Monthly Archives: May 2012

Progress

From John Ruskin, Fors Clavigera, Letter 5, May 1871. The first sentence refers to the daquerrotype.

    You think it a great triumph to make the sun draw brown landscapes for you. That was also a discovery, and may some day be useful. But the sun had drawn landscapes before for you, not in brown, but in green, and blue, and all imaginable colours, here in England. Not one of you ever looked at them then; not one of you cares for the loss of them now, when you have shut the sun out with smoke, so that he can draw nothing more, except brown blots through a hole in a box. There was a rocky vally between Buxton and Bakewell, once upon a time, divine as the Vale of Tempe; you might have seen the Gods there morning and evening – Apollo and all the sweet Muses of the light – walking in fair procession on the lawns of it, and to and fro among the pinnacles of its crags. You cared neither for Gods nor grass, but for cash (which you did not know the way to get); you thought you could get it by what the Times calls “Railroad Enterprise.” You Enterprised a Railroad through the valley – you blasted its rocks away, heaped thousands of tons of shale into its lovely stream. The valley is gone, and the Gods with it; and now, every fool in Buxton can be at Bakewell in half an hour, and every fool in Bakewell at Buxton; which you think a lucrative process of exchange – you Fools Everywhere.

    To talk at a distance, when you have nothing to say, though you were ever so near; to go fast from this place to that, with nothing to do either at one or the other; these are powers certainly. Much more, power of increased Production, if you, indeed, had got it, would be something to boast of. But are you so entirely sure that you have got it – that the mortal disease of plenty, and afflictive affluence of good things, are all you have to dread?

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Sweet Converse

From John Thelwall, “Lines, Written at Bridgewater.” Quoted by Judith Thompson, John Thelwall in the Wordsworth Circle: The Silent Partner.

it would be sweet,

With kindly interchange of mutual aid,

To delve our little garden plots, the while

Sweet converse flow’d, suspending oft the arm

And half-driven spade, while, eater, one propounds,

And listens one, weighing each pregnant word,

And pondering fit reply…

Agreeing, or dissenting — sweet alike,

When wisdom, and not victory, the end.

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