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A PRE-RAPHAELITE MASTERPIECE.
[From Letter to The Times, May 5, 1854]

I speak of the picture called "The Light of the World,' by Mr. Holman Hunt. Standing by it yesterday for upwards of an hour, I watched the 5 effect it produced upon the passersby. Few stopped to look at it, and those who did almost invariably with some contemptuous expression, founded on what appeared to them the ab10 surdity of representing the Saviour with a lantern in His hand. Now, it ought to be remembered that, whatever may be the faults of a PreRaphaelite picture, it must at least 15 have taken much time; and therefore it may not unwarrantably be presumed that conceptions which are to be laboriously realised are not adopted in the first instance without 20 some reflection. So that the spectator may surely question with himself whether the objections which now strike every one in a moment might not possibly have occurred to the 25 painter himself, either during the time devoted to the design of the picture, or the months of labour required for its execution; and whether, therefore, there may not be some 30 reason for his persistence in such an idea, not discoverable at the first glance.

Mr. Hunt has never explained his work to me. I give what appears 35 to me its palpable interpretation.

The legend beneath it is the beautiful verse: 'Behold I stand at the door and knock. If any man hear my voice, and open the door, 40 I will come in to him, and will sup with him, and he with me.' - Rev. iii. 20. On the left-hand side of the picture is seen this door of the human soul. It is fast barred: its 45 bars and nails are rusty; it is knitted and bound to its stanchions by creep

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ing tendrils of ivy, showing that it has never been opened. A bat hovers about it; its threshold is overgrown with brambles, nettles, and fruitless 50 corn, the wild grass 'whereof the mower filleth not his hand, nor he that bindeth the sheaves his bosom.' Christ approaches it in the night time, Christ in His everlasting 55 offices, of prophet, priest, and king. He wears the white robe, representing the power of the Spirit upon Him; the jewelled robe and breastplate, representing the sacerdotal in- 60 vestiture; the rayed crown of gold, inwoven with the crown of thorns; not dead thorns, but now bearing soft leaves, for the healing of the nations.

Now, when Christ enters any human 65 heart, He bears with Him a twofold light: first, the light of conscience, which displays past sin, and afterwards the light of peace, the hope of salvation. The lantern, car- 70 ried in Christ's left hand, is this light of conscience. Its fire is red and fierce; it falls only on the closed door, on the weeds which encumber it, and on an apple shaken from one 75 of the trees of the orchard, thus marking that the entire awakening of the conscience is not merely to committed, but to hereditary guilt.

The light is suspended by a chain, 80 wrapt about the wrist of the figure, showing that the light which reveals sin appears to the sinner also to chain the hand of Christ.

The light which proceeds from the 85 head of the figure, on the contrary, is that of the hope of salvation; it springs from the crown of thorns, and, though itself sad, subdued, and full of softness, is yet so powerful 90 that it entirely melts into the glow of it the forms of the leaves and

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boughs, which it crosses, showing that every earthly object must be hidden 95 by this light, where its sphere extends. I believe there are very few persons on whom the picture, thus justly

understood, will not produce a deep
impression. For my own part, I think
it one of the very noblest works of 100
sacred art ever produced in this or
any other age.

TREASURES HIDDEN IN BOOKS.
[From Sesame and Lilies (1865)]

Granting that we had both the
will and the sense to choose our
friends well, how few of us have the
power! or, at least, how limited, for
5 most, is the sphere of choice! Nearly
all our associations are determined
by chance or necessity; and restricted
within a narrow circle. We cannot
know whom we would; and those
10 whom we know, we cannot have at
our side when we most need them.
All the higher circles of human in-
telligence are, to those beneath, only
momentarily and partially open. We
15 may, by good fortune, obtain a glimpse
of a great poet, and hear the sound
of his voice; or put a question to a
man of science, and be answered
good-humouredly. We may intrude
20 ten minutes' talk on a cabinet min-
ister, answered probably with words
worse than silence, being deceptive;
or snatch, once or twice in our lives,
the privilege of throwing a bouquet
25 in the path of a princess, or arrest-
ing the kind glance of a queen. And
yet these momentary chances we covet;
and spend our years, and passions,
and powers, in pursuit of little more
30 than these; while, meantime, there
is a society continually open to us,
of people who will talk to us as
long as we like, whatever our rank
talk to us in the
or occupation;
35 best words they can choose, and of
the things nearest their hearts. And
this society, because it is so numer-
ous and so gentle, and can be kept
waiting round us all day long,
40 kings and statesmen lingering patient-

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ly, not to grant audience, but to gain it! in those plainly furnished and ante-rooms, our book-case

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shelves, we make no account of that company, perhaps never listen to 45 a word they would say, all day long!

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60

You may tell me, perhaps, or think within yourselves, that the apathy with which we regard this company of the noble, who are praying us to 50 listen to them; and the passion with which we pursue the company, probably of the ignoble, who despise us, or who have nothing to teach us, are grounded in this, that we can 55 see the faces of the living men, and it is themselves, and not their sayings, with which we desire to become familiar. But it is not so. Suppose you never were to see their faces; suppose you could be put behind a screen in the statesman's cabinet, or the prince's chamber, would you not be glad to listen to their words, though you were forbidden to ad- 65 vance beyond the screen? And when the screen is only a little less, folded in two instead of four, and you can be hidden behind the cover of the two boards that bind a book, and 70 listen all day long, not to the casual talk, but to the studied, determined, chosen addresses of the wisest of men; this station of audience, and honourable privy council, you despise! 75

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But perhaps you will say that it is because the living people talk of things that are passing, and are of immediate interest to you, that you desire to hear them. Nay; that can- 80

not be so, for the living people will themselves tell you about passing matters much better in their writings than in their careless talk. Yet I 85 admit that this motive does influence you, so far as you prefer those rapid and ephemeral writings to slow and enduring writings - books, properly so called. For all books are divisible 90 into two classes, the books of the hour, and the books of all time. Mark this distinction it is not one

of quality only. It is not merely the bad book that does not last, and the 95 good one that does. It is a distinction. of species. There are good books for the hour, and good ones for all time; bad books for the hour, and bad ones for all time. I must define 100 the two kinds before I go farther.

The good book of the hour, then, I do not speak of the bad ones, - is simply the useful or pleasant talk of some person whom you can105 not otherwise converse with, printed for you. Very useful often, telling you what you need to know; very pleasant often, as a sensible friend's present talk would be. These bright 110 accounts of travels; good-humoured and witty discussions of question; lively or pathetic story-telling in the form of novel; firm fact-telling, by the real agents concerned in the 115 events of passing history; - all these books of the hour, multiplying among us as education becomes more general, are a peculiar possession of the present age: we ought to be entirely thank120 ful for them, and entirely ashamed

of ourselves if we make no good use of them. But we make the worst possible use if we allow them to usurp the place of true books: 125 for, strictly speaking, they are not books at all, but merely letters or newspapers in good print. Our friend's letter may be delightful, or necessary, to-day: whether worth keeping or

not, is to be considered. The news- 130 paper may be entirely proper at breakfast time, but assuredly it is not reading for all day. So, though bound up in a volume, the long letter which gives you so pleasant 135 an account of the inns, and roads, and weather, last year at such a place, or which tells you that amusing story, or gives you the real circumstances of such and such events, 140 however valuable for occasional reference, may not be, in the real sense of the word, a 'book' at all, nor, in the real sense, to be 'read.' A book is essentially not a talking thing, but 145 a written thing; and written, not with a view of mere communication,

but of permanence. The book of talk is printed only because its author cannot speak to thousands of people 150 at once; if he could, he would the volume is mere multiplication of his voice. You cannot talk to your friend in India; if you could, you would; you write instead: that 155 is mere conveyance of voice. But a book is written, not to multiply the voice merely, not to carry it merely, but to perpetuate it. The author has something to say which he per- 160 ceives to be true and useful, or helpfully beautiful. So far as he knows, no one has yet said it; so far as he knows, no one else can say it. He is bound to say it, clearly and me- 165 lodiously if he may; clearly at all events. In the sum of his life he finds this to be the thing, or group of things, manifest to him; this, the piece of true knowledge, or sight, 170 which his share of sunshine and earth has permitted him to seize. He would fain set it down for ever; engrave it on rock, if he could; saying, "This is the best of me; for 175 the rest, I ate, and drank, and slept, loved, and hated, like another; my life was as the vapour, and is not; but

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