that lies
beyond it, for which you are working.
But, again, there are others amongst you (and to speak plainly, I
daresay they are the majority), who are not by any means troubled by
doubt of the road the world is going, nor excited by any hope of its
bettering that road: to them the cause of civilisation is simple
and even commonplace: it wonder, hope, and fear no longer hang
about it; has become to us like the rising and setting of the sun;
it cannot err, and we have no call to meddle with it, either to
complain of its course, or to try to direct it.
There is a ground of reason and wisdom in that way of looking at the
matter: surely the world will go on its ways, thrust forward by
impulses which we cannot understand or sway: but as it grows in
strength for the journey, its necessary food is the life and
aspirations of ALL of us: and we discontented strugglers with what
at times seems the hurrying blindness of civilisation, no less than
those who see nothing but smooth, unvarying progress in it, are bred
of civilisation also, and shall be used up to further it in some way
or other, I doubt not: and it may be of some service to those who
think themselves the only loyal subjects of progress to hear of our
existence, since their not hearing of it would not make an end of
it: it may set them a-thinking not unprofitably to hear of burdens
that they do not help to bear, but which are nevertheless real and
weighty enough to some of their fellow-men, who are helping, even as
they are, to form the civilisation that is to be.
The danger that the present course of civilisation will destroy the
beauty of life--these are hard words, and I wish I could mend them,
but I cannot, while I speak what I believe to be the truth.
That the beauty of life is a thing of no moment, I suppose few
people would venture to assert, and yet most civilised people act as
if it were of none, and in so doing are wronging both themselves and
those that are to come after them; for that beauty, which is what is
meant by ART, using the word in its widest sense, is, I contend, no
mere accident to human life, which people can take or leave as they
choose, but a positive necessity of life, if we are to live as
nature meant us to; that is, unless we are content to be less than
men.
Now I ask you, as I have been asking myself this long while, what
proportion of the population in civilised countries has any share at
all in that necessity of life?
I say that the answer which must be made to that question justifies
my fear that modern civilisation is on the road to trample out all
the beauty of life, and to make us less than men.
Now if there should be any here who will say: It was always so;
there always was a mass of rough ignorance that knew and cared
nothing about art; I answer first, that if that be the case, then it
was always wrong, and we, as soon as we have become conscious of
that wrong, are bound to set it right if we can.
But moreover, strange to say, and in spite of all the suffering that
the world has wantonly made for itself, and has in all ages so
persistently clung to, as if it were a good and holy thing, this
wrong of the mass of men being regardless of art was NOT always so.
So much is now known of the periods of art that have left abundant
examples of their work behind them, that we can judge of the art of
all periods by comparing these with the remains of times of which
less has been left us; and we cannot fail to come to the conclusion
that down to very recent days everything that the hand of man
touched was more or less beautiful: so that in those days all
people who made anything shared in art, as well as all people who
used the things so made: that is, ALL people shared in art.
But some people may say: And was that to be wished for? would not
this universal spreading of art stop progress in other matters,
hinder the work of the world? Would it not make us unmanly? or if
not that, would it not be intrusive, and push out other things
necessary also for men to study?
Well, I have claimed a necessary place for art, a natural place, and
it would be in the very essence of it, that it would apply its own
rules of order and fitness to the general ways of life: it seems to
me, therefore, that people who are over-anxious of the outward
expression of beauty becoming too great a force among the other
forces of life, would, if they had had the making of the external
world, have been afraid of making an ear of wheat beautiful, lest it
should not have been good to eat.
But indeed there seems no chance of art becoming universal, unless
on the terms that it shall have little self-consciousness, and for
the most part be done with little effort; so that the rough work of
the world would be as little hindered by it, as the work of external
nature is by the beauty of all her forms and moods: this was the
case in the times that I have been speaking of: of art which was
made by conscious effort, the result of the individual striving
towards perfect expression of their thoughts by men very specially
gifted, there was perhaps no more than there is now, except in very
wonderful and short periods; though I believe that even for such men
the struggle to produce beauty was not so bitter as it now is. But
if there were not more great thinkers than there are now, there was
a countless multitude of happy workers whose work did express, and
could not choose but express, some original thought, and was
consequently both interesting and beautiful: now there is certainly
no chance of the more individual art becoming common, and either
wearying us by its over-abundance, or by noisy self-assertion
preventing highly cultivated men taking their due part in the other
work of the world; it is too difficult to do: it will be always but
the blossom of all the half-conscious work below it, the fulfilment
of the shortcomings of less complete minds: but it will waste much
of its power, and have much less influence on men's minds, unless it
be surrounded by abundance of that commoner work, in which all men
once shared, and which, I say, will, when art has really awakened,
be done so easily and constantly, that it will stand in no man's way
to hinder him from doing what he will, good or evil. And as, on the
one hand, I believe that art made by the people and for the people
as a joy both to the maker and the user would further progress in
other matters rather than hinder it, so also I firmly believe that
that higher art produced only by great brains and miraculously
gifted hands cannot exist without it: I believe that the present
state of things in which it does exist, while popular art is, let us
say, asleep or sick, is a transitional state, which must end at last
either in utter defeat or utter victory for the arts.
For whereas all works of craftsmanship were once beautiful,
unwittingly or not, they are now divided into two kinds, works of
art and non-works of art: now nothing made by man's hand can be
indifferent: it must be either beautiful and elevating, or ugly and
degrading; and those things that are without art are so
aggressively; they wound it by their existence, and they are now so
much in the majority that the works of art we are obliged to set
ourselves to seek for, whereas the other things are the ordinary
companions of our everyday life; so that if those who cultivate art
intellectually were inclined never so much to wrap themselves in
their special gifts and their high cultivation, and so live happily,
apart from other men, and despising them, they could not do so:
they are as it were living in an enemy's country; at every turn
there is something lying in wait to offend and vex their nicer sense
and educated eyes: they must share in the general discomfort--and I
am glad of it.
So the matter stands: from the first dawn of history till quite
modern times, art, which nature meant to solace all, fulfilled its
purpose; all men shared in it; that was what made life romantic, as
people call it, in those days; that and not robber-barons and
inaccessible kings with their hierarchy of serving-nobles and other
such rubbish: but art grew and grew, saw empires sicken and
sickened with them; grew hale again, and haler, and grew so great at
last, that she seemed in good truth to have conquered everything,
and laid the material world under foot. Then came a change at a
period of the greatest life and hope in many ways that Europe had
known till then: a time of so much and such varied hope that people
call it the time of the New Birth: as far as the arts are concerned
I deny it that title; rather it seems to me that the great men who
lived and glorified the practice of art in those days, were the
fruit of the old, not the seed of the new order of things: but a
stirring and hopeful time it was, and many things were newborn then
which have since brought forth fruit enough: and it is strange and
perplexing that from those days forward the lapse of time, which,
through plenteous confusion and failure, has on the whole been
steadily destroying privilege and exclusiveness in other matters,
has delivered up art to be the exclusive privilege of a few, and has
taken from the people their birthright; while both wronged and
wrongers have been wholly unconscious of what they were doing.
Wholly unconscious--yes, but we are no longer so: there lies the
sting of it, and there also the hope.
When the brightness of the so-called Renaissance faded, and it faded
very suddenly, a deadly chill fell upon the arts: that New-birth
mostly meant looking back to past times, wherein the men of those
days thought they saw a perfection of art, which to their minds was
different in kind, and not in degree only, from the ruder suggestive
art of their own fathers: this perfection they were ambitious to
imitate, this alone seemed to be art to them, the rest was
childishness: so wonderful was their energy, their success so
great, that no doubt to commonplace minds among them, though surely
not to the great masters, that perfection seemed to be gained: and,
perfection being gained, what are you to do?--you can go no further,
you must aim at standing still--which you cannot do.
Art by no means stood still in those latter days of the Renaissance,
but took the downward road with terrible swiftness, and tumbled down
at the bottom of the hill, where as if bewitched it lay long in
great content, believing itself to be the art of Michael Angelo,
while it was the art of men whom nobody remembers but those who want
to sell their pictures.
Thus it fared with the more individual forms of art. As to the art
of the people; in countries and places where the greater art had
flourished most, it went step by step on the downward path with
that: in more out-of-the-way places, England for instance, it still
felt the influence of the life of its earlier and happy days, and in
a way lived on a while; but its life was so feeble, and, so to say,
illogical, that it could not resist any change in external
circumstances, still less could it give birth to anything new; and
before this century began, its last flicker had died out. Still,
while it was living, in whatever dotage, it did imply something
going on in those matters of daily use that we have been thinking
of, and doubtless satisfied some cravings for beauty: and when it
was dead, for a long time people did not know it, or what had taken
its place, crept so to say into its dead body--that pretence of art,
to wit, which is done with machines, though sometimes the machines
are called men, and doubtless are so out of working hours:
nevertheless long before it was quite dead it had fallen so low that
the whole subject was usually treated with the utmost contempt by
every one who had any pretence of being a sensible man, and in short
the whole civilised world had forgotten that there had ever been an
art MADE BY THE PEOPLE FOR THE PEOPLE AS A JOY FOR THE MAKER AND THE
USER.
But now it seems to me that the very suddenness of the change ought
to comfort us, to make us look upon this break in the continuity of
the golden chain as an accident only, that itself cannot last: for
think how many thousand years it may be since that primeval man
graved with a flint splinter on a bone the story of the mammoth he
had seen, or told us of the slow uplifting of the heavily-horned
heads of the reindeer that he stalked: think I say of the space of
time from then till the dimming of the brightness of the Italian
Renaissance! whereas from that time till popular art died unnoticed
and despised among ourselves is just but two hundred years.
Strange too, that very death is contemporaneous with new-birth of
something at all events; for out of all despair sprang a new time of
hope lighted by the torch of the French Revolution: and things that
have languished with the languishing of art, rose afresh and surely
heralded its new birth: in good earnest poetry was born again, and
the English Language, which under the hands of sycophantic verse-
makers had been reduced to a miserable jargon, whose meaning, if it
have a meaning, cannot be made out without translation, flowed
clear, pure, and simple, along with the music of Blake and
Coleridge: take those names, the earliest in date among ourselves,
as a type of the change that has happened in literature since the
time of George II.
With that literature in which romance, that is to say humanity, was
re-born, there sprang up also a feeling for the romance of external
nature, which is surely strong in us now, joined with a longing to
know something real of the lives of those who have gone before us;
of these feelings united you will find the broadest expression in
the pages of Walter Scott: it is curious as showing how sometimes
one art will lag behind another in a revival, that the man who wrote
the exquisite and wholly unfettered naturalism of the Heart of
Midlothian, for instance, thought himself continually bound to seem
to feel ashamed of, and to excuse himself for, his love of Gothic
Architecture: he felt that it was romantic, and he knew that it
gave him pleasure, but somehow he had not found out that it was art,
having been taught in many ways that nothing could be art that was
not done by a named man under academical rules.
I need not perhaps dwell much on what of change has been since: you
know well that one of the master-arts, the art of painting, has been
revolutionised. I have a genuine difficulty in speaking to you of
men who are my own personal friends, nay my masters: still, since I
cannot quite say nothing of them I must say the plain truth, which
is this; never in the whole history of art did any set of men come
nearer to the feat of making something out of nothing than that
little knot of painters who have raised English art from what it
was, when as a boy I used to go to the Royal Academy Exhibition, to
what it is now.
It would be ungracious indeed for me who have been so much taught by
him, that I cannot help feeling continually as I speak that I am
echoing his words, to leave out the name of John Ruskin from an
account of what has happened since the tide, as we hope, began to
turn in the direction of art. True it is, that his unequalled style
of English and his wonderful eloquence would, whatever its subject-
matter, have gained him some sort of a hearing in a time that has
not lost its relish for literature; but surely the influence that he
has exercised over cultivated people must be the result of that
style and that eloquence expressing what was already stirring in
men's minds; he could not have written what he has done unless
people were in some sort ready for it; any more than those painters
could have begun their crusade against the dulness and incompetency
that was the rule in their art thirty years ago unless they had some
hope that they would one day move people to understand them.
Well, we find that the gains since the turning-point of the tide are
these: that there are some few artists who have, as it were, caught
up the golden chain dropped two hundred years ago, and that there
are a few highly cultivated people who can understand them; and that
beyond these there is a vague feeling abroad among people of the
same degree, of discontent at the ignoble ugliness that surrounds
them.
That seems to me to mark the advance that we have made since the
last of popular art came to an end amongst us, and I do not say,
considering where we then were, that it is not a great advance, for
it comes to this, that though the battle is still to win, there are
those who are ready for the battle.
Indeed it would be a strange shame for this age if it were not so:
for as every age of the world has its own troubles to confuse it,
and its own follies to cumber it, so has each its own work to do,
pointed out to it by unfailing signs of the times; and it is unmanly
and stupid for the children of any age to say: We will not set our
hands to the work; we did not make the troubles, we will not weary
ourselves seeking a remedy for them: so heaping up for their sons a
heavier load than they can lift without such struggles as will wound
and cripple them sorely. Not thus our fathers served us, who,
working late and early, left us at last that seething mass of people
so terribly alive and energetic, that we call modern Europe; not
thus those served us, who have made for us these present days, so
fruitful of change and wondering expectation.
The century that is now beginning to draw to an end, if people were
to take to nicknaming centuries, would be called the Century of
Commerce; and I do not think I undervalue the work that it has done:
it has broken down many a prejudice and taught many a lesson that
the world has been hitherto slow to learn: it has made it possible
for many a man to live free, who would in other times have been a
slave, body or soul, or both: if it has not quite spread peace and
justice through the world, as at the end of its first half we fondly
hoped it would, it has at least stirred up in many fresh cravings
for peace and justice: its work has been good and plenteous, but
much of it was roughly done, as needs was; recklessness has commonly
gone with its energy, blindness too often with its haste: so that
perhaps it may be work enough for the next century to repair the
blunders of that recklessness, to clear away the rubbish which that
hurried work has piled up; nay even we in the second half of its
last quarter may do something towards setting its house in order.
You, of this great and famous town, for instance, which has had so
much to do with the Century of Commerce, your gains are obvious to
all men, but the price you have paid for them is obvious to many--
surely to yourselves most of all: I do not say that they are not
worth the price; I know that England and the world could very ill
afford to exchange the Birmingham of to-day for the Birmingham of
the year 1700: but surely if what you have gained be more than a
mockery, you cannot stop at those gains, or even go on always piling
up similar ones. Nothing can make me believe that the present
condition of your Black Country yonder is an unchangeable necessity
of your life and position: such miseries as this were begun and
carried on in pure thoughtlessness, and a hundredth part of the
energy that was spent in creating them would get rid of them: I do
think if we were not all of us too prone to acquiesce in the base
byword 'after me the deluge,' it would soon be something more than
an idle dream to hope that your pleasant midland hills and fields
might begin to become pleasant again in some way or other, even
without depopulating them; or that those once lovely valleys of
Yorkshire in the 'heavy woollen district,' with their sweeping hill-
sides and noble rivers, should not need the stroke of ruin to make
them once more delightful abodes of men, instead of the dog-holes
that the Century of Commerce has made them.
Well, people will not take the trouble or spend the money necessary
to beginning this sort of reforms, because they do not feel the
evils they live amongst, because they have degraded themselves into
something less than men; they are unmanly because they have ceased
to have their due share of art.
For again I say that therein rich people have defrauded themselves
as well as the poor: you will see a refined and highly educated man
nowadays, who has been to Italy and Egypt, and where not, who can
talk learnedly enough (and fantastically enough sometimes) about
art, and who has at his fingers' ends abundant lore concerning the
art and literature of past days, sitting down without signs of
discomfort in a house, that with all its surroundings is just
brutally vulgar and hideous: all his education has not done more
for him than that.
The truth is, that in art, and in other things besides, the laboured
education of a few will not raise even those few above the reach of
the evils that beset the ignorance of the great mass of the
population: the brutality of which such a huge stock has been
accumulated lower down, will often show without much peeling through
the selfish refinement of those who have let it accumulate. The
lack of art, or rather the murder of art, that curses our streets
from the sordidness of the surroundings of the lower classes, has
its exact counterpart in the dulness and vulgarity of those of the
middle classes, and the double-distilled dulness, and scarcely less
vulgarity of those of the upper classes.
I say this is as it should be; it is just and fair as far as it
goes; and moreover the rich with their leisure are the more like to
move if they feel the pinch themselves.
But how shall they and we, and all of us, move? What is the remedy?
What remedy can there be for the blunders of civilisation but
further civilisation? You do not by any accident think that we have
gone as far in that direction as it is possible to go, do you?--even
in England, I mean?
When some changes have come to pass, that perhaps will be speedier
than most people think, doubtless education will both grow in
quality and in quantity; so that it may be, that as the nineteenth
century is to be called the Century of Commerce, the twentieth may
be called the Century of Education. But that education does not end
when people leave school is now a mere commonplace; and how then can
you really educate men who lead the life of machines, who only think
for the few hours during which they are not at work, who in short
spend almost their whole lives in doing work which is not proper for
developing them body and mind in some worthy way? You cannot
educate, you cannot civilise men, unless you can give them a share
in art.
Yes, and it is hard indeed as things go to give most men that share;
for they do not miss it, or ask for it, and it is impossible as
things are that they should either miss or ask for it. Nevertheless
everything has a beginning, and many great things have had very
small ones; and since, as I have said, these ideas are already
abroad in more than one form, we must not be too much discouraged at
the seemingly boundless weight we have to lift.
After all, we are only bound to play our own parts, and do our own
share of the lifting, and as in no case that share can be great, so
also in all cases it is called for, it is necessary. Therefore let
us work and faint not; remembering that though it be natural, and
therefore excusable, amidst doubtful times to feel doubts of success
oppress us at whiles, yet not to crush those doubts, and work as if
we had them not, is simple cowardice, which is unforgivable. No man
has any right to say that all has been done for nothing, that all
the faithful unwearying strife of those that have gone before us
shall lead us nowhither; that mankind will but go round and round in
a circle for ever: no man has a right to say that, and then get up
morning after morning to eat his victuals and sleep a-nights, all
the while making other people toil to keep his worthless life a-
going.
Be sure that some way or other will be found out of the tangle, even
when things seem most tangled, and be no less sure that some use
will then have come of our work, if it has been faithful, and
therefore unsparingly careful and thoughtful.
So once more I say, if in any matters civilisation has gone astray,
the remedy lies not in standing still, but in more complete
civilisation.
Now whatever discussion there may be about that often used and often
misused word, I believe all who hear me will agree with me in
believing from their hearts, and not merely in saying in
conventional phrase, that the civilisation which does not carry the
whole people with it, is doomed to fall, and give place to one which
at least aims at doing so.
We talk of the civilisation of the ancient peoples, of the classical
times, well, civilised they were no doubt, some of their folk at
least: an Athenian citizen for instance led a simple, dignified,
almost perfect life; but there were drawbacks to happiness perhaps
in the lives of his slaves: and the civilisation of the ancients
was founded on slavery.
Indeed that ancient society did give a model to the world, and
showed us for ever what blessings are freedom of life and thought,
self-restraint and a generous education: all those blessings the
ancient free peoples set forth to the world--and kept them to
themselves.
Therefore no tyrant was too base, no pretext too hollow, for
enslaving the grandsons of the men of Salamis and Thermopylae:
therefore did the descendants of those stern and self-restrained
Romans, who were ready to give up everything, and life as the least
of things, to the glory of their commonweal, produce monsters of
license and reckless folly. Therefore did a little knot of Galilean
peasants overthrow the Roman Empire.
Ancient civilisation was chained to slavery and exclusiveness, and
it fell; the barbarism that took its place has delivered us from
slavery and grown into modern civilisation; and that in its turn has
before it the choice of never-ceasing growth, or destruction by that
which has in it the seeds of higher growth.
There is an ugly word for a dreadful fact, which I must make bold to
use--the residuum: that word since the time I first saw it used,
has had a terrible significance to me, and I have felt from my heart
that if this residuum were a necessary part of modern civilisation,
as some people openly, and many more tacitly, assume that it is,
then this civilisation carries with it the poison that shall one day
destroy it, even as its elder sister did: if civilisation is to go
no further than this, it had better not have gone so far: if it
does not aim at getting rid of this misery and giving some share in
the happiness and dignity of life to ALL the people that it has
created, and which it spends such unwearying energy in creating, it
is simply an organised injustice, a mere instrument for oppression,
so much the worse than that which has gone before it, as its
pretensions are higher, its slavery subtler, its mastery harder to
overthrow, because supported by such a dense mass of commonplace
well-being and comfort.
Surely this cannot be: surely there is a distinct feeling abroad of
this injustice: so that if the residuum still clogs all the efforts
of modern civilisation to rise above mere population-breeding and
money-making, the difficulty of dealing with it is the legacy, first
of the ages of violence and almost conscious brutal injustice, and
next of the ages of thoughtlessness, of hurry and blindness; surely
all those who think at all of the future of the world are at work in
one way or other in striving to rid it of this shame.
That to my mind is the meaning of what we call National Education,
which we have begun, and which is doubtless already bearing its
fruits, and will bear greater, when all people are educated, not
according to the money which they or their parents possess, but
according to the capacity of their minds.
What effect that will have upon the future of the arts, I cannot
say, but one would surely think a very great effect; for it will
enable people to see clearly many things which are now as completely
hidden from them as if they were blind in body and idiotic in mind:
and this, I say, will act not only upon those who most directly feel
the evils of ignorance, but also upon those who feel them
indirectly,--upon us, the educated: the great wave of rising
intelligence, rife with so many natural desires and aspirations,
will carry all classes along with it, and force us all to see that
many things which we have been used to look upon as necessary and
eternal evils are merely the accidental and temporary growths of
past stupidity, and can be escaped from by due effort, and the
exercise of courage, goodwill, and forethought.
And among those evils, I do, and must always, believe will fall that
one which last year I told you that I accounted the greatest of all
evils, the heaviest of all slaveries; that evil of the greater part
of the population being engaged for by far the most part of their
lives in work, which at the best cannot interest them, or develop
their best faculties, and at the worst (and that is the commonest,
too) is mere unmitigated slavish toil, only to be wrung out of them
by the sternest compulsion, a toil which they shirk all they can--
small blame to them. And this toil degrades them into less than
men: and they will some day come to know it, and cry out to be made
men again, and art only can do it, and redeem them from this
slavery; and I say once more that this is her highest and most
glorious end and aim; and it is in her struggle to attain to it that
she will most surely purify herself, and quicken her own aspirations
towards perfection.
But we--in the meantime we must not sit waiting for obvious signs of
these later and glorious days to show themselves on earth, and in
the heavens, but rather turn to the commonplace, and maybe often
dull work of fitting ourselves in detail to take part in them if we
should live to see one of them; or in doing our best to make the
path smooth for their coming, if we are to die before they are here.
What, therefore, can we do, to guard traditions of time past that we
may not one day have to begin anew from the beginning with none to
teach us? What are we to do, that we may take heed to, and spread
the decencies of life, so that at the least we may have a field
where it will be possible for art to grow when men begin to long for
it: what finally can we do, each of us, to cherish some germ of
art, so that it may meet with others, and spread and grow little by
little into the thing that we need?
Now I cannot pretend to think that the first of these duties is a
matter of indifference to you, after my experience of the
enthusiastic meeting that I had the honour of addressing here last
autumn on the subject of the (so called) restoration of St. Mark's
at Venice; you thought, and most justly thought, it seems to me,
that the subject was of such moment to art in general, that it was a
simple and obvious thing for men who were anxious on the matter to
address themselves to those who had the decision of it in their
hands; even though the former were called Englishmen, and the latter
Italians; for you felt that the name of lovers of art would cover
those differences: if you had any misgivings, you remembered that
there was but one such building in the world, and that it was worth
while risking a breach of etiquette, if any words of ours could do
anything towards saving it; well, the Italians were, some of them,
very naturally, though surely unreasonably, irritated, for a time,
and in some of their prints they bade us look at home; that was no
argument in favour of the wisdom of wantonly rebuilding St. Mark's
facade: but certainly those of us who have not yet looked at home
in this matter had better do so speedily, late and over late though
it be: for though we have no golden-pictured interiors like St.
Mark's Church at home, we still have many buildings which are both
works of ancient art and monuments of history: and just think what
is happening to them, and note, since we profess to recognise their
value, how helpless art is in the Century of Commerce!
In the first place, many and many a beautiful and ancient building
is being destroyed all over civilised Europe as well as in England,
because it is supposed to interfere with the convenience of the
citizens, while a little forethought might save it without trenching
on that convenience; but even apart from that, I say that if we
are not prepared to put up with a little inconvenience in our
lifetimes for the sake of preserving a monument of art which will
elevate and educate, not only ourselves, but our sons, and our sons'
sons, it is vain and idle of us to talk about art--or education
either. Brutality must be bred of such brutality.
The same thing may be said about enlarging, or otherwise altering
for convenience' sake, old buildings still in use for something like
their original purposes: in almost all such cases it is really
nothing more than a question of a little money for a new site: and
then a new building can be built exactly fitted for the uses it is
needed for, with such art about it as our own days can furnish;
while the old monument is left to tell its tale of change and
progress, to hold out example and warning to us in the practice of
the arts: and thus the convenience of the public, the progress of
modern art, and the cause of education, are all furthered at once at
the cost of a little money.
Surely if it be worth while troubling ourselves about the works of
art of to-day, of which any amount almost can be done, since we are
yet alive, it is worth while spending a little care, forethought,
and money in preserving the art of bygone ages, of which (woe worth
the while!) so little is left, and of which we can never have any
more, whatever good-hap the world may attain to.
No man who consents to the destruction or the mutilation of an
ancient building has any right to pretend that he cares about art;
or has any excuse to plead in defence of his crime against
civilisation and progress, save sheer brutal ignorance.
But before I leave this subject I must say a word or two about the
curious invention of our own days called Restoration, a method of
dealing with works of bygone days which, though not so degrading in
its spirit as downright destruction, is nevertheless little better
in its results on the condition of those works of art; it is obvious
that I have no time to argue the question out to-night, so I will
only make these assertions:
That ancient buildings, being both works of art and monuments of
history, must obviously be treated with great care and delicacy:
that the imitative art of to-day is not, and cannot be the same
thing as ancient art, and cannot replace it; and that therefore if
we superimpose this work on the old, we destroy it both as art and
as a record of history: lastly, that the natural weathering of the
surface of a building is beautiful, and its loss disastrous.
Now the restorers hold the exact contrary of all this: they think
that any clever architect to-day can deal off-hand successfully with
the ancient work; that while all things else have changed about us
since (say) the thirteenth century, art has not changed, and that
our workmen can turn out work identical with that of the thirteenth
century; and, lastly, that the weather-beaten surface of an ancient
building is worthless, and to be got rid of wherever possible.
You see the question is difficult to argue, because there seem to be
no common grounds between the restorers and the anti-restorers: I
appeal therefore to the public, and bid them note, that though our
opinions may be wrong, the action we advise is not rash: let the
question be shelved awhile: if, as we are always pressing on
people, due care be taken of these monuments, so that they shall not
fall into disrepair, they will be always there to 'restore' whenever
people think proper and when we are proved wrong; but if it should
turn out that we are right, how can the 'restored' buildings be
restored? I beg of you therefore to let the question be shelved,
till art has so advanced among us, that we can deal authoritatively
with it, till there is no longer any doubt about the matter.
Surely these monuments of our art and history, which, whatever the
lawyers may say, belong not to a coterie, or to a rich man here and
there, but to the nation at large, are worth this delay: surely the
last relics of the life of the 'famous men and our fathers that
begat us' may justly claim of us the exercise of a little patience.
It will give us trouble no doubt, all this care of our possessions:
but there is more trouble to come; for I must now speak of something
else, of possessions which should be common to all of us, of the
green grass, and the leaves, and the waters, of the very light and
air of heaven, which the Century of Commerce has been too busy to
pay any heed to. And first let me remind you that I am supposing
every one here present professes to care about art.
Well, there are some rich men among us whom we oddly enough call
manufacturers, by which we mean capitalists who pay other men to
organise manufacturers; these gentlemen, many of whom buy pictures
and profess to care about art, burn a deal of coal: there is an Act
in existence which was passed to prevent them sometimes and in some
places from pouring a dense cloud of smoke over the world, and, to
my thinking, a very lame and partial Act it is: but nothing hinders
these lovers of art from being a law to themselves, and making it a
point of honour with them to minimise the smoke nuisance as far as
their own works are concerned; and if they don't do so, when mere
money, and even a very little of that, is what it will cost them, I
say that their love of art is a mere pretence: how can you care
about the image of a landscape when you show by your deeds that you
don't care for the landscape itself? or what right have you to shut
yourself up with beautiful form and colour when you make it
impossible for other people to have any share in these things?
Well, and as to the smoke Act itself: I don't know what heed you
pay to it in Birmingham, but I have seen myself what heed is
paid to it in other places; Bradford for instance: though close by
them at Saltaire they have an example which I should have thought
might have shamed them; for the huge chimney there which serves the
acres of weaving and spinning sheds of Sir Titus Salt and his
brothers is as guiltless of smoke as an ordinary kitchen chimney.
Or Manchester: a gentleman of that city told me that the smoke Act
was a mere dead letter there: well, they buy pictures in Manchester
and profess to wish to further the arts: but you see it must be
idle pretence as far as their rich people are concerned: they only
want to talk about it, and have themselves talked of.
I don't know what you are doing about this matter here; but you must
forgive my saying, that unless you are beginning to think of some
way of dealing with it, you are not beginning yet to pave your way
to success in the arts.
Well, I have spoken of a huge nuisance, which is a type of the worst
nuisances of what an ill-tempered man might be excused for calling
the Century of Nuisances, rather than the Century of Commerce. I
will now leave it to the consciences of the rich and influential
among us, and speak of a minor nuisance which it is in the power of
every one of us to abate, and which, small as it is, is so
vexatious, that if I can prevail on a score of you to take heed to
it by what I am saying, I shall think my evening's work a good one.
Sandwich-papers I mean--of course you laugh: but come now, don't
you, civilised as you are in Birmingham, leave them all about the
Lickey hills and your public gardens and the like? If you don't I
really scarcely know with what words to praise you. When we
Londoners go to enjoy ourselves at Hampton Court, for instance, we
take special good care to let everybody know that we have had
something to eat: so that the park just outside the gates (and a
beautiful place it is) looks as if it had been snowing dirty paper.
I really think you might promise me one and all who are here present
to have done with this sluttish habit, which is the type of many
another in its way, just as the smoke nuisance is. I mean such
things as scrawling one's name on monuments, tearing down tree
boughs, and the like.
I suppose 'tis early days in the revival of the arts to express
one's disgust at the daily increasing hideousness of the posters
with which all our towns are daubed. Still we ought to be disgusted
at such horrors, and I think make up our minds never to buy any of
the articles so advertised. I can't believe they can be worth much
if they need all that shouting to sell them.
Again, I must ask what do you do with the trees on a site that is
going to be built over? do you try to save them, to adapt your
houses at all to them? do you understand what treasures they are in
a town or a suburb? or what a relief they will be to the hideous
dog-holes which (forgive me!) you are probably going to build in
their places? I ask this anxiously, and with grief in my soul, for
in London and its suburbs we always begin by clearing a site
till it is as bare as the pavement: I really think that almost
anybody would have been shocked, if I could have shown him some of
the trees that have been wantonly murdered in the suburb in which I
live (Hammersmith to wit), amongst them some of those magnificent
cedars, for which we along the river used to be famous once.
But here again see how helpless those are who care about art or
nature amidst the hurry of the Century of Commerce.
Pray do not forget, that any one who cuts down a tree wantonly or
carelessly, especially in a great town or its suburbs, need make no
pretence of caring about art.
What else can we do to help to educate ourselves and others in the
path of art, to be on the road to attaining an ART MADE BY THE
PEOPLE AND FOR THE PEOPLE AS A JOY TO THE MAKER AND THE USER?
Why, having got to understand something of what art was, having got
to look upon its ancient monuments as friends that can tell us
something of times bygone, and whose faces we do not wish to alter,
even though they be worn by time and grief: having got to spend
money and trouble upon matters of decency, great and little; having
made it clear that we really do care about nature even in the
suburbs of a big town--having got so far, we shall begin to think of
the houses in which we live.
For I must tell you that unless you are resolved to have good and
rational architecture, it is, once again, useless your thinking
about art at all.
I have spoken of the popular arts, but they might all be summed up
in that one word Architecture; they are all parts of that great
whole, and the art of house-building begins it all: if we did not
know how to dye or to weave; if we had neither gold, nor silver, nor
silk; and no pigments to paint with, but half-a-dozen ochres and
umbers, we might yet frame a worthy art that would lead to
everything, if we had but timber, stone, and lime, and a few cutting
tools to make these common things not only shelter us from wind and
weather, but also express the thoughts and aspirations that stir in
us.
Architecture would lead us to all the arts, as it did with earlier
men: but if we despise it and take no note of how we are housed,
the other arts will have a hard time of it indeed.
Now I do not think the greatest of optimists would deny that, taking
us one and all, we are at present housed in a perfectly shameful
way, and since the greatest part of us have to live in houses
already built for us, it must be admitted that it is rather hard to
know what to do, beyond waiting till they tumble about our ears.
Only we must not lay the fault upon the builders, as some people
seem inclined to do: they are our very humble servants, and will
build what we ask for; remember, that rich men are not obliged to
live in ugly houses, and yet you see they do; which the builders may
be well excused for taking as a sign of what is wanted.
Well, the point is, we must do what we can, and make people
understand what we want them to do for us, by letting them see what
we do for ourselves.
Hitherto, judging us by that standard, the builders may well say,
that we want the pretence of a thing rather than the thing itself;
that we want a show of petty luxury if we are unrich, a show of
insulting stupidity if we are rich: and they are quite clear that
as a rule we want to get something that shall look as if it cost
twice as much as it really did.
You cannot have Architecture on those terms: simplicity and
solidity are the very first requisites of it: just think if it is
not so: How we please ourselves with an old building by thinking of
all the generations of men that have passed through it! do we not
remember how it has received their joy, and borne their sorrow, and
not even their folly has left sourness upon it? it still looks as
kind to us as it did to them. And the converse of this we ought to
feel when we look at a newly-built house if it were as it should be:
we should feel a pleasure in thinking how he who had built it had
left a piece of his soul behind him to greet the new-comers one
after another long and long after he was gone:- but what sentiment
can an ordinary modern house move in us, or what thought--save a
hope that we may speedily forget its base ugliness?
But if you ask me how we are to pay for this solidity and extra
expense, that seems to me a reasonable question; for you must
dismiss at once as a delusion the hope that has been sometimes
cherished, that you can have a building which is a work of art, and
is therefore above all things properly built, at the same price as a
building which only pretends to be this: never forget when people
talk about cheap art in general, by the way, that all art costs
time, trouble, and thought, and that money is only a counter to
represent these things.
However, I must try to answer the question I have supposed put, how
are we to pay for decent houses?
It seems to me that, by a great piece of good luck, the way to pay
for them is by doing that which alone can produce popular art among
us: living a simple life, I mean. Once more I say that the
greatest foe to art is luxury, art cannot live in its atmosphere.
When you hear of the luxuries of the ancients, you must remember
that they were not like our luxuries, they were rather indulgence in
pieces of extravagant folly than what we to-day call luxury; which
perhaps you would rather call comfort: well I accept the word, and
say that a Greek or Roman of the luxurious time would stare
astonished could he be brought back again, and shown the comforts of
a well-to-do middle-class house.
But some, I know, think that the attainment of these very comforts
is what makes the difference between civilisation and
uncivilisation, that they are the essence of civilisation. Is it so
indeed? Farewell my hope then!--I had thought that civilisation
meant the attainment of peace and order and freedom, of goodwill
between man and man, of the love of truth and the hatred of
injustice, and by consequence the attainment of the good life which
these things breed, a life free from craven fear, but full of
incident: that was what I thought it meant, not more stuffed chairs
and more cushions, and more carpets and gas, and more dainty meat
and drink--and therewithal more and sharper differences between
class and class.
If that be what it is, I for my part wish I were well out of it, and
living in a tent in the Persian desert, or a turf hut on the Iceland
hill-side. But however it be, and I think my view is the true view,
I tell you that art abhors that side of civilisation, she cannot
breathe in the houses that lie under its stuffy slavery.
Believe me, if we want art to begin at home, as it must, we must
clear our houses of troublesome superfluities that are for ever in
our way: conventional comforts that are no real comforts, and do
but make work for servants and doctors: if you want a golden rule
that will fit everybody, this is it:
'HAVE NOTHING IN YOUR HOUSES THAT YOU DO NOT KNOW TO BE USEFUL OR
BELIEVE TO BE BEAUTIFUL.'
And if we apply that rule strictly, we shall in the first place show
the builders and such-like servants of the public what we really
want, we shall create a demand for real art, as the phrase goes; and
in the second place, we shall surely have more money to pay for
decent houses.
Perhaps it will not try your patience too much if I lay before you
my idea of the fittings necessary to the sitting-room of a healthy
person: a room, I mean, in which he would not have to cook in much,
or sleep in generally, or in which he would not have to do any very
litter-making manual work.
First a book-case with a great many books in it: next a table that
will keep steady when you write or work at it: then several chairs
that you can move, and a bench that you can sit or lie upon: next a
cupboard with drawers: next, unless either the book-case or the
cupboard be very beautiful with painting or carving, you will want
pictures or engravings, such as you can afford, only not stop-gaps,
but real works of art on the wall; or else the wall itself must be
ornamented with some beautiful and restful pattern: we shall also
want a vase or two to put flowers in, which latter you must have
sometimes, especially if you live in a town. Then there will be the
fireplace of course, which in our climate is bound to be the chief
object in the room.
That is all we shall want, especially if the floor be good; if it be
not, as, by the way, in a modern house it is pretty certain not to
be, I admit that a small carpet which can be bundled out of the room
in two minutes will be useful, and we must also take care that it is
beautiful, or it will annoy us terribly.
Now unless we are musical, and need a piano (in which case, as far
as beauty is concerned, we are in a bad way), that is quite all we
want: and we can add very little to these necessaries without
troubling ourselves, and hindering our work, our thought, and our
rest.
If these things were done at the least cost for which they could be
done well and solidly, they ought not to cost much; and they are so
few, that those that could afford to have them at all, could afford
to spend some trouble to get them fitting and beautiful: and all
those who care about art ought to take great trouble to do so, and
to take care that there be no sham art amongst them, nothing that it
has degraded a man to make or sell. And I feel sure, that if all
who care about art were to take this pains, it would make a great
impression upon the public.
This simplicity you may make as costly as you please or can, on the
other hand: you may hang your walls with tapestry instead of
whitewash or paper; or you may cover them with mosaic, or have them
frescoed by a great painter: all this is not luxury, if it be done
for beauty's sake, and not for show: it does not break our golden
rule: HAVE NOTHING IN YOUR HOUSES WHICH YOU DO NOT KNOW TO BE
USEFUL OR BELIEVE TO BE BEAUTIFUL.
All art starts from this simplicity; and the higher the art rises,
the greater the simplicity. I have been speaking of the fittings of
a dwelling-house--a place in which we eat and drink, and pass
familiar hours; but when you come to places which people want to
make more specially beautiful because of the solemnity or dignity of
their uses, they will be simpler still, and have little in them save
the bare walls made as beautiful as may be. St. Mark's at Venice
has very little furniture in it, much less than most Roman Catholic
churches: its lovely and stately mother St. Sophia of
Constantinople had less still, even when it was a Christian church:
but we need not go either to Venice or Stamboul to take note of
that: go into one of our own mighty Gothic naves (do any of you
remember the first time you did so?) and note how the huge free
space satisfies and elevates you, even now when window and wall are
stripped of ornament: then think of the meaning of simplicity, and
absence of encumbering gew-gaws.
Now after all, for us who are learning art, it is not far to seek
what is the surest way to further it; that which most breeds art is
art; every piece of work that we do which is well done, is so much
help to the cause; every piece of pretence and half-heartedness is
so much hurt to it. Most of you who take to the practice of art can
find out in no very long time whether you have any gifts for it or
not: if you have not, throw the thing up, or you will have a
wretched time of it yourselves, and will be damaging the cause by
laborious pretence: but if you have gifts of any kind, you are
happy indeed beyond most men; for your pleasure is always with you,
nor can you be intemperate in the enjoyment of it, and as you use
it, it does not lessen, but grows: if you are by chance weary of it
at night, you get up in the morning eager for it; or if perhaps in
the morning it seems folly to you for a while, yet presently, when
your hand has been moving a little in its wonted way, fresh hope has
sprung up beneath it and you are happy again. While others are
getting through the day like plants thrust into the earth, which
cannot turn this way or that but as the wind blows them, you know
what you want, and your will is on the alert to find it, and you,
whatever happens, whether it be joy or grief, are at least alive.
Now when I spoke to you last year, after I had sat down I was half
afraid that I had on some points said too much, that I had spoken
too bitterly in my eagerness; that a rash word might have
discouraged some of you; I was very far from meaning that: what I
wanted to do, what I want to do to-night is to put definitely before
you a cause for which to strive.
That cause is the Democracy of Art, the ennobling of daily and
common work, which will one day put hope and pleasure in the place
of fear and pain, as the forces which move men to labour and keep
the world a-going.
If I have enlisted any one in that cause, rash as my words may have
been, or feeble as they may have been, they have done more good than
harm; nor do I believe that any words of mine can discourage any who
have joined that cause or are ready to do so: their way is too
clear before them for that, and every one of us can help the cause
whether he be great or little.
I know indeed that men, wearied by the pettiness of the details of
the strife, their patience tried by hope deferred, will at whiles,
excusably enough, turn back in their hearts to other days, when if
the issues were not clearer, the means of trying them were simpler;
when, so stirring were the times, one might even have atoned for
many a blunder and backsliding by visibly dying for the cause. To
have breasted the Spanish pikes at Leyden, to have drawn sword with
Oliver: that may well seem to us at times amidst the tangles of to-
day a happy fate: for a man to be able to say, I have lived like a
fool, but now I will cast away fooling for an hour, and die like a
man--there is something in that certainly: and yet 'tis clear that
few men can be so lucky as to die for a cause, without having first
of all lived for it. And as this is the most that can be asked from
the greatest man that follows a cause, so it is the least that can
be taken from the smallest.
So to us who have a Cause at heart, our highest ambition and our
simplest duty are one and the same thing: for the most part we
shall be too busy doing the work that lies ready to our hands, to
let impatience for visibly great progress vex us much; but surely
since we are servants of a Cause, hope must be ever with us, and
sometimes perhaps it will so quicken our vision that it will outrun
the slow lapse of time, and show us the victorious days when
millions of those who now sit in darkness will be enlightened by an
ART MADE BY THE PEOPLE AND FOR THE PEOPLE, A JOY TO THE MAKER AND
THE USER.
This article is from the classic text Hopes and Fears for Art, by William Morris. It is in the public domain.
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