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XXX. THE VESTIBULE. 353
atheist might declare that he could improve the Book, which,
if any man shall add unto, there shall be added unto him the
plagues that are written therein; just such difference is there
between that which, with respect to Nature, man is, in his
humbleness, called upon to do, and that which, in his insolence,
he imagines himself capable of doing.
§ vi. Have no fear, therefore, reader, in judging between
nature and art, so only that you love both. If you can love,
one only, then let it be Nature; you are safe with her: but do
not then attempt to judge the art, to which you do not care to
give thought, or time. But if you love both, you may judge
between them fearlessly; you may estimate the last, by its
making you remember the first, and giving you the same kind
of joy. If, in the square of the city, you can find a delight,
finite, indeed, but pure and intense, like that which you have
in a valley among the hills, then its art and architecture are
right; but if, after fair trial, you can find no delight in them,
nor any instruction like that of nature, I call on you fearlessly
to condemn them.
We are forced, for the sake of accumulating our power and
knowledge, to live in cities; but such advantage as we have
in association with each other is in great part counterbalanced
by our loss of fellowship with nature. We cannot all have
our gardens now, nor our pleasant fields to meditate in at
eventide. Then the function of our architecture is, as far as
may be, to replace these ; to tell us about nature; to possess us
with memories of her quietness ; to be solemn and full of tenderness, like her, and rich in portraitures of her; full of delicate imagery of the flowers we can no more gather, and of the
giving creatures now far away from us in their own solitude.
If ever you felt or found this in a London Street,—if ever it
furnished you with one serious thought, or one ray of true and
gentle pleasure,—if there is in your heart a true delight in its
grim railings and dark casements, and wasteful finery of shops,
and feeble coxcombry of club-houses,—it is well: promote the
building of more like them. But if they never taught you
anything, and never made you happier as you passed beneath
| Title | The stones of Venice - 1 |
| Creator | Ruskin, John |
| Publisher | J. Wiley |
| Place of Publication | New York |
| Date | 1889 |
| Language | eng |
| Type | Books/Pamphlets |
| Title | 00000411 |
| Type | Books/Pamphlets |
| Transcript | XXX. THE VESTIBULE. 353 atheist might declare that he could improve the Book, which, if any man shall add unto, there shall be added unto him the plagues that are written therein; just such difference is there between that which, with respect to Nature, man is, in his humbleness, called upon to do, and that which, in his insolence, he imagines himself capable of doing. § vi. Have no fear, therefore, reader, in judging between nature and art, so only that you love both. If you can love, one only, then let it be Nature; you are safe with her: but do not then attempt to judge the art, to which you do not care to give thought, or time. But if you love both, you may judge between them fearlessly; you may estimate the last, by its making you remember the first, and giving you the same kind of joy. If, in the square of the city, you can find a delight, finite, indeed, but pure and intense, like that which you have in a valley among the hills, then its art and architecture are right; but if, after fair trial, you can find no delight in them, nor any instruction like that of nature, I call on you fearlessly to condemn them. We are forced, for the sake of accumulating our power and knowledge, to live in cities; but such advantage as we have in association with each other is in great part counterbalanced by our loss of fellowship with nature. We cannot all have our gardens now, nor our pleasant fields to meditate in at eventide. Then the function of our architecture is, as far as may be, to replace these ; to tell us about nature; to possess us with memories of her quietness ; to be solemn and full of tenderness, like her, and rich in portraitures of her; full of delicate imagery of the flowers we can no more gather, and of the giving creatures now far away from us in their own solitude. If ever you felt or found this in a London Street,—if ever it furnished you with one serious thought, or one ray of true and gentle pleasure,—if there is in your heart a true delight in its grim railings and dark casements, and wasteful finery of shops, and feeble coxcombry of club-houses,—it is well: promote the building of more like them. But if they never taught you anything, and never made you happier as you passed beneath |
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