MISCELLANIES BY OSCAR WILDE

DEDICATION: TO WALTER LEDGER

Since these volumes are sure of a place in your marvellous library Itrust that with your unrivalled knowledge of the various editions ofWilde you may not detect any grievous error whether of taste or type, ofomission or commission. But should you do so you must blame the editor, and not those who so patiently assisted him, the proof readers, theprinters, or the publishers. Some day, however, I look forward to yourbibliography of the author, in which you will be at liberty to criticisemy capacity for anything except regard and friendship foryourself. --Sincerely yours, ROBERT ROSS

May 25, 1908. 

INTRODUCTION

The concluding volume of any collected edition is unavoidably fragmentaryand desultory. And if this particular volume is no exception to ageneral tendency, it presents points of view in the author's literarycareer which may have escaped his greatest admirers and detractors. Thewide range of his knowledge and interests is more apparent than in someof his finished work. 

What I believed to be only the fragment of an essay on HistoricalCriticism was already in the press, when accidentally I came across theremaining portions, in Wilde's own handwriting; it is now complete thoughunhappily divided in this edition. {0a} Any doubt as to itsauthenticity, quite apart from the calligraphy, would vanish on readingsuch a characteristic passage as the following:--' . . . For, it was invain that the middle ages strove to guard the buried spirit of progress. When the dawn of the Greek spirit arose, the sepulchre was empty, thegrave clothes laid aside. Humanity had risen from the dead. ' It wasonly Wilde who could contrive a literary conceit of that description; butreaders will observe with different feelings, according to theirtemperament, that he never followed up the particular trend of thoughtdeveloped in the essay. It is indeed more the work of the Berkeley GoldMedallist at Dublin, or the brilliant young Magdalen Demy than of thedramatist who was to write Salome. The composition belongs to his Oxforddays when he was the unsuccessful competitor for the Chancellor's EnglishEssay Prize. Perhaps Magdalen, which has never forgiven herself fornurturing the author of Ravenna, may be felicitated on having escaped thefurther intolerable honour that she might have suffered by seeing crownedagain with paltry academic parsley the most highly gifted of all herchildren in the last century. Compared with the crude criticism on TheGrosvenor Gallery (one of the earliest of Wilde's published prosewritings), Historical Criticism is singularly advanced and mature. Apartfrom his mere scholarship Wilde developed his literary and dramatictalent slowly. He told me that he was never regarded as a particularlyprecocious or clever youth. Indeed many old family friends andcontemporary journalists maintain sturdily that the talent of his elderbrother William was much more remarkable. In this opinion they arefortified, appropriately enough, by the late Clement Scott. I recordthis interesting view because it symbolises the familiar phenomenon thatthose nearest the mountain cannot appreciate its height. 

The exiguous fragment of La Sainte Courtisane is the next unpublishedwork of importance. At the time of Wilde's trial the nearly completeddrama was entrusted to Mrs. Leverson, who in 1897 went to Paris onpurpose to restore it to the author. Wilde immediately left themanuscript in a cab. A few days later he laughingly informed me of theloss, and added that a cab was a very proper place for it. I haveexplained elsewhere that he looked on his plays with disdain in his lastyears, though he was always full of schemes for writing others. All myattempts to recover the lost work failed. The passages here reprintedare from some odd leaves of a first draft. The play is of course notunlike Salome, though it was written in English. It expanded Wilde'sfavourite theory that when you convert some one to an idea, you lose yourfaith in it; the same motive runs through Mr. W. H. Honorius the hermit, so far as I recollect the story, falls in love with the courtesan who hascome to tempt him, and he reveals to her the secret of the Love of God. She immediately becomes a Christian, and is murdered by robbers; Honoriusthe hermit goes back to Alexandria to pursue a life of pleasure. Twoother similar plays Wilde invented in prison, Ahab and Isabel andPharaoh; he would never write them down, though often importuned to doso. Pharaoh was intensely dramatic and perhaps more original than any ofthe group. None of these works must be confused with the manuscriptsstolen from 16 Tite Street in 1895--namely the enlarged version of Mr. W. H. , the completed form of A Florentine Tragedy, and The Duchess of Padua(which existing in a prompt copy was of less importance than the others);nor with The Cardinal of Arragon, the manuscript of which I never saw. Iscarcely think it ever existed, though Wilde used to recite proposedpassages for it. 

In regard to printing the lectures I have felt some diffidence: themajority of them were delivered from notes, and the same lectures wererepeated in different towns in England and America. The reports of themin the papers are never trustworthy; they are often grotesque travesties, like the reports of after-dinner speeches in the London press of today. Ihave included only those lectures of which I possess or could obtainmanuscript. 

The aim of this edition has been completeness; and it is complete so faras human effort can make it; but besides the lost manuscripts there mustbe buried in the contemporary press many anonymous reviews which I havefailed to identify. The remaining contents of this book do not call forfurther comment, other than a reminder that Wilde would hardly haveconsented to their republication. But owing to the number of anonymousworks wrongly attributed to him, chiefly in America, and spurious workspublished in his name, I found it necessary to violate the laws offriendship by rejecting nothing I knew to be authentic. It will be seenon reference to the letters on The Ethics of Journalism that Wilde's nameappearing at the end of poems and articles was not always a proof ofauthenticity even in his lifetime. 

Of the few letters Wilde wrote to the press, those addressed to WhistlerI have included with greater misgiving than anything else in this volume. They do not seem to me more amusing than those to which they were theintended rejoinders. But the dates are significant. Wilde was at onetime always accused of plagiarising his ideas and his epigrams fromWhistler, especially those with which he decorated his lectures, theaccusation being brought by Whistler himself and his various disciples. It should be noted that all the works by which Wilde is known throughoutEurope were written _after_ the two friends quarrelled. That Wildederived a great deal from the older man goes without saying, just as hederived much in a greater degree from Pater, Ruskin, Arnold and Burne-Jones. Yet the tedious attempt to recognise in every jest of his someoriginal by Whistler induces the criticism that it seems a pity the greatpainter did not get them off on the public before he was forestalled. Reluctance from an appeal to publicity was never a weakness in either ofthe men. Some of Wilde's more frequently quoted sayings were made at theOld Bailey (though their provenance is often forgotten) or on his death-bed. 

As a matter of fact, the genius of the two men was entirely different. Wilde was a humourist and a humanist before everything; and his wittiestjests have neither the relentlessness nor the keenness characterisingthose of the clever American artist. Again, Whistler could no more haveobtained the Berkeley Gold Medal for Greek, nor have written TheImportance of Being Earnest, nor The Soul of Man, than Wilde, even ifequipped as a painter, could ever have evinced that superb restraintdistinguishing the portraits of 'Miss Alexander, ' 'Carlyle, ' and othermasterpieces. Wilde, though it is not generally known, was something ofa draughtsman in his youth. I possess several of his drawings. 

A complete bibliography including all the foreign translations andAmerican piracies would make a book of itself much larger than thepresent one. In order that Wilde collectors (and there are many, Ibelieve) may know the authorised editions and authentic writings from thespurious, Mr. Stuart Mason, whose work on this edition I have alreadyacknowledged, has supplied a list which contains every _genuine_ and_authorised_ English edition. This of course does not preclude thechance that some of the American editions are authorised, and that someof Wilde's genuine works even are included in the pirated editions. 

I am indebted to the Editors and Proprietors of the Queen for leave toreproduce the article on 'English Poetesses'; to the Editor andProprietors of the Sunday Times for the article entitled 'Art at Willis'sRooms'; and to Mr. William Waldorf Astor for those from the Pall MallGazette. 

ROBERT ROSS

THE TOMB OF KEATS

(Irish Monthly, July 1877. )

As one enters Rome from the Via Ostiensis by the Porta San Paolo, thefirst object that meets the eye is a marble pyramid which stands close athand on the left. 

There are many Egyptian obelisks in Rome--tall, snakelike spires of redsandstone, mottled with strange writings, which remind us of the pillarsof flame which led the children of Israel through the desert away fromthe land of the Pharaohs; but more wonderful than these to look upon isthis gaunt, wedge-shaped pyramid standing here in this Italian city, unshattered amid the ruins and wrecks of time, looking older than theEternal City itself, like terrible impassiveness turned to stone. And soin the Middle Ages men supposed this to be the sepulchre of Remus, whowas slain by his own brother at the founding of the city, so ancient andmysterious it appears; but we have now, perhaps unfortunately, moreaccurate information about it, and know that it is the tomb of one CaiusCestius, a Roman gentleman of small note, who died about 30 B. C. 

Yet though we cannot care much for the dead man who lies in lonely statebeneath it, and who is only known to the world through his sepulchre, still this pyramid will be ever dear to the eyes of all English-speakingpeople, because at evening its shadows fall on the tomb of one who walkswith Spenser, and Shakespeare, and Byron, and Shelley, and ElizabethBarrett Browning in the great procession of the sweet singers of England. 

For at its foot there is a green, sunny slope, known as the OldProtestant Cemetery, and on this a common-looking grave, which bears thefollowing inscription:

 This grave contains all that was mortal of a young English poet, who on his deathbed, in the bitterness of his heart, desired these words to be engraven on his tombstone: HERE LIES ONE WHOSE NAME WAS WRIT IN WATER. February 24, 1821. 

And the name of the young English poet is John Keats. 

Lord Houghton calls this cemetery 'one of the most beautiful spots onwhich the eye and heart of man can rest, ' and Shelley speaks of it asmaking one 'in love with death, to think that one should be buried in sosweet a place'; and indeed when I saw the violets and the daisies and thepoppies that overgrow the tomb, I remembered how the dead poet had oncetold his friend that he thought the 'intensest pleasure he had receivedin life was in watching the growth of flowers, ' and how another time, after lying a while quite still, he murmured in some strange prescienceof early death, 'I feel the flowers growing over me. '

But this time-worn stone and these wildflowers are but poor memorials {3}of one so great as Keats; most of all, too, in this city of Rome, whichpays such honour to her dead; where popes, and emperors, and saints, andcardinals lie hidden in 'porphyry wombs, ' or couched in baths of jasperand chalcedony and malachite, ablaze with precious stones and metals, andtended with continual service. For very noble is the site, and worthy ofa noble monument; behind looms the grey pyramid, symbol of the world'sage, and filled with memories of the sphinx, and the lotus leaf, and theglories of old Nile; in front is the Monte Testaccio, built, it is said, with the broken fragments of the vessels in which all the nations of theEast and the West brought their tribute to Rome; and a little distanceoff, along the slope of the hill under the Aurelian wall, some tall gauntcypresses rise, like burnt-out funeral torches, to mark the spot whereShelley's heart (that 'heart of hearts'!) lies in the earth; and, aboveall, the soil on which we tread is very Rome!

As I stood beside the mean grave of this divine boy, I thought of him asof a Priest of Beauty slain before his time; and the vision of Guido'sSt. Sebastian came before my eyes as I saw him at Genoa, a lovely brownboy, with crisp, clustering hair and red lips, bound by his evil enemiesto a tree, and though pierced by arrows, raising his eyes with divine, impassioned gaze towards the Eternal Beauty of the opening heavens. Andthus my thoughts shaped themselves to rhyme:

 HEU MISERANDE PUER

 Rid of the world's injustice and its pain, He rests at last beneath God's veil of blue; Taken from life while life and love were new The youngest of the martyrs here is lain, Fair as Sebastian and as foully slain. No cypress shades his grave, nor funeral yew, But red-lipped daisies, violets drenched with dew, And sleepy poppies, catch the evening rain. 

 O proudest heart that broke for misery! O saddest poet that the world hath seen! O sweetest singer of the English land! Thy name was writ in water on the sand, But our tears shall keep thy memory green, And make it flourish like a Basil-tree. 

 Borne, 1877. 

Note. --A later version of this sonnet, under the title of 'The Grave ofKeats, ' is given in the Poems, page 157. 

THE GROSVENOR GALLERY, 1877

(Dublin University Magazine, July 1877. )

That 'Art is long and life is short' is a truth which every one feels, orought to feel; yet surely those who were in London last May, and had inone week the opportunities of hearing Rubenstein play the SonataImpassionata, of seeing Wagner conduct the Spinning-Wheel Chorus from theFlying Dutchman, and of studying art at the Grosvenor Gallery, have verylittle to complain of as regards human existence and art-pleasures. 

Descriptions of music are generally, perhaps, more or less failures, formusic is a matter of individual feeling, and the beauties and lessonsthat one draws from hearing lovely sounds are mainly personal, and dependto a large extent on one's own state of mind and culture. So leavingRubenstein and Wagner to be celebrated by Franz Huffer, or Mr. Haweis, orany other of our picturesque writers on music, I will describe some ofthe pictures now being shown in the Grosvenor Gallery. 

The origin of this Gallery is as follows: About a year ago the ideaoccurred to Sir Coutts Lindsay of building a public gallery, in which, untrammelled by the difficulties or meannesses of 'Hanging Committees, 'he could exhibit to the lovers of art the works of certain great livingartists side by side: a gallery in which the student would not have tostruggle through an endless monotony of mediocre works in order to reachwhat was worth looking at; one in which the people of England could havethe opportunity of judging of the merits of at least one great master ofpainting, whose pictures had been kept from public exhibition by thejealousy and ignorance of rival artists. Accordingly, last May, in NewBond Street, the Grosvenor Gallery was opened to the public. 

As far as the Gallery itself is concerned, there are only three rooms, sothere is no fear of our getting that terrible weariness of mind and eyewhich comes on after the 'Forced Marches' through ordinary picturegalleries. The walls are hung with scarlet damask above a dado of dullgreen and gold; there are luxurious velvet couches, beautiful flowers andplants, tables of gilded and inlaid marbles, covered with Japanese chinaand the latest 'Minton, ' globes of 'rainbow glass' like largesoap-bubbles, and, in fine, everything in decoration that is lovely tolook on, and in harmony with the surrounding works of art. 

Burne-Jones and Holman Hunt are probably the greatest masters of colourthat we have ever had in England, with the single exception of Turner, but their styles differ widely. To draw a rough distinction, Holman Huntstudies and reproduces the colours of natural objects, and deals withhistorical subjects, or scenes of real life, mostly from the East, touched occasionally with a certain fancifulness, as in the Shadow of theCross. Burne-Jones, on the contrary, is a dreamer in the land ofmythology, a seer of fairy visions, a symbolical painter. He is animaginative colourist too, knowing that all colour is no mere delightfulquality of natural things, but a 'spirit upon them by which they becomeexpressive to the spirit, ' as Mr. Pater says. Watts's power, on theother hand, lies in his great originative and imaginative genius, and hereminds us of AEschylus or Michael Angelo in the startling vividness ofhis conceptions. Although these three painters differ much in aim and inresult, they yet are one in their faith, and love, and reverence, thethree golden keys to the gate of the House Beautiful. 

On entering the West Gallery the first picture that meets the eye is Mr. Watts's Love and Death, a large painting, representing a marble doorway, all overgrown with white-starred jasmine and sweet brier-rose. Death, agiant form, veiled in grey draperies, is passing in with inevitable andmysterious power, breaking through all the flowers. One foot is alreadyon the threshold, and one relentless hand is extended, while Love, abeautiful boy with lithe brown limbs and rainbow-coloured wings, allshrinking like a crumpled leaf, is trying, with vain hands, to bar theentrance. A little dove, undisturbed by the agony of the terribleconflict, waits patiently at the foot of the steps for her playmate; butwill wait in vain, for though the face of Death is hidden from us, yet wecan see from the terror in the boy's eyes and quivering lips, that, Medusa-like, this grey phantom turns all it looks upon to stone; and thewings of Love are rent and crushed. Except on the ceiling of the SistineChapel in Rome, there are perhaps few paintings to compare with this inintensity of strength and in marvel of conception. It is worthy to rankwith Michael Angelo's God Dividing the Light from the Darkness. 

Next to it are hung five pictures by Millais. Three of them areportraits of the three daughters of the Duke of Westminster, all in whitedresses, with white hats and feathers; the delicacy of the colour beingrather injured by the red damask background. These pictures do notpossess any particular merit beyond that of being extremely goodlikenesses, especially the one of the Marchioness of Ormonde. Over themis hung a picture of a seamstress, pale and vacant-looking, with eyes redfrom tears and long watchings in the night, hemming a shirt. It is meantto illustrate Hood's familiar poem. As we look on it, a terriblecontrast strikes us between this miserable pauper-seamstress and thethree beautiful daughters of the richest duke in the world, which breaksthrough any artistic reveries by its awful vividness. 

The fifth picture is a profile head of a young man with delicate aquilinenose, thoughtful oval face, and artistic, abstracted air, which will beeasily recognised as a portrait of Lord Ronald Gower, who is himselfknown as an artist and sculptor. But no one would discern in these fivepictures the genius that painted the Home at Bethlehem and the portraitof John Ruskin which is at Oxford. 

Then come eight pictures by Alma Tadema, good examples of that accuratedrawing of inanimate objects which makes his pictures so real from anantiquarian point of view, and of the sweet subtlety of colouring whichgives to them a magic all their own. One represents some Roman girlsbathing in a marble tank, and the colour of the limbs in the water isvery perfect indeed; a dainty attendant is tripping down a flight ofsteps with a bundle of towels, and in the centre a great green sphinx inbronze throws forth a shower of sparkling water for a very prettylaughing girl, who stoops gleefully beneath it. There is a delightfulsense of coolness about the picture, and one can almost imagine that onehears the splash of water, and the girls' chatter. It is wonderful whata world of atmosphere and reality may be condensed into a very smallspace, for this picture is only about eleven by two and a half inches. 

The most ambitious of these pictures is one of Phidias Showing the Friezeof the Parthenon to his Friends. We are supposed to be on a highscaffolding level with the frieze, and the effect of great heightproduced by glimpses of light between the planking of the floor is verycleverly managed. But there is a want of individuality among theconnoisseurs clustered round Phidias, and the frieze itself is veryinaccurately coloured. The Greek boys who are riding and leading thehorses are painted Egyptian red, and the whole design is done in thisred, dark blue, and black. This sombre colouring is un-Greek; thefigures of these boys were undoubtedly tinted with flesh colour, like theordinary Greek statues, and the whole tone of the colouring of theoriginal frieze was brilliant and light; while one of its chief beauties, the reins and accoutrements of burnished metal, is quite omitted. Thispainter is more at home in the Greco-Roman art of the Empire and laterRepublic than he is in the art of the Periclean age. 

The most remarkable of Mr. Richmond's pictures exhibited here is hisElectra at the Tomb of Agamemnon--a very magnificent subject, to which, however, justice is not done. Electra and her handmaidens are groupedgracefully around the tomb of the murdered King; but there is a want ofhumanity in the scene: there is no trace of that passionate Asiaticmourning for the dead to which the Greek women were so prone, and whichAEschylus describes with such intensity; nor would Greek women have cometo pour libations to the dead in such bright-coloured dresses as Mr. Richmond has given them; clearly this artist has not studied AEschylus'play of the Choephori, in which there is an elaborate and patheticaccount of this scene. The tall, twisted tree-stems, however, that formthe background are fine and original in effect, and Mr. Richmond hascaught exactly that peculiar opal-blue of the sky which is so remarkablein Greece; the purple orchids too, and daffodil and narcissi that are inthe foreground are all flowers which I have myself seen at Argos. 

Sir Coutts Lindsay sends a life-size portrait of his wife, holding aviolin, which has some good points of colour and position, and four otherpictures, including an exquisitely simple and quaint little picture ofthe Dower House at Balcarres, and a Daphne with rather questionable flesh-painting, and in whom we miss the breathlessness of flight. 

 I saw the blush come o'er her like a rose; The half-reluctant crimson comes and goes; Her glowing limbs make pause, and she is stayed Wondering the issue of the words she prayed. 

It is a great pity that Holman Hunt is not represented by any of hisreally great works, such as the Finding of Christ in the Temple, orIsabella Mourning over the Pot of Basil, both of which are fair samplesof his powers. Four pictures of his are shown here: a little Italianchild, painted with great love and sweetness, two street scenes in Cairofull of rich Oriental colouring, and a wonderful work called theAfterglow in Egypt. It represents a tall swarthy Egyptian woman, in arobe of dark and light blue, carrying a green jar on her shoulder, and asheaf of grain on her head; around her comes fluttering a flock ofbeautiful doves of all colours, eager to be fed. Behind is a wide flatriver, and across the river a stretch of ripe corn, through which a gauntcamel is being driven; the sun has set, and from the west comes a greatwave of red light like wine poured out on the land, yet not crimson, aswe see the Afterglow in Northern Europe, but a rich pink like that of arose. As a study of colour it is superb, but it is difficult to feel ahuman interest in this Egyptian peasant. 

Mr. Albert Moore sends some of his usual pictures of women, which asstudies of drapery and colour effects are very charming. One of them, atall maiden, in a robe of light blue clasped at the neck with a glowingsapphire, and with an orange headdress, is a very good example of thehighest decorative art, and a perfect delight in colour. 

Mr. Spencer Stanhope's picture of Eve Tempted is one of the remarkablepictures of the Gallery. Eve, a fair woman, of surpassing loveliness, isleaning against a bank of violets, underneath the apple tree; naked, except for the rich thick folds of gilded hair which sweep down from herhead like the bright rain in which Zeus came to Danae. The head isdrooped a little forward as a flower droops when the dew has fallenheavily, and her eyes are dimmed with the haze that comes in moments ofdoubtful thought. One arm falls idly by her side; the other is raisedhigh over her head among the branches, her delicate fingers just meetinground one of the burnished apples that glow amidst the leaves like'golden lamps in a green night. ' An amethyst-coloured serpent, with adevilish human head, is twisting round the trunk of the tree and breathesinto the woman's ear a blue flame of evil counsel. At the feet of Evebright flowers are growing, tulips, narcissi, lilies, and anemones, allpainted with a loving patience that reminds us of the older Florentinemasters; after whose example, too, Mr. Stanhope has used gilding forEve's hair and for the bright fruits. 

Next to it is another picture by the same artist, entitled Love and theMaiden. A girl has fallen asleep in a wood of olive trees, through whosebranches and grey leaves we can see the glimmer of sky and sea, with alittle seaport town of white houses shining in the sunlight. The olivewood is ever sacred to the Virgin Pallas, the Goddess of Wisdom; and whowould have dreamed of finding Eros hidden there? But the girl wakes up, as one wakes from sleep one knows not why, to see the face of the boyLove, who, with outstretched hands, is leaning towards her from the midstof a rhododendron's crimson blossoms. A rose-garland presses the boy'sbrown curls, and he is clad in a tunic of oriental colours, anddelicately sensuous are his face and his bared limbs. His boyish beautyis of that peculiar type unknown in Northern Europe, but common in theGreek islands, where boys can still be found as beautiful as theCharmides of Plato. Guido's St. Sebastian in the Palazzo Rosso at Genoais one of those boys, and Perugino once drew a Greek Ganymede for hisnative town, but the painter who most shows the influence of this type isCorreggio, whose lily-bearer in the Cathedral at Parma, and whose wild-eyed, open-mouthed St. Johns in the 'Incoronata Madonna' of St. GiovanniEvangelista, are the best examples in art of the bloom and vitality andradiance of this adolescent beauty. And so there is extreme lovelinessin this figure of Love by Mr. Stanhope, and the whole picture is full ofgrace, though there is, perhaps, too great a luxuriance of colour, and itwould have been a relief had the girl been dressed in pure white. 

Mr. Frederick Burton, of whom all Irishmen are so justly proud, isrepresented by a fine water-colour portrait of Mrs. George Smith; onewould almost believe it to be in oils, so great is the lustre on thislady's raven-black hair, and so rich and broad and vigorous is thepainting of a Japanese scarf she is wearing. Then as we turn to the eastwall of the gallery we see the three great pictures of Burne-Jones, theBeguiling of Merlin, the Days of Creation, and the Mirror of Venus. Theversion of the legend of Merlin's Beguiling that Mr. Burne-Jones hasfollowed differs from Mr. Tennyson's and from the account in the Morted'Arthur. It is taken from the Romance of Merlin, which tells the storyin this wise:

 It fell on a day that they went through the forest of Breceliande, and found a bush that was fair and high, of white hawthorn, full of flowers, and there they sat in the shadow. And Merlin fell on sleep; and when she felt that he was on sleep she arose softly, and began her enchantments, such as Merlin had taught her, and made the ring nine times, and nine times the enchantments. 

 . . . . . 

 And then he looked about him, and him seemed he was in the fairest tower of the world, and the most strong; neither of iron was it fashioned, nor steel, nor timber, nor of stone, but of the air, without any other thing; and in sooth so strong it is that it may never be undone while the world endureth. 

So runs the chronicle; and thus Mr. Burne-Jones, the 'Archimage of theesoteric unreal, ' treats the subject. Stretched upon a low branch of thetree, and encircled with the glory of the white hawthorn-blossoms, halfsits, half lies, the great enchanter. He is not drawn as Mr. Tennysonhas described him, with the 'vast and shaggy mantle of a beard, ' whichyouth gone out had left in ashes; smooth and clear-cut and very pale ishis face; time has not seared him with wrinkles or the signs of age; onewould hardly know him to be old were it not that he seems very weary ofseeking into the mysteries of the world, and that the great sadness thatis born of wisdom has cast a shadow on him. But now what availeth himhis wisdom or his arts? His eyes, that saw once so clear, are dim andglazed with coming death, and his white and delicate hands that wroughtof old such works of marvel, hang listlessly. Vivien, a tall, lithewoman, beautiful and subtle to look on, like a snake, stands in front ofhim, reading the fatal spell from the enchanted book; mocking the utterhelplessness of him whom once her lying tongue had called

 Her lord and liege, Her seer, her bard, her silver star of eve, Her god, her Merlin, the one passionate love Of her whole life. 

In her brown crisp hair is the gleam of a golden snake, and she is cladin a silken robe of dark violet that clings tightly to her limbs, moreexpressing than hiding them; the colour of this dress is like the colourof a purple sea-shell, broken here and there with slight gleams of silverand pink and azure; it has a strange metallic lustre like the iris-neckof the dove. Were this Mr. Burne-Jones's only work it would be enough ofitself to make him rank as a great painter. The picture is full ofmagic; and the colour is truly a spirit dwelling on things and makingthem expressive to the spirit, for the delicate tones of grey, and green, and violet seem to convey to us the idea of languid sleep, and even thehawthorn-blossoms have lost their wonted brightness, and are more likethe pale moonlight to which Shelley compared them, than the sheet ofsummer snow we see now in our English fields. 

The next picture is divided into six compartments, each representing aday in the Creation of the World, under the symbol of an angel holding acrystal globe, within which is shown the work of a day. In the firstcompartment stands the lonely angel of the First Day, and within thecrystal ball Light is being separated from Darkness. In the fourthcompartment are four angels, and the crystal glows like a heated opal, for within it the creation of the Sun, Moon, and Stars is passing; thenumber of the angels increases, and the colours grow more vivid till wereach the sixth compartment, which shines afar off like a rainbow. Withinit are the six angels of the Creation, each holding its crystal ball; andwithin the crystal of the sixth angel one can see Adam's strong brownlimbs and hero form, and the pale, beautiful body of Eve. At the feetalso of these six winged messengers of the Creator is sitting the angelof the Seventh Day, who on a harp of gold is singing the glories of thatcoming day which we have not yet seen. The faces of the angels are paleand oval-shaped, in their eyes is the light of Wisdom and Love, and theirlips seem as if they would speak to us; and strength and beauty are intheir wings. They stand with naked feet, some on shell-strewn sandswhereon tide has never washed nor storm broken, others it seems on poolsof water, others on strange flowers; and their hair is like the brightglory round a saint's head. 

The scene of the third picture is laid on a long green valley by the sea;eight girls, handmaidens of the Goddess of Love, are collected by themargin of a long pool of clear water, whose surface no wandering wind orflapping bird has ruffled; but the large flat leaves of the water-lilyfloat on it undisturbed, and clustering forget-me-nots rise here andthere like heaps of scattered turquoise. 

In this Mirror of Venus each girl is reflected as in a mirror of polishedsteel. Some of them bend over the pool in laughing wonder at their ownbeauty, others, weary of shadows, are leaning back, and one girl isstanding straight up; and nothing of her is reflected in the pool but aglimmer of white feet. This picture, however, has not the intense pathosand tragedy of the Beguiling of Merlin, nor the mystical and lovelysymbolism of the Days of the Creation. Above these three pictures arehung five allegorical studies of figures by the same artist, all worthyof his fame. 

Mr. Walter Crane, who has illustrated so many fairy tales for children, sends an ambitious work called the Renaissance of Venus, which in thedull colour of its 'sunless dawn, ' and in its general want of all theglow and beauty and passion that one associates with this scene remindsone of Botticelli's picture of the same subject. After Mr. Swinburne'ssuperb description of the sea-birth of the goddess in his Hymn toProserpine, it is very strange to find a cultured artist of feelingproducing such a vapid Venus as this. The best thing in it is thepainting of an apple tree: the time of year is spring, and the leaveshave not yet come, but the tree is laden with pink and white blossoms, which stand out in beautiful relief against the pale blue of the sky, andare very true to nature. 

M. Alphonse Legros sends nine pictures, and there is a natural curiosityto see the work of a gentleman who holds at Cambridge the sameprofessorship as Mr. Ruskin does at Oxford. Four of these are studies ofmen's heads, done in two hours each for his pupils at the Slade Schools. There is a good deal of vigorous, rough execution about them, and theyare marvels of rapid work. His portrait of Mr. Carlyle isunsatisfactory; and even in No. 79, a picture of two scarlet-robedbishops, surrounded by Spanish monks, his colour is very thin and meagre. A good bit of painting is of some metal pots in a picture called LeChaudronnier. 

Mr. Leslie, unfortunately, is represented only by one small work, calledPalm-blossom. It is a picture of a perfectly lovely child that remindsone of Sir Joshua's cherubs in the National Gallery, with a mouth liketwo petals of a rose; the under-lip, as Rossetti says quaintly somewhere, 'sucked in, as if it strove to kiss itself. '

Then we come to the most abused pictures in the whole Exhibition--the'colour symphonies' of the 'Great Dark Master, ' Mr. Whistler, whodeserves the name of '[Greek] as much as Heraclitus ever did. Theirtitles do not convey much information. No. 4 is called Nocturne in Blackand Gold, No. 6A Nocturne in Blue and Silver, and so on. The first ofthese represents a rocket of golden rain, with green and red firesbursting in a perfectly black sky, two large black smudges on the picturestanding, I believe, for a tower which is in 'Cremorne Gardens' and for acrowd of lookers-on. The other is rather prettier; a rocket is breakingin a pale blue sky over a large dark blue bridge and a blue and silverriver. These pictures are certainly worth looking at for about as longas one looks at a real rocket, that is, for somewhat less than a quarterof a minute. 

No. 7 is called Arrangement in Black No. 3, apparently some pseudonym forour greatest living actor, for out of black smudgy clouds comes loomingthe gaunt figure of Mr. Henry Irving, with the yellow hair and pointedbeard, the ruff, short cloak, and tight hose in which he appeared asPhilip II. In Tennyson's play Queen Mary. One hand is thrust into hisbreast, and his legs are stuck wide apart in a queer stiff position thatMr. Irving often adopts preparatory to one of his long, wolflike stridesacross the stage. The figure is life-size, and, though apparently one-armed, is so ridiculously like the original that one cannot help almostlaughing when one sees it. And we may imagine that any one who had themisfortune to be shut up at night in the Grosvenor Gallery would hearthis Arrangement in Black No. 3 murmuring in the well-known Lyceumaccents:

 By St. James, I do protest, Upon the faith and honour of a Spaniard, I am vastly grieved to leave your Majesty. Simon, is supper ready?

Nos. 8 and 9 are life-size portraits of two young ladies, evidentlycaught in a black London fog; they look like sisters, but are not relatedprobably, as one is a Harmony in Amber and Black, the other only anArrangement in Brown. 

Mr. Whistler, however, sends one really good picture to this exhibition, a portrait of Mr. Carlyle, which is hung in the entrance hall; theexpression on the old man's face, the texture and colour of his greyhair, and the general sympathetic treatment, show Mr. Whistler {19} to bean artist of very great power when he likes. 

There is not so much in the East Gallery that calls for notice. Mr. Leighton is unfortunately represented only by two little heads, one of anItalian girl, the other called A Study. There is some delicate fleshpainting of red and brown in these works that reminds one of a russetapple, but of course they are no samples of this artist's great strength. There are two good portraits--one of Mrs. Burne-Jones, by Mr. Poynter. This lady has a very delicate, artistic face, reminding us, perhaps, alittle of one of the angels her husband has painted. She is representedin a white dress, with a perfectly gigantic old-fashioned watch hung toher waist, drinking tea from an old blue china cup. The other is a headof the Duchess of Westminster by Mr. Forbes-Robertson, who both as anactor and an artist has shown great cleverness. He has succeeded verywell in reproducing the calm, beautiful profile and lustrous golden hair, but the shoulders are ungraceful, and very unlike the original. Thefigure of a girl leaning against a wonderful screen, looking terribly'misunderstood, ' and surrounded by any amount of artistic china andfurniture, by Mrs. Louise Jopling, is worth looking at too. It is calledIt Might Have Been, and the girl is quite fit to be the heroine of anysentimental novel. 

The two largest contributors to this gallery are Mr. Ferdinand Heilbuthand Mr. James Tissot. The first of these two artists sends somedelightful pictures from Rome, two of which are particularly pleasing. One is of an old Cardinal in the Imperial scarlet of the Caesars meetinga body of young Italian boys in purple soutanes, students evidently insome religious college, near the Church of St. John Lateran. One of theboys is being presented to the Cardinal, and looks very nervous under theoperation; the rest gaze in wonder at the old man in his beautiful dress. The other picture is a view in the gardens of the Villa Borghese; aCardinal has sat down on a marble seat in the shade of the trees, and issuspending his meditation for a moment to smile at a pretty child to whoma French bonne is pointing out the gorgeously dressed old gentleman; aflunkey in attendance on the Cardinal looks superciliously on. 

Nearly all of Mr. Tissot's pictures are deficient in feeling and depth;his young ladies are too fashionably over-dressed to interest theartistic eye, and he has a hard unscrupulousness in paintinguninteresting objects in an uninteresting way. There is some good colourand drawing, however, in his painting of a withered chestnut tree, withthe autumn sun glowing through the yellow leaves, in a picnic scene, No. 23; the remainder of the picture being something in the photographicstyle of Frith. 

What a gap in art there is between such a picture as the Banquet of theCivic Guard in Holland, with its beautiful grouping of noble-looking men, its exquisite Venetian glass aglow with light and wine, and Mr. Tissot'sover-dressed, common-looking people, and ugly, painfully accuraterepresentation of modern soda-water bottles!

Mr. Tissot's Widower, however, shines in qualities which his otherpictures lack; it is full of depth and suggestiveness; the grasses andwild, luxuriant growth of the foreground are a revel of natural life. 

We must notice besides in this gallery Mr. Watts's two powerful portraitsof Mr. Burne-Jones and Lady Lindsay. 

To get to the Water-Colour Room we pass through a small sculpturegallery, which contains some busts of interest, and a pretty terra-cottafigure of a young sailor, by Count Gleichen, entitled Cheeky, but it isnot remarkable in any way, and contrasts very unfavourably with theExhibition of Sculpture at the Royal Academy, in which are three reallyfine works of art--Mr. Leighton's Man Struggling with a Snake, which maybe thought worthy of being looked on side by side with the Laocoon of theVatican, and Lord Ronald Gower's two statues, one of a dying FrenchGuardsman at the Battle of Waterloo, the other of Marie Antoinette beingled to execution with bound hands, Queenlike and noble to the last. 

The collection of water-colours is mediocre; there is a good effect ofMr. Poynter's, the east wind seen from a high cliff sweeping down on thesea like the black wings of some god; and some charming pictures of FairyLand by Mr. Richard Doyle, which would make good illustrations for one ofMr. Allingham's Fairy-Poems, but the tout-ensemble is poor. 

Taking a general view of the works exhibited here, we see that this dullland of England, with its short summer, its dreary rains and fogs, itsmining districts and factories, and vile deification of machinery, hasyet produced very great masters of art, men with a subtle sense and loveof what is beautiful, original, and noble in imagination. 

Nor are the art-treasures of this country at all exhausted by thisExhibition; there are very many great pictures by living artists hiddenaway in different places, which those of us who are yet boys have neverseen, and which our elders must wish to see again. 

Holman Hunt has done better work than the Afterglow in Egypt; neitherMillais, Leighton, nor Poynter has sent any of the pictures on which hisfame rests; neither Burne-Jones nor Watts shows us here all the gloriesof his art; and the name of that strange genius who wrote the Vision ofLove revealed in Sleep, and the names of Dante Rossetti and of theMarchioness of Waterford, cannot be found in the catalogue. And so it isto be hoped that this is not the only exhibition of paintings that weshall see in the Grosvenor Gallery; and Sir Coutts Lindsay, in showing usgreat works of art, will be most materially aiding that revival ofculture and love of beauty which in great part owes its birth to Mr. Ruskin, and which Mr. Swinburne, and Mr. Pater, and Mr. Symonds, and Mr. Morris, and many others, are fostering and keeping alive, each in his ownpeculiar fashion. 

THE GROSVENOR GALLERY 1879

(Saunders' Irish Daily News, May 5, 1879. )

While the yearly exhibition of the Royal Academy may be said to presentus with the general characteristics of ordinary English art at its mostcommonplace level, it is at the Grosvenor Gallery that we are enabled tosee the highest development of the modern artistic spirit as well as whatone might call its specially accentuated tendencies. 

Foremost among the great works now exhibited at this gallery are Mr. Burne-Jones's Annunciation and his four pictures illustrating the Greeklegend of Pygmalion--works of the very highest importance in our aestheticdevelopment as illustrative of some of the more exquisite qualities ofmodern culture. In the first the Virgin Mary, a passionless, pale woman, with that mysterious sorrow whose meaning she was so soon to learnmirrored in her wan face, is standing, in grey drapery, by a marblefountain, in what seems the open courtyard of an empty and silent house, while through the branches of a tall olive tree, unseen by the Virgin'stear-dimmed eyes, is descending the angel Gabriel with his joyful andterrible message, not painted as Angelico loved to do, in the variedsplendour of peacock-like wings and garments of gold and crimson, butsomewhat sombre in colour, set with all the fine grace of nobly-fashioneddrapery and exquisitely ordered design. In presence of what may becalled the mediaeval spirit may be discerned both the idea and thetechnique of the work, and even still more so in the four pictures of thestory of Pygmalion, where the sculptor is represented in dress and inlooks rather as a Christian St. Francis, than as a pure Greek artist inthe first morning tide of art, creating his own ideal, and worshippingit. For delicacy and melody of colour these pictures are beyond praise, nor can anything exceed the idyllic loveliness of Aphrodite waking thestatue into sensuous life: the world above her head like a brittle globeof glass, her feet resting on a drift of the blue sky, and a choir ofdoves fluttering around her like a fall of white snow. Following in thesame school of ideal and imaginative painting is Miss Evelyn Pickering, whose picture of St. Catherine, in the Dudley of some years ago, attracted such great attention. To the present gallery she hascontributed a large picture of Night and Sleep, twin brothers floatingover the world in indissoluble embrace, the one spreading the cloak ofdarkness, while from the other's listless hands the Leathean poppies fallin a scarlet shower. Mr. Strudwich sends a picture of Isabella, whichrealises in some measure the pathos of Keats's poem, and another of thelover in the lily garden from the Song of Solomon, both works full ofdelicacy of design and refinement of detail, yet essentially weak incolour, and in comparison with the splendid Giorgione-like work of Mr. Fairfax Murray, are more like the coloured drawings of the modern Germanschool than what we properly call a painting. The last-named artist, while essentially weak in draughtsmanship, yet possesses the higherquality of noble colour in the fullest degree. 

The draped figures of men and women in his Garland Makers, and Pastoral, some wrought in that single note of colour which the earlier Florentinesloved, others with all the varied richness and glow of the Venetianschool, show what great results may be brought about by a youth spent inItalian cities. And finally I must notice the works contributed to thisGallery by that most powerful of all our English artists, Mr. G. F. Watts, the extraordinary width and reach of whose genius were never moreillustrated than by the various pictures bearing his name which are hereexhibited. His Paolo and Francesca, and his Orpheus and Eurydice, arecreative visions of the very highest order of imaginative painting;marked as it is with all the splendid vigour of nobly ordered design, thelast-named picture possesses qualities of colour no less great. Thewhite body of the dying girl, drooping like a pale lily, and the clingingarms of her lover, whose strong brown limbs seem filled with all thesensuous splendour of passionate life, form a melancholy and wonderfulnote of colour to which the eye continually returns as indicating themotive of the conception. Yet here I would dwell rather on two pictureswhich show the splendid simplicity and directness of his strength, theone a portrait of himself, the other that of a little child calledDorothy, who has all that sweet gravity and look of candour which we liketo associate with that old-fashioned name: a child with bright ripplinghair, tangled like floss silk, open brown eyes and flower-like mouth;dressed in faded claret, with little lace about the neck and throat, toned down to a delicate grey--the hands simply clasped before her. Thisis the picture; as truthful and lovely as any of those Brignoli childrenwhich Vandyke has painted in Genoa. Nor is his own picture ofhimself--styled in the catalogue merely A Portrait--less wonderful, especially the luminous treatment of the various shades of black as shownin the hat and cloak. It would be quite impossible, however, to give anyadequate account or criticism of the work now exhibited in the GrosvenorGallery within the limits of a single notice. Richmond's noble pictureof Sleep and Death Bearing the Slain Body of Sarpedon, and his bronzestatue of the Greek athlete, are works of the very highest order ofartistic excellence, but I will reserve for another occasion thequalities of his power. Mr. Whistler, whose wonderful and eccentricgenius is better appreciated in France than in England, sends a verywonderful picture entitled The Golden Girl, a life-size study in amber, yellow and browns, of a child dancing with a skipping-rope, full ofbirdlike grace and exquisite motion; as well as some delightful specimensof etching (an art of which he is the consummate master), one of which, called The Little Forge, entirely done with the dry point, possessesextraordinary merit; nor have the philippics of the Fors Clavigeradeterred him from exhibiting some more of his 'arrangements in colour, 'one of which, called a Harmony in Green and Gold, I would especiallymention as an extremely good example of what ships lying at anchor on asummer evening are from the 'Impressionist point of view. '

Mr. Eugene Benson, one of the most cultured of those many Americans whoseem to have found their Mecca in modern Rome, has sent a picture ofNarcissus, a work full of the true Theocritean sympathy for the naturalpicturesqueness of shepherd life, and entirely delightful to all who lovethe peculiar qualities of Italian scenery. The shadows of the treesdrifting across the grass, the crowding together of the sheep, and thesense of summer air and light which fills the picture, are full of thehighest truth and beauty; and Mr. Forbes-Robertson, whose picture ofPhelps as Cardinal Wolsey has just been bought by the Garrick Club, andwho is himself so well known as a young actor of the very highestpromise, is represented by a portrait of Mr. Hermann Vezin which isextremely clever and certainly very lifelike. Nor amongst the minorworks must I omit to notice Miss Stuart-Wortley's view on the riverCherwell, taken from the walks of Magdalen College, Oxford, --a littlepicture marked by great sympathy for the shade and coolness of greenplaces and for the stillness of summer waters; or Mrs. ValentineBromley's Misty Day, remarkable for the excellent drawing of a breakingwave, as well as for a great delicacy of tone. Besides the Marchionessof Waterford, whose brilliant treatment of colour is so well known, andMr. Richard Doyle, whose water-colour drawings of children and of fairyscenes are always so fresh and bright, the qualities of the Irish geniusin the field of art find an entirely adequate exponent in Mr. Wills, whoas a dramatist and a painter has won himself such an honourable name. Three pictures of his are exhibited here: the Spirit of the Shell, whichis perhaps too fanciful and vague in design; the Nymph and Satyr, wherethe little goat-footed child has all the sweet mystery and romance of thewoodlands about him; and the Parting of Ophelia and Laertes, a work notonly full of very strong drawing, especially in the modelling of the malefigure, but a very splendid example of the power of subdued and reservedcolour, the perfect harmony of tone being made still more subtle by thefitful play of reflected light on the polished armour. 

I shall reserve for another notice the wonderful landscapes of Mr. CecilLawson, who has caught so much of Turner's imagination and mode oftreatment, as well as a consideration of the works of Herkomer, Tissotand Legros, and others of the modern realistic school. 

Note. --The other notice mentioned above did not appear. 

L'ENVOI

An Introduction to Rose Leaf and Apple Leaf by Rennell Rodd, published byJ. M. Stoddart and Co. , Philadelphia, 1882. 

Amongst the many young men in England who are seeking along with me tocontinue and to perfect the English Renaissance--jeunes guerriers dudrapeau romantique, as Gautier would have called us--there is none whoselove of art is more flawless and fervent, whose artistic sense of beautyis more subtle and more delicate--none, indeed, who is dearer tomyself--than the young poet whose verses I have brought with me toAmerica; verses full of sweet sadness, and yet full of joy; for the mostjoyous poet is not he who sows the desolate highways of this world withthe barren seed of laughter, but he who makes his sorrow most musical, this indeed being the meaning of joy in art--that incommunicable elementof artistic delight which, in poetry, for instance, comes from what Keatscalled the 'sensuous life of verse, ' the element of song in the singing, made so pleasurable to us by that wonder of motion which often has itsorigin in mere musical impulse, and in painting is to be sought for, fromthe subject never, but from the pictorial charm only--the scheme andsymphony of the colour, the satisfying beauty of the design: so that theultimate expression of our artistic movement in painting has been, not inthe spiritual visions of the Pre-Raphaelites, for all their marvel ofGreek legend and their mystery of Italian song, but in the work of suchmen as Whistler and Albert Moore, who have raised design and colour tothe ideal level of poetry and music. For the quality of their exquisitepainting comes from the mere inventive and creative handling of line andcolour, from a certain form and choice of beautiful workmanship, which, rejecting all literary reminiscence and all metaphysical idea, is initself entirely satisfying to the aesthetic sense--is, as the Greekswould say, an end in itself; the effect of their work being like theeffect given to us by music; for music is the art in which form andmatter are always one--the art whose subject cannot be separated from themethod of its expression; the art which most completely realises for usthe artistic ideal, and is the condition to which all the other arts areconstantly aspiring. 

Now, this increased sense of the absolutely satisfying value of beautifulworkmanship, this recognition of the primary importance of the sensuouselement in art, this love of art for art's sake, is the point in which weof the younger school have made a departure from the teaching of Mr. Ruskin, --a departure definite and different and decisive. 

Master indeed of the knowledge of all noble living and of the wisdom ofall spiritual things will he be to us ever, seeing that it was he who bythe magic of his presence and the music of his lips taught us at Oxfordthat enthusiasm for beauty which is the secret of Hellenism, and thatdesire for creation which is the secret of life, and filled some of us, at least, with the lofty and passionate ambition to go forth into far andfair lands with some message for the nations and some mission for theworld, and yet in his art criticism, his estimate of the joyous elementof art, his whole method of approaching art, we are no longer with him;for the keystone to his aesthetic system is ethical always. He wouldjudge of a picture by the amount of noble moral ideas it expresses; butto us the channels by which all noble work in painting can touch, anddoes touch, the soul are not those of truths of life or metaphysicaltruths. To him perfection of workmanship seems but the symbol of pride, and incompleteness of technical resource the image of an imagination toolimitless to find within the limits of form its complete expression, orof a love too simple not to stammer in its tale. But to us the rule ofart is not the rule of morals. In an ethical system, indeed, of anygentle mercy good intentions will, one is fain to fancy, have theirrecognition; but of those that would enter the serene House of Beauty thequestion that we ask is not what they had ever meant to do, but what theyhave done. Their pathetic intentions are of no value to us, but theirrealised creations only. Pour moi je prefere les poetes qui font desvers, les medecins qui sachent guerir, les peintres qui sachent peindre. 

Nor, in looking at a work of art, should we be dreaming of what itsymbolises, but rather loving it for what it is. Indeed, thetranscendental spirit is alien to the spirit of art. The metaphysicalmind of Asia may create for itself the monstrous and many-breasted idol, but to the Greek, pure artist, that work is most instinct with spirituallife which conforms most closely to the perfect facts of physical lifealso. Nor, in its primary aspect, has a painting, for instance, any morespiritual message or meaning for us than a blue tile from the wall ofDamascus, or a Hitzen vase. It is a beautifully coloured surface, nothing more, and affects us by no suggestion stolen from philosophy, nopathos pilfered from literature, no feeling filched from a poet, but byits own incommunicable artistic essence--by that selection of truth whichwe call style, and that relation of values which is the draughtsmanshipof painting, by the whole quality of the workmanship, the arabesque ofthe design, the splendour of the colour, for these things are enough tostir the most divine and remote of the chords which make music in oursoul, and colour, indeed, is of itself a mystical presence on things, andtone a kind of sentiment. 

This, then--the new departure of our younger school--is the chiefcharacteristic of Mr. Rennell Rodd's poetry; for, while there is much inhis work that may interest the intellect, much that will excite theemotions, and many-cadenced chords of sweet and simple sentiment--for tothose who love Art for its own sake all other things are added--yet, theeffect which they pre-eminently seek to produce is purely an artisticone. Such a poem as The Sea-King's Grave, with all its majesty of melodyas sonorous and as strong as the sea by whose pine-fringed shores it wasthus nobly conceived and nobly fashioned; or the little poem that followsit, whose cunning workmanship, wrought with such an artistic sense oflimitation, one might liken to the rare chasing of the mirror that is itsmotive; or In a Church, pale flower of one of those exquisite momentswhen all things except the moment itself seem so curiously real, and whenthe old memories of forgotten days are touched and made tender, and thefamiliar place grows fervent and solemn suddenly with a vision of theundying beauty of the gods that died; or the scene in Chartres Cathedral, sombre silence brooding on vault and arch, silent people kneeling on thedust of the desolate pavement as the young priest lifts Lord Christ'sbody in a crystal star, and then the sudden beams of scarlet light thatbreak through the blazoned window and smite on the carven screen, andsudden organ peals of mighty music rolling and echoing from choir tocanopy, and from spire to shaft, and over all the clear glad voice of asinging boy, affecting one as a thing over-sweet, and striking just theright artistic keynote for one's emotions; or At Lanuvium, through themusic of whose lines one seems to hear again the murmur of the Mantuanbees straying down from their own green valleys and inland streams tofind what honeyed amber the sea-flowers might be hiding; or the poemwritten In the Coliseum, which gives one the same artistic joy that onegets watching a handicraftsman at his work, a goldsmith hammering out hisgold into those thin plates as delicate as the petals of a yellow rose, or drawing it out into the long wires like tangled sunbeams, so perfectand precious is the mere handling of it; or the little lyric interludesthat break in here and there like the singing of a thrush, and are asswift and as sure as the beating of a bird's wing, as light and bright asthe apple-blossoms that flutter fitfully down to the orchard grass aftera spring shower, and look the lovelier for the rain's tears lying ontheir dainty veinings of pink and pearl; or the sonnets--for Mr. Rodd isone of those qui sonnent le sonnet, as the Ronsardists used to say--thatone called On the Border Hills, with its fiery wonder of imagination andthe strange beauty of its eighth line; or the one which tells of thesorrow of the great king for the little dead child--well, all these poemsaim, as I said, at producing a purely artistic effect, and have the rareand exquisite quality that belongs to work of that kind; and I feel thatthe entire subordination in our aesthetic movement of all merelyemotional and intellectual motives to the vital informing poeticprinciple is the surest sign of our strength. 

But it is not enough that a work of art should conform to the aestheticdemands of the age: there should be also about it, if it is to give usany permanent delight, the impress of a distinct individuality. Whateverwork we have in the nineteenth century must rest on the two poles ofpersonality and perfection. And so in this little volume, by separatingthe earlier and more simple work from the work that is later and strongerand possesses increased technical power and more artistic vision, onemight weave these disconnected poems, these stray and scattered threads, into one fiery-coloured strand of life, noting first a boy's meregladness of being young, with all its simple joy in field and flower, insunlight and in song, and then the bitterness of sudden sorrow at theending by Death of one of the brief and beautiful friendships of one'syouth, with all those unanswered longings and questionings unsatisfied bywhich we vex, so uselessly, the marble face of death; the artisticcontrast between the discontented incompleteness of the spirit and thecomplete perfection of the style that expresses it forming the chiefelement of the aesthetic charm of these particular poems;--and then thebirth of Love, and all the wonder and the fear and the perilous delightof one on whose boyish brows the little wings of love have beaten for thefirst time; and the love-songs, so dainty and delicate, little swallow-flights of music, and full of such fragrance and freedom that they mightall be sung in the open air and across moving water; and then autumn, coming with its choirless woods and odorous decay and ruined loveliness, Love lying dead; and the sense of the mere pity of it. 

One might stop there, for from a young poet one should ask for no deeperchords of life than those that love and friendship make eternal for us;and the best poems in the volume belong clearly to a later time, a timewhen these real experiences become absorbed and gathered up into a formwhich seems from such real experiences to be the most alien and the mostremote; when the simple expression of joy or sorrow suffices no longer, and lives rather in the stateliness of the cadenced metre, in the musicand colour of the linked words, than in any direct utterance; lives, onemight say, in the perfection of the form more than in the pathos of thefeeling. And yet, after the broken music of love and the burial of lovein the autumn woods, we can trace that wandering among strange people, and in lands unknown to us, by which we try so pathetically to heal thehurts of the life we know, and that pure and passionate devotion to Artwhich one gets when the harsh reality of life has too suddenly woundedone, and is with discontent or sorrow marring one's youth, just as often, I think, as one gets it from any natural joy of living; and that curiousintensity of vision by which, in moments of overmastering sadness anddespair ungovernable, artistic things will live in one's memory with avivid realism caught from the life which they help one to forget--an oldgrey tomb in Flanders with a strange legend on it, making one think how, perhaps, passion does live on after death; a necklace of blue and amberbeads and a broken mirror found in a girl's grave at Rome, a marble imageof a boy habited like Eros, and with the pathetic tradition of a greatking's sorrow lingering about it like a purple shadow, --over all thesethe tired spirit broods with that calm and certain joy that one gets whenone has found something that the ages never dull and the world cannotharm; and with it comes that desire of Greek things which is often anartistic method of expressing one's desire for perfection; and thatlonging for the old dead days which is so modern, so incomplete, sotouching, being, in a way, the inverted torch of Hope, which burns thehand it should guide; and for many things a little sadness, and for allthings a great love; and lastly, in the pinewood by the sea, once morethe quick and vital pulse of joyous youth leaping and laughing in everyline, the frank and fearless freedom of wave and wind waking into firelife's burnt-out ashes and into song the silent lips of pain, --howclearly one seems to see it all, the long colonnade of pines with sea andsky peeping in here and there like a flitting of silver; the open placein the green, deep heart of the wood with the little moss-grown altar tothe old Italian god in it; and the flowers all about, cyclamen in theshadowy places, and the stars of the white narcissus lying likesnow-flakes over the grass, where the quick, bright-eyed lizard starts bythe stone, and the snake lies coiled lazily in the sun on the hot sand, and overhead the gossamer floats from the branches like thin, tremulousthreads of gold, --the scene is so perfect for its motive, for surelyhere, if anywhere, the real gladness of life might be revealed to one'syouth--the gladness that comes, not from the rejection, but from theabsorption, of all passion, and is like that serene calm that dwells inthe faces of the Greek statues, and which despair and sorrow cannottouch, but intensify only. 

In some such way as this we could gather up these strewn and scatteredpetals of song into one perfect rose of life, and yet, perhaps, in sodoing, we might be missing the true quality of the poems; one's real lifeis so often the life that one does not lead; and beautiful poems, likethreads of beautiful silks, may be woven into many patterns and to suitmany designs, all wonderful and all different: and romantic poetry, too, is essentially the poetry of impressions, being like that latest schoolof painting, the school of Whistler and Albert Moore, in its choice ofsituation as opposed to subject; in its dealing with the exceptionsrather than with the types of life; in its brief intensity; in what onemight call its fiery-coloured momentariness, it being indeed themomentary situations of life, the momentary aspects of nature, whichpoetry and painting now seek to render for us. Sincerity and constancywill the artist, indeed, have always; but sincerity in art is merely thatplastic perfection of execution without which a poem or a painting, however noble its sentiment or human its origin, is but wasted and unrealwork, and the constancy of the artist cannot be to any definite rule orsystem of living, but to that principle of beauty only through which theinconstant shadows of his life are in their most fleeting moment arrestedand made permanent. He will not, for instance, in intellectual mattersacquiesce in that facile orthodoxy of our day which is so reasonable andso artistically uninteresting, nor yet will he desire that fiery faith ofthe antique time which, while it intensified, yet limited the vision;still less will he allow the calm of his culture to be marred by thediscordant despair of doubt or the sadness of a sterile scepticism; forthe Valley Perilous, where ignorant armies clash by night, is no resting-place meet for her to whom the gods have assigned the clear upland, theserene height, and the sunlit air, --rather will he be always curiouslytesting new forms of belief, tinging his nature with the sentiment thatstill lingers about some beautiful creeds, and searching for experienceitself, and not for the fruits of experience; when he has got its secret, he will leave without regret much that was once very precious to him. 'Iam always insincere, ' says Emerson somewhere, 'as knowing that there areother moods': 'Les emotions, ' wrote Theophile Gautier once in a review ofArsene Houssaye, 'Les emotions ne se ressemblent pas, mais etre emu--voilal'important. '

Now, this is the secret of the art of the modern romantic school, andgives one the right keynote for its apprehension; but the real quality ofall work which, like Mr. Rodd's, aims, as I said, at a purely artisticeffect, cannot be described in terms of intellectual criticism; it is toointangible for that. One can perhaps convey it best in terms of theother arts, and by reference to them; and, indeed, some of these poemsare as iridescent and as exquisite as a lovely fragment of Venetianglass; others as delicate in perfect workmanship and as single in naturalmotive as an etching by Whistler is, or one of those beautiful littleGreek figures which in the olive woods round Tanagra men can still find, with the faint gilding and the fading crimson not yet fled from hair andlips and raiment; and many of them seem like one of Corot's twilightsjust passing into music; for not merely in visible colour, but insentiment also--which is the colour of poetry--may there be a kind oftone. 

But I think that the best likeness to the quality of this young poet'swork I ever saw was in the landscape by the Loire. We were staying once, he and I, at Amboise, that little village with its grey slate roofs andsteep streets and gaunt, grim gateway, where the quiet cottages nestlelike white pigeons into the sombre clefts of the great bastioned rock, and the stately Renaissance houses stand silent and apart--very desolatenow, but with some memory of the old days still lingering about thedelicately-twisted pillars, and the carved doorways, with their grotesqueanimals, and laughing masks, and quaint heraldic devices, all remindingone of a people who could not think life real till they had made itfantastic. And above the village, and beyond the bend of the river, weused to go in the afternoon, and sketch from one of the big barges thatbring the wine in autumn and the wood in winter down to the sea, or liein the long grass and make plans pour la gloire, et pour ennuyer lesphilistins, or wander along the low, sedgy banks, 'matching our reeds insportive rivalry, ' as comrades used in the old Sicilian days; and theland was an ordinary land enough, and bare, too, when one thought ofItaly, and how the oleanders were robing the hillsides by Genoa inscarlet, and the cyclamen filling with its purple every valley fromFlorence to Rome; for there was not much real beauty, perhaps, in it, only long, white dusty roads and straight rows of formal poplars; but, now and then, some little breaking gleam of broken light would lend tothe grey field and the silent barn a secret and a mystery that werehardly their own, would transfigure for one exquisite moment the peasantspassing down through the vineyard, or the shepherd watching on the hill, would tip the willows with silver and touch the river into gold; and thewonder of the effect, with the strange simplicity of the material, alwaysseemed to me to be a little like the quality of these the verses of myfriend. 

MRS. LANGTRY AS HESTER GRAZEBROOK

(New York World, November 7, 1882. )

It is only in the best Greek gems, on the silver coins of Syracuse, oramong the marble figures of the Parthenon frieze, that one can find theideal representation of the marvellous beauty of that face which laughedthrough the leaves last night as Hester Grazebrook. 

Pure Greek it is, with the grave low forehead, the exquisitely archedbrow; the noble chiselling of the mouth, shaped as if it were themouthpiece of an instrument of music; the supreme and splendid curve ofthe cheek; the augustly pillared throat which bears it all: it is Greek, because the lines which compose it are so definite and so strong, and yetso exquisitely harmonised that the effect is one of simple lovelinesspurely: Greek, because its essence and its quality, as is the quality ofmusic and of architecture, is that of beauty based on absolutelymathematical laws. 

But while art remains dumb and immobile in its passionless serenity, withthe beauty of this face it is different: the grey eyes lighten into blueor deepen into violet as fancy succeeds fancy; the lips become flower-like in laughter or, tremulous as a bird's wing, mould themselves at lastinto the strong and bitter moulds of pain or scorn. And then motioncomes, and the statue wakes into life. But the life is not the ordinarylife of common days; it is life with a new value given to it, the valueof art: and the charm to me of Hester Grazebrook's acting in the firstscene of the play {43} last night was that mingling of classic grace withabsolute reality which is the secret of all beautiful art, of the plasticwork of the Greeks and of the pictures of Jean Francois Millet equally. 

I do not think that the sovereignty and empire of women's beauty has atall passed away, though we may no longer go to war for them as the Greeksdid for the daughter of Leda. The greatest empire still remains forthem--the empire of art. And, indeed, this wonderful face, seen lastnight for the first time in America, has filled and permeated with thepervading image of its type the whole of our modern art in England. Lastcentury it was the romantic type which dominated in art, the type lovedby Reynolds and Gainsborough, of wonderful contrasts of colour, ofexquisite and varying charm of expression, but without that definiteplastic feeling which divides classic from romantic work. This typedegenerated into mere facile prettiness in the hands of lesser masters, and, in protest against it, was created by the hands of thePre-Raphaelites a new type, with its rare combination of Greek form withFlorentine mysticism. But this mysticism becomes over-strained and aburden, rather than an aid to expression, and a desire for the pureHellenic joy and serenity came in its place; and in all our modern work, in the paintings of such men as Albert Moore and Leighton and Whistler, we can trace the influence of this single face giving fresh life andinspiration in the form of a new artistic ideal. 

As regards Hester Grazebrook's dresses, the first was a dress whose gracedepended entirely on the grace of the person who wore it. It was merelythe simple dress of a village girl in England. The second was a lovelycombination of blue and creamy lace. But the masterpiece was undoubtedlythe last, a symphony in silver-grey and pink, a pure melody of colourwhich I feel sure Whistler would call a Scherzo, and take as its visiblemotive the moonlight wandering in silver mist through a rose-garden;unless indeed he saw this dress, in which case he would paint it andnothing else, for it is a dress such as Velasquez only could paint, andWhistler very wisely always paints those things which are within reach ofVelasquez only. 

The scenery was, of course, prepared in a hurry. Still, much of it wasvery good indeed: the first scene especially, with its graceful trees andopen forge and cottage porch, though the roses were dreadfully out oftone and, besides their crudity of colour, were curiously badly grouped. The last scene was exceedingly clever and true to nature as well, beingthat combination of lovely scenery and execrable architecture which is sospecially characteristic of a German spa. As for the drawing-room scene, I cannot regard it as in any way a success. The heavy ebony doors areentirely out of keeping with the satin panels; the silk hangings andfestoons of black and yellow are quite meaningless in their position andconsequently quite ugly; the carpet is out of all colour relation withthe rest of the room, and the table-cover is mauve. Still, to havedecorated ever so bad a room in six days must, I suppose, be a subject ofrespectful wonder, though I should have fancied that Mr. Wallack had manyvery much better sets in his own stock. 

But I am beginning to quarrel generally with most modern scene-painting. A scene is primarily a decorative background for the actors, and shouldalways be kept subordinate, first to the players, their dress, gesture, and action; and secondly, to the fundamental principle of decorative art, which is not to imitate but to suggest nature. If the landscape is givenits full realistic value, the value of the figures to which it serves asa background is impaired and often lost, and so the painted hangings ofthe Elizabethan age were a far more artistic, and so a far more rationalform of scenery than most modern scene-painting is. From the same master-hand which designed the curtain of Madison Square Theatre I should likevery much to see a good decorative landscape in scene-painting; for Ihave seen no open-air scene in any theatre which did not really mar thevalue of the actors. One must either, like Titian, make the landscapesubordinate to the figures, or, like Claude, the figures subordinate tothe landscape; for if we desire realistic acting we cannot have realisticscene-painting. 

I need not describe, however, how the beauty of Hester Grazebrooksurvived the crude roses and the mauve tablecloth triumphantly. That itis a beauty that will be appreciated to the full in America I do notdoubt for a moment, for it is only countries which possess great beautythat can appreciate beauty at all. It may also influence the art ofAmerica as it has influenced the art of England, for of the rare Greektype it is the most absolutely perfect example. 

The Philistine may, of course, object that to be absolutely perfect isimpossible. Well, that is so: but then it is only the impossible thingsthat are worth doing nowadays!

WOMAN'S DRESS

(Pall Mall Gazette, October 14, 1884. )

Mr. Oscar Wilde, who asks us to permit him 'that most charming of allpleasures, the pleasure of answering one's critics, ' sends us thefollowing remarks:--

The 'Girl Graduate' must of course have precedence, not merely for hersex but for her sanity: her letter is extremely sensible. She makes twopoints: that high heels are a necessity for any lady who wishes to keepher dress clean from the Stygian mud of our streets, and that without atight corset 'the ordinary number of petticoats and etceteras' cannot beproperly or conveniently held up. Now, it is quite true that as long asthe lower garments are suspended from the hips a corset is an absolutenecessity; the mistake lies in not suspending all apparel from theshoulders. In the latter case a corset becomes useless, the body is leftfree and unconfined for respiration and motion, there is more health, andconsequently more beauty. Indeed all the most ungainly and uncomfortablearticles of dress that fashion has ever in her folly prescribed, not thetight corset merely, but the farthingale, the vertugadin, the hoop, thecrinoline, and that modern monstrosity the so-called 'dress improver'also, all of them have owed their origin to the same error, the error ofnot seeing that it is from the shoulders, and from the shoulders only, that all garments should be hung. 

And as regards high heels, I quite admit that some additional height tothe shoe or boot is necessary if long gowns are to be worn in the street;but what I object to is that the height should be given to the heel only, and not to the sole of the foot also. The modern high-heeled boot is, infact, merely the clog of the time of Henry VI. , with the front prop leftout, and its inevitable effect is to throw the body forward, to shortenthe steps, and consequently to produce that want of grace which alwaysfollows want of freedom. 

Why should clogs be despised? Much art has been expended on clogs. Theyhave been made of lovely woods, and delicately inlaid with ivory, andwith mother-of-pearl. A clog might be a dream of beauty, and, if not toohigh or too heavy, most comfortable also. But if there be any who do notlike clogs, let them try some adaptation of the trouser of the Turkishlady, which is loose round the limb and tight at the ankle. 

The 'Girl Graduate, ' with a pathos to which I am not insensible, entreatsme not to apotheosise 'that awful, befringed, beflounced, and bekilteddivided skirt. ' Well, I will acknowledge that the fringes, the flounces, and the kilting do certainly defeat the whole object of the dress, whichis that of ease and liberty; but I regard these things as mere wickedsuperfluities, tragic proofs that the divided skirt is ashamed of its owndivision. The principle of the dress is good, and, though it is not byany means perfection, it is a step towards it. 

Here I leave the 'Girl Graduate, ' with much regret, for Mr. WentworthHuyshe. Mr. Huyshe makes the old criticism that Greek dress is unsuitedto our climate, and, to me the somewhat new assertion, that the men'sdress of a hundred years ago was preferable to that of the second part ofthe seventeenth century, which I consider to have been the exquisiteperiod of English costume. 

Now, as regards the first of these two statements, I will say, to beginwith, that the warmth of apparel does not depend really on the number ofgarments worn, but on the material of which they are made. One of thechief faults of modern dress is that it is composed of far too manyarticles of clothing, most of which are of the wrong substance; but overa substratum of pure wool, such as is supplied by Dr. Jaeger under themodern German system, some modification of Greek costume is perfectlyapplicable to our climate, our country and our century. This importantfact has already been pointed out by Mr. E. W. Godwin in his excellent, though too brief, handbook on Dress, contributed to the HealthExhibition. I call it an important fact because it makes almost any formof lovely costume perfectly practicable in our cold climate. Mr. Godwin, it is true, points out that the English ladies of the thirteenth centuryabandoned after some time the flowing garments of the early Renaissancein favour of a tighter mode, such as Northern Europe seems to demand. This I quite admit, and its significance; but what I contend, and what Iam sure Mr. Godwin would agree with me in, is that the principles, thelaws of Greek dress may be perfectly realised, even in a moderately tightgown with sleeves: I mean the principle of suspending all apparel fromthe shoulders, and of relying for beauty of effect not on the stiff ready-made ornaments of the modern milliner--the bows where there should be nobows, and the flounces where there should be no flounces--but on theexquisite play of light and line that one gets from rich and ripplingfolds. I am not proposing any antiquarian revival of an ancient costume, but trying merely to point out the right laws of dress, laws which aredictated by art and not by archaeology, by science and not by fashion;and just as the best work of art in our days is that which combinesclassic grace with absolute reality, so from a continuation of the Greekprinciples of beauty with the German principles of health will come, Ifeel certain, the costume of the future. 

And now to the question of men's dress, or rather to Mr. Huyshe's claimof the superiority, in point of costume, of the last quarter of theeighteenth century over the second quarter of the seventeenth. The broad-brimmed hat of 1640 kept the rain of winter and the glare of summer fromthe face; the same cannot be said of the hat of one hundred years ago, which, with its comparatively narrow brim and high crown, was theprecursor of the modern 'chimney-pot': a wide turned-down collar is ahealthier thing than a strangling stock, and a short cloak much morecomfortable than a sleeved overcoat, even though the latter may have had'three capes'; a cloak is easier to put on and off, lies lightly on theshoulder in summer, and wrapped round one in winter keeps one perfectlywarm. A doublet, again, is simpler than a coat and waistcoat; instead oftwo garments one has one; by not being open also it protects the chestbetter. 

Short loose trousers are in every way to be preferred to the tight knee-breeches which often impede the proper circulation of the blood; andfinally, the soft leather boots which could be worn above or below theknee, are more supple, and give consequently more freedom, than the stiffHessian which Mr. Huyshe so praises. I say nothing about the question ofgrace and picturesqueness, for I suppose that no one, not even Mr. Huyshe, would prefer a maccaroni to a cavalier, a Lawrence to a Vandyke, or the third George to the first Charles; but for ease, warmth andcomfort this seventeenth-century dress is infinitely superior to anythingthat came after it, and I do not think it is excelled by any precedingform of costume. I sincerely trust that we may soon see in England somenational revival of it. 

MORE RADICAL IDEAS UPON DRESS REFORM

(Pall Mall Gazette, November 11, 1884. )

I have been much interested at reading the large amount of correspondencethat has been called forth by my recent lecture on Dress. It shows methat the subject of dress reform is one that is occupying many wise andcharming people, who have at heart the principles of health, freedom, andbeauty in costume, and I hope that 'H. B. T. ' and 'Materfamilias' willhave all the real influence which their letters--excellent letters bothof them--certainly deserve. 

I turn first to Mr. Huyshe's second letter, and the drawing thataccompanies it; but before entering into any examination of the theorycontained in each, I think I should state at once that I have absolutelyno idea whether this gentleman wears his hair longer short, or his cuffsback or forward, or indeed what he is like at all. I hope he consultshis own comfort and wishes in everything which has to do with his dress, and is allowed to enjoy that individualism in apparel which he soeloquently claims for himself, and so foolishly tries to deny to others;but I really could not take Mr. Wentworth Huyshe's personal appearance asany intellectual basis for an investigation of the principles whichshould guide the costume of a nation. I am not denying the force, oreven the popularity, of the ''Eave arf a brick' school of criticism, butI acknowledge it does not interest me. The gamin in the gutter may be anecessity, but the gamin in discussion is a nuisance. So I will proceedat once to the real point at issue, the value of the lateeighteenth-century costume over that worn in the second quarter of theseventeenth: the relative merits, that is, of the principles contained ineach. Now, as regards the eighteenth-century costume, Mr. WentworthHuyshe acknowledges that he has had no practical experience of it at all;in fact, he makes a pathetic appeal to his friends to corroborate him inhis assertion, which I do not question for a moment, that he has neverbeen 'guilty of the eccentricity' of wearing himself the dress which heproposes for general adoption by others. There is something so naive andso amusing about this last passage in Mr. Huyshe's letter that I amreally in doubt whether I am not doing him a wrong in regarding him ashaving any serious, or sincere, views on the question of a possiblereform in dress; still, as irrespective of any attitude of Mr. Huyshe'sin the matter, the subject is in itself an interesting one, I think it isworth continuing, particularly as I have myself worn this late eighteenth-century dress many times, both in public and in private, and so may claimto have a very positive right to speak on its comfort and suitability. The particular form of the dress I wore was very similar to that given inMr. Godwin's handbook, from a print of Northcote's, and had a certainelegance and grace about it which was very charming; still, I gave it upfor these reasons:--After a further consideration of the laws of dress Isaw that a doublet is a far simpler and easier garment than a coat andwaistcoat, and, if buttoned from the shoulder, far warmer also, and thattails have no place in costume, except on some Darwinian theory ofheredity; from absolute experience in the matter I found that theexcessive tightness of knee-breeches is not really comfortable if onewears them constantly; and, in fact, I satisfied myself that the dress isnot one founded on any real principles. The broad-brimmed hat and loosecloak, which, as my object was not, of course, historical accuracy butmodern ease, I had always worn with the costume in question, I have stillretained, and find them most comfortable. 

Well, although Mr. Huyshe has no real experience of the dress heproposes, he gives us a drawing of it, which he labels, somewhatprematurely, 'An ideal dress. ' An ideal dress of course it is not;'passably picturesque, ' he says I may possibly think it; well, passablypicturesque it may be, but not beautiful, certainly, simply because it isnot founded on right principles, or, indeed, on any principles at all. Picturesqueness one may get in a variety of ways; ugly things that arestrange, or unfamiliar to us, for instance, may be picturesque, such as alate sixteenth-century costume, or a Georgian house. Ruins, again, maybe picturesque, but beautiful they never can be, because their lines aremeaningless. Beauty, in fact, is to be got only from the perfection ofprinciples; and in 'the ideal dress' of Mr. Huyshe there are no ideas orprinciples at all, much less the perfection of either. Let us examineit, and see its faults; they are obvious to any one who desires more thana 'Fancy-dress ball' basis for costume. To begin with, the hat and bootsare all wrong. Whatever one wears on the extremities, such as the feetand head, should, for the sake of comfort, be made of a soft material, and for the sake of freedom should take its shape from the way onechooses to wear it, and not from any stiff, stereotyped design of hat orboot maker. In a hat made on right principles one should be able to turnthe brim up or down according as the day is dark or fair, dry or wet; butthe hat brim of Mr. Huyshe's drawing is perfectly stiff, and does notgive much protection to the face, or the possibility of any at all to theback of the head or the ears, in case of a cold east wind; whereas thebycocket, a hat made in accordance with the right laws, can be turneddown behind and at the sides, and so give the same warmth as a hood. Thecrown, again, of Mr. Huyshe's hat is far too high; a high crowndiminishes the stature of a small person, and in the case of any one whois tall is a great inconvenience when one is getting in and out ofhansoms and railway carriages, or passing under a street awning: in nocase is it of any value whatsoever, and being useless it is of courseagainst the principles of dress. 

As regards the boots, they are not quite so ugly or so uncomfortable asthe hat; still they are evidently made of stiff leather, as otherwisethey would fall down to the ankle, whereas the boot should be made ofsoft leather always, and if worn high at all must be either laced up thefront or carried well over the knee: in the latter case one combinesperfect freedom for walking together with perfect protection againstrain, neither of which advantages a short stiff boot will ever give one, and when one is resting in the house the long soft boot can be turneddown as the boot of 1640 was. Then there is the overcoat: now, what arethe right principles of an overcoat? To begin with, it should be capableof being easily put on or off, and worn over any kind of dress;consequently it should never have narrow sleeves, such as are shown inMr. Huyshe's drawing. If an opening or slit for the arm is required itshould be made quite wide, and may be protected by a flap, as in thatexcellent overall the modern Inverness cape; secondly, it should not betoo tight, as otherwise all freedom of walking is impeded. If the younggentleman in the drawing buttons his overcoat he may succeed in beingstatuesque, though that I doubt very strongly, but he will never succeedin being swift; his super-totus is made for him on no principlewhatsoever; a super-totus, or overall, should be capable of being wornlong or short, quite loose or moderately tight, just as the wearerwishes; he should be able to have one arm free and one arm covered, orboth arms free or both arms covered, just as he chooses for hisconvenience in riding, walking, or driving; an overall again should neverbe heavy, and should always be warm: lastly, it should be capable ofbeing easily carried if one wants to take it off; in fact, its principlesare those of freedom and comfort, and a cloak realises them all, just asmuch as an overcoat of the pattern suggested by Mr. Huyshe violates them. 

The knee-breeches are of course far too tight; any one who has worn themfor any length of time--any one, in fact, whose views on the subject arenot purely theoretical--will agree with me there; like everything else inthe dress, they are a great mistake. The substitution of the jacket forthe coat and waistcoat of the period is a step in the right direction, which I am glad to see; it is, however, far too tight over the hips forany possible comfort. Whenever a jacket or doublet comes below the waistit should be slit at each side. In the seventeenth century the skirt ofthe jacket was sometimes laced on by points and tags, so that it could beremoved at will, sometimes it was merely left open at the sides: in eachcase it exemplified what are always the true principles of dress, I meanfreedom and adaptability to circumstances. 

Finally, as regards drawings of this kind, I would point out that thereis absolutely no limit at all to the amount of 'passably picturesque'costumes which can be either revived or invented for us; but that unlessa costume is founded on principles and exemplified laws, it never can beof any real value to us in the reform of dress. This particular drawingof Mr. Huyshe's, for instance, proves absolutely nothing, except that ourgrandfathers did not understand the proper laws of dress. There is not asingle rule of right costume which is not violated in it, for it gives usstiffness, tightness and discomfort instead of comfort, freedom and ease. 

Now here, on the other hand, is a dress which, being founded onprinciples, can serve us as an excellent guide and model; it has beendrawn for me, most kindly, by Mr. Godwin from the Duke of Newcastle'sdelightful book on horsemanship, a book which is one of our bestauthorities on our best era of costume. I do not of course propose itnecessarily for absolute imitation; that is not the way in which oneshould regard it; it is not, I mean, a revival of a dead costume, but arealisation of living laws. I give it as an example of a particularapplication of principles which are universally right. This rationallydressed young man can turn his hat brim down if it rains, and his loosetrousers and boots down if he is tired--that is, he can adapt his costumeto circumstances; then he enjoys perfect freedom, the arms and legs arenot made awkward or uncomfortable by the excessive tightness of narrowsleeves and knee-breeches, and the hips are left quite untrammelled, always an important point; and as regards comfort, his jacket is not tooloose for warmth, nor too close for respiration; his neck is wellprotected without being strangled, and even his ostrich feathers, if anyPhilistine should object to them, are not merely dandyism, but fan himvery pleasantly, I am sure, in summer, and when the weather is bad theyare no doubt left at home, and his cloak taken out. _The value of thedress is simply that every separate article of it expresses a law_. Myyoung man is consequently apparelled with ideas, while Mr. Huyshe's youngman is stiffened with facts; the latter teaches one nothing; from theformer one learns everything. I need hardly say that this dress is good, not because it is seventeenth century, but because it is constructed onthe true principles of costume, just as a square lintel or a pointed archis good, not because one may be Greek and the other Gothic, but becauseeach of them is the best method of spanning a certain-sized opening, orresisting a certain weight. The fact, however, that this dress wasgenerally worn in England two centuries and a half ago shows at leastthis, that the right laws of dress have been understood and realised inour country, and so in our country may be realised and understood again. As regards the absolute beauty of this dress and its meaning, I shouldlike to say a few words more. Mr. Wentworth Huyshe solemnly announcesthat 'he and those who think with him' cannot permit this question ofbeauty to be imported into the question of dress; that he and those whothink with him take 'practical views on the subject, ' and so on. Well, Iwill not enter here into a discussion as to how far any one who does nottake beauty and the value of beauty into account can claim to bepractical at all. The word practical is nearly always the last refuge ofthe uncivilised. Of all misused words it is the most evilly treated. Butwhat I want to point out is that beauty is essentially organic; that is, it comes, not from without, but from within, not from any addedprettiness, but from the perfection of its own being; and thatconsequently, as the body is beautiful, so all apparel that rightlyclothes it must be beautiful also in its construction and in its lines. 

I have no more desire to define ugliness than I have daring to definebeauty; but still I would like to remind those who mock at beauty asbeing an unpractical thing of this fact, that an ugly thing is merely athing that is badly made, or a thing that does not serve its purpose;that ugliness is want of fitness; that ugliness is failure; that uglinessis uselessness, such as ornament in the wrong place, while beauty, assome one finely said, is the purgation of all superfluities. There is adivine economy about beauty; it gives us just what is needful and nomore, whereas ugliness is always extravagant; ugliness is a spendthriftand wastes its material; in fine, ugliness--and I would commend thisremark to Mr. Wentworth Huyshe--ugliness, as much in costume as inanything else, is always the sign that somebody has been unpractical. Sothe costume of the future in England, if it is founded on the true lawsof freedom, comfort, and adaptability to circumstances, cannot fail to bemost beautiful also, because beauty is the sign always of the rightnessof principles, the mystical seal that is set upon what is perfect, andupon what is perfect only. 

As for your other correspondent, the first principle of dress that allgarments should be hung from the shoulders and not from the waist seemsto me to be generally approved of, although an 'Old Sailor' declares thatno sailors or athletes ever suspend their clothes from the shoulders, butalways from the hips. My own recollection of the river and runningground at Oxford--those two homes of Hellenism in our little Gothictown--is that the best runners and rowers (and my own college turned outmany) wore always a tight jersey, with short drawers attached to it, thewhole costume being woven in one piece. As for sailors it is true, Iadmit, and the bad custom seems to involve that constant 'hitching up' ofthe lower garments which, however popular in transpontine dramas, cannot, I think, but be considered an extremely awkward habit; and as allawkwardness comes from discomfort of some kind, I trust that this pointin our sailor's dress will be looked to in the coming reform of our navy, for, in spite of all protests, I hope we are about to reform everything, from torpedoes to top-hats, and from crinolettes to cruises. 

Then as regards clogs, my suggestion of them seems to have aroused agreat deal of terror. Fashion in her high-heeled boots has screamed, andthe dreadful word 'anachronism' has been used. Now, whatever is usefulcannot be an anachronism. Such a word is applicable only to the revivalof some folly; and, besides, in the England of our own day clogs arestill worn in many of our manufacturing towns, such as Oldham. I fearthat in Oldham they may not be dreams of beauty; in Oldham the art ofinlaying them with ivory and with pearl may possibly be unknown; yet inOldham they serve their purpose. Nor is it so long since they were wornby the upper classes of this country generally. Only a few days ago Ihad the pleasure of talking to a lady who remembered with affectionateregret the clogs of her girlhood; they were, according to her, not toohigh nor too heavy, and were provided, besides, with some kind of springin the sole so as to make them the more supple for the foot in walking. Personally, I object to all additional height being given to a boot orshoe; it is really against the proper principles of dress, although, ifany such height is to be given it should be by means of two props, notone; but what I should prefer to see is some adaptation of the dividedskirt or long and moderately loose knickerbockers. If, however, thedivided skirt is to be of any positive value, it must give up all idea of'being identical in appearance with an ordinary skirt'; it must diminishthe moderate width of each of its divisions, and sacrifice its foolishfrills and flounces; the moment it imitates a dress it is lost; but letit visibly announce itself as what it actually is, and it will go fartowards solving a real difficulty. I feel sure that there will be foundmany graceful and charming girls ready to adopt a costume founded onthese principles, in spite of Mr. Wentworth Huyshe's terrible threat thathe will not propose to them as long as they wear it, for all charges of awant of womanly character in these forms of dress are really meaningless;every right article of apparel belongs equally to both sexes, and thereis absolutely no such thing as a definitely feminine garment. One wordof warning I should like to be allowed to give: The over-tunic should bemade full and moderately loose; it may, if desired, be shaped more orless to the figure, but in no case should it be confined at the waist byany straight band or belt; on the contrary, it should fall from theshoulder to the knee, or below it, in fine curves and vertical lines, giving more freedom and consequently more grace. Few garments are soabsolutely unbecoming as a belted tunic that reaches to the knees, a factwhich I wish some of our Rosalinds would consider when they don doubletand hose; indeed, to the disregard of this artistic principle is due theugliness, the want of proportion, in the Bloomer costume, a costume whichin other respects is sensible. 

MR. WHISTLER'S TEN O'CLOCK

(Pall Mall Gazette, February 21, 1885. )

Last night, at Prince's Hall, Mr. Whistler made his first publicappearance as a lecturer on art, and spoke for more than an hour withreally marvellous eloquence on the absolute uselessness of all lecturesof the kind. Mr. Whistler began his lecture with a very pretty aria onprehistoric history, describing how in earlier times hunter and warriorwould go forth to chase and foray, while the artist sat at home makingcup and bowl for their service. Rude imitations of nature they werefirst, like the gourd bottle, till the sense of beauty and form developedand, in all its exquisite proportions, the first vase was fashioned. Thencame a higher civilisation of architecture and armchairs, and withexquisite design, and dainty diaper, the useful things of life were madelovely; and the hunter and the warrior lay on the couch when they weretired, and, when they were thirsty, drank from the bowl, and never caredto lose the exquisite proportion of the one, or the delightful ornamentof the other; and this attitude of the primitive anthropophagousPhilistine formed the text of the lecture and was the attitude which Mr. Whistler entreated his audience to adopt towards art. Remembering, nodoubt, many charming invitations to wonderful private views, thisfashionable assemblage seemed somewhat aghast, and not a little amused, at being told that the slightest appearance among a civilised people ofany joy in beautiful things is a grave impertinence to all painters; butMr. Whistler was relentless, and, with charming ease and much grace ofmanner, explained to the public that the only thing they should cultivatewas ugliness, and that on their permanent stupidity rested all the hopesof art in the future. 

The scene was in every way delightful; he stood there, a miniatureMephistopheles, mocking the majority! He was like a brilliant surgeonlecturing to a class composed of subjects destined ultimately fordissection, and solemnly assuring them how valuable to science theirmaladies were, and how absolutely uninteresting the slightest symptoms ofhealth on their part would be. In fairness to the audience, however, Imust say that they seemed extremely gratified at being rid of thedreadful responsibility of admiring anything, and nothing could haveexceeded their enthusiasm when they were told by Mr. Whistler that nomatter how vulgar their dresses were, or how hideous their surroundingsat home, still it was possible that a great painter, if there was such athing, could, by contemplating them in the twilight and half closing hiseyes, see them under really picturesque conditions, and produce a picturewhich they were not to attempt to understand, much less dare to enjoy. Then there were some arrows, barbed and brilliant, shot off, with all thespeed and splendour of fireworks, and the archaeologists, who spend theirlives in verifying the birthplaces of nobodies, and estimate the value ofa work of art by its date or its decay; at the art critics who alwaystreat a picture as if it were a novel, and try and find out the plot; atdilettanti in general and amateurs in particular; and (O mea culpa!) atdress reformers most of all. 'Did not Velasquez paint crinolines? Whatmore do you want?'

Having thus made a holocaust of humanity, Mr. Whistler turned to nature, and in a few moments convicted her of the Crystal Palace, Bank holidays, and a general overcrowding of detail, both in omnibuses and inlandscapes, and then, in a passage of singular beauty, not unlike onethat occurs in Corot's letters, spoke of the artistic value of dim dawnsand dusks, when the mean facts of life are lost in exquisite andevanescent effects, when common things are touched with mystery andtransfigured with beauty, when the warehouses become as palaces and thetall chimneys of the factory seem like campaniles in the silver air. 

Finally, after making a strong protest against anybody but a painterjudging of painting, and a pathetic appeal to the audience not to belured by the aesthetic movement into having beautiful things about them, Mr. Whistler concluded his lecture with a pretty passage about Fusiyamaon a fan, and made his bow to an audience which he had succeeded incompletely fascinating by his wit, his brilliant paradoxes, and, attimes, his real eloquence. Of course, with regard to the value ofbeautiful surroundings I differ entirely from Mr. Whistler. An artist isnot an isolated fact; he is the resultant of a certain milieu and acertain entourage, and can no more be born of a nation that is devoid ofany sense of beauty than a fig can grow from a thorn or a rose blossomfrom a thistle. That an artist will find beauty in ugliness, le beaudans l'horrible, is now a commonplace of the schools, the argot of theatelier, but I strongly deny that charming people should be condemned tolive with magenta ottomans and Albert-blue curtains in their rooms inorder that some painter may observe the side-lights on the one and thevalues of the other. Nor do I accept the dictum that only a painter is ajudge of painting. I say that only an artist is a judge of art; there isa wide difference. As long as a painter is a painter merely, he shouldnot be allowed to talk of anything but mediums and megilp, and on thosesubjects should be compelled to hold his tongue; it is only when hebecomes an artist that the secret laws of artistic creation are revealedto him. For there are not many arts, but one art merely--poem, pictureand Parthenon, sonnet and statue--all are in their essence the same, andhe who knows one knows all. But the poet is the supreme artist, for heis the master of colour and of form, and the real musician besides, andis lord over all life and all arts; and so to the poet beyond all othersare these mysteries known; to Edgar Allan Poe and to Baudelaire, not toBenjamin West and Paul Delaroche. However, I should not enjoy anybodyelse's lectures unless in a few points I disagreed with them, and Mr. Whistler's lecture last night was, like everything that he does, amasterpiece. Not merely for its clever satire and amusing jests will itbe remembered, but for the pure and perfect beauty of many of itspassages--passages delivered with an earnestness which seemed to amazethose who had looked on Mr. Whistler as a master of persiflage merely, and had not known him as we do, as a master of painting also. For thathe is indeed one of the very greatest masters of painting is my opinion. And I may add that in this opinion Mr. Whistler himself entirely concurs. 

THE RELATION OF DRESS TO ART: A NOTE IN BLACK AND WHITE ON MR. WHISTLER'SLECTURE

(Pall Mall Gazette, February 28, 1885. )

'How can you possibly paint these ugly three-cornered hats?' asked areckless art critic once of Sir Joshua Reynolds. 'I see light and shadein them, ' answered the artist. 'Les grands coloristes, ' says Baudelaire, in a charming article on the artistic value of frock coats, 'les grandscoloristes savent faire de la couleur avec un habit noir, une cravateblanche, et un fond gris. '

'Art seeks and finds the beautiful in all times, as did her high priestRembrandt, when he saw the picturesque grandeur of the Jews' quarter ofAmsterdam, and lamented not that its inhabitants were not Greeks, ' werethe fine and simple words used by Mr. Whistler in one of the mostvaluable passages of his lecture. The most valuable, that is, to thepainter: for there is nothing of which the ordinary English painter needsmore to be reminded than that the true artist does not wait for life tobe made picturesque for him, but sees life under picturesque conditionsalways--under conditions, that is to say, which are at once new anddelightful. But between the attitude of the painter towards the publicand the attitude of a people towards art, there is a wide difference. That, under certain conditions of light and shade, what is ugly in factmay in its effect become beautiful, is true; and this, indeed, is thereal modernite of art: but these conditions are exactly what we cannot bealways sure of, as we stroll down Piccadilly in the glaring vulgarity ofthe noonday, or lounge in the park with a foolish sunset as a background. Were we able to carry our chiaroscuro about with us, as we do ourumbrellas, all would be well; but this being impossible, I hardly thinkthat pretty and delightful people will continue to wear a style of dressas ugly as it is useless and as meaningless as it is monstrous, even onthe chance of such a master as Mr. Whistler spiritualising them into asymphony or refining them into a mist. For the arts are made for life, and not life for the arts. 

Nor do I feel quite sure that Mr. Whistler has been himself always trueto the dogma he seems to lay down, that a painter should paint only thedress of his age and of his actual surroundings: far be it from me toburden a butterfly with the heavy responsibility of its past: I havealways been of opinion that consistency is the last refuge of theunimaginative: but have we not all seen, and most of us admired, apicture from his hand of exquisite English girls strolling by an opal seain the fantastic dresses of Japan? Has not Tite Street been thrilledwith the tidings that the models of Chelsea were posing to the master, inpeplums, for pastels?

Whatever comes from Mr Whistler's brush is far too perfect in itsloveliness to stand or fall by any intellectual dogmas on art, even byhis own: for Beauty is justified of all her children, and cares nothingfor explanations: but it is impossible to look through any collection ofmodern pictures in London, from Burlington House to the GrosvenorGallery, without feeling that the professional model is ruining paintingand reducing it to a condition of mere pose and pastiche. 

Are we not all weary of him, that venerable impostor fresh from the stepsof the Piazza di Spagna, who, in the leisure moments that he can sparefrom his customary organ, makes the round of the studios and is waitedfor in Holland Park? Do we not all recognise him, when, with the gayinsouciance of his nation, he reappears on the walls of our summerexhibitions as everything that he is not, and as nothing that he is, glaring at us here as a patriarch of Canaan, here beaming as a brigandfrom the Abruzzi? Popular is he, this poor peripatetic professor ofposing, with those whose joy it is to paint the posthumous portrait ofthe last philanthropist who in his lifetime had neglected to bephotographed, --yet he is the sign of the decadence, the symbol of decay. 

For all costumes are caricatures. The basis of Art is not the FancyBall. Where there is loveliness of dress, there is no dressing up. Andso, were our national attire delightful in colour, and in constructionsimple and sincere; were dress the expression of the loveliness that itshields and of the swiftness and motion that it does not impede; did itslines break from the shoulder instead of bulging from the waist; did theinverted wineglass cease to be the ideal of form; were these thingsbrought about, as brought about they will be, then would painting be nolonger an artificial reaction against the ugliness of life, but become, as it should be, the natural expression of life's beauty. Nor wouldpainting merely, but all the other arts also, be the gainers by a changesuch as that which I propose; the gainers, I mean, through the increasedatmosphere of Beauty by which the artists would be surrounded and inwhich they would grow up. For Art is not to be taught in Academies. Itis what one looks at, not what one listens to, that makes the artist. Thereal schools should be the streets. There is not, for instance, a singledelicate line, or delightful proportion, in the dress of the Greeks, which is not echoed exquisitely in their architecture. A nation arrayedin stove-pipe hats and dress-improvers might have built the Pantechnichonpossibly, but the Parthenon never. And finally, there is this to besaid: Art, it is true, can never have any other claim but her ownperfection, and it may be that the artist, desiring merely to contemplateand to create, is wise in not busying himself about change in others: yetwisdom is not always the best; there are times when she sinks to thelevel of common-sense; and from the passionate folly of those--and thereare many--who desire that Beauty shall be confined no longer to the bric-a-brac of the collector and the dust of the museum, but shall be, as itshould be, the natural and national inheritance of all, --from this nobleunwisdom, I say, who knows what new loveliness shall be given to life, and, under these more exquisite conditions, what perfect artist born? Lemilieu se renouvelant, l'art se renouvelle. 

Speaking, however, from his own passionless pedestal, Mr. Whistler, inpointing out that the power of the painter is to be found in his power ofvision, not in his cleverness of hand, has expressed a truth which neededexpression, and which, coming from the lord of form and colour, cannotfail to have its influence. His lecture, the Apocrypha though it be forthe people, yet remains from this time as the Bible for the painter, themasterpiece of masterpieces, the song of songs. It is true he haspronounced the panegyric of the Philistine, but I fancy Ariel praisingCaliban for a jest: and, in that he has read the Commination Service overthe critics, let all men thank him, the critics themselves, indeed, mostof all, for he has now relieved them from the necessity of a tediousexistence. Considered, again, merely as an orator, Mr. Whistler seems tome to stand almost alone. Indeed, among all our public speakers I knowbut few who can combine so felicitously as he does the mirth and maliceof Puck with the style of the minor prophets. 

KEATS'S SONNET ON BLUE

(Century Guild Hobby Horse, July 1886. )

During my tour in America I happened one evening to find myself inLouisville, Kentucky. The subject I had selected to speak on was theMission of Art in the Nineteenth Century, and in the course of my lectureI had occasion to quote Keats's Sonnet on Blue as an example of thepoet's delicate sense of colour-harmonies. When my lecture was concludedthere came round to see me a lady of middle age, with a sweet gentlemanner and a most musical voice. She introduced herself to me as Mrs. Speed, the daughter of George Keats, and invited me to come and examinethe Keats manuscripts in her possession. I spent most of the next daywith her, reading the letters of Keats to her father, some of which wereat that time unpublished, poring over torn yellow leaves and faded scrapsof paper, and wondering at the little Dante in which Keats had writtenthose marvellous notes on Milton. Some months afterwards, when I was inCalifornia, I received a letter from Mrs. Speed asking my acceptance ofthe original manuscript of the sonnet which I had quoted in my lecture. This manuscript I have had reproduced here, as it seems to me to possessmuch psychological interest. It shows us the conditions that precededthe perfected form, the gradual growth, not of the conception but of theexpression, and the workings of that spirit of selection which is thesecret of style. In the case of poetry, as in the case of the otherarts, what may appear to be simply technicalities of method are in theiressence spiritual, not mechanical, and although, in all lovely work, whatconcerns us is the ultimate form, not the conditions that necessitatethat form, yet the preference that precedes perfection, the evolution ofthe beauty, and the mere making of the music, have, if not their artisticvalue, at least their value to the artist. 

It will be remembered that this sonnet was first published in 1848 byLord Houghton in his Life, Letters, and Literary Remains of John Keats. Lord Houghton does not definitely state where he found it, but it wasprobably among the Keats manuscripts belonging to Mr. Charles Brown. Itis evidently taken from a version later than that in my possession, as itaccepts all the corrections, and makes three variations. As in mymanuscript the first line is torn away, I give the sonnet here as itappears in Lord Houghton's edition. 

 ANSWER TO A SONNET ENDING THUS:

 Dark eyes are dearer far Than those that make the hyacinthine bell. {74}

 By J. H. REYNOLDS. 

 Blue! 'Tis the life of heaven, --the domain Of Cynthia, --the wide palace of the sun, -- The tent of Hesperus and all his train, -- The bosomer of clouds, gold, grey and dun. Blue! 'Tis the life of waters--ocean And all its vassal streams: pools numberless May rage, and foam, and fret, but never can Subside if not to dark-blue nativeness. Blue! gentle cousin of the forest green, Married to green in all the sweetest flowers, Forget-me-not, --the blue-bell, --and, that queen Of secrecy, the violet: what strange powers Hast thou, as a mere shadow! But how great, When in an Eye thou art alive with fate!

 Feb. 1818. 

In the Athenaeum of the 3rd of June 1876, appeared a letter from Mr. A. J. Horwood, stating that he had in his possession a copy of The Garden ofFlorence in which this sonnet was transcribed. Mr. Horwood, who wasunaware that the sonnet had been already published by Lord Houghton, gives the transcript at length. His version reads hue for life in thefirst line, and bright for wide in the second, and gives the sixth linethus:

 With all his tributary streams, pools numberless, a foot too long: it also reads to for of in the ninth line. Mr. BuxtonForman is of opinion that these variations are decidedly genuine, butindicative of an earlier state of the poem than that adopted in LordHoughton's edition. However, now that we have before us Keats's firstdraft of his sonnet, it is difficult to believe that the sixth line inMr. Horwood's version is really a genuine variation. Keats may havewritten, Ocean His tributary streams, pools numberless, and the transcript may have been carelessly made, but having got his lineright in his first draft, Keats probably did not spoil it in his second. The Athenaeum version inserts a comma after art in the last line, whichseems to me a decided improvement, and eminently characteristic ofKeats's method. I am glad to see that Mr. Buxton Forman has adopted it. 

As for the corrections that Lord Houghton's version shows Keats to havemade in the eighth and ninth lines of this sonnet, it is evident thatthey sprang from Keats's reluctance to repeat the same word inconsecutive lines, except in cases where a word's music or meaning was tobe emphasised. The substitution of 'its' for 'his' in the sixth line ismore difficult of explanation. It was due probably to a desire onKeats's part not to mar by any echo the fine personification of Hesperus. 

It may be noticed that Keats's own eyes were brown, and not blue, asstated by Mrs. Proctor to Lord Houghton. Mrs. Speed showed me a note tothat effect written by Mrs. George Keats on the margin of the page inLord Houghton's Life (p. 100, vol. I. ), where Mrs. Proctor's descriptionis given. Cowden Clarke made a similar correction in his Recollections, and in some of the later editions of Lord Houghton's book the word 'blue'is struck out. In Severn's portraits of Keats also the eyes are given asbrown. 

The exquisite sense of colour expressed in the ninth and tenth lines maybe paralleled by

 The Ocean with its vastness, its blue green, of the sonnet to George Keats. 

THE AMERICAN INVASION

(Court and Society Review, March 23, 1887. )

A terrible danger is hanging over the Americans in London. Their futureand their reputation this season depend entirely on the success ofBuffalo Bill and Mrs. Brown-Potter. The former is certain to draw; forEnglish people are far more interested in American barbarism than theyare in American civilisation. When they sight Sandy Hook they look totheir rifles and ammunition; and, after dining once at Delmonico's, startoff for Colorado or California, for Montana or the Yellow Stone Park. Rocky Mountains charm them more than riotous millionaires; they have beenknown to prefer buffaloes to Boston. Why should they not? The cities ofAmerica are inexpressibly tedious. The Bostonians take their learningtoo sadly; culture with them is an accomplishment rather than anatmosphere; their 'Hub, ' as they call it, is the paradise of prigs. Chicago is a sort of monster-shop, full of bustle and bores. Politicallife at Washington is like political life in a suburban vestry. Baltimoreis amusing for a week, but Philadelphia is dreadfully provincial; andthough one can dine in New York one could not dwell there. Better theFar West with its grizzly bears and its untamed cow-boys, its free open-air life and its free open-air manners, its boundless prairie and itsboundless mendacity! This is what Buffalo Bill is going to bring toLondon; and we have no doubt that London will fully appreciate his show. 

With regard to Mrs. Brown-Potter, as acting is no longer consideredabsolutely essential for success on the English stage, there is really noreason why the pretty bright-eyed lady who charmed us all last June byher merry laugh and her nonchalant ways, should not--to borrow anexpression from her native language--make a big boom and paint the townred. We sincerely hope she will; for, on the whole, the Americaninvasion has done English society a great deal of good. American womenare bright, clever, and wonderfully cosmopolitan. Their patrioticfeelings are limited to an admiration for Niagara and a regret for theElevated Railway; and, unlike the men, they never bore us with BunkersHill. They take their dresses from Paris and their manners fromPiccadilly, and wear both charmingly. They have a quaint pertness, adelightful conceit, a native self-assertion. They insist on being paidcompliments and have almost succeeded in making Englishmen eloquent. Forour aristocracy they have an ardent admiration; they adore titles and area permanent blow to Republican principles. In the art of amusing menthey are adepts, both by nature and education, and can actually tell astory without forgetting the point--an accomplishment that is extremelyrare among the women of other countries. It is true that they lackrepose and that their voices are somewhat harsh and strident when theyland first at Liverpool; but after a time one gets to love these prettywhirlwinds in petticoats that sweep so recklessly through society and areso agitating to all duchesses who have daughters. There is somethingfascinating in their funny, exaggerated gestures and their petulant wayof tossing the head. Their eyes have no magic nor mystery in them, butthey challenge us for combat; and when we engage we are always worsted. Their lips seem made for laughter and yet they never grimace. As fortheir voices, they soon get them into tune. Some of them have been knownto acquire a fashionable drawl in two seasons; and after they have beenpresented to Royalty they all roll their R's as vigorously as a youngequerry or an old lady-in-waiting. Still, they never really lose theiraccent; it keeps peeping out here and there, and when they chattertogether they are like a bevy of peacocks. Nothing is more amusing thanto watch two American girls greeting each other in a drawing-room or inthe Row. They are like children with their shrill staccato cries ofwonder, their odd little exclamations. Their conversation sounds like aseries of exploding crackers; they are exquisitely incoherent and use asort of primitive, emotional language. After five minutes they are leftbeautifully breathless and look at each other half in amusement and halfin affection. If a stolid young Englishman is fortunate enough to beintroduced to them he is amazed at their extraordinary vivacity, theirelectric quickness of repartee, their inexhaustible store of curiouscatchwords. He never really understands them, for their thoughts flutterabout with the sweet irresponsibility of butterflies; but he is pleasedand amused and feels as if he were in an aviary. On the whole, Americangirls have a wonderful charm and, perhaps, the chief secret of theircharm is that they never talk seriously except about amusements. Theyhave, however, one grave fault--their mothers. Dreary as were those oldPilgrim Fathers who left our shores more than two centuries ago to founda New England beyond seas, the Pilgrim Mothers who have returned to us inthe nineteenth century are drearier still. 

Here and there, of course, there are exceptions, but as a class they areeither dull, dowdy or dyspeptic. It is only fair to the risinggeneration of America to state that they are not to blame for this. Indeed, they spare no pains at all to bring up their parents properly andto give them a suitable, if somewhat late, education. From its earliestyears every American child spends most of its time in correcting thefaults of its father and mother; and no one who has had the opportunityof watching an American family on the deck of an Atlantic steamer, or inthe refined seclusion of a New York boarding-house, can fail to have beenstruck by this characteristic of their civilisation. In America theyoung are always ready to give to those who are older than themselves thefull benefits of their inexperience. A boy of only eleven or twelveyears of age will firmly but kindly point out to his father his defectsof manner or temper; will never weary of warning him againstextravagance, idleness, late hours, unpunctuality, and the othertemptations to which the aged are so particularly exposed; and sometimes, should he fancy that he is monopolising too much of the conversation atdinner, will remind him, across the table, of the new child's adage, 'Parents should be seen, not heard. ' Nor does any mistaken idea ofkindness prevent the little American girl from censuring her motherwhenever it is necessary. Often, indeed, feeling that a rebuke conveyedin the presence of others is more truly efficacious than one merelywhispered in the quiet of the nursery, she will call the attention ofperfect strangers to her mother's general untidiness, her want ofintellectual Boston conversation, immoderate love of iced water and greencorn, stinginess in the matter of candy, ignorance of the usages of thebest Baltimore society, bodily ailments and the like. In fact, it may betruly said that no American child is ever blind to the deficiencies ofits parents, no matter how much it may love them. 

Yet, somehow, this educational system has not been so successful as itdeserved. In many cases, no doubt, the material with which the childrenhad to deal was crude and incapable of real development; but the factremains that the American mother is a tedious person. The Americanfather is better, for he is never seen in London. He passes his lifeentirely in Wall Street and communicates with his family once a month bymeans of a telegram in cipher. The mother, however, is always with us, and, lacking the quick imitative faculty of the younger generation, remains uninteresting and provincial to the last. In spite of her, however, the American girl is always welcome. She brightens our dulldinner parties for us and makes life go pleasantly by for a season. Inthe race for coronets she often carries off the prize; but, once she hasgained the victory, she is generous and forgives her English rivalseverything, even their beauty. 

Warned by the example of her mother that American women do not grow oldgracefully, she tries not to grow old at all and often succeeds. She hasexquisite feet and hands, is always bien chaussee et bien gantee and cantalk brilliantly upon any subject, provided that she knows nothing aboutit. 

Her sense of humour keeps her from the tragedy of a grande passion, and, as there is neither romance nor humility in her love, she makes anexcellent wife. What her ultimate influence on English life will be itis difficult to estimate at present; but there can be no doubt that, ofall the factors that have contributed to the social revolution of London, there are few more important, and none more delightful, than the AmericanInvasion. 

SERMONS IN STONES AT BLOOMSBURY: THE NEW SCULPTURE ROOM AT THE BRITISHMUSEUM

(Pall Mall Gazette, October 15, 1887. )

Through the exertions of Sir Charles Newton, to whom every student ofclassic art should be grateful, some of the wonderful treasures so longimmured in the grimy vaults of the British Museum have at last beenbrought to light, and the new Sculpture Room now opened to the publicwill amply repay the trouble of a visit, even from those to whom art is astumbling-block and a rock of offence. For setting aside the mere beautyof form, outline and mass, the grace and loveliness of design and thedelicacy of technical treatment, here we have shown to us what the Greeksand Romans thought about death; and the philosopher, the preacher, thepractical man of the world, and even the Philistine himself, cannot failto be touched by these 'sermons in stones, ' with their deep significance, their fertile suggestion, their plain humanity. Common tombstones theyare, most of them, the work not of famous artists but of simplehandicraftsmen, only they were wrought in days when every handicraft wasan art. The finest specimens, from the purely artistic point of view, are undoubtedly the two stelai found at Athens. They are both thetombstones of young Greek athletes. In one the athlete is representedhanding his strigil to his slave, in the other the athlete stands alone, strigil in hand. They do not belong to the greatest period of Greek art, they have not the grand style of the Phidian age, but they are beautifulfor all that, and it is impossible not to be fascinated by theirexquisite grace and by the treatment which is so simple in its means, sosubtle in its effect. All the tombstones, however, are full of interest. Here is one of two ladies of Smyrna who were so remarkable in their daythat the city voted them honorary crowns; here is a Greek doctorexamining a little boy who is suffering from indigestion; here is thememorial of Xanthippus who, probably, was a martyr to gout, as he isholding in his hand the model of a foot, intended, no doubt, as a votiveoffering to some god. A lovely stele from Rhodes gives us a familygroup. The husband is on horseback and is bidding farewell to his wife, who seems as if she would follow him but is being held back by a littlechild. The pathos of parting from those we love is the central motive ofGreek funeral art. It is repeated in every possible form, and each mutemarble stone seems to murmur [Greek]. Roman art is different. Itintroduces vigorous and realistic portraiture and deals with pure familylife far more frequently than Greek art does. They are very ugly, thosestern-looking Roman men and women whose portraits are exhibited on theirtombs, but they seem to have been loved and respected by their childrenand their servants. Here is the monument of Aphrodisius and Atilia, aRoman gentleman and his wife, who died in Britain many centuries ago, andwhose tombstone was found in the Thames; and close by it stands a stelefrom Rome with the busts of an old married couple who are certainlymarvellously ill-favoured. The contrast between the abstract Greektreatment of the idea of death and the Roman concrete realisation of theindividuals who have died is extremely curious. 

Besides the tombstones, the new Sculpture Room contains some mostfascinating examples of Roman decorative art under the Emperors. Themost wonderful of all, and this alone is worth a trip to Bloomsbury, is abas-relief representing a marriage scene. Juno Pronuba is joining thehands of a handsome young noble and a very stately lady. There is allthe grace of Perugino in this marble, all the grace of Raphael even. Thedate of it is uncertain, but the particular cut of the bridegroom's beardseems to point to the time of the Emperor Hadrian. It is clearly thework of Greek artists and is one of the most beautiful bas-reliefs in thewhole Museum. There is something in it which reminds one of the musicand the sweetness of Propertian verse. Then we have delightful friezesof children. One representing children playing on musical instrumentsmight have suggested much of the plastic art of Florence. Indeed, as weview these marbles it is not difficult to see whence the Renaissancesprang and to what we owe the various forms of Renaissance art. Thefrieze of the Muses, each of whom wears in her hair a feather pluckedfrom the wings of the vanquished sirens, is extremely fine; there is alovely little bas-relief of two cupids racing in chariots; and the friezeof recumbent Amazons has some splendid qualities of design. A frieze ofchildren playing with the armour of the god Mars should also bementioned. It is full of fancy and delicate humour. 

On the whole, Sir Charles Newton and Mr. Murray are warmly to becongratulated on the success of the new room. We hope, however, thatsome more of the hidden treasures will shortly be catalogued and shown. In the vaults at present there is a very remarkable bas-relief of themarriage of Cupid and Psyche, and another representing the professionalmourners weeping over the body of the dead. The fine cast of the Lion ofChaeronea should also be brought up, and so should the stele with themarvellous portrait of the Roman slave. Economy is an excellent publicvirtue, but the parsimony that allows valuable works of art to remain inthe grime and gloom of a damp cellar is little short of a detestablepublic vice. 

THE UNITY OF THE ARTS: A LECTURE AND A FIVE O'CLOCK

(Pall Mall Gazette, December 12, 1887. )

Last Saturday afternoon, at Willis's Rooms, Mr. Selwyn Image deliveredthe first of a series of four lectures on Modern Art before a select anddistinguished audience. The chief point on which he dwelt was theabsolute unity of all the arts and, in order to convey this idea, heframed a definition wide enough to include Shakespeare's King Lear andMichael Angelo's Creation, Paul Veronese's picture of Alexander andDarius, and Gibbon's description of the entry of Heliogabalus into Rome. All these he regarded as so many expressions of man's thoughts andemotions on fine things, conveyed through visible or audible modes; andstarting from this point he approached the question of the true relationof literature to painting, always keeping in view the central motive ofhis creed, Credo in unam artem multipartitam, indivisibilem, and dwellingon resemblances rather than differences. The result at which heultimately arrived was this: the Impressionists, with their frankartistic acceptance of form and colour as things absolutely satisfying inthemselves, have produced very beautiful work, but painting has somethingmore to give us than the mere visible aspect of things. The loftyspiritual visions of William Blake, and the marvellous romance of DanteGabriel Rossetti, can find their perfect expression in painting; everymood has its colour and every dream has its form. The chief quality ofMr. Image's lecture was its absolute fairness, but this was, to a certainportion of the audience, its chief defect. 'Sweet reasonableness, ' saidone, 'is always admirable in a spectator, but from a leader we wantsomething more. ' 'It is only an auctioneer who should admire all schoolsof art, ' said another; while a third sighed over what he called 'thefatal sterility of the judicial mind, ' and expressed a perfectlygroundless fear that the Century Guild was becoming rational. For, witha courtesy and a generosity that we strongly recommend to otherlecturers, Mr. Image provided refreshments for his audience after hisaddress was over, and it was extremely interesting to listen to thevarious opinions expressed by the great Five-o'clock-tea School ofCriticism which was largely represented. For our own part, we found Mr. Image's lecture extremely suggestive. It was sometimes difficult tounderstand in what exact sense he was using the word 'literary, ' and wedo not think that a course of drawing from the plaster cast of the DyingGaul would in the slightest degree improve the ordinary art critic. Thetrue unity of the arts is to be found, not in any resemblance of one artto another, but in the fact that to the really artistic nature all thearts have the same message and speak the same language though withdifferent tongues. No amount of daubing on a cellar wall will make a manunderstand the mystery of Michael Angelo's Sybils, nor is it necessary towrite a blank verse drama before one can appreciate the beauty of Hamlet. It is essential that an art critic should have a nature receptive ofbeautiful impressions, and sufficient intuition to recognise style whenhe meets with it, and truth when it is shown to him; but, if he does notpossess these qualities, a reckless career of water-colour painting willnot give them to him, for, if from the incompetent critic all things behidden, to the bad painter nothing shall be revealed. 

ART AT WILLIS'S ROOMS

(Sunday Times, December 25, 1887. )

Accepting a suggestion made by a friendly critic last week, Mr. SelwynImage began his second lecture by explaining more fully what he meant byliterary art, and pointed out the difference between an ordinaryillustration to a book and such creative and original works as MichaelAngelo's fresco of The Expulsion from Eden and Rossetti's Beata Beatrix. In the latter case the artist treats literature as if it were lifeitself, and gives a new and delightful form to what seer or singer hasshown us; in the former we have merely a translation which misses themusic and adds no marvel. As for subject, Mr. Image protested againstthe studio-slang that no subject is necessary, defining subject as thethought, emotion or impression which a man desires to embody in form andcolour, and admitting Mr. Whistler's fireworks as readily as Giotto'sangels, and Van Huysum's roses no less than Mantegna's gods. Here, wethink that Mr. Image might have pointed out more clearly the contrastbetween the purely pictorial subject and the subject that includes amongits elements such things as historical associations or poetic memories;the contrast, in fact, between impressive art and the art that isexpressive also. However, the topics he had to deal with were so variedthat it was, no doubt, difficult for him to do more than suggest. Fromsubject he passed to style, which he described as 'that masterful butrestrained individuality of manner by which one artist is differentiatedfrom another. ' The true qualities of style he found in restraint whichis submission to law; simplicity which is unity of vision; and severity, for le beau est toujours severe. 

The realist he defined as one who aims at reproducing the externalphenomena of nature, while the idealist is the man who 'imagines thingsof fine interest. ' Yet, while he defined them he would not separatethem. The true artist is a realist, for he recognises an external worldof truth; an idealist, for he has selection, abstraction and the power ofindividualisation. To stand apart from the world of nature is fatal, butit is no less fatal merely to reproduce facts. 

Art, in a word, must not content itself simply with holding the mirror upto nature, for it is a re-creation more than a reflection, and not arepetition but rather a new song. As for finish, it must not be confusedwith elaboration. A picture, said Mr. Image, is finished when the meansof form and colour employed by the artist are adequate to convey theartist's intention; and, with this definition and a peroration suitableto the season, he concluded his interesting and intellectual lecture. 

Light refreshments were then served to the audience, and the five-o'clock-tea school of criticism came very much to the front. Mr. Image's entirefreedom from dogmatism and self-assertion was in some quarters ratherseverely commented on, and one young gentleman declared that suchvirtuous modesty as the lecturer's might easily become a most viciousmannerism. Everybody, however, was extremely pleased to learn that it isno longer the duty of art to hold the mirror up to nature, and the fewPhilistines who dissented from this view received that most terrible ofall punishments--the contempt of the highly cultured. 

Mr. Image's third lecture will be delivered on January 21 and will, nodoubt, be largely attended, as the subjects advertised are full ofinterest, and though 'sweet reasonableness' may not convert, it alwayscharms. 

MR. MORRIS ON TAPESTRY

(Pall Mall Gazette, November 2, 1888. )

Yesterday evening Mr. William Morris delivered a most interesting andfascinating lecture on Carpet and Tapestry Weaving at the Arts and CraftsExhibition now held at the New Gallery. Mr. Morris had small practicalmodels of the two looms used, the carpet loom where the weaver sits infront of his work; the more elaborate tapestry loom where the weaver sitsbehind, at the back of the stuff, has his design outlined on the uprightthreads and sees in a mirror the shadow of the pattern and picture as itgrows gradually to perfection. He spoke at much length on the questionof dyes--praising madder and kermes for reds, precipitate of iron orochre for yellows, and for blue either indigo or woad. At the back ofthe platform hung a lovely Flemish tapestry of the fourteenth century, and a superb Persian carpet about two hundred and fifty years old. Mr. Morris pointed out the loveliness of the carpet--its delicate suggestionof hawthorn blossom, iris and rose, its rejection of imitation andshading; and showed how it combined the great quality of decorativedesign--being at once clear and well defined in form: each outlineexquisitely traced, each line deliberate in its intention and its beauty, and the whole effect being one of unity, of harmony, almost of mystery, the colours being so perfectly harmonised together and the little brightnotes of colour being so cunningly placed either for tone or brilliancy. 

Tapestries, he said, were to the North of Europe what fresco was to theSouth--our climate, amongst other reasons, guiding us in our choice ofmaterial for wall-covering. England, France, and Flanders were the threegreat tapestry countries--Flanders with its great wool trade being thefirst in splendid colours and superb Gothic design. The keynote oftapestry, the secret of its loveliness, was, he told the audience, thecomplete filling up of every corner and square inch of surface withlovely and fanciful and suggestive design. Hence the wonder of thosegreat Gothic tapestries where the forest trees rise in different places, one over the other, each leaf perfect in its shape and colour anddecorative value, while in simple raiment of beautiful design knights andladies wandered in rich flower gardens, and rode with hawk on wristthrough long green arcades, and sat listening to lute and viol in blossom-starred bowers or by cool gracious water springs. Upon the other hand, when the Gothic feeling died away, and Boucher and others began todesign, they gave us wide expanses of waste sky, elaborate perspective, posing nymphs and shallow artificial treatment. Indeed, Boucher met withscant mercy at Mr. Morris's vigorous hands and was roundly abused, andmodern Gobelins, with M. Bougereau's cartoons, fared no better. 

Mr. Morris told some delightful stories about old tapestry work from thedays when in the Egyptian tombs the dead were laid wrapped in picturecloths, some of which are now in the South Kensington Museum, to the timeof the great Turk Bajazet who, having captured some Christian knights, would accept nothing for their ransom but the 'storied tapestries ofFrance' and gerfalcons. As regards the use of tapestry in modern days, he pointed out that we were richer than the middle ages, and so should bebetter able to afford this form of lovely wall-covering, which forartistic tone is absolutely without rival. He said that the verylimitation of material and form forced the imaginative designer intogiving us something really beautiful and decorative. 'What is the use ofsetting an artist in a twelve-acre field and telling him to design ahouse? Give him a limited space and he is forced by its limitation toconcentrate, and to fill with pure loveliness the narrow surface at hisdisposal. ' The worker also gives to the original design a very perfectrichness of detail, and the threads with their varying colours anddelicate reflections convey into the work a new source of delight. Here, he said, we found perfect unity between the imaginative artist and thehandicraftsman. The one was not too free, the other was not a slave. Theeye of the artist saw, his brain conceived, his imagination created, butthe hand of the weaver had also its opportunity for wonderful work, anddid not copy what was already made, but re-created and put into a new anddelightful form a design that for its perfection needed the loom to aid, and had to pass into a fresh and marvellous material before its beautycame to its real flower and blossom of absolutely right expression andartistic effect. But, said Mr. Morris in conclusion, to have great workwe must be worthy of it. Commercialism, with its vile god cheapness, itscallous indifference to the worker, its innate vulgarity of temper, isour enemy. To gain anything good we must sacrifice something of ourluxury--must think more of others, more of the State, the commonweal: 'Wecannot have riches and wealth both, ' he said; we must choose betweenthem. 

The lecture was listened to with great attention by a very large anddistinguished audience, and Mr. Morris was loudly applauded. 

The next lecture will be on Sculpture by Mr. George Simonds, and if it ishalf so good as Mr. Morris it will well repay a visit to thelecture-room. Mr. Crane deserves great credit for his exertions inmaking this exhibition what it should be, and there is no doubt but thatit will exercise an important and a good influence on all the handicraftsof our country. 

SCULPTURE AT THE ARTS AND CRAFTS

(Pall Mall Gazette, November 9, 1888. )

The most satisfactory thing in Mr. Simonds' lecture last night was theperoration, in which he told the audience that 'an artist cannot bemade. ' But for this well-timed warning some deluded people might havegone away under the impression that sculpture was a sort of mechanicalprocess within the reach of the meanest capabilities. For it must beconfessed that Mr. Simonds' lecture was at once too elementary and tooelaborately technical. The ordinary art student, even the ordinarystudio-loafer, could not have learned anything from it, while the'cultured person, ' of whom there were many specimens present, could notbut have felt a little bored at the careful and painfully cleardescriptions given by the lecturer of very well-known and uninterestingmethods of work. However, Mr. Simonds did his best. He describedmodelling in clay and wax; casting in plaster and in metal; how toenlarge and how to diminish to scale; bas-reliefs and working in theround; the various kinds of marble, their qualities and characteristics;how to reproduce in marble the plaster or clay bust; how to use thepoint, the drill, the wire and the chisel; and the various difficultiesattending each process. He exhibited a clay bust of Mr. Walter Crane onwhich he did some elementary work; a bust of Mr. Parsons; a smallstatuette; several moulds, and an interesting diagram of the furnace usedby Balthasar Keller for casting a great equestrian statue of Louis XIV. In 1697-8. 

What his lecture lacked were ideas. Of the artistic value of eachmaterial; of the correspondence between material or method and theimaginative faculty seeking to find expression; of the capacities forrealism and idealism that reside in each material; of the historical andhuman side of the art--he said nothing. He showed the variousinstruments and how they are used, but he treated them entirely asinstruments for the hand. He never once brought his subject into anyrelation either with art or with life. He explained forms of labour andforms of saving labour. He showed the various methods as they might beused by an artisan. Mr. Morris, last week, while explaining thetechnical processes of weaving, never forgot that he was lecturing on anart. He not merely taught his audience, but he charmed them. However, the audience gathered together last night at the Arts and CraftsExhibition seemed very much interested; at least, they were veryattentive; and Mr. Walter Crane made a short speech at the conclusion, inwhich he expressed his satisfaction that in spite of modern machinerysculpture had hardly altered one of its tools. For our own part wecannot help regretting the extremely commonplace character of thelecture. If a man lectures on poets he should not confine his remarkspurely to grammar. 

Next week Mr. Emery Walker lectures on Printing. We hope--indeed we aresure, that he will not forget that it is an art, or rather it was an artonce, and can be made so again. 

PRINTING AND PRINTERS

(Pall Mall Gazette, November 16, 1888. )

Nothing could have been better than Mr. Emery Walker's lecture onLetterpress Printing and Illustration, delivered last night at the Artsand Crafts. A series of most interesting specimens of old printed booksand manuscripts was displayed on the screen by means of themagic-lantern, and Mr. Walker's explanations were as clear and simple ashis suggestions were admirable. He began by explaining the differentkinds of type and how they are made, and showed specimens of the oldblock-printing which preceded the movable type and is still used inChina. He pointed out the intimate connection between printing andhandwriting--as long as the latter was good the printers had a livingmodel to go by, but when it decayed printing decayed also. He showed onthe screen a page from Gutenberg's Bible (the first printed book, dateabout 1450-5) and a manuscript of Columella; a printed Livy of 1469, withthe abbreviations of handwriting, and a manuscript of the History ofPompeius by Justin of 1451. The latter he regarded as an example of thebeginning of the Roman type. The resemblance between the manuscripts andthe printed books was most curious and suggestive. He then showed a pageout of John of Spier's edition of Cicero's Letters, the first bookprinted at Venice, an edition of the same book by Nicholas Jansen in1470, and a wonderful manuscript Petrarch of the sixteenth century. Hetold the audience about Aldus, who was the first publisher to start cheapbooks, who dropped abbreviations and had his type cut by Francia pictoret aurifex, who was said to have taken it from Petrarch's handwriting. Heexhibited a page of the copy-book of Vicentino, the great Venetianwriting-master, which was greeted with a spontaneous round of applause, and made some excellent suggestions about improving modern copy-books andavoiding slanting writing. 

A superb Plautus printed at Florence in 1514 for Lorenzo di Medici, Polydore Virgil's History with the fine Holbein designs, printed at Baslein 1556, and other interesting books, were also exhibited on the screen, the size, of course, being very much enlarged. He spoke of Elzevir inthe seventeenth century when handwriting began to fall off, and of theEnglish printer Caslon, and of Baskerville whose type was possiblydesigned by Hogarth, but is not very good. Latin, he remarked, was abetter language to print than English, as the tails of the letters didnot so often fall below the line. The wide spacing between lines, occasioned by the use of a lead, he pointed out, left the page in stripesand made the blanks as important as the lines. Margins should, ofcourse, be wide except the inner margins, and the headlines often robbedthe page of its beauty of design. The type used by the Pall Mall was, weare glad to say, rightly approved of. 

With regard to illustration, the essential thing, Mr. Walker said, is tohave harmony between the type and the decoration. He pleaded for truebook ornament as opposed to the silly habit of putting pictures wherethey are not wanted, and pointed out that mechanical harmony and artisticharmony went hand in hand. No ornament or illustration should be used ina book which cannot be printed in the same way as the type. For hiswarnings he produced Rogers's Italy with a steel-plate engraving, and apage from an American magazine which being florid, pictorial and bad, wasgreeted with some laughter. For examples we had a lovely Boccaccioprinted at Ulm, and a page out of La Mer des Histoires printed in 1488. Blake and Bewick were also shown, and a page of music designed by Mr. Horne. 

The lecture was listened to with great attention by a large audience, andwas certainly most attractive. Mr. Walker has the keen artistic instinctthat comes out of actually working in the art of which he spoke. Hisremarks about the pictorial character of modern illustration were welltimed, and we hope that some of the publishers in the audience will takethem to heart. 

Next Thursday Mr. Cobden-Sanderson lectures on Bookbinding, a subject onwhich few men in England have higher qualifications for speaking. We areglad to see these lectures are so well attended. 

THE BEAUTIES OF BOOKBINDING

(Pall Mall Gazette, November 23, 1888. )

'The beginning of art, ' said Mr. Cobden-Sanderson last night in hischarming lecture on Bookbinding, 'is man thinking about the universe. ' Hedesires to give expression to the joy and wonder that he feels at themarvels that surround him, and invents a form of beauty through which heutters the thought or feeling that is in him. And bookbinding ranksamongst the arts: 'through it a man expresses himself. '

This elegant and pleasantly exaggerated exordium preceded some verypractical demonstrations. 'The apron is the banner of the future!'exclaimed the lecturer, and he took his coat off and put his apron on. Hespoke a little about old bindings for the papyrus roll, about the ivoryor cedar cylinders round which old manuscripts were wound, about thestained covers and the elaborate strings, till binding in the modernsense began with literature in a folded form, with literature in pages. Abinding, he pointed out, consists of two boards, originally of wood, nowof mill-board, covered with leather, silk or velvet. The use of theseboards is to protect the 'world's written wealth. ' The best material isleather, decorated with gold. The old binders used to be given foreststhat they might always have a supply of the skins of wild animals; themodern binder has to content himself with importing morocco, which is farthe best leather there is, and is very much to be preferred to calf. 

Mr. Sanderson mentioned by name a few of the great binders such as LeGascon, and some of the patrons of bookbinding like the Medicis, Grolier, and the wonderful women who so loved books that they lent them some ofthe perfume and grace of their own strange lives. However, thehistorical part of the lecture was very inadequate, possibly necessarilyso through the limitations of time. The really elaborate part of thelecture was the practical exposition. Mr. Sanderson described andillustrated the various processes of smoothing, pressing, cutting, paring, and the like. He divided bindings into two classes, the usefuland the beautiful. Among the former he reckoned paper covers such as theFrench use, paper boards and cloth boards, and half leather or calfbindings. Cloth he disliked as a poor material, the gold on which soonfades away. As for beautiful bindings, in them 'decoration rises intoenthusiasm. ' A beautiful binding is 'a homage to genius. ' It has itsethical value, its spiritual effect. 'By doing good work we raise lifeto a higher plane, ' said the lecturer, and he dwelt with loving sympathyon the fact that a book is 'sensitive by nature, ' that it is made by ahuman being for a human being, that the design must 'come from the manhimself, and express the moods of his imagination, the joy of his soul. 'There must, consequently, be no division of labour. 'I make my own pasteand enjoy doing it, ' said Mr. Sanderson as he spoke of the necessity forthe artist doing the whole work with his own hands. But before we havereally good bookbinding we must have a social revolution. As things arenow, the worker diminished to a machine is the slave of the employer, andthe employer bloated into a millionaire is the slave of the public, andthe public is the slave of its pet god, cheapness. The bookbinder of thefuture is to be an educated man who appreciates literature and hasfreedom for his fancy and leisure for his thought. 

All this is very good and sound. But in treating bookbinding as animaginative, expressive human art we must confess that we think that Mr. Sanderson made something of an error. Bookbinding is essentiallydecorative, and good decoration is far more often suggested by materialand mode of work than by any desire on the part of the designer to tellus of his joy in the world. Hence it comes that good decoration isalways traditional. Where it is the expression of the individual it isusually either false or capricious. These handicrafts are not primarilyexpressive arts; they are impressive arts. If a man has any message forthe world he will not deliver it in a material that always suggests andalways conditions its own decoration. The beauty of bookbinding isabstract decorative beauty. It is not, in the first instance, a mode ofexpression for a man's soul. Indeed, the danger of all these loftyclaims for handicraft is simply that they show a desire to give craftsthe province and motive of arts such as poetry, painting and sculpture. Such province and such motive they have not got. Their aim is different. Between the arts that aim at annihilating their material and the artsthat aim at glorifying it there is a wide gulf. 

However, it was quite right of Mr. Cobden-Sanderson to extol his own art, and though he seemed often to confuse expressive and impressive modes ofbeauty, he always spoke with great sincerity. 

Next week Mr. Crane delivers the final lecture of this admirable 'Artsand Crafts' series and, no doubt, he will have much to say on a subjectto which he has devoted the whole of his fine artistic life. Forourselves, we cannot help feeling that in bookbinding art expressesprimarily not the feeling of the worker but simply itself, its ownbeauty, its own wonder. 

THE CLOSE OF THE ARTS AND CRAFTS

(Pall Mall Gazette, November 30, 1888. )

Mr. Walter Crane, the President of the Society of Arts and Crafts, wasgreeted last night by such an enormous audience that at one time thehonorary secretary became alarmed for the safety of the cartoons, andmany people were unable to gain admission at all. However, order wassoon established, and Mr. Cobden-Sanderson stepped up on to the platformand in a few pleasantly sententious phrases introduced Mr. Crane as onewho had always been 'the advocate of great and unpopular causes, ' and theaim of whose art was 'joy in widest commonalty spread. ' Mr. Crane beganhis lecture by pointing out that Art had two fields, aspect andadaptation, and that it was primarily with the latter that the designerwas concerned, his object being not literal fact but ideal beauty. Withthe unstudied and accidental effects of Nature the designer had nothingto do. He sought for principles and proceeded by geometric plan andabstract line and colour. Pictorial art is isolated and unrelated, andthe frame is the last relic of the old connection between painting andarchitecture. But the designer does not desire primarily to produce apicture. He aims at making a pattern and proceeds by selection; herejects the 'hole in the wall' idea, and will have nothing to do with the'false windows of a picture. '

Three things differentiate designs. First, the spirit of the artist, that mode and manner by which Durer is separated from Flaxman, by whichwe recognise the soul of a man expressing itself in the form proper toit. Next comes the constructive idea, the filling of spaces with lovelywork. Last is the material which, be it leather or clay, ivory or wood, often suggests and always controls the pattern. As for naturalism, wemust remember that we see not with our eyes alone but with our wholefaculties. Feeling and thought are part of sight. Mr. Crane then drewon a blackboard the naturalistic oak-tree of the landscape painter andthe decorative oak-tree of the designer. He showed that each artist islooking for different things, and that the designer always makesappearance subordinate to decorative motive. He showed also the fielddaisy as it is in Nature and the same flower treated for paneldecoration. The designer systematises and emphasises, chooses andrejects, and decorative work bears the same relation to naturalisticpresentation that the imaginative language of the poetic drama bears tothe language of real life. The decorative capabilities of the square andthe circle were then shown on the board, and much was said aboutsymmetry, alternation and radiation, which last principle Mr. Cranedescribed as 'the Home Rule of design, the perfection of localself-government, ' and which, he pointed out, was essentially organic, manifesting itself in the bird's wing as well as in the Tudor vaulting ofGothic architecture. Mr. Crane then passed to the human figure, 'thatexpressive unit of design, ' which contains all the principles ofdecoration, and exhibited a design of a nude figure with an axe couchedin an architectural spandrel, a figure which he was careful to explainwas, in spite of the axe, not that of Mr. Gladstone. The designer thenleaving chiaroscuro, shading and other 'superficial facts of life' totake care of themselves, and keeping the idea of space limitation alwaysbefore him, then proceeds to emphasise the beauty of his material, be itmetal with its 'agreeable bossiness, ' as Ruskin calls it, or leaded glasswith its fine dark lines, or mosaic with its jewelled tesserae, or theloom with its crossed threads, or wood with its pleasant crispness. Muchbad art comes from one art trying to borrow from another. We havesculptors who try to be pictorial, painters who aim at stage effects, weavers who seek for pictorial motives, carvers who make Life and not Arttheir aim, cotton printers 'who tie up bunches of artificial flowers withstreamers of artificial ribbons' and fling them on the unfortunatetextile. 

Then came the little bit of Socialism, very sensible and very quietlyput. 'How can we have fine art when the worker is condemned tomonotonous and mechanical labour in the midst of dull or hideoussurroundings, when cities and nature are sacrificed to commercial greed, when cheapness is the god of Life?' In old days the craftsman was adesigner; he had his 'prentice days of quiet study; and even the painterbegan by grinding colours. Some little old ornament still lingers, hereand there, on the brass rosettes of cart-horses, in the common milk-cansof Antwerp, in the water-vessels of Italy. But even this isdisappearing. 'The tourist passes by' and creates a demand that commercesatisfies in an unsatisfactory manner. We have not yet arrived at ahealthy state of things. There is still the Tottenham Court Road and athreatened revival of Louis Seize furniture, and the 'popular pictorialprint struggles through the meshes of the antimacassar. ' Art depends onLife. We cannot get it from machines. And yet machines are bad onlywhen they are our masters. The printing press is a machine that Artvalues because it obeys her. True art must have the vital energy of lifeitself, must take its colours from life's good or evil, must followangels of light or angels of darkness. The art of the past is not to becopied in a servile spirit. For a new age we require a new form. 

Mr. Crane's lecture was most interesting and instructive. On one pointonly we would differ from him. Like Mr. Morris he quite underrates theart of Japan, and looks on the Japanese as naturalists and not asdecorative artists. It is true that they are often pictorial, but by theexquisite finesse of their touch, the brilliancy and beauty of theircolour, their perfect knowledge of how to make a space decorative withoutdecorating it (a point on which Mr. Crane said nothing, though it is oneof the most important things in decoration), and by their keen instinctof where to place a thing, the Japanese are decorative artists of a highorder. Next year somebody must lecture the Arts and Crafts on Japaneseart. In the meantime, we congratulate Mr. Crane and Mr. Cobden-Sandersonon the admirable series of lectures that has been delivered at thisexhibition. Their influence for good can hardly be over-estimated. Theexhibition, we are glad to hear, has been a financial success. It closestomorrow, but is to be only the first of many to come. 

ENGLISH POETESSES

(Queen, December 8, 1888. )

England has given to the world one great poetess, Elizabeth BarrettBrowning. By her side Mr. Swinburne would place Miss Christina Rossetti, whose New Year hymn he describes as so much the noblest of sacred poemsin our language, that there is none which comes near it enough to standsecond. 'It is a hymn, ' he tells us, 'touched as with the fire, andbathed as in the light of sunbeams, tuned as to chords and cadences ofrefluent sea-music beyond reach of harp and organ, large echoes of theserene and sonorous tides of heaven. ' Much as I admire Miss Rossetti'swork, her subtle choice of words, her rich imagery, her artistic naivete, wherein curious notes of strangeness and simplicity are fantasticallyblended together, I cannot but think that Mr. Swinburne has, with nobleand natural loyalty, placed her on too lofty a pedestal. To me, she issimply a very delightful artist in poetry. This is indeed something sorare that when we meet it we cannot fail to love it, but it is noteverything. Beyond it and above it are higher and more sunlit heights ofsong, a larger vision, and an ampler air, a music at once more passionateand more profound, a creative energy that is born of the spirit, a wingedrapture that is born of the soul, a force and fervour of mere utterancethat has all the wonder of the prophet, and not a little of theconsecration of the priest. 

Mrs. Browning is unapproachable by any woman who has ever touched lyre orblown through reed since the days of the great AEolian poetess. ButSappho, who, to the antique world was a pillar of flame, is to us but apillar of shadow. Of her poems, burnt with other most precious work byByzantine Emperor and by Roman Pope, only a few fragments remain. Possibly they lie mouldering in the scented darkness of an Egyptian tomb, clasped in the withered hands of some long-dead lover. Some Greek monkat Athos may even now be poring over an ancient manuscript, whose crabbedcharacters conceal lyric or ode by her whom the Greeks spoke of as 'thePoetess' just as they termed Homer 'the Poet, ' who was to them the tenthMuse, the flower of the Graces, the child of Eros, and the pride ofHellas--Sappho, with the sweet voice, the bright, beautiful eyes, thedark hyacinth-coloured hair. But, practically, the work of themarvellous singer of Lesbos is entirely lost to us. 

We have a few rose-leaves out of her garden, that is all. Literaturenowadays survives marble and bronze, but in old days, in spite of theRoman poet's noble boast, it was not so. The fragile clay vases of theGreeks still keep for us pictures of Sappho, delicately painted in blackand red and white; but of her song we have only the echo of an echo. 

Of all the women of history, Mrs. Browning is the only one that we couldname in any possible or remote conjunction with Sappho. 

Sappho was undoubtedly a far more flawless and perfect artist. Shestirred the whole antique world more than Mrs. Browning ever stirred ourmodern age. Never had Love such a singer. Even in the few lines thatremain to us the passion seems to scorch and burn. But, as unjust Time, who has crowned her with the barren laurels of fame, has twined with themthe dull poppies of oblivion, let us turn from the mere memory of apoetess to one whose song still remains to us as an imperishable glory toour literature; to her who heard the cry of the children from dark mineand crowded factory, and made England weep over its little ones; who, inthe feigned sonnets from the Portuguese, sang of the spiritual mystery ofLove, and of the intellectual gifts that Love brings to the soul; who hadfaith in all that is worthy, and enthusiasm for all that is great, andpity for all that suffers; who wrote the Vision of Poets and Casa GuidiWindows and Aurora Leigh. 

As one, to whom I owe my love of poetry no less than my love of country, has said of her:

 Still on our ears The clear 'Excelsior' from a woman's lip Rings out across the Apennines, although The woman's brow lies pale and cold in death With all the mighty marble dead in Florence. For while great songs can stir the hearts of men, Spreading their full vibrations through the world In ever-widening circles till they reach The Throne of God, and song becomes a prayer, And prayer brings down the liberating strength That kindles nations to heroic deeds, She lives--the great-souled poetess who saw From Casa Guidi windows Freedom dawn On Italy, and gave the glory back In sunrise hymns to all Humanity!

She lives indeed, and not alone in the heart of Shakespeare's England, but in the heart of Dante's Italy also. To Greek literature she owed herscholarly culture, but modern Italy created her human passion forLiberty. When she crossed the Alps she became filled with a new ardour, and from that fine, eloquent mouth, that we can still see in herportraits, broke forth such a noble and majestic outburst of lyrical songas had not been heard from woman's lips for more than two thousand years. It is pleasant to think that an English poetess was to a certain extent areal factor in bringing about that unity of Italy that was Dante's dream, and if Florence drove her great singer into exile, she at least welcomedwithin her walls the later singer that England had sent to her. 

If one were asked the chief qualities of Mrs. Browning's work, one wouldsay, as Mr. Swinburne said of Byron's, its sincerity and its strength. Faults it, of course, possesses. 'She would rhyme moon to table, ' usedto be said of her in jest; and certainly no more monstrous rhymes are tobe found in all literature than some of those we come across in Mrs. Browning's poems. But her ruggedness was never the result ofcarelessness. It was deliberate, as her letters to Mr. Horne show veryclearly. She refused to sandpaper her muse. She disliked facilesmoothness and artificial polish. In her very rejection of art she wasan artist. She intended to produce a certain effect by certain means, and she succeeded; and her indifference to complete assonance in rhymeoften gives a splendid richness to her verse, and brings into it apleasurable element of surprise. 

In philosophy she was a Platonist, in politics an Opportunist. Sheattached herself to no particular party. She loved the people when theywere king-like, and kings when they showed themselves to be men. Of thereal value and motive of poetry she had a most exalted idea. 'Poetry, 'she says, in the preface of one of her volumes, 'has been as serious athing to me as life itself; and life has been a very serious thing. Therehas been no playing at skittles for me in either. I never mistookpleasure for the final cause of poetry, nor leisure for the hour of thepoet. I have done my work so far, not as mere hand and head work apartfrom the personal being, but as the completest expression of that beingto which I could attain. '

It certainly is her completest expression, and through it she realisesher fullest perfection. 'The poet, ' she says elsewhere, 'is at oncericher and poorer than he used to be; he wears better broadcloth, butspeaks no more oracles. ' These words give us the keynote to her view ofthe poet's mission. He was to utter Divine oracles, to be at onceinspired prophet and holy priest; and as such we may, I think, withoutexaggeration, conceive her. She was a Sibyl delivering a message to theworld, sometimes through stammering lips, and once at least with blindedeyes, yet always with the true fire and fervour of lofty and unshakenfaith, always with the great raptures of a spiritual nature, the highardours of an impassioned soul. As we read her best poems we feel that, though Apollo's shrine be empty and the bronze tripod overthrown, and thevale of Delphi desolate, still the Pythia is not dead. In our own ageshe has sung for us, and this land gave her new birth. Indeed, Mrs. Browning is the wisest of the Sibyls, wiser even than that mighty figurewhom Michael Angelo has painted on the roof of the Sistine Chapel atRome, poring over the scroll of mystery, and trying to decipher thesecrets of Fate; for she realised that, while knowledge is power, suffering is part of knowledge. 

To her influence, almost as much as to the higher education of women, Iwould be inclined to attribute the really remarkable awakening of woman'ssong that characterises the latter half of our century in England. Nocountry has ever had so many poetesses at once. Indeed, when oneremembers that the Greeks had only nine muses, one is sometimes apt tofancy that we have too many. And yet the work done by women in thesphere of poetry is really of a very high standard of excellence. InEngland we have always been prone to underrate the value of tradition inliterature. In our eagerness to find a new voice and a fresh mode ofmusic, we have forgotten how beautiful Echo may be. We look first forindividuality and personality, and these are, indeed, the chiefcharacteristics of the masterpieces of our literature, either in prose orverse; but deliberate culture and a study of the best models, if unitedto an artistic temperament and a nature susceptible of exquisiteimpressions, may produce much that is admirable, much that is worthy ofpraise. It would be quite impossible to give a complete catalogue of allthe women who since Mrs. Browning's day have tried lute and lyre. Mrs. Pfeiffer, Mrs. Hamilton King, Mrs. Augusta Webster, Graham Tomson, MissMary Robinson, Jean Ingelow, Miss May Kendall, Miss Nesbit, Miss MayProbyn, Mrs. Craik, Mrs. Meynell, Miss Chapman, and many others have donereally good work in poetry, either in the grave Dorian mode of thoughtfuland intellectual verse, or in the light and graceful forms of old Frenchsong, or in the romantic manner of antique ballad, or in that 'moment'smonument, ' as Rossetti called it, the intense and concentrated sonnet. Occasionally one is tempted to wish that the quick, artistic faculty thatwomen undoubtedly possess developed itself somewhat more in prose andsomewhat less in verse. Poetry is for our highest moods, when we wish tobe with the gods, and in our poetry nothing but the very best shouldsatisfy us; but prose is for our daily bread, and the lack of good proseis one of the chief blots on our culture. French prose, even in thehands of the most ordinary writers, is always readable, but English proseis detestable. We have a few, a very few, masters, such as they are. Wehave Carlyle, who should not be imitated; and Mr. Pater, who, through thesubtle perfection of his form, is inimitable absolutely; and Mr. Froude, who is useful; and Matthew Arnold, who is a model; and Mr. GeorgeMeredith, who is a warning; and Mr. Lang, who is the divine amateur; andMr. Stevenson, who is the humane artist; and Mr. Ruskin, whose rhythm andcolour and fine rhetoric and marvellous music of words are entirelyunattainable. But the general prose that one reads in magazines and innewspapers is terribly dull and cumbrous, heavy in movement and uncouthor exaggerated in expression. Possibly some day our women of letterswill apply themselves more definitely to prose. 

Their light touch, and exquisite ear, and delicate sense of balance andproportion would be of no small service to us. I can fancy womenbringing a new manner into our literature. 

However, we have to deal here with women as poetesses, and it isinteresting to note that, though Mrs. Browning's influence undoubtedlycontributed very largely to the development of this new song-movement, ifI may so term it, still there seems to have been never a time during thelast three hundred years when the women of this kingdom did notcultivate, if not the art, at least the habit, of writing poetry. 

Who the first English poetess was I cannot say. I believe it was theAbbess Juliana Berners, who lived in the fifteenth century; but I have nodoubt that Mr. Freeman would be able at a moment's notice to produce somewonderful Saxon or Norman poetess, whose works cannot be read without aglossary, and even with its aid are completely unintelligible. For myown part, I am content with the Abbess Juliana, who wroteenthusiastically about hawking; and after her I would mention Anne Askew, who in prison and on the eve of her fiery martyrdom wrote a ballad thathas, at any rate, a pathetic and historical interest. Queen Elizabeth's'most sweet and sententious ditty' on Mary Stuart is highly praised byPuttenham, a contemporary critic, as an example of 'Exargasia, or theGorgeous in Literature, ' which somehow seems a very suitable epithet forsuch a great Queen's poems. The term she applies to the unfortunateQueen of Scots, 'the daughter of debate, ' has, of course, long sincepassed into literature. The Countess of Pembroke, Sir Philip Sidney'ssister, was much admired as a poetess in her day. 

In 1613 the 'learned, virtuous, and truly noble ladie, ' Elizabeth Carew, published a Tragedie of Marian, the Faire Queene of Jewry, and a fewyears later the 'noble ladie Diana Primrose' wrote A Chain of Pearl, which is a panegyric on the 'peerless graces' of Gloriana. Mary Morpeth, the friend and admirer of Drummond of Hawthornden; Lady Mary Wroth, towhom Ben Jonson dedicated The Alchemist; and the Princess Elizabeth, thesister of Charles I. , should also be mentioned. 

After the Restoration women applied themselves with still greater ardourto the study of literature and the practice of poetry. Margaret, Duchessof Newcastle, was a true woman of letters, and some of her verses areextremely pretty and graceful. Mrs. Aphra Behn was the firstEnglishwoman who adopted literature as a regular profession. Mrs. Katharine Philips, according to Mr. Gosse, invented sentimentality. Asshe was praised by Dryden, and mourned by Cowley, let us hope she may beforgiven. Keats came across her poems at Oxford when he was writingEndymion, and found in one of them 'a most delicate fancy of the Fletcherkind'; but I fear nobody reads the Matchless Orinda now. Of LadyWinchelsea's Nocturnal Reverie Wordsworth said that, with the exceptionof Pope's Windsor Forest, it was the only poem of the period interveningbetween Paradise Lost and Thomson's Seasons that contained a single newimage of external nature. Lady Rachel Russell, who may be said to haveinaugurated the letter-writing literature of England; Eliza Haywood, whois immortalised by the badness of her work, and has a niche in TheDunciad; and the Marchioness of Wharton, whose poems Waller said headmired, are very remarkable types, the finest of them being, of course, the first named, who was a woman of heroic mould and of a most nobledignity of nature. 

Indeed, though the English poetesses up to the time of Mrs. Browningcannot be said to have produced any work of absolute genius, they arecertainly interesting figures, fascinating subjects for study. Amongstthem we find Lady Mary Wortley Montague, who had all the caprice ofCleopatra, and whose letters are delightful reading; Mrs. Centlivre, whowrote one brilliant comedy; Lady Anne Barnard, whose Auld Robin Gray wasdescribed by Sir Walter Scott as 'worth all the dialogues Corydon andPhillis have together spoken from the days of Theocritus downwards, ' andis certainly a very beautiful and touching poem; Esther Vanhomrigh andHester Johnson, the Vanessa and the Stella of Dean Swift's life; Mrs. Thrale, the friend of the great lexicographer; the worthy Mrs. Barbauld;the excellent Mrs. Hannah More; the industrious Joanna Baillie; theadmirable Mrs. Chapone, whose Ode to Solitude always fills me with thewildest passion for society, and who will at least be remembered as thepatroness of the establishment at which Becky Sharp was educated; MissAnna Seward, who was called 'The Swan of Lichfield'; poor L. E. L. , whomDisraeli described in one of his clever letters to his sister as 'thepersonification of Brompton--pink satin dress, white satin shoes, redcheeks, snub nose, and her hair a la Sappho'; Mrs. Ratcliffe, whointroduced the romantic novel, and has consequently much to answer for;the beautiful Duchess of Devonshire, of whom Gibbon said that she was'made for something better than a Duchess'; the two wonderful sisters, Lady Dufferin and Mrs. Norton; Mrs. Tighe, whose Psyche Keats read withpleasure; Constantia Grierson, a marvellous blue-stocking in her time;Mrs. Hemans; pretty, charming 'Perdita, ' who flirted alternately withpoetry and the Prince Regent, played divinely in the Winter's Tale, wasbrutally attacked by Gifford, and has left us a pathetic little poem onthe Snowdrop; and Emily Bronte, whose poems are instinct with tragicpower, and seem often on the verge of being great. 

Old fashions in literature are not so pleasant as old fashions in dress. I like the costume of the age of powder better than the poetry of the ageof Pope. But if one adopts the historical standpoint--and this is, indeed, the only standpoint from which we can ever form a fair estimateof work that is not absolutely of the highest order--we cannot fail tosee that many of the English poetesses who preceded Mrs. Browning werewomen of no ordinary talent, and that if the majority of them looked uponpoetry simply as a department of belles lettres, so in most cases didtheir contemporaries. Since Mrs. Browning's day our woods have becomefull of singing birds, and if I venture to ask them to apply themselvesmore to prose and less to song, it is not that I like poetical prose, butthat I love the prose of poets. 

LONDON MODELS

(English Illustrated Magazine, January 1889. )

Professional models are a purely modern invention. To the Greeks, forinstance, they were quite unknown. Mr. Mahaffy, it is true, tells usthat Pericles used to present peacocks to the great ladies of Atheniansociety in order to induce them to sit to his friend Phidias, and we knowthat Polygnotus introduced into his picture of the Trojan women the faceof Elpinice, the celebrated sister of the great Conservative leader ofthe day, but these grandes dames clearly do not come under our category. As for the old masters, they undoubtedly made constant studies from theirpupils and apprentices, and even their religious pictures are full of theportraits of their friends and relations, but they do not seem to havehad the inestimable advantage of the existence of a class of people whosesole profession is to pose. In fact the model, in our sense of the word, is the direct creation of Academic Schools. 

Every country now has its own models, except America. In New York, andeven in Boston, a good model is so great a rarity that most of theartists are reduced to painting Niagara and millionaires. In Europe, however, it is different. Here we have plenty of models, and of everynationality. The Italian models are the best. The natural grace oftheir attitudes, as well as the wonderful picturesqueness of theircolouring, makes them facile--often too facile--subjects for thepainter's brush. The French models, though not so beautiful as theItalian, possess a quickness of intellectual sympathy, a capacity, infact, of understanding the artist, which is quite remarkable. They havealso a great command over the varieties of facial expression, arepeculiarly dramatic, and can chatter the argot of the atelier as cleverlyas the critic of the Gil Bias. The English models form a class entirelyby themselves. They are not so picturesque as the Italian, nor so cleveras the French, and they have absolutely no tradition, so to speak, oftheir order. Now and then some old veteran knocks at a studio door, andproposes to sit as Ajax defying the lightning, or as King Lear upon theblasted heath. One of them some time ago called on a popular painterwho, happening at the moment to require his services, engaged him, andtold him to begin by kneeling down in the attitude of prayer. 'Shall Ibe Biblical or Shakespearean, sir?' asked the veteran. 'Well--Shakespearean, ' answered the artist, wondering by what subtlenuance of expression the model would convey the difference. 'All right, sir, ' said the professor of posing, and he solemnly knelt down and beganto wink with his left eye! This class, however, is dying out. As a rulethe model, nowadays, is a pretty girl, from about twelve to twenty-fiveyears of age, who knows nothing about art, cares less, and is merelyanxious to earn seven or eight shillings a day without much trouble. English models rarely look at a picture, and never venture on anyaesthetic theories. In fact, they realise very completely Mr. Whistler'sidea of the function of an art critic, for they pass no criticisms atall. They accept all schools of art with the grand catholicity of theauctioneer, and sit to a fantastic young impressionist as readily as to alearned and laborious academician. They are neither for the Whistleritesnor against them; the quarrel between the school of facts and the schoolof effects touches them not; idealistic and naturalistic are words thatconvey no meaning to their ears; they merely desire that the studio shallbe warm, and the lunch hot, for all charming artists give their modelslunch. 

As to what they are asked to do they are equally indifferent. On Mondaythey will don the rags of a beggar-girl for Mr. Pumper, whose patheticpictures of modern life draw such tears from the public, and on Tuesdaythey will pose in a peplum for Mr. Phoebus, who thinks that all reallyartistic subjects are necessarily B. C. They career gaily through allcenturies and through all costumes, and, like actors, are interestingonly when they are not themselves. They are extremely good-natured, andvery accommodating. 'What do you sit for?' said a young artist to amodel who had sent him in her card (all models, by the way, have cardsand a small black bag). 'Oh, for anything you like, sir, ' said the girl, 'landscape if necessary!'

Intellectually, it must be acknowledged, they are Philistines, butphysically they are perfect--at least some are. Though none of them cantalk Greek, many can look Greek, which to a nineteenth-century painter isnaturally of great importance. If they are allowed, they chatter a greatdeal, but they never say anything. Their observations are the onlybanalites heard in Bohemia. However, though they cannot appreciate theartist as artist, they are quite ready to appreciate the artist as a man. They are very sensitive to kindness, respect and generosity. A beautifulmodel who had sat for two years to one of our most distinguished Englishpainters, got engaged to a street vendor of penny ices. On her marriagethe painter sent her a pretty wedding present, and received in return anice letter of thanks with the following remarkable postscript: 'Nevereat the green ices!'

When they are tired a wise artist gives them a rest. Then they sit in achair and read penny dreadfuls, till they are roused from the tragedy ofliterature to take their place again in the tragedy of art. A few ofthem smoke cigarettes. This, however, is regarded by the other models asshowing a want of seriousness, and is not generally approved of. Theyare engaged by the day and by the half-day. The tariff is a shilling anhour, to which great artists usually add an omnibus fare. The two bestthings about them are their extraordinary prettiness, and their extremerespectability. As a class they are very well behaved, particularlythose who sit for the figure, a fact which is curious or naturalaccording to the view one takes of human nature. They usually marrywell, and sometimes they marry the artist. For an artist to marry hismodel is as fatal as for a gourmet to marry his cook: the one gets nosittings, and the other gets no dinners. 

On the whole the English female models are very naive, very natural, andvery good-humoured. The virtues which the artist values most in them areprettiness and punctuality. Every sensible model consequently keeps adiary of her engagements, and dresses neatly. The bad season is, ofcourse, the summer, when the artists are out of town. However, of lateyears some artists have engaged their models to follow them, and the wifeof one of our most charming painters has often had three or four modelsunder her charge in the country, so that the work of her husband and hisfriends should not be interrupted. In France the models migrate en masseto the little seaport villages or forest hamlets where the painterscongregate. The English models, however, wait patiently in London, as arule, till the artists come back. Nearly all of them live with theirparents, and help to support the house. They have every qualificationfor being immortalised in art except that of beautiful hands. The handsof the English model are nearly always coarse and red. 

As for the male models, there is the veteran whom we have mentionedabove. He has all the traditions of the grand style, and is rapidlydisappearing with the school he represents. An old man who talks aboutFuseli is, of course, unendurable, and, besides, patriarchs have ceasedto be fashionable subjects. Then there is the true Academy model. He isusually a man of thirty, rarely good-looking, but a perfect miracle ofmuscles. In fact he is the apotheosis of anatomy, and is so conscious ofhis own splendour that he tells you of his tibia and his thorax, as if noone else had anything of the kind. Then come the Oriental models. Thesupply of these is limited, but there are always about a dozen in London. They are very much sought after as they can remain immobile for hours, and generally possess lovely costumes. However, they have a very pooropinion of English art, which they regard as something between a vulgarpersonality and a commonplace photograph. Next we have the Italian youthwho has come over specially to be a model, or takes to it when his organis out of repair. He is often quite charming with his large melancholyeyes, his crisp hair, and his slim brown figure. It is true he eatsgarlic, but then he can stand like a faun and couch like a leopard, so heis forgiven. He is always full of pretty compliments, and has been knownto have kind words of encouragement for even our greatest artists. Asfor the English lad of the same age, he never sits at all. Apparently hedoes not regard the career of a model as a serious profession. In anycase he is rarely, if ever, to be got hold of. English boys, too, aredifficult to find. Sometimes an ex-model who has a son will curl hishair, and wash his face, and bring him the round of the studios, all soapand shininess. The young school don't like him, but the older school do, and when he appears on the walls of the Royal Academy he is called TheInfant Samuel. Occasionally also an artist catches a couple of gamins inthe gutter and asks them to come to his studio. The first time theyalways appear, but after that they don't keep their appointments. Theydislike sitting still, and have a strong and perhaps natural objection tolooking pathetic. Besides, they are always under the impression that theartist is laughing at them. It is a sad fact, but there is no doubt thatthe poor are completely unconscious of their own picturesqueness. Thoseof them who can be induced to sit do so with the idea that the artist ismerely a benevolent philanthropist who has chosen an eccentric method ofdistributing alms to the undeserving. Perhaps the School Board willteach the London gamin his own artistic value, and then they will bebetter models than they are now. One remarkable privilege belongs to theAcademy model, that of extorting a sovereign from any newly electedAssociate or R. A. They wait at Burlington House till the announcement ismade, and then race to the hapless artist's house. The one who arrivesfirst receives the money. They have of late been much troubled at thelong distances they have had to run, and they look with disfavour on theelection of artists who live at Hampstead or at Bedford Park, for it isconsidered a point of honour not to employ the underground railway, omnibuses, or any artificial means of locomotion. The race is to theswift. 

Besides the professional posers of the studio there are posers of theRow, the posers at afternoon teas, the posers in politics and the circusposers. All four classes are delightful, but only the last class is everreally decorative. Acrobats and gymnasts can give the young painterinfinite suggestions, for they bring into their art an element ofswiftness of motion and of constant change that the studio modelnecessary lacks. What is interesting in these 'slaves of the ring' isthat with them Beauty is an unconscious result not a conscious aim, theresult in fact of the mathematical calculation of curves and distances, of absolute precision of eye, of the scientific knowledge of theequilibrium of forces, and of perfect physical training. A good acrobatis always graceful, though grace is never his object; he is gracefulbecause he does what he has to do in the best way in which it can bedone--graceful because he is natural. If an ancient Greek were to cometo life now, which considering the probable severity of his criticismswould be rather trying to our conceit, he would be found far oftener atthe circus than at the theatre. A good circus is an oasis of Hellenismin a world that reads too much to be wise, and thinks too much to bebeautiful. If it were not for the running-ground at Eton, the towing-path at Oxford, the Thames swimming-baths, and the yearly circuses, humanity would forget the plastic perfection of its own form, anddegenerate into a race of short-sighted professors and spectacledprecieuses. Not that the circus proprietors are, as a rule, conscious oftheir high mission. Do they not bore us with the haute ecole, and wearyus with Shakespearean clowns?--Still, at least, they give us acrobats, and the acrobat is an artist. The mere fact that he never speaks to theaudience shows how well he appreciates the great truth that the aim ofart is not to reveal personality but to please. The clown may beblatant, but the acrobat is always beautiful. He is an interestingcombination of the spirit of Greek sculpture with the spangles of themodern costumier. He has even had his niche in the novels of our age, and if Manette Salomon be the unmasking of the model, Les Freres Zemgannois the apotheosis of the acrobat. 

As regards the influence of the ordinary model on our English school ofpainting, it cannot be said that it is altogether good. It is, ofcourse, an advantage for the young artist sitting in his studio to beable to isolate 'a little corner of life, ' as the French say, fromdisturbing surroundings, and to study it under certain effects of lightand shade. But this very isolation leads often to mere mannerism in thepainter, and robs him of that broad acceptance of the general facts oflife which is the very essence of art. Model-painting, in a word, whileit may be the condition of art, is not by any means its aim. It issimply practice, not perfection. Its use trains the eye and the hand ofthe painter, its abuse produces in his work an effect of mere posing andprettiness. It is the secret of much of the artificiality of modern art, this constant posing of pretty people, and when art becomes artificial itbecomes monotonous. Outside the little world of the studio, with itsdraperies and its bric-a-brac, lies the world of life with its infinite, its Shakespearean variety. We must, however, distinguish between the twokinds of models, those who sit for the figure and those who sit for thecostume. The study of the first is always excellent, but the costume-model is becoming rather wearisome in modern pictures. It is really ofvery little use to dress up a London girl in Greek draperies and to painther as a goddess. The robe may be the robe of Athens, but the face isusually the face of Brompton. Now and then, it is true, one comes acrossa model whose face is an exquisite anachronism, and who looks lovely andnatural in the dress of any century but her own. This, however, israther rare. As a rule models are absolutely de notre siecle, and shouldbe painted as such. Unfortunately they are not, and, as a consequence, we are shown every year a series of scenes from fancy dress balls whichare called historical pictures, but are little more than mediocrerepresentations of modern people masquerading. In France they are wiser. The French painter uses the model simply for study; for the finishedpicture he goes direct to life. 

However, we must not blame the sitters for the shortcomings of theartists. The English models are a well-behaved and hard-working class, and if they are more interested in artists than in art, a large sectionof the public is in the same condition, and most of our modernexhibitions seem to justify its choice. 

LETTER TO JOAQUIN MILLER

Written to Mr. Joaquin Miller in reply to a letter, dated February 9, 1882, in reference to the behaviour of a section of the audience atWilde's lecture on the English Renaissance at the Grand Opera House, Rochester, New York State, on February 7. It was first published in avolume called Decorative Art in America, containing unauthorised reprintsof certain reviews and letters contributed by Wilde to Englishnewspapers. (New York: Brentano's, 1906. )

St. Louis, February 28, 1882. 

MY DEAR JOAQUIN MILLER, --I thank you for your chivalrous and courteousletter. Believe me, I would as lief judge of the strength and splendourof sun and sea by the dust that dances in the beam and the bubble thatbreaks on the wave, as take the petty and profitless vulgarity of one ortwo insignificant towns as any test or standard of the real spirit of asane, strong and simple people, or allow it to affect my respect for themany noble men or women whom it has been my privilege in this greatcountry to know. 

For myself and the cause which I represent I have no fears as regards thefuture. Slander and folly have their way for a season, but for a seasononly; while, as touching the few provincial newspapers which have sovainly assailed me, or that ignorant and itinerant libeller of NewEngland who goes lecturing from village to village in such open andostentatious isolation, be sure I have no time to waste on them. Youthbeing so glorious, art so godlike, and the very world about us so full ofbeautiful things, and things worthy of reverence, and things honourable, how should one stop to listen to the lucubrations of a literary gamin, tothe brawling and mouthing of a man whose praise would be as insolent ashis slander is impotent, or to the irresponsible and irrepressiblechatter of the professionally unproductive?

It is a great advantage, I admit, to have done nothing, but one must notabuse even that advantage. 

Who, after all, that I should write of him, is this scribblinganonymuncule in grand old Massachusetts who scrawls and screams so gliblyabout what he cannot understand? This apostle of inhospitality, whodelights to defile, to desecrate, and to defame the gracious courtesieshe is unworthy to enjoy? Who are these scribes who, passing withpurposeless alacrity from the Police News to the Parthenon, and fromcrime to criticism, sway with such serene incapacity the office whichthey so lately swept? 'Narcissuses of imbecility, ' what should they seein the clear waters of Beauty and in the well undefiled of Truth but theshifting and shadowy image of their own substantial stupidity? Secure ofthat oblivion for which they toil so laboriously and, I must acknowledge, with such success, let them peer at us through their telescopes andreport what they like of us. But, my dear Joaquin, should we put themunder the microscope there would be really nothing to be seen. 

I look forward to passing another delightful evening with you on myreturn to New York, and I need not tell you that whenever you visitEngland you will be received with that courtesy with which it is ourpleasure to welcome all Americans, and that honour with which it is ourprivilege to greet all poets. --Most sincerely and affectionately yours, OSCAR WILDE. 

NOTES ON WHISTLER

I. (World, November 14, 1883. )

From Oscar Wilde, Exeter, to J. M'Neill Whistler, Tite Street. --Punch tooridiculous--when you and I are together we never talk about anythingexcept ourselves. 

II. (World, February 25, 1885. )

DEAR BUTTERFLY, --By the aid of a biographical dictionary I made thediscovery that there were once two painters, called Benjamin West andPaul Delaroche, who rashly lectured upon Art. As of their works nothingat all remains, I conclude that they explained themselves away. 

Be warned in time, James; and remain, as I do, incomprehensible. To begreat is to be misunderstood. --Tout a vous, OSCAR WILDE. 

III. (World, November 24, 1886. )

ATLAS, --This is very sad! With our James vulgarity begins at home, andshould be allowed to stay there. --A vous, OSCAR WILDE. 

REPLY TO WHISTLER

(Truth, January 9, 1890. )

To the Editor of Truth. 

SIR, --I can hardly imagine that the public is in the very smallest degreeinterested in the shrill shrieks of 'Plagiarism' that proceed from timeto time out of the lips of silly vanity or incompetent mediocrity. 

However, as Mr. James Whistler has had the impertinence to attack me withboth venom and vulgarity in your columns, I hope you will allow me tostate that the assertions contained in his letter are as deliberatelyuntrue as they are deliberately offensive. 

The definition of a disciple as one who has the courage of the opinionsof his master is really too old even for Mr. Whistler to be allowed toclaim it, and as for borrowing Mr. Whistler's ideas about art, the onlythoroughly original ideas I have ever heard him express have hadreference to his own superiority as a painter over painters greater thanhimself. 

It is a trouble for any gentleman to have to notice the lucubrations ofso ill-bred and ignorant a person as Mr. Whistler, but your publicationof his insolent letter left me no option in the matter. --I remain, sir, faithfully yours, OSCAR WILDE. 

16 TITE STREET, CHELSEA, S. W. 

LETTERS ON DORIAN GRAY

I. MR. WILDE'S BAD CASE

(St. James's Gazette, June 26, 1890. )

To the Editor of the St. James's Gazette. 

SIR, --I have read your criticism of my story, The Picture of Dorian Gray;and I need hardly say that I do not propose to discuss its merits ordemerits, its personalities or its lack of personality. England is afree country, and ordinary English criticism is perfectly free and easy. Besides, I must admit that, either from temperament or taste, or fromboth, I am quite incapable of understanding how any work of art can becriticised from a moral standpoint. The sphere of art and the sphere ofethics are absolutely distinct and separate; and it is to the confusionbetween the two that we owe the appearance of Mrs. Grundy, that amusingold lady who represents the only original form of humour that the middleclasses of this country have been able to produce. 

What I do object to most strongly is that you should have placarded thetown with posters on which was printed in large letters:--

 MR. OSCAR WILDE'S LATEST ADVERTISEMENT: A BAD CASE. 

Whether the expression 'A Bad Case' refers to my book or to the presentposition of the Government, I cannot tell. What was silly andunnecessary was the use of the term 'advertisement. '

I think I may say without vanity--though I do not wish to appear to runvanity down--that of all men in England I am the one who requires leastadvertisement. I am tired to death of being advertised--I feel no thrillwhen I see my name in a paper. The chronicle does not interest me anymore. I wrote this book entirely for my own pleasure, and it gave mevery great pleasure to write it. Whether it becomes popular or not is amatter of absolute indifference to me. I am afraid, Sir, that the realadvertisement is your cleverly written article. The English public, as amass, takes no interest in a work of art until it is told that the workin question is immoral, and your reclame will, I have no doubt, largelyincrease the sale of the magazine; in which sale I may mention with someregret, I have no pecuniary interest. --I remain, Sir, your obedientservant, OSCAR WILDE. 

16 TITE STREET, CHELSEA, June 25. 

II. MR. OSCAR WILDE AGAIN

(St. James's Gazette, June 27, 1890. )

SIR, --In your issue of today you state that my brief letter published inyour columns is the 'best reply' I can make to your article upon DorianGray. This is not so. I do not propose to discuss fully the matterhere, but I feel bound to say that your article contains the mostunjustifiable attack that has been made upon any man of letters for manyyears. 

The writer of it, who is quite incapable of concealing his personalmalice, and so in some measure destroys the effect he wishes to produce, seems not to have the slightest idea of the temper in which a work of artshould be approached. To say that such a book as mine should be 'chuckedinto the fire' is silly. That is what one does with newspapers. 

Of the value of pseudo-ethical criticism in dealing with artistic work Ihave spoken already. But as your writer has ventured into the perilousgrounds of literary criticism I ask you to allow me, in fairness notmerely to myself but to all men to whom literature is a fine art, to saya few words about his critical method. 

He begins by assailing me with much ridiculous virulence because thechief personages in my story are puppies. They _are_ puppies. Does hethink that literature went to the dogs when Thackeray wrote aboutpuppydom? I think that puppies are extremely interesting from anartistic as well as from a psychological point of view. 

They seem to me to be certainly far more interesting than prigs; and I amof opinion that Lord Henry Wotton is an excellent corrective of thetedious ideal shadowed forth in the semi-theological novels of our age. 

He then makes vague and fearful insinuations about my grammar and myerudition. Now, as regards grammar, I hold that, in prose at any rate, correctness should always be subordinate to artistic effect and musicalcadence; and any peculiarities of syntax that may occur in Dorian Grayare deliberately intended, and are introduced to show the value of theartistic theory in question. Your writer gives no instance of any suchpeculiarity. This I regret, because I do not think that any suchinstances occur. 

As regards erudition, it is always difficult, even for the most modest ofus, to remember that other people do not know quite as much as one doesone's self. I myself frankly admit I cannot imagine how a casualreference to Suetonius and Petronius Arbiter can be construed intoevidence of a desire to impress an unoffending and ill-educated public byan assumption of superior knowledge. I should fancy that the mostordinary of scholars is perfectly well acquainted with the Lives of theCaesars and with the Satyricon. 

The Lives of the Caesars, at any rate, forms part of the curriculum atOxford for those who take the Honour School of Literae Humaniores; and asfor the Satyricon it is popular even among pass-men, though I supposethey are obliged to read it in translations. 

The writer of the article then suggests that I, in common with that greatand noble artist Count Tolstoi, take pleasure in a subject because it isdangerous. About such a suggestion there is this to be said. Romanticart deals with the exception and with the individual. Good people, belonging as they do to the normal, and so, commonplace, type, areartistically uninteresting. 

Bad people are, from the point of view of art, fascinating studies. Theyrepresent colour, variety and strangeness. Good people exasperate one'sreason; bad people stir one's imagination. Your critic, if I must givehim so honourable a title, states that the people in my story have nocounterpart in life; that they are, to use his vigorous if somewhatvulgar phrase, 'mere catchpenny revelations of the non-existent. ' Quiteso. 

If they existed they would not be worth writing about. The function ofthe artist is to invent, not to chronicle. There are no such people. Ifthere were I would not write about them. Life by its realism is alwaysspoiling the subject-matter of art. 

The superior pleasure in literature is to realise the non-existent. 

And finally, let me say this. You have reproduced, in a journalisticform, the comedy of Much Ado about Nothing and have, of course, spoilt itin your reproduction. 

The poor public, hearing, from an authority so high as your own, thatthis is a wicked book that should be coerced and suppressed by a ToryGovernment, will, no doubt, rush to it and read it. But, alas! they willfind that it is a story with a moral. And the moral is this: All excess, as well as all renunciation, brings its own punishment. 

The painter, Basil Hallward, worshipping physical beauty far too much, asmost painters do, dies by the hand of one in whose soul he has created amonstrous and absurd vanity. Dorian Gray, having led a life of meresensation and pleasure, tries to kill conscience, and at that momentkills himself. Lord Henry Wotton seeks to be merely the spectator oflife. He finds that those who reject the battle are more deeply woundedthan those who take part in it. 

Yes, there is a terrible moral in Dorian Gray--a moral which the prurientwill not be able to find in it, but it will be revealed to all whoseminds are healthy. Is this an artistic error? I fear it is. It is theonly error in the book. --I remain, Sir, your obedient servant, OSCARWILDE. 

16 TITE STREET, CHELSEA, June 26. 

III. MR. OSCAR WILDE'S DEFENCE

(St. James's Gazette, June 28, 1890. )

To the Editor of the St. James's Gazette. 

SIR, --As you still keep up, though in a somewhat milder form than before, your attacks on me and my book, you not only confer on me the right, butyou impose upon me the duty of reply. 

You state, in your issue of today, that I misrepresented you when I saidthat you suggested that a book so wicked as mine should be 'suppressedand coerced by a Tory Government. ' Now, you did not propose this, butyou did suggest it. When you declare that you do not know whether or notthe Government will take action about my book, and remark that theauthors of books much less wicked have been proceeded against in law, thesuggestion is quite obvious. 

In your complaint of misrepresentation you seem to me, Sir, to have beennot quite candid. 

However, as far as I am concerned, this suggestion is of no importance. What is of importance is that the editor of a paper like yours shouldappear to countenance the monstrous theory that the Government of acountry should exercise a censorship over imaginative literature. Thisis a theory against which I, and all men of letters of my acquaintance, protest most strongly; and any critic who admits the reasonableness ofsuch a theory shows at once that he is quite incapable of understandingwhat literature is, and what are the rights that literature possesses. AGovernment might just as well try to teach painters how to paint, orsculptors how to model, as attempt to interfere with the style, treatmentand subject-matter of the literary artist, and no writer, however eminentor obscure, should ever give his sanction to a theory that would degradeliterature far more than any didactic or so-called immoral book couldpossibly do. 

You then express your surprise that 'so experienced a literary gentleman'as myself should imagine that your critic was animated by any feeling ofpersonal malice towards him. The phrase 'literary gentleman' is a vilephrase, but let that pass. 

I accept quite readily your assurance that your critic was simplycriticising a work of art in the best way that he could, but I feel thatI was fully justified in forming the opinion of him that I did. Heopened his article by a gross personal attack on myself. This, I needhardly say, was an absolutely unpardonable error of critical taste. 

There is no excuse for it except personal malice; and you, Sir, shouldnot have sanctioned it. A critic should be taught to criticise a work ofart without making any reference to the personality of the author. This, in fact, is the beginning of criticism. However, it was not merely hispersonal attack on me that made me imagine that he was actuated bymalice. What really confirmed me in my first impression was hisreiterated assertion that my book was tedious and dull. 

Now, if I were criticising my book, which I have some thoughts of doing, I think I would consider it my duty to point out that it is far toocrowded with sensational incident, and far too paradoxical in style, asfar, at any rate, as the dialogue goes. I feel that from a standpoint ofart these are true defects in the book. But tedious and dull the book isnot. 

Your critic has cleared himself of the charge of personal malice, hisdenial and yours being quite sufficient in the matter; but he has done soonly by a tacit admission that he has really no critical instinct aboutliterature and literary work, which, in one who writes about literature, is, I need hardly say, a much graver fault than malice of any kind. 

Finally, Sir, allow me to say this. Such an article as you havepublished really makes me despair of the possibility of any generalculture in England. Were I a French author, and my book brought out inParis, there is not a single literary critic in France on any paper ofhigh standing who would think for a moment of criticising it from anethical standpoint. If he did so he would stultify himself, not merelyin the eyes of all men of letters, but in the eyes of the majority of thepublic. 

You have yourself often spoken against Puritanism. Believe me, Sir, Puritanism is never so offensive and destructive as when it deals withart matters. It is there that it is radically wrong. It is thisPuritanism, to which your critic has given expression, that is alwaysmarring the artistic instinct of the English. So far from encouragingit, you should set yourself against it, and should try to teach yourcritics to recognise the essential difference between art and life. 

The gentleman who criticised my book is in a perfectly hopeless confusionabout it, and your attempt to help him out by proposing that the subject-matter of art should be limited does not mend matters. It is proper thatlimitation should be placed on action. It is not proper that limitationshould be placed on art. To art belong all things that are and allthings that are not, and even the editor of a London paper has no rightto restrain the freedom of art in the selection of subject-matter. I nowtrust, Sir, that these attacks on me and on my book will cease. Thereare forms of advertisement that are unwarranted and unwarrantable. --I am, Sir, your obedient servant, OSCAR WILDE. 

16 TITE STREET, S. W. , June 27. 

IV. (St. James's Gazette, June 30, 1890. )

To the Editor of the St. James's Gazette. 

SIR, --In your issue of this evening you publish a letter from 'A LondonEditor' which clearly insinuates in the last paragraph that I have insome way sanctioned the circulation of an expression of opinion, on thepart of the proprietors of Lippincott's Magazine, of the literary andartistic value of my story of The Picture of Dorian Gray. 

Allow me, Sir, to state that there are no grounds for this insinuation. Iwas not aware that any such document was being circulated; and I havewritten to the agents, Messrs. Ward and Lock--who cannot, I feel sure, beprimarily responsible for its appearance--to ask them to withdraw it atonce. No publisher should ever express an opinion of the value of whathe publishes. That is a matter entirely for the literary critic todecide. 

I must admit, as one to whom contemporary literature is constantlysubmitted for criticism, that the only thing that ever prejudices meagainst a book is the lack of literary style; but I can quite understandhow any ordinary critic would be strongly prejudiced against a work thatwas accompanied by a premature and unnecessary panegyric from thepublisher. A publisher is simply a useful middleman. It is not for himto anticipate the verdict of criticism. 

I may, however, while expressing my thanks to the 'London Editor' fordrawing my attention to this, I trust, purely American method ofprocedure, venture to differ from him in one of his criticisms. Hestates that he regards the expression 'complete' as applied to a story, as a specimen of the 'adjectival exuberance of the puffer. ' Here, itseems to me, he sadly exaggerates. What my story is is an interestingproblem. What my story is not is a 'novelette'--a term which you havemore than once applied to it. There is no such word in the Englishlanguage as novelette. It should not be used. It is merely part of theslang of Fleet Street. 

In another part of your paper, Sir, you state that I received yourassurance of the lack of malice in your critic 'somewhat grudgingly. 'This is not so. I frankly said that I accepted that assurance 'quitereadily, ' and that your own denial and that of your own critic were'sufficient. '

Nothing more generous could have been said. What I did feel was that yousaved your critic from the charge of malice by convicting him of theunpardonable crime of lack of literary instinct. I still feel that. Tocall my book an ineffective attempt at allegory, that in the hands of Mr. Anstey might have been made striking, is absurd. 

Mr. Anstey's sphere in literature and my sphere are different. 

You then gravely ask me what rights I imagine literature possesses. Thatis really an extraordinary question for the editor of a newspaper such asyours to ask. The rights of literature, Sir, are the rights ofintellect. 

I remember once hearing M. Renan say that he would sooner live under amilitary despotism than under the despotism of the Church, because theformer merely limited the freedom of action, while the latter limited thefreedom of mind. 

You say that a work of art is a form of action. It is not. It is thehighest mode of thought. 

In conclusion, Sir, let me ask you not to force on me this continuedcorrespondence by daily attacks. It is a trouble and a nuisance. 

As you assailed me first, I have a right to the last word. Let that lastword be the present letter, and leave my book, I beg you, to theimmortality that it deserves. --I am, Sir, your obedient servant, OSCAR WILDE. 

16 TITE STREET, S. W. , June 28. 

V. 'DORIAN GRAY'

(Daily Chronicle, July 2, 1890. )

To the Editor of the Daily Chronicle. 

SIR, --Will you allow me to correct some errors into which your critic hasfallen in his review of my story, The Picture of Dorian Gray, publishedin today's issue of your paper?

Your critic states, to begin with, that I make desperate attempts to'vamp up' a moral in my story. Now, I must candidly confess that I donot know what 'vamping' is. I see, from time to time, mysteriousadvertisements in the newspapers about 'How to Vamp, ' but what vampingreally means remains a mystery to me--a mystery that, like all othermysteries, I hope some day to explore. 

However, I do not propose to discuss the absurd terms used by modernjournalism. What I want to say is that, so far from wishing to emphasiseany moral in my story, the real trouble I experienced in writing thestory was that of keeping the extremely obvious moral subordinate to theartistic and dramatic effect. 

When I first conceived the idea of a young man selling his soul inexchange for eternal youth--an idea that is old in the history ofliterature, but to which I have given new form--I felt that, from anaesthetic point of view, it would be difficult to keep the moral in itsproper secondary place; and even now I do not feel quite sure that I havebeen able to do so. I think the moral too apparent. When the book ispublished in a volume I hope to correct this defect. 

As for what the moral is, your critic states that it is this--that when aman feels himself becoming 'too angelic' he should rush out and make a'beast of himself. ' I cannot say that I consider this a moral. The realmoral of the story is that all excess, as well as all renunciation, brings its punishment, and this moral is so far artistically anddeliberately suppressed that it does not enunciate its law as a generalprinciple, but realises itself purely in the lives of individuals, and sobecomes simply a dramatic element in a work of art, and not the object ofthe work of art itself. 

Your critic also falls into error when he says that Dorian Gray, having a'cool, calculating, conscienceless character, ' was inconsistent when hedestroyed the picture of his own soul, on the ground that the picture didnot become less hideous after he had done what, in his vanity, he hadconsidered his first good action. Dorian Gray has not got a cool, calculating, conscienceless character at all. On the contrary, he isextremely impulsive, absurdly romantic, and is haunted all through hislife by an exaggerated sense of conscience which mars his pleasures forhim and warns him that youth and enjoyment are not everything in theworld. It is finally to get rid of the conscience that had dogged hissteps from year to year that he destroys the picture; and thus in hisattempt to kill conscience Dorian Gray kills himself. 

Your critic then talks about 'obtrusively cheap scholarship. ' Now, whatever a scholar writes is sure to display scholarship in thedistinction of style and the fine use of language; but my story containsno learned or pseudo-learned discussions, and the only literary booksthat it alludes to are books that any fairly educated reader may besupposed to be acquainted with, such as the Satyricon of PetroniusArbiter, or Gautier's Emaux et Camees. Such books as Le Conso'sClericalis Disciplina belong not to culture, but to curiosity. Anybodymay be excused for not knowing them. 

Finally, let me say this--the aesthetic movement produced certain curiouscolours, subtle in their loveliness and fascinating in their almostmystical tone. They were, and are, our reaction against the crudeprimaries of a doubtless more respectable but certainly less cultivatedage. My story is an essay on decorative art. It reacts against thecrude brutality of plain realism. It is poisonous if you like, but youcannot deny that it is also perfect, and perfection is what we artistsaim at. --I remain, Sir, your obedient servant, OSCAR WILDE. 

16 TITE STREET, June 30. 

VI. MR. WILDE'S REJOINDER

(Scots Observer, July 12, 1890. )

To the Editor of the Scots Observer. 

SIR, --You have published a review of my story, The Picture of DorianGray. As this review is grossly unjust to me as an artist, I ask you toallow me to exercise in your columns my right of reply. 

Your reviewer, Sir, while admitting that the story in question is'plainly the work of a man of letters, ' the work of one who has 'brains, and art, and style, ' yet suggests, and apparently in all seriousness, that I have written it in order that it should be read by the mostdepraved members of the criminal and illiterate classes. Now, Sir, I donot suppose that the criminal and illiterate classes ever read anythingexcept newspapers. They are certainly not likely to be able tounderstand anything of mine. So let them pass, and on the broad questionof why a man of letters writes at all let me say this. 

The pleasure that one has in creating a work of art is a purely personalpleasure, and it is for the sake of this pleasure that one creates. Theartist works with his eye on the object. Nothing else interests him. What people are likely to say does not even occur to him. 

He is fascinated by what he has in hand. He is indifferent to others. Iwrite because it gives me the greatest possible artistic pleasure towrite. If my work pleases the few I am gratified. If it does not, itcauses me no pain. As for the mob, I have no desire to be a popularnovelist. It is far too easy. 

Your critic then, Sir, commits the absolutely unpardonable crime oftrying to confuse the artist with his subject-matter. For this, Sir, there is no excuse at all. 

Of one who is the greatest figure in the world's literature since Greekdays, Keats remarked that he had as much pleasure in conceiving the evilas he had in conceiving the good. Let your reviewer, Sir, consider thebearings of Keats's fine criticism, for it is under these conditions thatevery artist works. One stands remote from one's subject-matter. Onecreates it and one contemplates it. The further away the subject-matteris, the more freely can the artist work. 

Your reviewer suggests that I do not make it sufficiently clear whether Iprefer virtue to wickedness or wickedness to virtue. An artist, Sir, hasno ethical sympathies at all. Virtue and wickedness are to him simplywhat the colours on his palette are to the painter. They are no more andthey are no less. He sees that by their means a certain artistic effectcan be produced and he produces it. Iago may be morally horrible andImogen stainlessly pure. Shakespeare, as Keats said, had as much delightin creating the one as he had in creating the other. 

It was necessary, Sir, for the dramatic development of this story tosurround Dorian Gray with an atmosphere of moral corruption. Otherwisethe story would have had no meaning and the plot no issue. To keep thisatmosphere vague and indeterminate and wonderful was the aim of theartist who wrote the story. I claim, Sir, that he has succeeded. Eachman sees his own sin in Dorian Gray. What Dorian Gray's sins are no oneknows. He who finds them has brought them. 

In conclusion, Sir, let me say how really deeply I regret that you shouldhave permitted such a notice as the one I feel constrained to write on tohave appeared in your paper. That the editor of the St. James's Gazetteshould have employed Caliban as his art-critic was possibly natural. Theeditor of the Scots Observer should not have allowed Thersites to makemows in his review. It is unworthy of so distinguished a man ofletters. --I am, etc. , OSCAR WILDE. 

16 TITE STREET, CHELSEA, July 9. 

VII. ART AND MORALITY

(Scots Observer, August 2, 1890. )

To the Editor of the Scots Observer. 

SIR, --In a letter dealing with the relations of art to morals recentlypublished in your columns--a letter which I may say seems to me in manyrespects admirable, especially in its insistence on the right of theartist to select his own subject-matter--Mr. Charles Whibley suggeststhat it must be peculiarly painful for me to find that the ethical importof Dorian Gray has been so strongly recognised by the foremost Christianpapers of England and America that I have been greeted by more than oneof them as a moral reformer. 

Allow me, Sir, to reassure, on this point, not merely Mr. Charles Whibleyhimself but also your, no doubt, anxious readers. I have no hesitationin saying that I regard such criticisms as a very gratifying tribute tomy story. For if a work of art is rich, and vital and complete, thosewho have artistic instincts will see its beauty, and those to whom ethicsappeal more strongly than aesthetics will see its moral lesson. It willfill the cowardly with terror, and the unclean will see in it their ownshame. It will be to each man what he is himself. It is the spectator, and not life, that art really mirrors. 

And so in the case of Dorian Gray the purely literary critic, as in theSpeaker and elsewhere, regards it as a 'serious' and 'fascinating' workof art: the critic who deals with art in its relation to conduct, as theChristian Leader and the Christian World, regards it as an ethicalparable: Light, which I am told is the organ of the English mystics, regards it as a work of high spiritual import; the St. James's Gazette, which is seeking apparently to be the organ of the prurient, sees orpretends to see in it all kinds of dreadful things, and hints at Treasuryprosecutions; and your Mr. Charles Whibley genially says that hediscovers in it 'lots of morality. '

It is quite true that he goes on to say that he detects no art in it. ButI do not think that it is fair to expect a critic to be able to see awork of art from every point of view. Even Gautier had his limitationsjust as much as Diderot had, and in modern England Goethes are rare. Ican only assure Mr. Charles Whibley that no moral apotheosis to which hehas added the most modest contribution could possibly be a source ofunhappiness to an artist. --I remain, Sir, your obedient servant, OSCAR WILDE. 

16 TITE STREET, CHELSEA, July 1890. 

VIII. 

(Scots Observer, August 16, 1890. )

To the Editor of the Scots Observer. 

SIR, --I am afraid I cannot enter into any newspaper discussion on thesubject of art with Mr. Whibley, partly because the writing of letters isalways a trouble to me, and partly because I regret to say that I do notknow what qualifications Mr. Whibley possesses for the discussion of soimportant a topic. I merely noticed his letter because, I am surewithout in any way intending it, he made a suggestion about myselfpersonally that was quite inaccurate. His suggestion was that it musthave been painful to me to find that a certain section of the public, asrepresented by himself and the critics of some religious publications, had insisted on finding what he calls 'lots of morality' in my story ofThe Picture of Dorian Gray. 

Being naturally desirous of setting your readers right on a question ofsuch vital interest to the historian, I took the opportunity of pointingout in your columns that I regarded all such criticisms as a verygratifying tribute to the ethical beauty of the story, and I added that Iwas quite ready to recognise that it was not really fair to ask of anyordinary critic that he should be able to appreciate a work of art fromevery point of view. 

I still hold this opinion. If a man sees the artistic beauty of a thing, he will probably care very little for its ethical import. If histemperament is more susceptible to ethical than to aesthetic influences, he will be blind to questions of style, treatment and the like. It takesa Goethe to see a work of art fully, completely and perfectly, and Ithoroughly agree with Mr. Whibley when he says that it is a pity thatGoethe never had an opportunity of reading Dorian Gray. I feel quitecertain that he would have been delighted by it, and I only hope thatsome ghostly publisher is even now distributing shadowy copies in theElysian fields, and that the cover of Gautier's copy is powdered withgilt asphodels. 

You may ask me, Sir, why I should care to have the ethical beauty of mystory recognised. I answer, Simply because it exists, because the thingis there. 

The chief merit of Madame Bovary is not the moral lesson that can befound in it, any more than the chief merit of Salammbo is its archaeology;but Flaubert was perfectly right in exposing the ignorance of those whocalled the one immoral and the other inaccurate; and not merely was heright in the ordinary sense of the word, but he was artistically right, which is everything. The critic has to educate the public; the artisthas to educate the critic. 

Allow me to make one more correction, Sir, and I will have done with Mr. Whibley. He ends his letter with the statement that I have beenindefatigable in my public appreciation of my own work. I have no doubtthat in saying this he means to pay me a compliment, but he reallyoverrates my capacity, as well as my inclination for work. I mustfrankly confess that, by nature and by choice, I am extremely indolent. 

Cultivated idleness seems to me to be the proper occupation for man. Idislike newspaper controversies of any kind, and of the two hundred andsixteen criticisms of Dorian Gray that have passed from my library tableinto the wastepaper basket I have taken public notice of only three. Onewas that which appeared in the Scots Observer. I noticed it because itmade a suggestion, about the intention of the author in writing the book, which needed correction. The second was an article in the St. James'sGazette. It was offensively and vulgarly written, and seemed to me torequire immediate and caustic censure. The tone of the article was animpertinence to any man of letters. 

The third was a meek attack in a paper called the Daily Chronicle. Ithink my writing to the Daily Chronicle was an act of pure wilfulness. Infact, I feel sure it was. I quite forget what they said. I believe theysaid that Dorian Gray was poisonous, and I thought that, on alliterativegrounds, it would be kind to remind them that, however that may be, it isat any rate perfect. That was all. Of the other two hundred andthirteen criticisms I have taken no notice. Indeed, I have not read morethan half of them. It is a sad thing, but one wearies even of praise. 

As regards Mr. Brown's letter, it is interesting only in so far as itexemplifies the truth of what I have said above on the question of thetwo obvious schools of critics. Mr. Brown says frankly that he considersmorality to be the 'strong point' of my story. Mr. Brown means well, andhas got hold of a half truth, but when he proceeds to deal with the bookfrom the artistic standpoint he, of course, goes sadly astray. To classDorian Gray with M. Zola's La Terre is as silly as if one were to classMusset's Fortunio with one of the Adelphi melodramas. Mr. Brown shouldbe content with ethical appreciation. There he is impregnable. 

Mr. Cobban opens badly by describing my letter, setting Mr. Whibley righton a matter of fact, as an 'impudent paradox. ' The term 'impudent' ismeaningless, and the word 'paradox' is misplaced. I am afraid thatwriting to newspapers has a deteriorating influence on style. People getviolent and abusive and lose all sense of proportion, when they enterthat curious journalistic arena in which the race is always to thenoisiest. 'Impudent paradox' is neither violent nor abusive, but it isnot an expression that should have been used about my letter. However, Mr. Cobban makes full atonement afterwards for what was, no doubt, a mereerror of manner, by adopting the impudent paradox in question as his own, and pointing out that, as I had previously said, the artist will alwayslook at the work of art from the standpoint of beauty of style and beautyof treatment, and that those who have not got the sense of beauty, orwhose sense of beauty is dominated by ethical considerations, will alwaysturn their attention to the subject-matter and make its moral import thetest and touchstone of the poem or novel or picture that is presented tothem, while the newspaper critic will sometimes take one side andsometimes the other, according as he is cultured or uncultured. In fact, Mr. Cobban converts the impudent paradox into a tedious truism, and, Idare say, in doing so does good service. 

The English public likes tediousness, and likes things to be explained toit in a tedious way. 

Mr. Cobban has, I have no doubt, already repented of the unfortunateexpression with which he has made his debut, so I will say no more aboutit. As far as I am concerned he is quite forgiven. 

And finally, Sir, in taking leave of the Scots Observer I feel bound tomake a candid confession to you. 

It has been suggested to me by a great friend of mine, who is a charmingand distinguished man of letters, and not unknown to you personally, thatthere have been really only two people engaged in this terriblecontroversy, and that those two people are the editor of the ScotsObserver and the author of Dorian Gray. At dinner this evening, oversome excellent Chianti, my friend insisted that under assumed andmysterious names you had simply given dramatic expression to the views ofsome of the semi-educated classes of our community, and that the letterssigned 'H. ' were your own skilful, if somewhat bitter, caricature of thePhilistine as drawn by himself. I admit that something of the kind hadoccurred to me when I read 'H. 's' first letter--the one in which heproposes that the test of art should be the political opinions of theartist, and that if one differed from the artist on the question of thebest way of misgoverning Ireland, one should always abuse his work. Still, there are such infinite varieties of Philistines, and NorthBritain is so renowned for seriousness, that I dismissed the idea as oneunworthy of the editor of a Scotch paper. I now fear that I was wrong, and that you have been amusing yourself all the time by inventing littlepuppets and teaching them how to use big words. Well, Sir, if it beso--and my friend is strong upon the point--allow me to congratulate youmost sincerely on the cleverness with which you have reproduced that lackof literary style which is, I am told, essential for any dramatic andlifelike characterisation. I confess that I was completely taken in; butI bear no malice; and as you have, no doubt, been laughing at me up yoursleeve, let me now join openly in the laugh, though it be a littleagainst myself. A comedy ends when the secret is out. Drop your curtainand put your dolls to bed. I love Don Quixote, but I do not wish tofight any longer with marionettes, however cunning may be the master-handthat works their wires. Let them go, Sir, on the shelf. The shelf isthe proper place for them. On some future occasion you can re-label themand bring them out for our amusement. They are an excellent company, andgo well through their tricks, and if they are a little unreal, I am notthe one to object to unreality in art. The jest was really a good one. The only thing that I cannot understand is why you gave your marionettessuch extraordinary and improbable names. --I remain, Sir, your obedientservant, OSCAR WILDE. 

16 TITE STREET, CHELSEA, August 13. 

AN ANGLO-INDIAN'S COMPLAINT

(Times, September 26, 1891. )

To the Editor of the Times. 

SIR, --The writer of a letter signed 'An Indian Civilian' that appears inyour issue of today makes a statement about me which I beg you to allowme to correct at once. 

He says I have described the Anglo-Indians as being vulgar. This is notthe case. Indeed, I have never met a vulgar Anglo-Indian. There may bemany, but those whom I have had the pleasure of meeting here have beenchiefly scholars, men interested in art and thought, men of cultivation;nearly all of them have been exceedingly brilliant talkers; some of themhave been exceedingly brilliant writers. 

What I did say--I believe in the pages of the Nineteenth Century{158}--was that vulgarity is the distinguishing note of thoseAnglo-Indians whom Mr. Rudyard Kipling loves to write about, and writesabout so cleverly. This is quite true, and there is no reason why Mr. Rudyard Kipling should not select vulgarity as his subject-matter, or aspart of it. For a realistic artist, certainly, vulgarity is a mostadmirable subject. How far Mr. Kipling's stories really mirror Anglo-Indian society I have no idea at all, nor, indeed, am I ever muchinterested in any correspondence between art and nature. It seems to mea matter of entirely secondary importance. I do not wish, however, thatit should be supposed that I was passing a harsh and saugrenu judgment onan important and in many ways distinguished class, when I was merelypointing out the characteristic qualities of some puppets in aprose-play. --I remain, Sir, your obedient servant, OSCAR WILDE. September 25. 

A HOUSE OF POMEGRANATES

I. 

(Speaker, December 5, 1891. )

SIR. --I have just purchased, at a price that for any other Englishsixpenny paper I would have considered exorbitant, a copy of the Speakerat one of the charming kiosks that decorate Paris; institutions, by theway, that I think we should at once introduce into London. The kiosk isa delightful object, and, when illuminated at night from within, aslovely as a fantastic Chinese lantern, especially when the transparentadvertisements are from the clever pencil of M. Cheret. In London wehave merely the ill-clad newsvendor, whose voice, in spite of theadmirable efforts of the Royal College of Music to make England a reallymusical nation, is always out of tune, and whose rags, badly designed andbadly worn, merely emphasise a painful note of uncomely misery, withoutconveying that impression of picturesqueness which is the only thing thatmakes the poverty of others at all bearable. 

It is not, however, about the establishment of kiosks in London that Iwish to write to you, though I am of opinion that it is a thing that theCounty Council should at once take in hand. The object of my letter isto correct a statement made in a paragraph of your interesting paper. 

The writer of the paragraph in question states that the decorativedesigns that make lovely my book, A House of Pomegranates, are by thehand of Mr. Shannon, while the delicate dreams that separate and heraldeach story are by Mr. Ricketts. The contrary is the case. Mr. Shannonis the drawer of the dreams, and Mr. Ricketts is the subtle and fantasticdecorator. Indeed, it is to Mr. Ricketts that the entire decorativedesign of the book is due, from the selection of the type and the placingof the ornamentation, to the completely beautiful cover that encloses thewhole. The writer of the paragraph goes on to state that he does not'like the cover. ' This is, no doubt, to be regretted, though it is not amatter of much importance, as there are only two people in the world whomit is absolutely necessary that the cover should please. One is Mr. Ricketts, who designed it, the other is myself, whose book it binds. Weboth admire it immensely! The reason, however, that your critic givesfor his failure to gain from the cover any impression of beauty seems tome to show a lack of artistic instinct on his part, which I beg you willallow me to try to correct. 

He complains that a portion of the design on the left-hand side of thecover reminds him of an Indian club with a house-painter's brush on topof it, while a portion of the design on the right-hand side suggests tohim the idea of 'a chimney-pot hat with a sponge in it. ' Now, I do notfor a moment dispute that these are the real impressions your criticreceived. It is the spectator, and the mind of the spectator, as Ipointed out in the preface to The Picture of Dorian Gray, that art reallymirrors. What I want to indicate is this: the artistic beauty of thecover of my book resides in the delicate tracing, arabesques, and massingof many coral-red lines on a ground of white ivory, the colour effectculminating in certain high gilt notes, and being made still morepleasurable by the overlapping band of moss-green cloth that holds thebook together. 

What the gilt notes suggest, what imitative parallel may be found to themin that chaos that is termed Nature, is a matter of no importance. Theymay suggest, as they do sometimes to me, peacocks and pomegranates andsplashing fountains of gold water, or, as they do to your critic, spongesand Indian clubs and chimney-pot hats. Such suggestions and evocationshave nothing whatsoever to do with the aesthetic quality and value of thedesign. A thing in Nature becomes much lovelier if it reminds us of athing in Art, but a thing in Art gains no real beauty through remindingus of a thing in Nature. The primary aesthetic impression of a work ofart borrows nothing from recognition or resemblance. These belong to alater and less perfect stage of apprehension. 

Properly speaking, they are no part of a real aesthetic impression atall, and the constant preoccupation with subject-matter thatcharacterises nearly all our English art-criticism, is what makes our art-criticisms, especially as regards literature, so sterile, so profitless, so much beside the mark, and of such curiously little account. --I remain, Sir, your obedient servant, OSCAR WILDE. 

BOULEVARD DES CAPUCINES, PARIS. 

II. 

(Pall Mall Gazette, December 11, 1891. )

To the Editor of the Pall Mall Gazette. 

SIR, --I have just had sent to me from London a copy of the Pall MallGazette, containing a review of my book A House of Pomegranates. {163}The writer of this review makes a certain suggestion which I beg you willallow me to correct at once. 

He starts by asking an extremely silly question, and that is, whether ornot I have written this book for the purpose of giving pleasure to theBritish child. Having expressed grave doubts on this subject, a subjecton which I cannot conceive any fairly educated person having any doubtsat all, he proceeds, apparently quite seriously, to make the extremelylimited vocabulary at the disposal of the British child the standard bywhich the prose of an artist is to be judged! Now, in building thisHouse of Pomegranates, I had about as much intention of pleasing theBritish child as I had of pleasing the British public. Mamilius is asentirely delightful as Caliban is entirely detestable, but neither thestandard of Mamilius nor the standard of Caliban is my standard. Noartist recognises any standard of beauty but that which is suggested byhis own temperament. The artist seeks to realise, in a certain material, his immaterial idea of beauty, and thus to transform an idea into anideal. That is the way an artist makes things. That is why an artistmakes things. The artist has no other object in making things. Doesyour reviewer imagine that Mr. Shannon, for instance, whose delicate andlovely illustrations he confesses himself quite unable to see, draws forthe purpose of giving information to the blind?--I remain, Sir, yourobedient servant, OSCAR WILDE. BOULEVARD DES CAPUCINES, PARIS. 

PUPPETS AND ACTORS

(Daily Telegraph, February 20, 1892. )

To the Editor of the Daily Telegraph. 

SIR, --I have just been sent an article that seems to have appeared inyour paper some days ago, {164} in which it is stated that, in the courseof some remarks addressed to the Playgoers' Club on the occasion of mytaking the chair at their last meeting, I laid it down as an axiom thatthe stage is only 'a frame furnished with a set of puppets. '

Now, it is quite true that I hold that the stage is to a play no morethan a picture-frame is to a painting, and that the actable value of aplay has nothing whatsoever to do with its value as a work of art. Inthis century, in England, to take an obvious example, we have had onlytwo great plays--one is Shelley's Cenci, the other Mr. Swinburne'sAtalanta in Calydon, and neither of them is in any sense of the word anactable play. Indeed, the mere suggestion that stage representation isany test of a work of art is quite ridiculous. In the production ofBrowning's plays, for instance, in London and at Oxford, what was beingtested was obviously the capacity of the modern stage to represent, inany adequate measure or degree, works of introspective method and strangeor sterile psychology. But the artistic value of Strqfford or In aBalcony was settled when Robert Browning wrote their last lines. It isnot, Sir, by the mimes that the muses are to be judged. 

So far, the writer of the article in question is right. Where he goeswrong is in saying that I describe this frame--the stage--as beingfurnished with a set of puppets. He admits that he speaks only byreport, but he should have remembered, Sir, that report is not merely alying jade, which, personally, I would willingly forgive her, but a jadewho lies without lovely invention is a thing that I, at any rate, canforgive her, never. 

What I really said was that the frame we call the stage was 'peopled witheither living actors or moving puppets, ' and I pointed out briefly, ofnecessity, that the personality of the actor is often a source of dangerin the perfect presentation of a work of art. It may distort. It maylead astray. It may be a discord in the tone or symphony. For anybodycan act. Most people in England do nothing else. To be conventional isto be a comedian. To act a particular part, however, is a very differentthing, and a very difficult thing as well. The actor's aim is, or shouldbe, to convert his own accidental personality into the real and essentialpersonality of the character he is called upon to personate, whateverthat character may be; or perhaps I should say that there are two schoolsof action--the school of those who attain their effect by exaggeration ofpersonality, and the school of those who attain it by suppression. Itwould be too long to discuss these schools, or to decide which of themthe dramatist loves best. Let me note the danger of personality, andpass to my puppets. 

There are many advantages in puppets. They never argue. They have nocrude views about art. They have no private lives. We are neverbothered by accounts of their virtues, or bored by recitals of theirvices; and when they are out of an engagement they never do good inpublic or save people from drowning, nor do they speak more than is setdown for them. They recognise the presiding intellect of the dramatist, and have never been known to ask for their parts to be written up. Theyare admirably docile, and have no personalities at all. I saw lately, inParis, a performance by certain puppets of Shakespeare's Tempest, in M. Maurice Boucher's translation. Miranda was the mirage of Miranda, because an artist has so fashioned her; and Ariel was true Ariel, becauseso had she been made. Their gestures were quite sufficient, and thewords that seemed to come from their little lips were spoken by poets whohad beautiful voices. It was a delightful performance, and I remember itstill with delight, though Miranda took no notice of the flowers I senther after the curtain fell. For modern plays, however, perhaps we hadbetter have living players, for in modern plays actuality is everything. The charm--the ineffable charm--of the unreal is here denied us, andrightly. 

Suffer me one more correction. Your writer describes the author of thebrilliant fantastic lecture on 'The Modern Actor' as a protege of mine. Allow me to state that my acquaintance with Mr. John Gray is, I regret tosay, extremely recent, and that I sought it because he had already aperfected mode of expression both in prose and verse. All artists inthis vulgar age need protection certainly. Perhaps they have alwaysneeded it. But the nineteenth-century artist finds it not in Prince, orPope, or Patron, but in high indifference of temper, in the pleasure ofthe creation of beautiful things, and the long contemplation of them, indisdain of what in life is common and ignoble and in such felicitoussense of humour as enables one to see how vain and foolish is all popularopinion, and popular judgment, upon the wonderful things of art. Thesequalities Mr. John Gray possesses in a marked degree. He needs no otherprotection, nor, indeed, would he accept it. --I remain, Sir, yourobedient servant, OSCAR WILDE. 

LADY WINDERMERE'S FAN: AN EXPLANATION

(St. James's Gazette, February 27, 1892. )

To the Editor of the St. James's Gazette. 

SIR, --Allow me to correct a statement put forward in your issue of thisevening to the effect that I have made a certain alteration in my play inconsequence of the criticism of some journalists who write veryrecklessly and very foolishly in the papers about dramatic art. Thisstatement is entirely untrue and grossly ridiculous. 

The facts are as follows. On last Saturday night, after the play wasover, and the author, cigarette in hand, had delivered a delightful andimmortal speech, I had the pleasure of entertaining at supper a smallnumber of personal friends; and as none of them was older than myself I, naturally, listened to their artistic views with attention and pleasure. The opinions of the old on matters of Art are, of course, of no valuewhatsoever. The artistic instincts of the young are invariablyfascinating; and I am bound to state that all my friends, withoutexception, were of opinion that the psychological interest of the secondact would be greatly increased by the disclosure of the actualrelationship existing between Lady Windermere and Mrs. Erlynne--anopinion, I may add, that had previously been strongly held and urged byMr. Alexander. 

As to those of us who do not look on a play as a mere question ofpantomime and clowning psychological interest is everything, Idetermined, consequently, to make a change in the precise moment ofrevelation. This determination, however, was entered into long before Ihad the opportunity of studying the culture, courtesy, and criticalfaculty displayed in such papers as the Referee, Reynolds', and theSunday Sun. 

When criticism becomes in England a real art, as it should be, and whennone but those of artistic instinct and artistic cultivation is allowedto write about works of art, artists will, no doubt, read criticisms witha certain amount of intellectual interest. As things are at present, thecriticisms of ordinary newspapers are of no interest whatsoever, exceptin so far as they display, in its crudest form, the Boeotianism of acountry that has produced some Athenians, and in which some Athenianshave come to dwell. --I am, Sir, your obedient servant, OSCAR WILDE. February 26. 

SALOME

(Times, March 2, 1893. )

To the Editor of the Times. 

SIR, --My attention has been drawn to a review of Salome which waspublished in your columns last week. {170} The opinions of Englishcritics on a French work of mine have, of course, little, if any, interest for me. I write simply to ask you to allow me to correct amisstatement that appears in the review in question. 

The fact that the greatest tragic actress of any stage now living saw inmy play such beauty that she was anxious to produce it, to take herselfthe part of the heroine, to lend to the entire poem the glamour of herpersonality, and to my prose the music of her flute-like voice--this wasnaturally, and always will be, a source of pride and pleasure to me, andI look forward with delight to seeing Mme. Bernhardt present my play inParis, that vivid centre of art, where religious dramas are oftenperformed. But my play was in no sense of the words written for thisgreat actress. I have never written a play for any actor or actress, norshall I ever do so. Such work is for the artisan in literature--not forthe artist. --I remain, Sir, your obedient servant, OSCAR WILDE. 

THE THIRTEEN CLUB

(Times, January 16, 1894. )

At a dinner of the Thirteen Club held at the Holborn Restaurant onJanuary 13, 1894, the Chairman (Mr. Harry Furniss) announced that fromMr. Oscar Wilde the following letter had been received:--

I have to thank the members of your Club for their kind invitation, forwhich convey to them, I beg you, my sincere thanks. But I lovesuperstitions. They are the colour element of thought and imagination. They are the opponents of common sense. Common sense is the enemy ofromance. The aim of your Society seems to be dreadful. Leave us someunreality. Do not make us too offensively sane. I love dining out, butwith a Society with so wicked an object as yours I cannot dine. I regretit. I am sure you will all be charming, but I could not come, though 13is a lucky number. 

THE ETHICS OF JOURNALISM

I. 

(Pall Mall Gazette, September 20, 1894. )

To the Editor of the Pall Mall Gazette. 

SIR, --Will you allow me to draw your attention to a very interestingexample of the ethics of modern journalism, a quality of which we haveall heard so much and seen so little?

About a month ago Mr. T. P. O'Connor published in the Sunday Sun somedoggerel verses entitled 'The Shamrock, ' and had the amusing impertinenceto append my name to them as their author. As for some years past allkinds of scurrilous personal attacks had been made on me in Mr. O'Connor's newspapers, I determined to take no notice at all of theincident. 

Enraged, however, by my courteous silence, Mr. O'Connor returns to thecharge this week. He now solemnly accuses me of plagiarising the poem hehad the vulgarity to attribute to me. {172}

This seems to me to pass beyond even those bounds of coarse humour andcoarser malice that are, by the contempt of all, conceded to the ordinaryjournalist, and it is really very distressing to find so low a standardof ethics in a Sunday newspaper. --I remain, Sir, your obedient servant, OSCAR WILDE. September 18. 

II. 

(Pall Mall Gazette, September 25, 1894. )

To the Editor of the Pall Mall Gazette. 

SIR, --The assistant editor of the Sunday Sun, on whom seems to devolvethe arduous duty of writing Mr. T. P. O'Connor's apologies for him, doesnot, I observe with regret, place that gentleman's conduct in any moreattractive or more honourable light by the attempted explanation thatappears in the letter published in your issue of today. For the futureit would be much better if Mr. O'Connor would always write his ownapologies. That he can do so exceedingly well no one is more ready toadmit than myself. I happen to possess one from him. 

The assistant editor's explanation, stripped of its unnecessary verbiage, amounts to this: It is now stated that some months ago, somebody, whosename, observe, is not given, forwarded to the office of the Sunday Sun amanuscript in his own handwriting, containing some fifth-rate verses withmy name appended to them as their author. The assistant editor franklyadmits that they had grave doubts about my being capable of such anastounding production. To me, I must candidly say, it seems moreprobable that they never for a single moment believed that the verseswere really from my pen. Literary instinct is, of course, a very rarething, and it would be too much to expect any true literary instinct tobe found among the members of the staff of an ordinary newspaper; but hadMr. O'Connor really thought that the production, such as it is, was mine, he would naturally have asked my permission before publishing it. Greatlicence of comment and attack of every kind is allowed nowadays tonewspapers, but no respectable editor would dream of printing andpublishing a man's work without first obtaining his consent. 

Mr. O'Connor's subsequent conduct in accusing me of plagiarism, when itwas proved to him on unimpeachable authority that the verses he hadvulgarly attributed to me were not by me at all, I have already commentedon. It is perhaps best left to the laughter of the gods and the sorrowof men. I would like, however, to point out that when Mr. O'Connor, withthe kind help of his assistant editor, states, as a possible excuse forhis original sin, that he and the members of his staff 'took refuge' inthe belief that the verses in question might conceivably be some veryearly and useful work of mine, he and the members of his staff showed alamentable ignorance of the nature of the artistic temperament. Onlymediocrities progress. An artist revolves in a cycle of masterpieces, the first of which is no less perfect than the last. 

In conclusion, allow me to thank you for your courtesy in opening to methe columns of your valuable paper, and also to express the hope that thepainful expose of Mr. O'Connor's conduct that I have been forced to makewill have the good result of improving the standard of journalisticethics in England. --I remain, Sir, your obedient servant, OSCAR WILDE. WORTHING, September 22. 

THE GREEN CARNATION

(Pall Mall Gazette, October 2, 1894. )

To the Editor of the Pall Mall Gazette. 

SIR, --Kindly allow me to contradict, in the most emphatic manner, thesuggestion, made in your issue of Thursday last, and since then copiedinto many other newspapers, that I am the author of The Green Carnation. 

I invented that magnificent flower. But with the middle-class andmediocre book that usurps its strangely beautiful name I have, I needhardly say, nothing whatsoever to do. The flower is a work of art. Thebook is not. --I remain, Sir, your obedient servant, OSCAR WILDE. 

WORTHING, October 1. 

PHRASES AND PHILOSOPHIES FOR THE USE OF THE YOUNG

(Chameleon, December 1894 )

The first duty in life is to be as artificial as possible. What thesecond duty is no one has as yet discovered. 

Wickedness is a myth invented by good people to account for the curiousattractiveness of others. 

If the poor only had profiles there would be no difficulty in solving theproblem of poverty. 

Those who see any difference between soul and body have neither. 

A really well-made buttonhole is the only link between Art and Nature. 

Religions die when they are proved to be true. Science is the record ofdead religions. 

The well-bred contradict other people. The wise contradict themselves. 

Nothing that actually occurs is of the smallest importance. 

Dulness is the coming of age of seriousness. 

In all unimportant matters, style, not sincerity, is the essential. Inall important matters, style, not sincerity, is the essential. 

If one tells the truth one is sure, sooner or later, to be found out. 

Pleasure is the only thing one should live for. Nothing ages likehappiness. 

It is only by not paying one's bills that one can hope to live in thememory of the commercial classes. 

No crime is vulgar, but all vulgarity is crime. Vulgarity is the conductof others. 

Only the shallow know themselves. 

Time is waste of money. 

One should always be a little improbable. 

There is a fatality about all good resolutions. They are invariably madetoo soon. 

The only way to atone for being occasionally a little overdressed is bybeing always absolutely over-educated. 

To be premature is to be perfect. 

Any preoccupation with ideas of what is right or wrong in conduct showsan arrested intellectual development. 

Ambition is the last refuge of the failure. 

A truth ceases to be true when more than one person believes in it. 

In examinations the foolish ask questions that the wise cannot answer. 

Greek dress was in its essence inartistic. Nothing should reveal thebody but the body. 

One should either be a work of art, or wear a work of art. 

It is only the superficial qualities that last. Man's deeper nature issoon found out. 

Industry is the root of all ugliness. 

The ages live in history through their anachronisms. 

It is only the gods who taste of death. Apollo has passed away, butHyacinth, whom men say he slew, lives on. Nero and Narcissus are alwayswith us. 

The old believe everything: the middle-aged suspect everything: the youngknow everything. 

The condition of perfection is idleness: the aim of perfection is youth. 

Only the great masters of style ever succeed in being obscure. 

There is something tragic about the enormous number of young men thereare in England at the present moment who start life with perfectprofiles, and end by adopting some useful profession. 

To love oneself is the beginning of a life-long romance. 

THE RISE OF HISTORICAL CRITICISM

The first portion of this essay is given at the end of the volumecontaining Lord Arthur Savile's Crime and Other Prose Pieces. Recentlythe remainder of the original manuscript has been discovered, and is herepublished for the first time. It was written for the Chancellor'sEnglish Essay Prize at Oxford in 1879, the subject being 'HistoricalCriticism among the Ancients. ' The prize was not awarded. To ProfessorJ. W. Mackail thanks are due for revising the proofs. 

IV. 

It is evident that here Thucydides is ready to admit the variety ofmanifestations which external causes bring about in their workings on theuniform character of the nature of man. Yet, after all is said, theseare perhaps but very general statements: the ordinary effects of peaceand war are dwelt on, but there is no real analysis of the immediatecauses and general laws of the phenomena of life, nor does Thucydidesseem to recognise the truth that if humanity proceeds in circles, thecircles are always widening. 

Perhaps we may say that with him the philosophy of history is partly inthe metaphysical stage, and see, in the progress of this idea fromHerodotus to Polybius, the exemplification of the Comtian law of thethree stages of thought, the theological, the metaphysical, and thescientific: for truly out of the vagueness of theological mysticism thisconception which we call the Philosophy of History was raised to ascientific principle, according to which the past was explained and thefuture predicted by reference to general laws. 

Now, just as the earliest account of the nature of the progress ofhumanity is to be found in Plato, so in him we find the first explicitattempt to found a universal philosophy of history upon wide rationalgrounds. Having created an ideally perfect state, the philosopherproceeds to give an elaborate theory of the complex causes which producerevolutions of the moral effects of various forms of government andeducation, of the rise of the criminal classes and their connection withpauperism, and, in a word, to create history by the deductive method andto proceed from a priori psychological principles to discover thegoverning laws of the apparent chaos of political life. 

There have been many attempts since Plato to deduce from a singlephilosophical principle all the phenomena which experience subsequentlyverifies for us. Fichte thought he could predict the world-plan from theidea of universal time. Hegel dreamed he had found the key to themysteries of life in the development of freedom, and Krause in thecategories of being. But the one scientific basis on which the truephilosophy of history must rest is the complete knowledge of the laws ofhuman nature in all its wants, its aspirations, its powers and itstendencies: and this great truth, which Thucydides may be said in somemeasure to have apprehended, was given to us first by Plato. 

Now, it cannot be accurately said of this philosopher that either hisphilosophy or his history is entirely and simply a priori. On est de sonsiecle meme quand on y proteste, and so we find in him continualreferences to the Spartan mode of life, the Pythagorean system, thegeneral characteristics of Greek tyrannies and Greek democracies. Forwhile, in his account of the method of forming an ideal state, he saysthat the political artist is indeed to fix his gaze on the sun ofabstract truth in the heavens of the pure reason, but is sometimes toturn to the realisation of the ideals on earth: yet, after all, thegeneral character of the Platonic method, which is what we are speciallyconcerned with, is essentially deductive and a priori. And he himself, in the building up of his Nephelococcygia, certainly starts with a[Greek], making a clean sweep of all history and all experience; and itwas essentially as an a priori theorist that he is criticised byAristotle, as we shall see later. 

To proceed to closer details regarding the actual scheme of the laws ofpolitical revolutions as drawn out by Plato, we must first note that theprimary cause of the decay of the ideal state is the general principle, common to the vegetable and animal worlds as well as to the world ofhistory, that all created things are fated to decay--a principle which, though expressed in the terms of a mere metaphysical abstraction, is yetperhaps in its essence scientific. For we too must hold that acontinuous redistribution of matter and motion is the inevitable resultof the normal persistence of Force, and that perfect equilibrium is asimpossible in politics as it certainly is in physics. 

The secondary causes which mar the perfection of the Platonic 'city ofthe sun' are to be found in the intellectual decay of the race consequenton injudicious marriages and in the Philistine elevation of physicalachievements over mental culture; while the hierarchical succession ofTimocracy and Oligarchy, Democracy and Tyranny, is dwelt on at greatlength and its causes analysed in a very dramatic and psychologicalmanner, if not in that sanctioned by the actual order of history. 

And indeed it is apparent at first sight that the Platonic succession ofstates represents rather the succession of ideas in the philosophic mindthan any historical succession of time. 

Aristotle meets the whole simply by an appeal to facts. If the theory ofthe periodic decay of all created things, he urges, be scientific, itmust be universal, and so true of all the other states as well as of theideal. Besides, a state usually changes into its contrary and not to theform next to it; so the ideal state would not change into Timocracy;while Oligarchy, more often than Tyranny, succeeds Democracy. Plato, besides, says nothing of what a Tyranny would change to. According tothe cycle theory it ought to pass into the ideal state again, but as afact one Tyranny is changed into another as at Sicyon, or into aDemocracy as at Syracuse, or into an Aristocracy as at Carthage. Theexample of Sicily, too, shows that an Oligarchy is often followed by aTyranny, as at Leontini and Gela. Besides, it is absurd to representgreed as the chief motive of decay, or to talk of avarice as the root ofOligarchy, when in nearly all true oligarchies money-making is forbiddenby law. And finally the Platonic theory neglects the different kinds ofdemocracies and of tyrannies. 

Now nothing can be more important than this passage in Aristotle'sPolitics (v. 12. ), which may be said to mark an era in the evolution ofhistorical criticism. For there is nothing on which Aristotle insists sostrongly as that the generalisations from facts ought to be added to thedata of the a priori method--a principle which we know to be true notmerely of deductive speculative politics but of physics also: for are notthe residual phenomena of chemists a valuable source of improvement intheory?

His own method is essentially historical though by no means empirical. Onthe contrary, this far-seeing thinker, rightly styled il maestro di colorche sanno, may be said to have apprehended clearly that the true methodis neither exclusively empirical nor exclusively speculative, but rathera union of both in the process called Analysis or the Interpretation ofFacts, which has been defined as the application to facts of such generalconceptions as may fix the important characteristics of the phenomena, and present them permanently in their true relations. He too was thefirst to point out, what even in our own day is incompletely appreciated, that nature, including the development of man, is not full of incoherentepisodes like a bad tragedy, that inconsistency and anomaly are asimpossible in the moral as they are in the physical world, and that wherethe superficial observer thinks he sees a revolution the philosophicalcritic discerns merely the gradual and rational evolution of theinevitable results of certain antecedents. 

And while admitting the necessity of a psychological basis for thephilosophy of history, he added to it the important truth that man, to beapprehended in his proper position in the universe as well as in hisnatural powers, must be studied from below in the hierarchicalprogression of higher function from the lower forms of life. Theimportant maxim, that to obtain a clear conception of anything we must'study it in its growth from the very beginning' is formally set down inthe opening of the Politics, where, indeed, we shall find the othercharacteristic features of the modern Evolutionary theory, such as the'Differentiation of Function' and the 'Survival of the Fittest'explicitly set forth. 

What a valuable step this was in the improvement of the method ofhistorical criticism it is needless to point out. By it, one may say, the true thread was given to guide one's steps through the bewilderinglabyrinth of facts. For history (to use terms with which Aristotle hasmade us familiar) may be looked at from two essentially differentstandpoints; either as a work of art whose [Greek] or final cause isexternal to it and imposed on it from without; or as an organismcontaining the law of its own development in itself, and working out itsperfection merely by the fact of being what it is. Now, if we adopt theformer, which we may style the theological view, we shall be in continualdanger of tripping into the pitfall of some a priori conclusion--thatbourne from which, it has been truly said, no traveller ever returns. 

The latter is the only scientific theory and was apprehended in itsfulness by Aristotle, whose application of the inductive method tohistory, and whose employment of the evolutionary theory of humanity, show that he was conscious that the philosophy of history is nothingseparate from the facts of history but is contained in them, and that therational law of the complex phenomena of life, like the ideal in theworld of thought, is to be reached through the facts, not superimposed onthem-- [Greek] not [Greek]. 

And finally, in estimating the enormous debt which the science ofhistorical criticism owes to Aristotle, we must not pass over hisattitude towards those two great difficulties in the formation of aphilosophy of history on which I have touched above. I mean theassertion of extra-natural interference with the normal development ofthe world and of the incalculable influence exercised by the power offree will. 

Now, as regards the former, he may be said to have neglected it entirely. The special acts of providence proceeding from God's immediate governmentof the world, which Herodotus saw as mighty landmarks in history, wouldhave been to him essentially disturbing elements in that universal reignof law, the extent of whose limitless empire he of all the great thinkersof antiquity was the first explicitly to recognise. 

Standing aloof from the popular religion as well as from the deeperconceptions of Herodotus and the Tragic School, he no longer thought ofGod as of one with fair limbs and treacherous face haunting wood andglade, nor would he see in him a jealous judge continually interfering inthe world's history to bring the wicked to punishment and the proud to afall. God to him was the incarnation of the pure Intellect, a beingwhose activity was the contemplation of his own perfection, one whomPhilosophy might imitate but whom prayers could never move, to thesublime indifference of whose passionless wisdom what were the sons ofmen, their desires or their sins? While, as regards the other difficultyand the formation of a philosophy of history, the conflict of free willwith general laws appears first in Greek thought in the usual theologicalform in which all great ideas seem to be cradled at their birth. 

It was such legends as those of OEdipus and Adrastus, exemplifying thestruggles of individual humanity against the overpowering force ofcircumstances and necessity, which gave to the early Greeks those samelessons which we of modern days draw, in somewhat less artistic fashion, from the study of statistics and the laws of physiology. 

In Aristotle, of course, there is no trace of supernatural influence. TheFuries, which drive their victim into sin first and then punishment, areno longer 'viper-tressed goddesses with eyes and mouth aflame, ' but thoseevil thoughts which harbour within the impure soul. In this, as in allother points, to arrive at Aristotle is to reach the pure atmosphere ofscientific and modern thought. 

But while he rejected pure necessitarianism in its crude form asessentially a reductio ad absurdum of life, he was fully conscious of thefact that the will is not a mysterious and ultimate unit of force beyondwhich we cannot go and whose special characteristic is inconsistency, buta certain creative attitude of the mind which is, from the first, continually influenced by habits, education and circumstance; soabsolutely modifiable, in a word, that the good and the bad man alikeseem to lose the power of free will; for the one is morally unable tosin, the other physically incapacitated for reformation. 

And of the influence of climate and temperature in forming the nature ofman (a conception perhaps pressed too far in modern days when the 'racetheory' is supposed to be a sufficient explanation of the Hindoo, and thelatitude and longitude of a country the best guide to its morals {188})Aristotle is completely unaware. I do not allude to such smaller pointsas the oligarchical tendencies of a horse-breeding country and thedemocratic influence of the proximity of the sea (important though theyare for the consideration of Greek history), but rather to those widerviews in the seventh book of his Politics, where he attributes the happyunion in the Greek character of intellectual attainments with the spiritof progress to the temperate climate they enjoyed, and points out how theextreme cold of the north dulls the mental faculties of its inhabitantsand renders them incapable of social organisation or extended empire;while to the enervating heat of eastern countries was due that want ofspirit and bravery which then, as now, was the characteristic of thepopulation in that quarter of the globe. 

Thucydides has shown the causal connection between political revolutionsand the fertility of the soil, but goes a step farther and points out thepsychological influences on a people's character exercised by the variousextremes of climate--in both cases the first appearance of a mostvaluable form of historical criticism. 

To the development of Dialectic, as to God, intervals of time are of noaccount. From Plato and Aristotle we pass direct to Polybius. 

The progress of thought from the philosopher of the Academe to theArcadian historian may be best illustrated by a comparison of the methodby which each of the three writers, whom I have selected as the highestexpressions of the rationalism of his respective age, attained to hisideal state: for the latter conception may be in a measure regarded asrepresenting the most spiritual principle which they could discern inhistory. 

Now, Plato created his on a priori principles: Aristotle formed his by ananalysis of existing constitutions; Polybius found his realised for himin the actual world of fact. Aristotle criticised the deductivespeculations of Plato by means of inductive negative instances, butPolybius will not take the 'Cloud City' of the Republic into account atall. He compares it to an athlete who has never run on 'ConstitutionHill, ' to a statue so beautiful that it is entirely removed from theordinary conditions of humanity, and consequently from the canons ofcriticism. 

The Roman state had attained in his eyes, by means of the mutualcounteraction of three opposing forces, {190} that stable equilibrium inpolitics which was the ideal of all the theoretical writers of antiquity. And in connection with this point it will be convenient to notice herehow much truth there is contained in the accusation so often broughtagainst the ancients that they knew nothing of the idea of Progress, forthe meaning of many of their speculations will be hidden from us if we donot try and comprehend first what their aim was, and secondly why it wasso. 

Now, like all wide generalities, this statement is at least inaccurate. The prayer of Plato's ideal city--[Greek], might be written as a textover the door of the last Temple to Humanity raised by the disciples ofFourier and Saint Simon, but it is certainly true that their idealprinciple was order and permanence, not indefinite progress. For, setting aside the artistic prejudices which would have led the Greeks toreject this idea of unlimited improvement, we may note that the modernconception of progress rests partly on the new enthusiasm and worship ofhumanity, partly on the splendid hopes of material improvements incivilisation which applied science has held out to us, two influencesfrom which ancient Greek thought seems to have been strangely free. Forthe Greeks marred the perfect humanism of the great men whom theyworshipped, by imputing to them divinity and its supernatural powers;while their science was eminently speculative and often almost mystic inits character, aiming at culture and not utility, at higher spiritualityand more intense reverence for law, rather than at the increasedfacilities of locomotion and the cheap production of common things aboutwhich our modern scientific school ceases not to boast. And lastly, andperhaps chiefly, we must remember that the 'plague spot of all Greekstates, ' as one of their own writers has called it, was the terribleinsecurity to life and property which resulted from the factions andrevolutions which ceased not to trouble Greece at all times, raising aspirit of fanaticism such as religion raised in the middle ages ofEurope. 

These considerations, then, will enable us to understand first how it wasthat, radical and unscrupulous reformers as the Greek political theoristswere, yet, their end once attained, no modern conservatives raised suchoutcry against the slightest innovation. Even acknowledged improvementsin such things as the games of children or the modes of music wereregarded by them with feelings of extreme apprehension as the herald ofthe drapeau rouge of reform. And secondly, it will show us how it wasthat Polybius found his ideal in the commonwealth of Rome, and Aristotle, like Mr. Bright, in the middle classes. Polybius, however, is notcontent merely with pointing out his ideal state, but enters atconsiderable length into the question of those general laws whoseconsideration forms the chief essential of the philosophy of history. 

He starts by accepting the general principle that all things are fated todecay (which I noticed in the case of Plato), and that 'as iron producesrust and as wood breeds the animals that destroy it, so every state hasin it the seeds of its own corruption. ' He is not, however, content torest there, but proceeds to deal with the more immediate causes ofrevolutions, which he says are twofold in nature, either external orinternal. Now, the former, depending as they do on the synchronousconjunction of other events outside the sphere of scientific estimation, are from their very character incalculable; but the latter, thoughassuming many forms, always result from the over-great preponderance ofany single element to the detriment of the others, the rational law lyingat the base of all varieties of political changes being that stabilitycan result only from the statical equilibrium produced by thecounteraction of opposing parts, since the more simple a constitution isthe more it is insecure. Plato had pointed out before how the extremeliberty of a democracy always resulted in despotism, but Polybiusanalyses the law and shows the scientific principles on which it rests. 

The doctrine of the instability of pure constitutions forms an importantera in the philosophy of history. Its special applicability to thepolitics of our own day has been illustrated in the rise of the greatNapoleon, when the French state had lost those divisions of caste andprejudice, of landed aristocracy and moneyed interest, institutions inwhich the vulgar see only barriers to Liberty but which are indeed theonly possible defences against the coming of that periodic Sirius ofpolitics, the [Greek]

There is a principle which Tocqueville never wearies of explaining, andwhich has been subsumed by Mr. Herbert Spencer under that general lawcommon to all organic bodies which we call the Instability of theHomogeneous. The various manifestations of this law, as shown in thenormal, regular revolutions and evolutions of the different forms ofgovernment, {193a} are expounded with great clearness by Polybius, whoclaimed for his theory in the Thucydidean spirit, that it is a [Greek], not a mere [Greek], and that a knowledge of it will enable the impartialobserver {193b} to discover at any time what period of its constitutionalevolution any particular state has already reached and into what form itwill be next differentiated, though possibly the exact time of thechanges may be more or less uncertain. {193c}

Now in this necessarily incomplete account of the laws of politicalrevolutions as expounded by Polybius enough perhaps has been said to showwhat is his true position in the rational development of the 'Idea' whichI have called the Philosophy of History, because it is the unifying ofhistory. Seen darkly as it is through the glass of religion in the pagesof Herodotus, more metaphysical than scientific with Thucydides, Platostrove to seize it by the eagle-flight of speculation, to reach it withthe eager grasp of a soul impatient of those slower and surer inductivemethods which Aristotle, in his trenchant criticism of his great master, showed were more brilliant than any vague theory, if the test ofbrilliancy is truth. 

What then is the position of Polybius? Does any new method remain forhim? Polybius was one of those many men who are born too late to beoriginal. To Thucydides belongs the honour of being the first in thehistory of Greek thought to discern the supreme calm of law and orderunderlying the fitful storms of life, and Plato and Aristotle eachrepresents a great new principle. To Polybius belongs the office--hownoble an office he made it his writings show--of making more explicit theideas which were implicit in his predecessors, of showing that they wereof wider applicability and perhaps of deeper meaning than they had seemedbefore, of examining with more minuteness the laws which they haddiscovered, and finally of pointing out more clearly than any one haddone the range of science and the means it offered for analysing thepresent and predicting what was to come. His office thus was to gatherup what they had left, to give their principles new life by a widerapplication. 

Polybius ends this great diapason of Greek thought. When the Philosophyof history appears next, as in Plutarch's tract on 'Why God's anger isdelayed, ' the pendulum of thought had swung back to where it began. Histheory was introduced to the Romans under the cultured style of Cicero, and was welcomed by them as the philosophical panegyric of their state. The last notice of it in Latin literature is in the pages of Tacitus, whoalludes to the stable polity formed out of these elements as aconstitution easier to commend than to produce and in no case lasting. Yet Polybius had seen the future with no uncertain eye, and hadprophesied the rise of the Empire from the unbalanced power of theochlocracy fifty years and more before there was joy in the Julianhousehold over the birth of that boy who, borne to power as the championof the people, died wearing the purple of a king. 

No attitude of historical criticism is more important than the means bywhich the ancients attained to the philosophy of history. The principleof heredity can be exemplified in literature as well as in organic life:Aristotle, Plato and Polybius are the lineal ancestors of Fichte andHegel, of Vico and Cousin, of Montesquieu and Tocqueville. 

As my aim is not to give an account of historians but to point out thosegreat thinkers whose methods have furthered the advance of this spirit ofhistorical criticism, I shall pass over those annalists and chroniclerswho intervened between Thucydides and Polybius. Yet perhaps it may serveto throw new light on the real nature of this spirit and its intimateconnection with all other forms of advanced thought if I give someestimate of the character and rise of those many influences prejudicialto the scientific study of history which cause such a wide gap betweenthese two historians. 

Foremost among these is the growing influence of rhetoric and theIsocratean school, which seems to have regarded history as an arena forthe display of either pathos or paradoxes, not a scientific investigationinto laws. 

The new age is the age of style. The same spirit of exclusive attentionto form which made Euripides often, like Swinburne, prefer music tomeaning and melody to morality, which gave to the later Greek statuesthat refined effeminacy, that overstrained gracefulness of attitude, wasfelt in the sphere of history. The rules laid down for historicalcomposition are those relating to the aesthetic value of digressions, thelegality of employing more than one metaphor in the same sentence, andthe like; and historians are ranked not by their power of estimatingevidence but by the goodness of the Greek they write. 

I must note also the important influence on literature exercised byAlexander the Great; for while his travels encouraged the more accurateresearch of geography, the very splendour of his achievements seems tohave brought history again into the sphere of romance. The appearance ofall great men in the world is followed invariably by the rise of thatmythopoeic spirit and that tendency to look for the marvellous, which isso fatal to true historical criticism. An Alexander, a Napoleon, aFrancis of Assisi and a Mahomet are thought to be outside the limitingconditions of rational law, just as comets were supposed to be not verylong ago. While the founding of that city of Alexandria, in whichWestern and Eastern thought met with such strange result to both, diverted the critical tendencies of the Greek spirit into questions ofgrammar, philology and the like, the narrow, artificial atmosphere ofthat University town (as we may call it) was fatal to the development ofthat independent and speculative spirit of research which strikes out newmethods of inquiry, of which historical criticism is one. 

The Alexandrines combined a great love of learning with an ignorance ofthe true principles of research, an enthusiastic spirit for accumulatingmaterials with a wonderful incapacity to use them. Not among the hotsands of Egypt, or the Sophists of Athens, but from the very heart ofGreece rises the man of genius on whose influence in the evolution of thephilosophy of history I have a short time ago dwelt. Born in the sereneand pure air of the clear uplands of Arcadia, Polybius may be said toreproduce in his work the character of the place which gave him birth. For, of all the historians--I do not say of antiquity but of alltime--none is more rationalistic than he, none more free from any beliefin the 'visions and omens, the monstrous legends, the grovellingsuperstitions and unmanly craving for the supernatural' ([Greek] {197a})which he is compelled to notice himself as the characteristics of some ofthe historians who preceded him. Fortunate in the land which bore him, he was no less blessed in the wondrous time of his birth. For, representing in himself the spiritual supremacy of the Greek intellectand allied in bonds of chivalrous friendship to the world-conqueror ofhis day, he seems led as it were by the hand of Fate 'to comprehend, ' ashas been said, 'more clearly than the Romans themselves the historicalposition of Rome, ' and to discern with greater insight than all other mencould those two great resultants of ancient civilisation, the materialempire of the city of the seven hills, and the intellectual sovereigntyof Hellas. 

Before his own day, he says, {197b} the events of the world wereunconnected and separate and the histories confined to particularcountries. Now, for the first time the universal empire of the Romansrendered a universal history possible. {198a} This, then, is the augustmotive of his work: to trace the gradual rise of this Italian city fromthe day when the first legion crossed the narrow strait of Messina andlanded on the fertile fields of Sicily to the time when Corinth in theEast and Carthage in the West fell before the resistless wave of empireand the eagles of Rome passed on the wings of universal victory fromCalpe and the Pillars of Hercules to Syria and the Nile. At the sametime he recognised that the scheme of Rome's empire was worked out underthe aegis of God's will. {198b} For, as one of the Middle Age scribesmost truly says, the [Greek] of Polybius is that power which weChristians call God; the second aim, as one may call it, of his historyis to point out the rational and human and natural causes which broughtthis result, distinguishing, as we should say, between God's mediate andimmediate government of the world. 

With any direct intervention of God in the normal development of Man, hewill have nothing to do: still less with any idea of chance as a factorin the phenomena of life. Chance and miracles, he says, are mereexpressions for our ignorance of rational causes. The spirit ofrationalism which we recognised in Herodotus as a vague uncertainattitude and which appears in Thucydides as a consistent attitude of mindnever argued about or even explained, is by Polybius analysed andformulated as the great instrument of historical research. 

Herodotus, while believing on principle in the supernatural, yet wassceptical at times. Thucydides simply ignored the supernatural. He didnot discuss it, but he annihilated it by explaining history without it. Polybius enters at length into the whole question and explains its originand the method of treating it. Herodotus would have believed in Scipio'sdream. Thucydides would have ignored it entirely. Polybius explains it. He is the culmination of the rational progression of Dialectic. 'Nothing, ' he says, 'shows a foolish mind more than the attempt toaccount for any phenomena on the principle of chance or supernaturalintervention. History is a search for rational causes, and there isnothing in the world--even those phenomena which seem to us the mostremote from law and improbable--which is not the logical and inevitableresult of certain rational antecedents. '

Some things, of course, are to be rejected a priori without entering intothe subject: 'As regards such miracles, ' he says, {199} 'as that on acertain statue of Artemis rain or snow never falls though the statuestands in the open air, or that those who enter God's shrine in Arcadialose their natural shadows, I cannot really be expected to argue upon thesubject. For these things are not only utterly improbable but absolutelyimpossible. '

'For us to argue reasonably on an acknowledged absurdity is as vain atask as trying to catch water in a sieve; it is really to admit thepossibility of the supernatural, which is the very point at issue. '

What Polybius felt was that to admit the possibility of a miracle is toannihilate the possibility of history: for just as scientific andchemical experiments would be either impossible or useless if exposed tothe chance of continued interference on the part of some foreign body, sothe laws and principles which govern history, the causes of phenomena, the evolution of progress, the whole science, in a word, of man'sdealings with his own race and with nature, will remain a sealed book tohim who admits the possibility of extra-natural interference. 

The stories of miracles, then, are to be rejected on a priori rationalgrounds, but in the case of events which we know to have happened thescientific historian will not rest till he has discovered their naturalcauses which, for instance, in the case of the wonderful rise of theRoman Empire--the most marvellous thing, Polybius says, which God everbrought about {200a}--are to be found in the excellence of theirconstitution ([Greek]), the wisdom of their advisers, their splendidmilitary arrangements, and their superstition ([Greek]). For whilePolybius regarded the revealed religion as, of course, objective realityof truth, {200b} he laid great stress on its moral subjective influence, going, in one passage on the subject, even so far as almost to excuse theintroduction of the supernatural in very small quantities into history onaccount of the extremely good effect it would have on pious people. 

But perhaps there is no passage in the whole of ancient and modernhistory which breathes such a manly and splendid spirit of rationalism asone preserved to us in the Vatican--strange resting-place for it!--inwhich he treats of the terrible decay of population which had fallen onhis native land in his own day, and which by the general orthodox publicwas regarded as a special judgment of God, sending childlessness on womenas a punishment for the sins of the people. For it was a disaster quitewithout parallel in the history of the land, and entirely unforeseen byany of its political-economy writers who, on the contrary, were alwaysanticipating that danger would arise from an excess of populationoverrunning its means of subsistence, and becoming unmanageable throughits size. Polybius, however, will have nothing to do with either priestor worker of miracles in this matter. He will not even seek that 'sacredHeart of Greece, ' Delphi, Apollo's shrine, whose inspiration evenThucydides admitted and before whose wisdom Socrates bowed. How foolish, he says, were the man who on this matter would pray to God. We mustsearch for the rational causes, and the causes are seen to be clear, andthe method of prevention also. He then proceeds to notice how all thisarose from the general reluctance to marriage and to bearing the expenseof educating a large family which resulted from the carelessness andavarice of the men of his day, and he explains on entirely rationalprinciples the whole of this apparently supernatural judgment. 

Now, it is to be borne in mind that while his rejection of miracles asviolation of inviolable laws is entirely a priori--for, discussion ofsuch a matter is, of course, impossible for a rational thinker--yet hisrejection of supernatural intervention rests entirely on the scientificgrounds of the necessity of looking for natural causes. And he is quitelogical in maintaining his position on these principles. For, where itis either difficult or impossible to assign any rational cause forphenomena, or to discover their laws, he acquiesces reluctantly in thealternative of admitting some extra-natural interference which hisessentially scientific method of treating the matter has logically forcedon him, approving, for instance, of prayers for rain, on the expressground that the laws of meteorology had not yet been ascertained. Hewould, of course, have been the first to welcome our modern discoveriesin the matter. The passage in question is in every way one of the mostinteresting in his whole work, not, of course, as signifying anyinclination on his part to acquiesce in the supernatural, but because itshows how essentially logical and rational his method of argument was, and how candid and fair his mind. 

Having now examined Polybius's attitude towards the supernatural and thegeneral ideas which guided his research, I will proceed to examine themethod he pursued in his scientific investigation of the complexphenomena of life. For, as I have said before in the course of thisessay, what is important in all great writers is not so much the resultsthey arrive at as the methods they pursue. The increased knowledge offacts may alter any conclusion in history as in physical science, and thecanons of speculative historical credibility must be acknowledged toappeal rather to that subjective attitude of mind which we call thehistoric sense than to any formulated objective rules. But a scientificmethod is a gain for all time, and the true if not the only progress ofhistorical criticism consists in the improvement of the instruments ofresearch. 

Now first, as regards his conception of history, I have already pointedout that it was to him essentially a search for causes, a problem to besolved, not a picture to be painted, a scientific investigation into lawsand tendencies, not a mere romantic account of startling incident andwondrous adventure. Thucydides, in the opening of his great work, hadsounded the first note of the scientific conception of history. 'Theabsence of romance in my pages, ' he says, 'will, I fear, detract somewhatfrom its value, but I have written my work not to be the exploit of apassing hour but as the possession of all time. ' {203} Polybius followswith words almost entirely similar. If, he says, we banish from historythe consideration of causes, methods and motives ([Greek]), and refuse toconsider how far the result of anything is its rational consequent, whatis left is a mere [Greek], not a [Greek], an oratorical essay which maygive pleasure for the moment, but which is entirely without anyscientific value for the explanation of the future. Elsewhere he saysthat 'history robbed of the exposition of its causes and laws is aprofitless thing, though it may allure a fool. ' And all through hishistory the same point is put forward and exemplified in every fashion. 

So far for the conception of history. Now for the groundwork. Asregards the character of the phenomena to be selected by the scientificinvestigator, Aristotle had laid down the general formula that natureshould be studied in her normal manifestations. Polybius, true to hischaracter of applying explicitly the principles implicit in the work ofothers, follows out the doctrine of Aristotle, and lays particular stresson the rational and undisturbed character of the development of the Romanconstitution as affording special facilities for the discovery of thelaws of its progress. Political revolutions result from causes eitherexternal or internal. The former are mere disturbing forces which lieoutside the sphere of scientific calculation. It is the latter which areimportant for the establishing of principles and the elucidation of thesequences of rational evolution. 

He thus may be said to have anticipated one of the most important truthsof the modern methods of investigation: I mean that principle which laysdown that just as the study of physiology should precede the study ofpathology, just as the laws of disease are best discovered by thephenomena presented in health, so the method of arriving at all greatsocial and political truths is by the investigation of those cases wheredevelopment has been normal, rational and undisturbed. 

The critical canon that the more a people has been interfered with, themore difficult it becomes to generalise the laws of its progress and toanalyse the separate forces of its civilisation, is one the validity ofwhich is now generally recognised by those who pretend to a scientifictreatment of all history: and while we have seen that Aristotleanticipated it in a general formula, to Polybius belongs the honour ofbeing the first to apply it explicitly in the sphere of history. 

I have shown how to this great scientific historian the motive of hiswork was essentially the search for causes; and true to his analyticalspirit he is careful to examine what a cause really is and in what partof the antecedents of any consequent it is to be looked for. To give anillustration: As regards the origin of the war with Perseus, someassigned as causes the expulsion of Abrupolis by Perseus, the expeditionof the latter to Delphi, the plot against Eumenes and the seizure of theambassadors in Boeotia; of these incidents the two former, Polybiuspoints out, were merely the pretexts, the two latter merely the occasionsof the war. The war was really a legacy left to Perseus by his father, who was determined to fight it out with Rome. {205}

Here as elsewhere he is not originating any new idea. Thucydides hadpointed out the difference between the real and the alleged cause, andthe Aristotelian dictum about revolutions, [Greek], draws the distinctionbetween cause and occasion with the brilliancy of an epigram. But theexplicit and rational investigation of the difference between [Greek] and[Greek] was reserved for Polybius. No canon of historical criticism canbe said to be of more real value than that involved in this distinction, and the overlooking of it has filled our histories with the contemptibleaccounts of the intrigues of courtiers and of kings and the pettyplottings of backstairs influence--particulars interesting, no doubt, tothose who would ascribe the Reformation to Anne Boleyn's pretty face, thePersian war to the influence of a doctor or a curtain-lecture fromAtossa, or the French Revolution to Madame de Maintenon, but without anyvalue for those who aim at any scientific treatment of history. 

But the question of method, to which I am compelled always to return, isnot yet exhausted. There is another aspect in which it may be regarded, and I shall now proceed to treat of it. 

One of the greatest difficulties with which the modern historian has tocontend is the enormous complexity of the facts which come under hisnotice: D'Alembert's suggestion that at the end of every century aselection of facts should be made and the rest burned (if it was reallyintended seriously) could not, of course, be entertained for a moment. Aproblem loses all its value when it becomes simplified, and the worldwould be all the poorer if the Sybil of History burned her volumes. Besides, as Gibbon pointed out, 'a Montesquieu will detect in the mostinsignificant fact relations which the vulgar overlook. '

Nor can the scientific investigator of history isolate the particularelements, which he desires to examine, from disturbing and extraneouscauses, as the experimental chemist can do (though sometimes, as in thecase of lunatic asylums and prisons, he is enabled to observe phenomenain a certain degree of isolation). So he is compelled either to use thedeductive mode of arguing from general laws or to employ the method ofabstraction which gives a fictitious isolation to phenomena never soisolated in actual existence. And this is exactly what Polybius has doneas well as Thucydides. For, as has been well remarked, there is in theworks of these two writers a certain plastic unity of type and motive;whatever they write is penetrated through and through with a specificquality, a singleness and concentration of purpose, which we may contrastwith the more comprehensive width as manifested not merely in the modernmind, but also in Herodotus. Thucydides, regarding society as influencedentirely by political motives, took no account of forces of a differentnature, and consequently his results, like those of most modern politicaleconomists, have to be modified largely {207} before they come tocorrespond with what we know was the actual state of fact. Similarly, Polybius will deal only with those forces which tended to bring thecivilised world under the dominion of Rome (ix. 1), and in theThucydidean spirit points out the want of picturesqueness and romance inhis pages which is the result of the abstract method ([Greek]), beingcareful also to tell us that his rejection of all other forces isessentially deliberate and the result of a preconceived theory and by nomeans due to carelessness of any kind. 

Now, of the general value of the abstract method and the legality of itsemployment in the sphere of history, this is perhaps not the suitableoccasion for any discussion. It is, however, in all ways worthy of notethat Polybius is not merely conscious of, but dwells with particularweight on, the fact which is usually urged as the strongest objection tothe employment of the abstract method--I mean the conception of a societyas a sort of human organism whose parts are indissolubly connected withone another and all affected when one member is in any way agitated. Thisconception of the organic nature of society appears first in Plato andAristotle, who apply it to cities. Polybius, as his wont is, expands itto be a general characteristic of all history. It is an idea of the veryhighest importance, especially to a man like Polybius whose thoughts arecontinually turned towards the essential unity of history and theimpossibility of isolation. 

Farther, as regards the particular method of investigating that group ofphenomena obtained for him by the abstract method, he will adopt, hetells us, neither the purely deductive nor the purely inductive mode butthe union of both. In other words, he formally adopts that method ofanalysis upon the importance of which I have dwelt before. 

And lastly, while, without doubt, enormous simplicity in the elementsunder consideration is the result of the employment of the abstractmethod, even within the limit thus obtained a certain selection must bemade, and a selection involves a theory. For the facts of life cannot betabulated with as great an ease as the colours of birds and insects canbe tabulated. Now, Polybius points out that those phenomena particularlyare to be dwelt on which may serve as a [Greek] or sample, and show thecharacter of the tendencies of the age as clearly as 'a single drop froma full cask will be enough to disclose the nature of the whole contents. 'This recognition of the importance of single facts, not in themselves butbecause of the spirit they represent, is extremely scientific; for weknow that from the single bone, or tooth even, the anatomist can recreateentirely the skeleton of the primeval horse, and the botanist tell thecharacter of the flora and fauna of a district from a single specimen. 

Regarding truth as 'the most divine thing in Nature, ' the very 'eye andlight of history without which it moves a blind thing, ' Polybius sparedno pains in the acquisition of historical materials or in the study ofthe sciences of politics and war, which he considered were so essentialto the training of the scientific historian, and the labour he took ismirrored in the many ways in which he criticises other authorities. 

There is something, as a rule, slightly contemptible about ancientcriticism. The modern idea of the critic as the interpreter, theexpounder of the beauty and excellence of the work he selects, seemsquite unknown. Nothing can be more captious or unfair, for instance, than the method by which Aristotle criticised the ideal state of Plato inhis ethical works, and the passages quoted by Polybius from Timaeus showthat the latter historian fully deserved the punning name given to him. But in Polybius there is, I think, little of that bitterness andpettiness of spirit which characterises most other writers, and anincidental story he tells of his relations with one of the historianswhom he criticised shows that he was a man of great courtesy andrefinement of taste--as, indeed, befitted one who had lived always in thesociety of those who were of great and noble birth. 

Now, as regards the character of the canons by which he criticises theworks of other authors, in the majority of cases he employs simply hisown geographical and military knowledge, showing, for instance, theimpossibility in the accounts given of Nabis's march from Sparta simplyby his acquaintance with the spots in question; or the inconsistency ofthose of the battle of Issus; or of the accounts given by Ephorus of thebattles of Leuctra and Mantinea. In the latter case he says, if any onewill take the trouble to measure out the ground of the site of the battleand then test the manoeuvres given, he will find how inaccurate theaccounts are. 

In other cases he appeals to public documents, the importance of which hewas always foremost in recognising; showing, for instance, by a documentin the public archives of Rhodes how inaccurate were the accounts givenof the battle of Lade by Zeno and Antisthenes. Or he appeals topsychological probability, rejecting, for instance, the scandalousstories told of Philip of Macedon, simply from the king's generalgreatness of character, and arguing that a boy so well educated and sorespectably connected as Demochares (xii. 14) could never have beenguilty of that of which evil rumour accused him. 

But the chief object of his literary censure is Timaeus, who had been sounsparing of his strictures on others. The general point which he makesagainst him, impugning his accuracy as a historian, is that he derivedhis knowledge of history not from the dangerous perils of a life ofaction but in the secure indolence of a narrow scholastic life. Thereis, indeed, no point on which he is so vehement as this. 'A history, ' hesays, 'written in a library gives as lifeless and as inaccurate a pictureof history as a painting which is copied not from a living animal butfrom a stuffed one. '

There is more difference, he says in another place, between the historyof an eye-witness and that of one whose knowledge comes from books, thanthere is between the scenes of real life and the fictitious landscapes oftheatrical scenery. Besides this, he enters into somewhat elaboratedetailed criticism of passages where he thought Timaeus was following awrong method and perverting truth, passages which it will be worth whileto examine in detail. 

Timaeus, from the fact of there being a Roman custom to shoot a war-horseon a stated day, argued back to the Trojan origin of that people. Polybius, on the other hand, points out that the inference is quiteunwarrantable, because horse-sacrifices are ordinary institutions commonto all barbarous tribes. Timaeus here, as was so common with Greekwriters, is arguing back from some custom of the present to an historicalevent in the past. Polybius really is employing the comparative method, showing how the custom was an ordinary step in the civilisation of everyearly people. 

In another place, {211} he shows how illogical is the scepticism ofTimaeus as regards the existence of the Bull of Phalaris simply byappealing to the statue of the Bull, which was still to be seen inCarthage; pointing out how impossible it was, on any other theory exceptthat it belonged to Phalaris, to account for the presence in Carthage ofa bull of this peculiar character with a door between his shoulders. Butone of the great points which he uses against this Sicilian historian isin reference to the question of the origin of the Locrian colony. Inaccordance with the received tradition on the subject, Aristotle hadrepresented the Locrian colony as founded by some Parthenidae or slaves'children, as they were called, a statement which seems to have roused theindignation of Timaeus, who went to a good deal of trouble to confutethis theory. He does so on the following grounds:--

First of all, he points out that in the ancient days the Greeks had noslaves at all, so the mention of them in the matter is an anachronism;and next he declares that he was shown in the Greek city of Locriscertain ancient inscriptions in which their relation to the Italian citywas expressed in terms of the position between parent and child, whichshowed also that mutual rights of citizenship were accorded to each city. Besides this, he appeals to various questions of improbability as regardstheir international relationship, on which Polybius takes diametricallyopposite grounds which hardly call for discussion. And in favour of hisown view he urges two points more: first, that the Lacedaemonians beingallowed furlough for the purpose of seeing their wives at home, it wasunlikely that the Locrians should not have had the same privilege; andnext, that the Italian Locrians knew nothing of the Aristotelian versionand had, on the contrary, very severe laws against adulterers, runawayslaves and the like. Now, most of these questions rest on mereprobability, which is always such a subjective canon that an appeal to itis rarely conclusive. I would note, however, as regards the inscriptionswhich, if genuine, would of course have settled the matter, that Polybiuslooks on them as a mere invention on the part of Timaeus, who, heremarks, gives no details about them, though, as a rule, he is so over-anxious to give chapter and verse for everything. A somewhat moreinteresting point is that where he attacks Timaeus for the introductionof fictitious speeches into his narrative; for on this point Polybiusseems to be far in advance of the opinions held by literary men on thesubject not merely in his own day, but for centuries after. Herodotushad introduced speeches avowedly dramatic and fictitious. Thucydidesstates clearly that, where he was unable to find out what people reallysaid, he put down what they ought to have said. Sallust alludes, it istrue, to the fact of the speech he puts into the mouth of the tribuneMemmius being essentially genuine, but the speeches given in the senateon the occasion of the Catilinarian conspiracy are very different fromthe same orations as they appear in Cicero. Livy makes his ancientRomans wrangle and chop logic with all the subtlety of a Hortensius or aScaevola. And even in later days, when shorthand reporters attended thedebates of the senate and a Daily News was published in Rome, we findthat one of the most celebrated speeches in Tacitus (that in which theEmperor Claudius gives the Gauls their freedom) is shown, by aninscription discovered recently at Lugdunum, to be entirely fabulous. 

Upon the other hand, it must be borne in mind that these speeches werenot intended to deceive; they were regarded merely as a certain dramaticelement which it was allowable to introduce into history for the purposeof giving more life and reality to the narration, and were to becriticised, not as we should, by arguing how in an age before shorthandwas known such a report was possible or how, in the failure of writtendocuments, tradition could bring down such an accurate verbal account, but by the higher test of their psychological probability as regards thepersons in whose mouths they are placed. An ancient historian in answerto modern criticism would say, probably, that these fictitious speecheswere in reality more truthful than the actual ones, just as Aristotleclaimed for poetry a higher degree of truth in comparison to history. Thewhole point is interesting as showing how far in advance of his agePolybius may be said to have been. 

The last scientific historian, it is possible to gather from his writingswhat he considered were the characteristics of the ideal writer ofhistory; and no small light will be thrown on the progress of historicalcriticism if we strive to collect and analyse what in Polybius are moreor less scattered expressions. The ideal historian must be contemporarywith the events he describes, or removed from them by one generationonly. Where it is possible, he is to be an eye-witness of what he writesof; where that is out of his power he is to test all traditions andstories carefully and not to be ready to accept what is plausible inplace of what is true. He is to be no bookworm living aloof from theexperiences of the world in the artificial isolation of a universitytown, but a politician, a soldier, and a traveller, a man not merely ofthought but of action, one who can do great things as well as write ofthem, who in the sphere of history could be what Byron and AEschylus werein the sphere of poetry, at once le chantre et le heros. 

He is to keep before his eyes the fact that chance is merely a synonymfor our ignorance; that the reign of law pervades the domain of historyas much as it does that of political science. He is to accustom himselfto look on all occasions for rational and natural causes. And while heis to recognise the practical utility of the supernatural, in aneducational point of view, he is not himself to indulge in suchintellectual beating of the air as to admit the possibility of theviolation of inviolable laws, or to argue in a sphere wherein argument isa priori annihilated. He is to be free from all bias towards friend andcountry; he is to be courteous and gentle in criticism; he is not toregard history as a mere opportunity for splendid and tragic writing; noris he to falsify truth for the sake of a paradox or an epigram. 

While acknowledging the importance of particular facts as samples ofhigher truths, he is to take a broad and general view of humanity. He isto deal with the whole race and with the world, not with particulartribes or separate countries. He is to bear in mind that the world isreally an organism wherein no one part can be moved without the othersbeing affected also. He is to distinguish between cause and occasion, between the influence of general laws and particular fancies, and he isto remember that the greatest lessons of the world are contained inhistory and that it is the historian's duty to manifest them so as tosave nations from following those unwise policies which always lead todishonour and ruin, and to teach individuals to apprehend by theintellectual culture of history those truths which else they would haveto learn in the bitter school of experience. 

Now, as regards his theory of the necessity of the historian's beingcontemporary with the events he describes, so far as the historian is amere narrator the remark is undoubtedly true. But to appreciate theharmony and rational position of the facts of a great epoch, to discoverits laws, the causes which produced it and the effects which itgenerates, the scene must be viewed from a certain height and distance tobe completely apprehended. A thoroughly contemporary historian such asLord Clarendon or Thucydides is in reality part of the history hecriticises; and, in the case of such contemporary historians as Fabiusand Philistus, Polybius is compelled to acknowledge that they are misledby patriotic and other considerations. Against Polybius himself no suchaccusation can be made. He indeed of all men is able, as from some loftytower, to discern the whole tendency of the ancient world, the triumph ofRoman institutions and of Greek thought which is the last message of theold world and, in a more spiritual sense, has become the Gospel of thenew. 

One thing indeed he did not see, or if he saw it, he thought but littleof it--how from the East there was spreading over the world, as a wavespreads, a spiritual inroad of new religions from the time when thePessinuntine mother of the gods, a shapeless mass of stone, was broughtto the eternal city by her holiest citizen, to the day when the shipCastor and Pollux stood in at Puteoli, and St. Paul turned his facetowards martyrdom and victory at Rome. Polybius was able to predict, from his knowledge of the causes of revolutions and the tendencies of thevarious forms of governments, the uprising of that democratic tone ofthought which, as soon as a seed is sown in the murder of the Gracchi andthe exile of Marius, culminated as all democratic movements do culminate, in the supreme authority of one man, the lordship of the world under theworld's rightful lord, Caius Julius Caesar. This, indeed, he saw in nouncertain way. But the turning of all men's hearts to the East, thefirst glimmering of that splendid dawn which broke over the hills ofGalilee and flooded the earth like wine, was hidden from his eyes. 

There are many points in the description of the ideal historian which onemay compare to the picture which Plato has given us of the idealphilosopher. They are both 'spectators of all time and all existence. 'Nothing is contemptible in their eyes, for all things have a meaning, andthey both walk in august reasonableness before all men, conscious of theworkings of God yet free from all terror of mendicant priest or vagrantmiracle-worker. But the parallel ends here. For the one stands alooffrom the world-storm of sleet and hail, his eyes fixed on distant andsunlit heights, loving knowledge for the sake of knowledge and wisdom forthe joy of wisdom, while the other is an eager actor in the world everseeking to apply his knowledge to useful things. Both equally desiretruth, but the one because of its utility, the other for its beauty. Thehistorian regards it as the rational principle of all true history, andno more. To the other it comes as an all-pervading and mysticenthusiasm, 'like the desire of strong wine, the craving of ambition, thepassionate love of what is beautiful. '

Still, though we miss in the historian those higher and more spiritualqualities which the philosopher of the Academe alone of all menpossessed, we must not blind ourselves to the merits of that greatrationalist who seems to have anticipated the very latest words of modernscience. Nor yet is he to be regarded merely in the narrow light inwhich he is estimated by most modern critics, as the explicit champion ofrationalism and nothing more. For he is connected with another idea, thecourse of which is as the course of that great river of his nativeArcadia which, springing from some arid and sun-bleached rock, gathersstrength and beauty as it flows till it reaches the asphodel meadows ofOlympia and the light and laughter of Ionian waters. 

For in him we can discern the first notes of that great cult of the seven-hilled city which made Virgil write his epic and Livy his history, whichfound in Dante its highest exponent, which dreamed of an Empire where theEmperor would care for the bodies and the Pope for the souls of men, andso has passed into the conception of God's spiritual empire and theuniversal brotherhood of man and widened into the huge ocean of universalthought as the Peneus loses itself in the sea. 

Polybius is the last scientific historian of Greece. The writer whoseems fittingly to complete the progress of thought is a writer ofbiographies only. I will not here touch on Plutarch's employment of theinductive method as shown in his constant use of inscription and statue, of public document and building and the like, because they involve no newmethod. It is his attitude towards miracles of which I desire to treat. 

Plutarch is philosophic enough to see that in the sense of a violation ofthe laws of nature a miracle is impossible. It is absurd, he says, toimagine that the statue of a saint can speak, and that an inanimateobject not possessing the vocal organs should be able to utter anarticulate sound. Upon the other hand, he protests against scienceimagining that, by explaining the natural causes of things, it hasexplained away their transcendental meaning. 'When the tears on thecheek of some holy statue have been analysed into the moisture whichcertain temperatures produce on wood and marble, it yet by no meansfollows that they were not a sign of grief and mourning set there by GodHimself. ' When Lampon saw in the prodigy of the one-horned ram the omenof the supreme rule of Pericles, and when Anaxagoras showed that theabnormal development was the rational resultant of the peculiar formationof the skull, the dreamer and the man of science were both right; it wasthe business of the latter to consider how the prodigy came about, of theformer to show why it was so formed and what it so portended. Theprogression of thought is exemplified in all particulars. Herodotus hada glimmering sense of the impossibility of a violation of nature. Thucydides ignored the supernatural. Polybius rationalised it. Plutarchraises it to its mystical heights again, though he bases it on law. In aword, Plutarch felt that while science brings the supernatural down tothe natural, yet ultimately all that is natural is really supernatural. To him, as to many of our own day, religion was that transcendentalattitude of the mind which, contemplating a world resting on inviolablelaw, is yet comforted and seeks to worship God not in the violation butin the fulfilment of nature. 

It may seem paradoxical to quote in connection with the priest ofChaeronea such a pure rationalist as Mr. Herbert Spencer; yet when weread as the last message of modern science that 'when the equation oflife has been reduced to its lowest terms the symbols are symbols still, 'mere signs, that is, of that unknown reality which underlies all matterand all spirit, we may feel how over the wide strait of centuries thoughtcalls to thought and how Plutarch has a higher position than is usuallyclaimed for him in the progress of the Greek intellect. 

And, indeed, it seems that not merely the importance of Plutarch himselfbut also that of the land of his birth in the evolution of Greekcivilisation has been passed over by modern critics. To us, indeed, thebare rock to which the Parthenon serves as a crown, and which liesbetween Colonus and Attica's violet hills, will always be the holiestspot in the land of Greece: and Delphi will come next, and then themeadows of Eurotas where that noble people lived who represented inHellenic thought the reaction of the law of duty against the law ofbeauty, the opposition of conduct to culture. Yet, as one stands on the[Greek] of Cithaeron and looks out on the great double plain of Boeotia, the enormous importance of the division of Hellas comes to one's mindwith great force. To the north is Orchomenus and the Minyan treasurehouse, seat of those merchant princes of Phoenicia who brought to Greecethe knowledge of letters and the art of working in gold. Thebes is atour feet with the gloom of the terrible legends of Greek tragedy stilllingering about it, the birthplace of Pindar, the nurse of Epaminondasand the Sacred Band. 

And from out of the plain where 'Mars loved to dance, ' rises the Muses'haunt, Helicon, by whose silver streams Corinna and Hesiod sang. Whilefar away under the white aegis of those snow-capped mountains liesChaeronea and the Lion plain where with vain chivalry the Greeks stroveto check Macedon first and afterwards Rome; Chaeronea, where in theMartinmas summer of Greek civilisation Plutarch rose from the drear wasteof a dying religion as the aftermath rises when the mowers think theyhave left the field bare. 

Greek philosophy began and ended in scepticism: the first and the lastword of Greek history was Faith. 

Splendid thus in its death, like winter sunsets, the Greek religionpassed away into the horror of night. For the Cimmerian darkness was athand, and when the schools of Athens were closed and the statue of Athenabroken, the Greek spirit passed from the gods and the history of its ownland to the subtleties of defining the doctrine of the Trinity and themystical attempts to bring Plato into harmony with Christ and toreconcile Gethsemane and the Sermon on the Mount with the Athenian prisonand the discussion in the woods of Colonus. The Greek spirit slept forwellnigh a thousand years. When it woke again, like Antaeus it hadgathered strength from the earth where it lay, like Apollo it had lostnone of its divinity through its long servitude. 

In the history of Roman thought we nowhere find any of thosecharacteristics of the Greek Illumination which I have pointed out arethe necessary concomitants of the rise of historical criticism. Theconservative respect for tradition which made the Roman people delight inthe ritual and formulas of law, and is as apparent in their politics asin their religion, was fatal to any rise of that spirit of revolt againstauthority the importance of which, as a factor in intellectual progress, we have already seen. 

The whitened tables of the Pontifices preserved carefully the records ofthe eclipses and other atmospherical phenomena, and what we call the artof verifying dates was known to them at an early time; but there was nospontaneous rise of physical science to suggest by its analogies of lawand order a new method of research, nor any natural springing up of thequestioning spirit of philosophy with its unification of all phenomenaand all knowledge. At the very time when the whole tide of Easternsuperstition was sweeping into the heart of the Capitol the Senatebanished the Greek philosophers from Rome. And of the three systemswhich did at length take some root in the city those of Zeno and Epicuruswere merely used as the rule for the ordering of life, while the dogmaticscepticism of Carneades, by its very principles, annihilated thepossibility of argument and encouraged a perfect indifference toresearch. 

Nor were the Romans ever fortunate enough like the Greeks to have to facethe incubus of any dogmatic system of legends and myths, the immoralitiesand absurdities of which might excite a revolutionary outbreak ofsceptical criticism. For the Roman religion became as it werecrystallised and isolated from progress at an early period of itsevolution. Their gods remained mere abstractions of commonplace virtuesor uninteresting personifications of the useful things of life. The oldprimitive creed was indeed always upheld as a state institution onaccount of the enormous facilities it offered for cheating in politics, but as a spiritual system of belief it was unanimously rejected at a veryearly period both by the common people and the educated classes, for thesensible reason that it was so extremely dull. The former took refuge inthe mystic sensualities of the worship of Isis, the latter in the Stoicalrules of life. The Romans classified their gods carefully in their orderof precedence, analysed their genealogies in the laborious spirit ofmodern heraldry, fenced them round with a ritual as intricate as theirlaw, but never quite cared enough about them to believe in them. So itwas of no account with them when the philosophers announced that Minervawas merely memory. She had never been much else. Nor did they protestwhen Lucretius dared to say of Ceres and of Liber that they were only thecorn of the field and the fruit of the vine. For they had never mournedfor the daughter of Demeter in the asphodel meadows of Sicily, nortraversed the glades of Cithaeron with fawn-skin and with spear. 

This brief sketch of the condition of Roman thought will serve to prepareus for the almost total want of scientific historical criticism which weshall discern in their literature, and has, besides, afforded freshcorroborations of the conditions essential to the rise of this spirit, and of the modes of thought which it reflects and in which it is alwaysto be found. Roman historical composition had its origin in thepontifical college of ecclesiastical lawyers, and preserved to its closethe uncritical spirit which characterised its fountain-head. Itpossessed from the outset a most voluminous collection of the materialsof history, which, however, produced merely antiquarians, not historians. It is so hard to use facts, so easy to accumulate them. 

Wearied of the dull monotony of the pontifical annals, which dwelt onlittle else but the rise and fall in provisions and the eclipses of thesun, Cato wrote out a history with his own hand for the instruction ofhis child, to which he gave the name of Origines, and before his timesome aristocratic families had written histories in Greek much in thesame spirit in which the Germans of the eighteenth century used French asthe literary language. But the first regular Roman historian is Sallust. Between the extravagant eulogies passed on this author by the French(such as De Closset), and Dr. Mommsen's view of him as merely a politicalpamphleteer, it is perhaps difficult to reach the via media of unbiassedappreciation. He has, at any rate, the credit of being a purelyrationalistic historian, perhaps the only one in Roman literature. Cicerohad a good many qualifications for a scientific historian, and (as heusually did) thought very highly of his own powers. On passages ofancient legend, however, he is rather unsatisfactory, for while he is toosensible to believe them he is too patriotic to reject them. And this isreally the attitude of Livy, who claims for early Roman legend a certainuncritical homage from the rest of the subject world. His view in hishistory is that it is not worth while to examine the truth of thesestories. 

In his hands the history of Rome unrolls before our eyes like somegorgeous tapestry, where victory succeeds victory, where triumph treadson the heels of triumph, and the line of heroes seems never to end. Itis not till we pass behind the canvas and see the slight means by whichthe effect is produced that we apprehend the fact that like mostpicturesque writers Livy is an indifferent critic. As regards hisattitude towards the credibility of early Roman history he is quite asconscious as we are of its mythical and unsound nature. He will not, forinstance, decide whether the Horatii were Albans or Romans; who was thefirst dictator; how many tribunes there were, and the like. His method, as a rule, is merely to mention all the accounts and sometimes to decidein favour of the most probable, but usually not to decide at all. Nocanons of historical criticism will ever discover whether the Roman womeninterviewed the mother of Coriolanus of their own accord or at thesuggestion of the senate; whether Remus was killed for jumping over hisbrother's wall or because they quarrelled about birds; whether theambassadors found Cincinnatus ploughing or only mending a hedge. Livysuspends his judgment over these important facts and history whenquestioned on their truth is dumb. If he does select between twohistorians he chooses the one who is nearer to the facts he describes. But he is no critic, only a conscientious writer. It is mere vain wasteto dwell on his critical powers, for they do not exist. 

* * * * *

In the case of Tacitus imagination has taken the place of history. Thepast lives again in his pages, but through no laborious criticism; ratherthrough a dramatic and psychological faculty which he speciallypossessed. 

In the philosophy of history he has no belief. He can never make up hismind what to believe as regards God's government of the world. There isno method in him and none elsewhere in Roman literature. 

Nations may not have missions but they certainly have functions. And thefunction of ancient Italy was not merely to give us what is statical inour institutions and rational in our law, but to blend into one elementalcreed the spiritual aspirations of Aryan and of Semite. Italy was not apioneer in intellectual progress, nor a motive power in the evolution ofthought. The owl of the goddess of Wisdom traversed over the whole landand found nowhere a resting-place. The dove, which is the bird ofChrist, flew straight to the city of Rome and the new reign began. Itwas the fashion of early Italian painters to represent in mediaevalcostume the soldiers who watched over the tomb of Christ, and this, whichwas the result of the frank anachronism of all true art, may serve to usas an allegory. For it was in vain that the middle ages strove to guardthe buried spirit of progress. When the dawn of the Greek spirit arose, the sepulchre was empty, the grave-clothes laid aside. Humanity hadrisen from the dead. 

The study of Greek, it has been well said, implies the birth ofcriticism, comparison and research. At the opening of that education ofmodern by ancient thought which we call the Renaissance, it was the wordsof Aristotle which sent Columbus sailing to the New World, while afragment of Pythagorean astronomy set Copernicus thinking on that trainof reasoning which has revolutionised the whole position of our planet inthe universe. Then it was seen that the only meaning of progress is areturn to Greek modes of thought. The monkish hymns which obscured thepages of Greek manuscripts were blotted out, the splendours of a newmethod were unfolded to the world, and out of the melancholy sea ofmediaevalism rose the free spirit of man in all that splendour of gladadolescence, when the bodily powers seem quickened by a new vitality, when the eye sees more clearly than its wont and the mind apprehends whatwas beforetime hidden from it. To herald the opening of the sixteenthcentury, from the little Venetian printing press came forth all the greatauthors of antiquity, each bearing on the title-page the words [Greek]words which may serve to remind us with what wondrous prescience Polybiussaw the world's fate when he foretold the material sovereignty of Romaninstitutions and exemplified in himself the intellectual empire ofGreece. 

The course of the study of the spirit of historical criticism has notbeen a profitless investigation into modes and forms of thought nowantiquated and of no account. The only spirit which is entirely removedfrom us is the mediaeval; the Greek spirit is essentially modern. Theintroduction of the comparative method of research which has forcedhistory to disclose its secrets belongs in a measure to us. Ours, too, is a more scientific knowledge of philology and the method of survival. Nor did the ancients know anything of the doctrine of averages or ofcrucial instances, both of which methods have proved of such importancein modern criticism, the one adding a most important proof of thestatical elements of history, and exemplifying the influences of allphysical surroundings on the life of man; the other, as in the singleinstance of the Moulin Quignon skull, serving to create a whole newscience of prehistoric archaeology and to bring us back to a time whenman was coeval with the stone age, the mammoth and the woolly rhinoceros. But, except these, we have added no new canon or method to the science ofhistorical criticism. Across the drear waste of a thousand years theGreek and the modern spirit join hands. 

In the torch race which the Greek boys ran from the Cerameician field ofdeath to the home of the goddess of Wisdom, not merely he who firstreached the goal but he also who first started with the torch aflamereceived a prize. In the Lampadephoria of civilisation and free thoughtlet us not forget to render due meed of honour to those who first litthat sacred flame, the increasing splendour of which lights our footstepsto the far-off divine event of the attainment of perfect truth. 

LA SAINTE COURTISANE; OR, THE WOMAN COVERED WITH JEWELS

The scene represents a corner of a valley in the Thebaid. On the righthand of the stage is a cavern. In front of the cavern stands a greatcrucifix. 

On the left [sand dunes]. 

The sky is blue like the inside of a cup of lapis lazuli. The hills areof red sand. Here and there on the hills there are clumps of thorns. 

FIRST MAN. Who is she? She makes me afraid. She has a purple cloak andher hair is like threads of gold. I think she must be the daughter ofthe Emperor. I have heard the boatmen say that the Emperor has adaughter who wears a cloak of purple. 

SECOND MAN. She has birds' wings upon her sandals, and her tunic is ofthe colour of green corn. It is like corn in spring when she standsstill. It is like young corn troubled by the shadows of hawks when shemoves. The pearls on her tunic are like many moons. 

FIRST MAN. They are like the moons one sees in the water when the windblows from the hills. 

SECOND MAN. I think she is one of the gods. I think she comes fromNubia. 

FIRST MAN. I am sure she is the daughter of the Emperor. Her nails arestained with henna. They are like the petals of a rose. She has comehere to weep for Adonis. 

SECOND MAN. She is one of the gods. I do not know why she has left hertemple. The gods should not leave their temples. If she speaks to uslet us not answer and she will pass by. 

FIRST MAN. She will not speak to us. She is the daughter of theEmperor. 

MYRRHINA. Dwells he not here, the beautiful young hermit, he who willnot look on the face of woman?

FIRST MAN. Of a truth it is here the hermit dwells. 

MYRRHINA. Why will he not look on the face of woman?

SECOND MAN. We do not know. 

MYRRHINA. Why do ye yourselves not look at me?

FIRST MAN. You are covered with bright stones, and you dazzle our eyes. 

SECOND MAN. He who looks at the sun becomes blind. You are too brightto look at. It is not wise to look at things that are very bright. Manyof the priests in the temples are blind, and have slaves to lead them. 

MYRRHINA. Where does he dwell, the beautiful young hermit who will notlook on the face of woman? Has he a house of reeds or a house of burntclay or does he lie on the hillside? Or does he make his bed in therushes?

FIRST MAN. He dwells in that cavern yonder. 

MYRRHINA. What a curious place to dwell in. 

FIRST MAN. Of old a centaur lived there. When the hermit came thecentaur gave a shrill cry, wept and lamented, and galloped away. 

SECOND MAN. No. It was a white unicorn who lived in the cave. When itsaw the hermit coming the unicorn knelt down and worshipped him. Manypeople saw it worshipping him. 

FIRST MAN. I have talked with people who saw it. 

. . . . . 

SECOND MAN. Some say he was a hewer of wood and worked for hire. Butthat may not be true. 

. . . . . 

MYRRHINA. What gods then do ye worship? Or do ye worship any gods?There are those who have no gods to worship. The philosophers who wearlong beards and brown cloaks have no gods to worship. They wrangle witheach other in the porticoes. The [ ] laugh at them. 

FIRST MAN. We worship seven gods. We may not tell their names. It is avery dangerous thing to tell the names of the gods. No one should evertell the name of his god. Even the priests who praise the gods all daylong, and eat of their food with them, do not call them by their rightnames. 

MYRRHINA. Where are these gods ye worship?

FIRST MAN. We hide them in the folds of our tunics. We do not show themto any one. If we showed them to any one they might leave us. 

MYRRHINA. Where did ye meet with them?

FIRST MAN. They were given to us by an embalmer of the dead who hadfound them in a tomb. We served him for seven years. 

MYRRHINA. The dead are terrible. I am afraid of Death. 

FIRST MAN. Death is not a god. He is only the servant of the gods. 

MYRRHINA. He is the only god I am afraid of. Ye have seen many of thegods?

FIRST MAN. We have seen many of them. One sees them chiefly at nighttime. They pass one by very swiftly. Once we saw some of the gods atdaybreak. They were walking across a plain. 

MYRRHINA. Once as I was passing through the market place I heard asophist from Cilicia say that there is only one God. He said it beforemany people. 

FIRST MAN. That cannot be true. We have ourselves seen many, though weare but common men and of no account. When I saw them I hid myself in abush. They did me no harm. 

MYRRHINA. Tell me more about the beautiful young hermit. Talk to meabout the beautiful young hermit who will not look on the face of woman. What is the story of his days? What mode of life has he?

FIRST MAN. We do not understand you. 

MYRRHINA. What does he do, the beautiful young hermit? Does he sow orreap? Does he plant a garden or catch fish in a net? Does he weavelinen on a loom? Does he set his hand to the wooden plough and walkbehind the oxen?

SECOND MAN. He being a very holy man does nothing. We are common menand of no account. We toil all day long in the sun. Sometimes theground is very hard. 

MYRRHINA. Do the birds of the air feed him? Do the jackals share theirbooty with him?

FIRST MAN. Every evening we bring him food. We do not think that thebirds of the air feed him. 

MYRRHINA. Why do ye feed him? What profit have ye in so doing?

SECOND MAN. He is a very holy man. One of the gods whom he has offendedhas made him mad. We think he has offended the moon. 

MYRRHINA. Go and tell him that one who has come from Alexandria desiresto speak with him. 

FIRST MAN. We dare not tell him. This hour he is praying to his God. Wepray thee to pardon us for not doing thy bidding. 

MYRRHINA. Are ye afraid of him?

FIRST MAN. We are afraid of him. 

MYRRHINA. Why are ye afraid of him?

FIRST MAN. We do not know. 

MYRRHINA. What is his name?

FIRST MAN. The voice that speaks to him at night time in the caverncalls to him by the name of Honorius. It was also by the name ofHonorius that the three lepers who passed by once called to him. Wethink that his name is Honorius. 

MYRRHINA. Why did the three lepers call to him?

FIRST MAN. That he might heal them. 

MYRRHINA. Did he heal them?

SECOND MAN. No. They had committed some sin: it was for that reasonthey were lepers. Their hands and faces were like salt. One of themwore a mask of linen. He was a king's son. 

MYRRHINA. What is the voice that speaks to him at night time in hiscave?

FIRST MAN. We do not know whose voice it is. We think it is the voiceof his God. For we have seen no man enter his cavern nor any come forthfrom it. 

MYRRHINA. Honorius. 

HONORIUS (from within). Who calls Honorius?

. . . . . 

MYRRHINA. Come forth, Honorius. 

. . . . . 

My chamber is ceiled with cedar and odorous with myrrh. The pillars ofmy bed are of cedar and the hangings are of purple. My bed is strewnwith purple and the steps are of silver. The hangings are sewn withsilver pomegranates and the steps that are of silver are strewn withsaffron and with myrrh. My lovers hang garlands round the pillars of myhouse. At night time they come with the flute players and the players ofthe harp. They woo me with apples and on the pavement of my courtyardthey write my name in wine. 

From the uttermost parts of the world my lovers come to me. The kings ofthe earth come to me and bring me presents. 

When the Emperor of Byzantium heard of me he left his porphyry chamberand set sail in his galleys. His slaves bare no torches that none mightknow of his coming. When the King of Cyprus heard of me he sent meambassadors. The two Kings of Libya who are brothers brought me gifts ofamber. 

I took the minion of Caesar from Caesar and made him my playfellow. Hecame to me at night in a litter. He was pale as a narcissus, and hisbody was like honey. 

The son of the Praefect slew himself in my honour, and the Tetrarch ofCilicia scourged himself for my pleasure before my slaves. 

The King of Hierapolis who is a priest and a robber set carpets for me towalk on. 

Sometimes I sit in the circus and the gladiators fight beneath me. Oncea Thracian who was my lover was caught in the net. I gave the signal forhim to die and the whole theatre applauded. Sometimes I pass through thegymnasium and watch the young men wrestling or in the race. Their bodiesare bright with oil and their brows are wreathed with willow sprays andwith myrtle. They stamp their feet on the sand when they wrestle andwhen they run the sand follows them like a little cloud. He at whom Ismile leaves his companions and follows me to my home. At other times Igo down to the harbour and watch the merchants unloading their vessels. Those that come from Tyre have cloaks of silk and earrings of emerald. Those that come from Massilia have cloaks of fine wool and earrings ofbrass. When they see me coming they stand on the prows of their shipsand call to me, but I do not answer them. I go to the little tavernswhere the sailors lie all day long drinking black wine and playing withdice and I sit down with them. 

I made the Prince my slave, and his slave who was a Tyrian I made my Lordfor the space of a moon. 

I put a figured ring on his finger and brought him to my house. I havewonderful things in my house. 

The dust of the desert lies on your hair and your feet are scratched withthorns and your body is scorched by the sun. Come with me, Honorius, andI will clothe you in a tunic of silk. I will smear your body with myrrhand pour spikenard on your hair. I will clothe you in hyacinth and puthoney in your mouth. Love--

HONORIUS. There is no love but the love of God. 

MYRRHINA. Who is He whose love is greater than that of mortal men?

HONORIUS. It is He whom thou seest on the cross, Myrrhina. He is theSon of God and was born of a virgin. Three wise men who were kingsbrought Him offerings, and the shepherds who were lying on the hills werewakened by a great light. 

The Sibyls knew of His coming. The groves and the oracles spake of Him. David and the prophets announced Him. There is no love like the love ofGod nor any love that can be compared to it. 

The body is vile, Myrrhina. God will raise thee up with a new body whichwill not know corruption, and thou wilt dwell in the Courts of the Lordand see Him whose hair is like fine wool and whose feet are of brass. 

MYRRHINA. The beauty . . . 

HONORIUS. The beauty of the soul increases till it can see God. Therefore, Myrrhina, repent of thy sins. The robber who was crucifiedbeside Him He brought into Paradise. [Exit. 

MYRRHINA. How strangely he spake to me. And with what scorn did heregard me. I wonder why he spake to me so strangely. 

. . . . . 

HONORIUS. Myrrhina, the scales have fallen from my eyes and I see nowclearly what I did not see before. Take me to Alexandria and let metaste of the seven sins. 

MYRRHINA. Do not mock me, Honorius, nor speak to me with such bitterwords. For I have repented of my sins and I am seeking a cavern in thisdesert where I too may dwell so that my soul may become worthy to seeGod. 

HONORIUS. The sun is setting, Myrrhina. Come with me to Alexandria. 

MYRRHINA. I will not go to Alexandria. 

HONORIUS. Farewell, Myrrhina. 

MYRRHINA. Honorius, farewell. No, no, do not go. 

. . . . . 

I have cursed my beauty for what it has done, and cursed the wonder of mybody for the evil that it has brought upon you. 

Lord, this man brought me to Thy feet. He told me of Thy coming uponearth, and of the wonder of Thy birth, and the great wonder of Thy deathalso. By him, O Lord, Thou wast revealed to me. 

HONORIUS. You talk as a child, Myrrhina, and without knowledge. Loosenyour hands. Why didst thou come to this valley in thy beauty?

MYRRHINA. The God whom thou worshippest led me here that I might repentof my iniquities and know Him as the Lord. 

HONORIUS. Why didst thou tempt me with words?

MYRRHINA. That thou shouldst see Sin in its painted mask and look onDeath in its robe of Shame. 

THE ENGLISH RENAISSANCE OF ART

'The English Renaissance of Art' was delivered as a lecture for the firsttime in the Chickering Hall, New York, on January 9, 1882. A portion ofit was reported in the New York Tribune on the following day and in otherAmerican papers subsequently. Since then this portion has beenreprinted, more or less accurately, from time to time, in unauthorisededitions, but not more than one quarter of the lecture has ever beenpublished. 

There are in existence no less than four copies of the lecture, theearliest of which is entirely in the author's handwriting. The othersare type-written and contain many corrections and additions made by theauthor in manuscript. These have all been collated and the text heregiven contains, as nearly as possible, the lecture in its original formas delivered by the author during his tour in the United States. 

Among the many debts which we owe to the supreme aesthetic faculty ofGoethe is that he was the first to teach us to define beauty in terms themost concrete possible, to realise it, I mean, always in its specialmanifestations. So, in the lecture which I have the honour to deliverbefore you, I will not try to give you any abstract definition ofbeauty--any such universal formula for it as was sought for by thephilosophy of the eighteenth century--still less to communicate to youthat which in its essence is incommunicable, the virtue by which aparticular picture or poem affects us with a unique and special joy; butrather to point out to you the general ideas which characterise the greatEnglish Renaissance of Art in this century, to discover their source, asfar as that is possible, and to estimate their future as far as that ispossible. 

I call it our English Renaissance because it is indeed a sort of newbirth of the spirit of man, like the great Italian Renaissance of thefifteenth century, in its desire for a more gracious and comely way oflife, its passion for physical beauty, its exclusive attention to form, its seeking for new subjects for poetry, new forms of art, newintellectual and imaginative enjoyments: and I call it our romanticmovement because it is our most recent expression of beauty. 

It has been described as a mere revival of Greek modes of thought, andagain as a mere revival of mediaeval feeling. Rather I would say that tothese forms of the human spirit it has added whatever of artistic valuethe intricacy and complexity and experience of modern life can give:taking from the one its clearness of vision and its sustained calm, fromthe other its variety of expression and the mystery of its vision. Forwhat, as Goethe said, is the study of the ancients but a return to thereal world (for that is what they did); and what, said Mazzini, ismediaevalism but individuality?

It is really from the union of Hellenism, in its breadth, its sanity ofpurpose, its calm possession of beauty, with the adventive, theintensified individualism, the passionate colour of the romantic spirit, that springs the art of the nineteenth century in England, as from themarriage of Faust and Helen of Troy sprang the beautiful boy Euphorion. 

Such expressions as 'classical' and 'romantic' are, it is true, often aptto become the mere catchwords of schools. We must always remember thatart has only one sentence to utter: there is for her only one high law, the law of form or harmony--yet between the classical and romantic spiritwe may say that there lies this difference at least, that the one dealswith the type and the other with the exception. In the work producedunder the modern romantic spirit it is no longer the permanent, theessential truths of life that are treated of; it is the momentarysituation of the one, the momentary aspect of the other that art seeks torender. In sculpture, which is the type of one spirit, the subjectpredominates over the situation; in painting, which is the type of theother, the situation predominates over the subject. 

There are two spirits, then: the Hellenic spirit and the spirit ofromance may be taken as forming the essential elements of our consciousintellectual tradition, of our permanent standard of taste. As regardstheir origin, in art as in politics there is but one origin for allrevolutions, a desire on the part of man for a nobler form of life, for afreer method and opportunity of expression. Yet, I think that inestimating the sensuous and intellectual spirit which presides over ourEnglish Renaissance, any attempt to isolate it in any way from theprogress and movement and social life of the age that has produced itwould be to rob it of its true vitality, possibly to mistake its truemeaning. And in disengaging from the pursuits and passions of thiscrowded modern world those passions and pursuits which have to do withart and the love of art, we must take into account many great events ofhistory which seem to be the most opposed to any such artistic feeling. 

Alien then from any wild, political passion, or from the harsh voice of arude people in revolt, as our English Renaissance must seem, in itspassionate cult of pure beauty, its flawless devotion to form, itsexclusive and sensitive nature, it is to the French Revolution that wemust look for the most primary factor of its production, the firstcondition of its birth: that great Revolution of which we are all thechildren, though the voices of some of us be often loud against it; thatRevolution to which at a time when even such spirits as Coleridge andWordsworth lost heart in England, noble messages of love blown acrossseas came from your young Republic. 

It is true that our modern sense of the continuity of history has shownus that neither in politics nor in nature are there revolutions ever butevolutions only, and that the prelude to that wild storm which swept overFrance in '89 and made every king in Europe tremble for his throne, wasfirst sounded in literature years before the Bastille fell and the Palacewas taken. The way for those red scenes by Seine and Loire was paved bythat critical spirit of Germany and England which accustomed men to bringall things to the test of reason or utility or both, while the discontentof the people in the streets of Paris was the echo that followed the lifeof Emile and of Werther. For Rousseau, by silent lake and mountain, hadcalled humanity back to the golden age that still lies before us andpreached a return to nature, in passionate eloquence whose music stilllingers about our keen northern air. And Goethe and Scott had broughtromance back again from the prison she had lain in for so manycenturies--and what is romance but humanity?

Yet in the womb of the Revolution itself, and in the storm and terror ofthat wild time, tendencies were hidden away that the artistic Renaissancebent to her own service when the time came--a scientific tendency first, which has borne in our own day a brood of somewhat noisy Titans, yet inthe sphere of poetry has not been unproductive of good. I do not meanmerely in its adding to enthusiasm that intellectual basis which is itsstrength, or that more obvious influence about which Wordsworth wasthinking when he said very nobly that poetry was merely the impassionedexpression in the face of science, and that when science would put on aform of flesh and blood the poet would lend his divine spirit to aid thetransfiguration. Nor do I dwell much on the great cosmical emotion anddeep pantheism of science to which Shelley has given its first andSwinburne its latest glory of song, but rather on its influence on theartistic spirit in preserving that close observation and the sense oflimitation as well as of clearness of vision which are thecharacteristics of the real artist. 

The great and golden rule of art as well as of life, wrote William Blake, is that the more distinct, sharp and defined the boundary line, the moreperfect is the work of art; and the less keen and sharp the greater isthe evidence of weak imitation, plagiarism and bungling. 'Greatinventors in all ages knew this--Michael Angelo and Albert Durer areknown by this and by this alone'; and another time he wrote, with all thesimple directness of nineteenth-century prose, 'to generalise is to be anidiot. '

And this love of definite conception, this clearness of vision, thisartistic sense of limit, is the characteristic of all great work andpoetry; of the vision of Homer as of the vision of Dante, of Keats andWilliam Morris as of Chaucer and Theocritus. It lies at the base of allnoble, realistic and romantic work as opposed to colourless and emptyabstractions of our own eighteenth-century poets and of the classicaldramatists of France, or of the vague spiritualities of the Germansentimental school: opposed, too, to that spirit of transcendentalismwhich also was root and flower itself of the great Revolution, underlyingthe impassioned contemplation of Wordsworth and giving wings and fire tothe eagle-like flight of Shelley, and which in the sphere of philosophy, though displaced by the materialism and positiveness of our day, bequeathed two great schools of thought, the school of Newman to Oxford, the school of Emerson to America. Yet is this spirit oftranscendentalism alien to the spirit of art. For the artist can acceptno sphere of life in exchange for life itself. For him there is noescape from the bondage of the earth: there is not even the desire ofescape. 

He is indeed the only true realist: symbolism, which is the essence ofthe transcendental spirit, is alien to him. The metaphysical mind ofAsia will create for itself the monstrous, many-breasted idol of Ephesus, but to the Greek, pure artist, that work is most instinct with spirituallife which conforms most clearly to the perfect facts of physical life. 

'The storm of revolution, ' as Andre Chenier said, 'blows out the torch ofpoetry. ' It is not for some little time that the real influence of sucha wild cataclysm of things is felt: at first the desire for equalityseems to have produced personalities of more giant and Titan stature thanthe world had ever known before. Men heard the lyre of Byron and thelegions of Napoleon; it was a period of measureless passions and ofmeasureless despair; ambition, discontent, were the chords of life andart; the age was an age of revolt: a phase through which the human spiritmust pass but one in which it cannot rest. For the aim of culture is notrebellion but peace, the valley perilous where ignorant armies clash bynight being no dwelling-place meet for her to whom the gods have assignedthe fresh uplands and sunny heights and clear, untroubled air. 

And soon that desire for perfection, which lay at the base of theRevolution, found in a young English poet its most complete and flawlessrealisation. 

Phidias and the achievements of Greek art are foreshadowed in Homer:Dante prefigures for us the passion and colour and intensity of Italianpainting: the modern love of landscape dates from Rousseau, and it is inKeats that one discerns the beginning of the artistic renaissance ofEngland. 

Byron was a rebel and Shelley a dreamer; but in the calmness andclearness of his vision, his perfect self-control, his unerring sense ofbeauty and his recognition of a separate realm for the imagination, Keatswas the pure and serene artist, the forerunner of the pre-Raphaeliteschool, and so of the great romantic movement of which I am to speak. 

Blake had indeed, before him, claimed for art a lofty, spiritual mission, and had striven to raise design to the ideal level of poetry and music, but the remoteness of his vision both in painting and poetry and theincompleteness of his technical powers had been adverse to any realinfluence. It is in Keats that the artistic spirit of this century firstfound its absolute incarnation. 

And these pre-Raphaelites, what were they? If you ask nine-tenths of theBritish public what is the meaning of the word aesthetics, they will tellyou it is the French for affectation or the German for a dado; and if youinquire about the pre-Raphaelites you will hear something about aneccentric lot of young men to whom a sort of divine crookedness and holyawkwardness in drawing were the chief objects of art. To know nothingabout their great men is one of the necessary elements of Englisheducation. 

As regards the pre-Raphaelites the story is simple enough. In the year1847 a number of young men in London, poets and painters, passionateadmirers of Keats all of them, formed the habit of meeting together fordiscussions on art, the result of such discussions being that the EnglishPhilistine public was roused suddenly from its ordinary apathy by hearingthat there was in its midst a body of young men who had determined torevolutionise English painting and poetry. They called themselves thepre-Raphaelite Brotherhood. 

In England, then as now, it was enough for a man to try and produce anyserious beautiful work to lose all his rights as a citizen; and besidesthis, the pre-Raphaelite Brotherhood--among whom the names of DanteRossetti, Holman Hunt and Millais will be familiar to you--had on theirside three things that the English public never forgives: youth, powerand enthusiasm. 

Satire, always as sterile as it is shameful and as impotent as it isinsolent, paid them that usual homage which mediocrity pays togenius--doing, here as always, infinite harm to the public, blinding themto what is beautiful, teaching them that irreverence which is the sourceof all vileness and narrowness of life, but harming the artist not atall, rather confirming him in the perfect rightness of his work andambition. For to disagree with three-fourths of the British public onall points is one of the first elements of sanity, one of the deepestconsolations in all moments of spiritual doubt. 

As regards the ideas these young men brought to the regeneration ofEnglish art, we may see at the base of their artistic creations a desirefor a deeper spiritual value to be given to art as well as a moredecorative value. 

Pre-Raphaelites they called themselves; not that they imitated the earlyItalian masters at all, but that in their work, as opposed to the facileabstractions of Raphael, they found a stronger realism of imagination, amore careful realism of technique, a vision at once more fervent and morevivid, an individuality more intimate and more intense. 

For it is not enough that a work of art should conform to the aestheticdemands of its age: there must be also about it, if it is to affect uswith any permanent delight, the impress of a distinct individuality, anindividuality remote from that of ordinary men, and coming near to usonly by virtue of a certain newness and wonder in the work, and throughchannels whose very strangeness makes us more ready to give them welcome. 

La personalite, said one of the greatest of modern French critics, voilace qui nous sauvera. 

But above all things was it a return to Nature--that formula which seemsto suit so many and such diverse movements: they would draw and paintnothing but what they saw, they would try and imagine things as theyreally happened. Later there came to the old house by BlackfriarsBridge, where this young brotherhood used to meet and work, two young menfrom Oxford, Edward Burne-Jones and William Morris--the lattersubstituting for the simpler realism of the early days a more exquisitespirit of choice, a more faultless devotion to beauty, a more intenseseeking for perfection: a master of all exquisite design and of allspiritual vision. It is of the school of Florence rather than of that ofVenice that he is kinsman, feeling that the close imitation of Nature isa disturbing element in imaginative art. The visible aspect of modernlife disturbs him not; rather is it for him to render eternal all that isbeautiful in Greek, Italian, and Celtic legend. To Morris we owe poetrywhose perfect precision and clearness of word and vision has not beenexcelled in the literature of our country, and by the revival of thedecorative arts he has given to our individualised romantic movement thesocial idea and the social factor also. 

But the revolution accomplished by this clique of young men, withRuskin's faultless and fervent eloquence to help them, was not one ofideas merely but of execution, not one of conceptions but of creations. 

For the great eras in the history of the development of all the arts havebeen eras not of increased feeling or enthusiasm in feeling for art, butof new technical improvements primarily and specially. The discovery ofmarble quarries in the purple ravines of Pentelicus and on the little low-lying hills of the island of Paros gave to the Greeks the opportunity forthat intensified vitality of action, that more sensuous and simplehumanism, to which the Egyptian sculptor working laboriously in the hardporphyry and rose-coloured granite of the desert could not attain. Thesplendour of the Venetian school began with the introduction of the newoil medium for painting. The progress in modern music has been due tothe invention of new instruments entirely, and in no way to an increasedconsciousness on the part of the musician of any wider social aim. Thecritic may try and trace the deferred resolutions of Beethoven {253} tosome sense of the incompleteness of the modern intellectual spirit, butthe artist would have answered, as one of them did afterwards, 'Let thempick out the fifths and leave us at peace. '

And so it is in poetry also: all this love of curious French metres likethe Ballade, the Villanelle, the Rondel; all this increased value laid onelaborate alliterations, and on curious words and refrains, such as youwill find in Dante Rossetti and Swinburne, is merely the attempt toperfect flute and viol and trumpet through which the spirit of the ageand the lips of the poet may blow the music of their many messages. 

And so it has been with this romantic movement of ours: it is a reactionagainst the empty conventional workmanship, the lax execution of previouspoetry and painting, showing itself in the work of such men as Rossettiand Burne-Jones by a far greater splendour of colour, a far moreintricate wonder of design than English imaginative art has shown before. In Rossetti's poetry and the poetry of Morris, Swinburne and Tennyson aperfect precision and choice of language, a style flawless and fearless, a seeking for all sweet and precious melodies and a sustainingconsciousness of the musical value of each word are opposed to that valuewhich is merely intellectual. In this respect they are one with theromantic movement of France of which not the least characteristic notewas struck by Theophile Gautier's advice to the young poet to read hisdictionary every day, as being the only book worth a poet's reading. 

While, then, the material of workmanship is being thus elaborated anddiscovered to have in itself incommunicable and eternal qualities of itsown, qualities entirely satisfying to the poetic sense and not needingfor their aesthetic effect any lofty intellectual vision, any deepcriticism of life or even any passionate human emotion at all, the spiritand the method of the poet's working--what people call hisinspiration--have not escaped the controlling influence of the artisticspirit. Not that the imagination has lost its wings, but we haveaccustomed ourselves to count their innumerable pulsations, to estimatetheir limitless strength, to govern their ungovernable freedom. 

To the Greeks this problem of the conditions of poetic production, andthe places occupied by either spontaneity or self-consciousness in anyartistic work, had a peculiar fascination. We find it in the mysticismof Plato and in the rationalism of Aristotle. We find it later in theItalian Renaissance agitating the minds of such men as Leonardo da Vinci. Schiller tried to adjust the balance between form and feeling, and Goetheto estimate the position of self-consciousness in art. Wordsworth'sdefinition of poetry as 'emotion remembered in tranquillity' may be takenas an analysis of one of the stages through which all imaginative workhas to pass; and in Keats's longing to be 'able to compose without thisfever' (I quote from one of his letters), his desire to substitute forpoetic ardour 'a more thoughtful and quiet power, ' we may discern themost important moment in the evolution of that artistic life. Thequestion made an early and strange appearance in your literature too; andI need not remind you how deeply the young poets of the French romanticmovement were excited and stirred by Edgar Allan Poe's analysis of theworkings of his own imagination in the creating of that supremeimaginative work which we know by the name of The Raven. 

In the last century, when the intellectual and didactic element hadintruded to such an extent into the kingdom which belongs to poetry, itwas against the claims of the understanding that an artist like Goethehad to protest. 'The more incomprehensible to the understanding a poemis the better for it, ' he said once, asserting the complete supremacy ofthe imagination in poetry as of reason in prose. But in this century itis rather against the claims of the emotional faculties, the claims ofmere sentiment and feeling, that the artist must react. The simpleutterance of joy is not poetry any more than a mere personal cry of pain, and the real experiences of the artist are always those which do not findtheir direct expression but are gathered up and absorbed into someartistic form which seems, from such real experiences, to be the farthestremoved and the most alien. 

'The heart contains passion but the imagination alone contains poetry, 'says Charles Baudelaire. This too was the lesson that Theophile Gautier, most subtle of all modern critics, most fascinating of all modern poets, was never tired of teaching--'Everybody is affected by a sunrise or asunset. ' The absolute distinction of the artist is not his capacity tofeel nature so much as his power of rendering it. The entiresubordination of all intellectual and emotional faculties to the vitaland informing poetic principle is the surest sign of the strength of ourRenaissance. 

We have seen the artistic spirit working, first in the delightful andtechnical sphere of language, the sphere of expression as opposed tosubject, then controlling the imagination of the poet in dealing with hissubject. And now I would point out to you its operation in the choice ofsubject. The recognition of a separate realm for the artist, aconsciousness of the absolute difference between the world of art and theworld of real fact, between classic grace and absolute reality, forms notmerely the essential element of any aesthetic charm but is thecharacteristic of all great imaginative work and of all great eras ofartistic creation--of the age of Phidias as of the age of Michael Angelo, of the age of Sophocles as of the age of Goethe. 

Art never harms itself by keeping aloof from the social problems of theday: rather, by so doing, it more completely realises for us that whichwe desire. For to most of us the real life is the life we do not lead, and thus, remaining more true to the essence of its own perfection, morejealous of its own unattainable beauty, is less likely to forget form infeeling or to accept the passion of creation as any substitute for thebeauty of the created thing. 

The artist is indeed the child of his own age, but the present will notbe to him a whit more real than the past; for, like the philosopher ofthe Platonic vision, the poet is the spectator of all time and of allexistence. For him no form is obsolete, no subject out of date; rather, whatever of life and passion the world has known, in desert of Judaea orin Arcadian valley, by the rivers of Troy or the rivers of Damascus, inthe crowded and hideous streets of a modern city or by the pleasant waysof Camelot--all lies before him like an open scroll, all is stillinstinct with beautiful life. He will take of it what is salutary forhis own spirit, no more; choosing some facts and rejecting others withthe calm artistic control of one who is in possession of the secret ofbeauty. 

There is indeed a poetical attitude to be adopted towards all things, butall things are not fit subjects for poetry. Into the secure and sacredhouse of Beauty the true artist will admit nothing that is harsh ordisturbing, nothing that gives pain, nothing that is debatable, nothingabout which men argue. He can steep himself, if he wishes, in thediscussion of all the social problems of his day, poor-laws and localtaxation, free trade and bimetallic currency, and the like; but when hewrites on these subjects it will be, as Milton nobly expressed it, withhis left hand, in prose and not in verse, in a pamphlet and not in alyric. This exquisite spirit of artistic choice was not in Byron:Wordsworth had it not. In the work of both these men there is much thatwe have to reject, much that does not give us that sense of calm andperfect repose which should be the effect of all fine, imaginative work. But in Keats it seemed to have been incarnate, and in his lovely Ode on aGrecian Urn it found its most secure and faultless expression; in thepageant of The Earthly Paradise and the knights and ladies of Burne-Jonesit is the one dominant note. 

It is to no avail that the Muse of Poetry be called, even by such aclarion note as Whitman's, to migrate from Greece and Ionia and toplacard REMOVED and TO LET on the rocks of the snowy Parnassus. Calliope's call is not yet closed, nor are the epics of Asia ended; theSphinx is not yet silent, nor the fountain of Castaly dry. For art isvery life itself and knows nothing of death; she is absolute truth andtakes no care of fact; she sees (as I remember Mr. Swinburne insisting onat dinner) that Achilles is even now more actual and real thanWellington, not merely more noble and interesting as a type and figurebut more positive and real. 

Literature must rest always on a principle, and temporal considerationsare no principle at all. For to the poet all times and places are one;the stuff he deals with is eternal and eternally the same: no theme isinept, no past or present preferable. The steam whistle will notaffright him nor the flutes of Arcadia weary him: for him there is butone time, the artistic moment; but one law, the law of form; but oneland, the land of Beauty--a land removed indeed from the real world andyet more sensuous because more enduring; calm, yet with that calm whichdwells in the faces of the Greek statues, the calm which comes not fromthe rejection but from the absorption of passion, the calm which despairand sorrow cannot disturb but intensify only. And so it comes that hewho seems to stand most remote from his age is he who mirrors it best, because he has stripped life of what is accidental and transitory, stripped it of that 'mist of familiarity which makes life obscure to us. '

Those strange, wild-eyed sibyls fixed eternally in the whirlwind ofecstasy, those mighty-limbed and Titan prophets, labouring with thesecret of the earth and the burden of mystery, that guard and glorify thechapel of Pope Sixtus at Rome--do they not tell us more of the realspirit of the Italian Renaissance, of the dream of Savonarola and of thesin of Borgia, than all the brawling boors and cooking women of Dutch artcan teach us of the real spirit of the history of Holland?

And so in our own day, also, the two most vital tendencies of thenineteenth century--the democratic and pantheistic tendency and thetendency to value life for the sake of art--found their most complete andperfect utterance in the poetry of Shelley and Keats who, to the blindeyes of their own time, seemed to be as wanderers in the wilderness, preachers of vague or unreal things. And I remember once, in talking toMr. Burne-Jones about modern science, his saying to me, 'the morematerialistic science becomes, the more angels shall I paint: their wingsare my protest in favour of the immortality of the soul. '

But these are the intellectual speculations that underlie art. Where inthe arts themselves are we to find that breadth of human sympathy whichis the condition of all noble work; where in the arts are we to look forwhat Mazzini would call the social ideas as opposed to the merelypersonal ideas? By virtue of what claim do I demand for the artist thelove and loyalty of the men and women of the world? I think I can answerthat. 

Whatever spiritual message an artist brings to his aid is a matter forhis own soul. He may bring judgment like Michael Angelo or peace likeAngelico; he may come with mourning like the great Athenian or with mirthlike the singer of Sicily; nor is it for us to do aught but accept histeaching, knowing that we cannot smite the bitter lips of Leopardi intolaughter or burden with our discontent Goethe's serene calm. But forwarrant of its truth such message must have the flame of eloquence in thelips that speak it, splendour and glory in the vision that is itswitness, being justified by one thing only--the flawless beauty andperfect form of its expression: this indeed being the social idea, beingthe meaning of joy in art. 

Not laughter where none should laugh, nor the calling of peace wherethere is no peace; not in painting the subject ever, but the pictorialcharm only, the wonder of its colour, the satisfying beauty of itsdesign. 

You have most of you seen, probably, that great masterpiece of Rubenswhich hangs in the gallery of Brussels, that swift and wonderful pageantof horse and rider arrested in its most exquisite and fiery moment whenthe winds are caught in crimson banner and the air lit by the gleam ofarmour and the flash of plume. Well, that is joy in art, though thatgolden hillside be trodden by the wounded feet of Christ and it is forthe death of the Son of Man that that gorgeous cavalcade is passing. 

But this restless modern intellectual spirit of ours is not receptiveenough of the sensuous element of art; and so the real influence of thearts is hidden from many of us: only a few, escaping from the tyranny ofthe soul, have learned the secret of those high hours when thought isnot. 

And this indeed is the reason of the influence which Eastern art ishaving on us in Europe, and of the fascination of all Japanese work. While the Western world has been laying on art the intolerable burden ofits own intellectual doubts and the spiritual tragedy of its own sorrows, the East has always kept true to art's primary and pictorial conditions. 

In judging of a beautiful statue the aesthetic faculty is absolutely andcompletely gratified by the splendid curves of those marble lips that aredumb to our complaint, the noble modelling of those limbs that arepowerless to help us. In its primary aspect a painting has no morespiritual message or meaning than an exquisite fragment of Venetian glassor a blue tile from the wall of Damascus: it is a beautifully colouredsurface, nothing more. The channels by which all noble imaginative workin painting should touch, and do touch the soul, are not those of thetruths of life, nor metaphysical truths. But that pictorial charm whichdoes not depend on any literary reminiscence for its effect on the onehand, nor is yet a mere result of communicable technical skill on theother, comes of a certain inventive and creative handling of colour. Nearly always in Dutch painting and often in the works of Giorgione orTitian, it is entirely independent of anything definitely poetical in thesubject, a kind of form and choice in workmanship which is itselfentirely satisfying, and is (as the Greeks would say) an end in itself. 

And so in poetry too, the real poetical quality, the joy of poetry, comesnever from the subject but from an inventive handling of rhythmicallanguage, from what Keats called the 'sensuous life of verse. ' Theelement of song in the singing accompanied by the profound joy of motion, is so sweet that, while the incomplete lives of ordinary men bring nohealing power with them, the thorn-crown of the poet will blossom intoroses for our pleasure; for our delight his despair will gild its ownthorns, and his pain, like Adonis, be beautiful in its agony; and whenthe poet's heart breaks it will break in music. 

And health in art--what is that? It has nothing to do with a sanecriticism of life. There is more health in Baudelaire than there is in[Kingsley]. Health is the artist's recognition of the limitations of theform in which he works. It is the honour and the homage which he givesto the material he uses--whether it be language with its glories, ormarble or pigment with their glories--knowing that the true brotherhoodof the arts consists not in their borrowing one another's method, but intheir producing, each of them by its own individual means, each of themby keeping its objective limits, the same unique artistic delight. Thedelight is like that given to us by music--for music is the art in whichform and matter are always one, the art whose subject cannot be separatedfrom the method of its expression, the art which most completely realisesthe artistic ideal, and is the condition to which all the other arts areconstantly aspiring. 

And criticism--what place is that to have in our culture? Well, I thinkthat the first duty of an art critic is to hold his tongue at all times, and upon all subjects: C'est une grande avantage de n'avoir rien fait, mais il ne faut pas en abuser. 

It is only through the mystery of creation that one can gain anyknowledge of the quality of created things. You have listened toPatience for a hundred nights and you have heard me only for one. Itwill make, no doubt, that satire more piquant by knowing something aboutthe subject of it, but you must not judge of aestheticism by the satireof Mr. Gilbert. As little should you judge of the strength and splendourof sun or sea by the dust that dances in the beam, or the bubble thatbreaks on the wave, as take your critic for any sane test of art. Forthe artists, like the Greek gods, are revealed only to one another, asEmerson says somewhere; their real value and place time only can show. Inthis respect also omnipotence is with the ages. The true criticaddresses not the artist ever but the public only. His work lies withthem. Art can never have any other claim but her own perfection: it isfor the critic to create for art the social aim, too, by teaching thepeople the spirit in which they are to approach all artistic work, thelove they are to give it, the lesson they are to draw from it. 

All these appeals to art to set herself more in harmony with modernprogress and civilisation, and to make herself the mouthpiece for thevoice of humanity, these appeals to art 'to have a mission, ' are appealswhich should be made to the public. The art which has fulfilled theconditions of beauty has fulfilled all conditions: it is for the criticto teach the people how to find in the calm of such art the highestexpression of their own most stormy passions. 'I have no reverence, 'said Keats, 'for the public, nor for anything in existence but theEternal Being, the memory of great men and the principle of Beauty. '

Such then is the principle which I believe to be guiding and underlyingour English Renaissance, a Renaissance many-sided and wonderful, productive of strong ambitions and lofty personalities, yet for all itssplendid achievements in poetry and in the decorative arts and inpainting, for all the increased comeliness and grace of dress, and thefurniture of houses and the like, not complete. For there can be nogreat sculpture without a beautiful national life, and the commercialspirit of England has killed that; no great drama without a noblenational life, and the commercial spirit of England has killed that too. 

It is not that the flawless serenity of marble cannot bear the burden ofthe modern intellectual spirit, or become instinct with the fire ofromantic passion--the tomb of Duke Lorenzo and the chapel of the Medicishow us that--but it is that, as Theophile Gautier used to say, thevisible world is dead, le monde visible a disparu. 

Nor is it again that the novel has killed the play, as some critics wouldpersuade us--the romantic movement of France shows us that. The work ofBalzac and of Hugo grew up side by side together; nay, more, werecomplementary to each other, though neither of them saw it. While allother forms of poetry may flourish in an ignoble age, the splendidindividualism of the lyrist, fed by its own passion, and lit by its ownpower, may pass as a pillar of fire as well across the desert as acrossplaces that are pleasant. It is none the less glorious though no manfollow it--nay, by the greater sublimity of its loneliness it may bequickened into loftier utterance and intensified into clearer song. Fromthe mean squalor of the sordid life that limits him, the dreamer or theidyllist may soar on poesy's viewless wings, may traverse with fawn-skinand spear the moonlit heights of Cithaeron though Faun and Bassarid dancethere no more. Like Keats he may wander through the old-world forests ofLatmos, or stand like Morris on the galley's deck with the Viking whenking and galley have long since passed away. But the drama is themeeting-place of art and life; it deals, as Mazzini said, not merely withman, but with social man, with man in his relation to God and toHumanity. It is the product of a period of great national united energy;it is impossible without a noble public, and belongs to such ages as theage of Elizabeth in London and of Pericles at Athens; it is part of suchlofty moral and spiritual ardour as came to Greek after the defeat of thePersian fleet, and to Englishman after the wreck of the Armada of Spain. 

Shelley felt how incomplete our movement was in this respect, and hasshown in one great tragedy by what terror and pity he would have purifiedour age; but in spite of The Cenci the drama is one of the artistic formsthrough which the genius of the England of this century seeks in vain tofind outlet and expression. He has had no worthy imitators. 

It is rather, perhaps, to you that we should turn to complete and perfectthis great movement of ours, for there is something Hellenic in your airand world, something that has a quicker breath of the joy and power ofElizabeth's England about it than our ancient civilisation can give us. For you, at least, are young; 'no hungry generations tread you down, ' andthe past does not weary you with the intolerable burden of its memoriesnor mock you with the ruins of a beauty, the secret of whose creation youhave lost. That very absence of tradition, which Mr. Ruskin thoughtwould rob your rivers of their laughter and your flowers of their light, may be rather the source of your freedom and your strength. 

To speak in literature with the perfect rectitude and insouciance of themovements of animals, and the unimpeachableness of the sentiment of treesin the woods and grass by the roadside, has been defined by one of yourpoets as a flawless triumph of art. It is a triumph which you above allnations may be destined to achieve. For the voices that have theirdwelling in sea and mountain are not the chosen music of Liberty only;other messages are there in the wonder of wind-swept height and themajesty of silent deep--messages that, if you will but listen to them, may yield you the splendour of some new imagination, the marvel of somenew beauty. 

'I foresee, ' said Goethe, 'the dawn of a new literature which all peoplemay claim as their own, for all have contributed to its foundation. ' If, then, this is so, and if the materials for a civilisation as great asthat of Europe lie all around you, what profit, you will ask me, will allthis study of our poets and painters be to you? I might answer that theintellect can be engaged without direct didactic object on an artisticand historical problem; that the demand of the intellect is merely tofeel itself alive; that nothing which has ever interested men or womencan cease to be a fit subject for culture. 

I might remind you of what all Europe owes to the sorrow of a singleFlorentine in exile at Verona, or to the love of Petrarch by that littlewell in Southern France; nay, more, how even in this dull, materialisticage the simple expression of an old man's simple life, passed away fromthe clamour of great cities amid the lakes and misty hills of Cumberland, has opened out for England treasures of new joy compared with which thetreasures of her luxury are as barren as the sea which she has made herhighway, and as bitter as the fire which she would make her slave. 

But I think it will bring you something besides this, something that isthe knowledge of real strength in art: not that you should imitate theworks of these men; but their artistic spirit, their artistic attitude, Ithink you should absorb that. 

For in nations, as in individuals, if the passion for creation be notaccompanied by the critical, the aesthetic faculty also, it will be sureto waste its strength aimlessly, failing perhaps in the artistic spiritof choice, or in the mistaking of feeling for form, or in the followingof false ideals. 

For the various spiritual forms of the imagination have a naturalaffinity with certain sensuous forms of art--and to discern the qualitiesof each art, to intensify as well its limitations as its powers ofexpression, is one of the aims that culture sets before us. It is not anincreased moral sense, an increased moral supervision that yourliterature needs. Indeed, one should never talk of a moral or an immoralpoem--poems are either well written or badly written, that is all. And, indeed, any element of morals or implied reference to a standard of goodor evil in art is often a sign of a certain incompleteness of vision, often a note of discord in the harmony of an imaginative creation; forall good work aims at a purely artistic effect. 'We must be careful, 'said Goethe, 'not to be always looking for culture merely in what isobviously moral. Everything that is great promotes civilisation as soonas we are aware of it. '

But, as in your cities so in your literature, it is a permanent canon andstandard of taste, an increased sensibility to beauty (if I may say so)that is lacking. All noble work is not national merely, but universal. The political independence of a nation must not be confused with anyintellectual isolation. The spiritual freedom, indeed, your own generouslives and liberal air will give you. From us you will learn theclassical restraint of form. 

For all great art is delicate art, roughness having very little to dowith strength, and harshness very little to do with power. 'The artist, 'as Mr. Swinburne says, 'must be perfectly articulate. '

This limitation is for the artist perfect freedom: it is at once theorigin and the sign of his strength. So that all the supreme masters ofstyle--Dante, Sophocles, Shakespeare--are the supreme masters ofspiritual and intellectual vision also. 

Love art for its own sake, and then all things that you need will beadded to you. 

This devotion to beauty and to the creation of beautiful things is thetest of all great civilised nations. Philosophy may teach us to bearwith equanimity the misfortunes of our neighbours, and science resolvethe moral sense into a secretion of sugar, but art is what makes the lifeof each citizen a sacrament and not a speculation, art is what makes thelife of the whole race immortal. 

For beauty is the only thing that time cannot harm. Philosophies fallaway like sand, and creeds follow one another like the withered leaves ofautumn; but what is beautiful is a joy for all seasons and a possessionfor all eternity. 

Wars and the clash of armies and the meeting of men in battle by trampledfield or leagured city, and the rising of nations there must always be. But I think that art, by creating a common intellectual atmospherebetween all countries, might--if it could not overshadow the world withthe silver wings of peace--at least make men such brothers that theywould not go out to slay one another for the whim or folly of some kingor minister, as they do in Europe. Fraternity would come no more withthe hands of Cain, nor Liberty betray freedom with the kiss of Anarchy;for national hatreds are always strongest where culture is lowest. 

'How could I?' said Goethe, when reproached for not writing like Korneragainst the French. 'How could I, to whom barbarism and culture aloneare of importance, hate a nation which is among the most cultivated ofthe earth, a nation to which I owe a great part of my own cultivation?'

Mighty empires, too, there must always be as long as personal ambitionand the spirit of the age are one, but art at least is the only empirewhich a nation's enemies cannot take from her by conquest, but which istaken by submission only. The sovereignty of Greece and Rome is not yetpassed away, though the gods of the one be dead and the eagles of theother tired. 

And we in our Renaissance are seeking to create a sovereignty that willstill be England's when her yellow leopards have grown weary of wars andthe rose of her shield is crimsoned no more with the blood of battle; andyou, too, absorbing into the generous heart of a great people thispervading artistic spirit, will create for yourselves such riches as youhave never yet created, though your land be a network of railways andyour cities the harbours for the galleys of the world. 

I know, indeed, that the divine natural prescience of beauty which is theinalienable inheritance of Greek and Italian is not our inheritance. Forsuch an informing and presiding spirit of art to shield us from all harshand alien influences, we of the Northern races must turn rather to thatstrained self-consciousness of our age which, as it is the key-note ofall our romantic art, must be the source of all or nearly all ourculture. I mean that intellectual curiosity of the nineteenth centurywhich is always looking for the secret of the life that still lingersround old and bygone forms of culture. It takes from each what isserviceable for the modern spirit--from Athens its wonder without itsworship, from Venice its splendour without its sin. The same spirit isalways analysing its own strength and its own weakness, counting what itowes to East and to West, to the olive-trees of Colonus and to the palm-trees of Lebanon, to Gethsemane and to the garden of Proserpine. 

And yet the truths of art cannot be taught: they are revealed only, revealed to natures which have made themselves receptive of all beautifulimpressions by the study and worship of all beautiful things. And hencethe enormous importance given to the decorative arts in our EnglishRenaissance; hence all that marvel of design that comes from the hand ofEdward Burne-Jones, all that weaving of tapestry and staining of glass, that beautiful working in clay and metal and wood which we owe to WilliamMorris, the greatest handicraftsman we have had in England since thefourteenth century. 

So, in years to come there will be nothing in any man's house which hasnot given delight to its maker and does not give delight to its user. Thechildren, like the children of Plato's perfect city, will grow up 'in asimple atmosphere of all fair things'--I quote from the passage in theRepublic--'a simple atmosphere of all fair things, where beauty, which isthe spirit of art, will come on eye and ear like a fresh breath of windthat brings health from a clear upland, and insensibly and gradually drawthe child's soul into harmony with all knowledge and all wisdom, so thathe will love what is beautiful and good, and hate what is evil and ugly(for they always go together) long before he knows the reason why; andthen when reason comes will kiss her on the cheek as a friend. '

That is what Plato thought decorative art could do for a nation, feelingthat the secret not of philosophy merely but of all gracious existencemight be externally hidden from any one whose youth had been passed inuncomely and vulgar surroundings, and that the beauty of form and coloureven, as he says, in the meanest vessels of the house, will find its wayinto the inmost places of the soul and lead the boy naturally to look forthat divine harmony of spiritual life of which art was to him thematerial symbol and warrant. 

Prelude indeed to all knowledge and all wisdom will this love ofbeautiful things be for us; yet there are times when wisdom becomes aburden and knowledge is one with sorrow: for as every body has its shadowso every soul has its scepticism. In such dread moments of discord anddespair where should we, of this torn and troubled age, turn our steps ifnot to that secure house of beauty where there is always a littleforgetfulness, always a great joy; to that citta divina, as the oldItalian heresy called it, the divine city where one can stand, thoughonly for a brief moment, apart from the division and terror of the worldand the choice of the world too?

This is that consolation des arts which is the keynote of Gautier'spoetry, the secret of modern life foreshadowed--as indeed what in ourcentury is not?--by Goethe. You remember what he said to the Germanpeople: 'Only have the courage, ' he said, 'to give yourselves up to yourimpressions, allow yourselves to be delighted, moved, elevated, nayinstructed, inspired for something great. ' The courage to giveyourselves up to your impressions: yes, that is the secret of theartistic life--for while art has been defined as an escape from thetyranny of the senses, it is an escape rather from the tyranny of thesoul. But only to those who worship her above all things does she everreveal her true treasure: else will she be as powerless to aid you as themutilated Venus of the Louvre was before the romantic but scepticalnature of Heine. 

And indeed I think it would be impossible to overrate the gain that mightfollow if we had about us only what gave pleasure to the maker of it andgives pleasure to its user, that being the simplest of all rules aboutdecoration. One thing, at least, I think it would do for us: there is nosurer test of a great country than how near it stands to its own poets;but between the singers of our day and the workers to whom they wouldsing there seems to be an ever-widening and dividing chasm, a chasm whichslander and mockery cannot traverse, but which is spanned by the luminouswings of love. 

And of such love I think that the abiding presence in our houses of nobleimaginative work would be the surest seed and preparation. I do not meanmerely as regards that direct literary expression of art by which, fromthe little red-and-black cruse of oil or wine, a Greek boy could learn ofthe lionlike splendour of Achilles, of the strength of Hector and thebeauty of Paris and the wonder of Helen, long before he stood andlistened in crowded market-place or in theatre of marble; or by which anItalian child of the fifteenth century could know of the chastity ofLucrece and the death of Camilla from carven doorway and from paintedchest. For the good we get from art is not what we learn from it; it iswhat we become through it. Its real influence will be in giving the mindthat enthusiasm which is the secret of Hellenism, accustoming it todemand from art all that art can do in rearranging the facts of commonlife for us--whether it be by giving the most spiritual interpretation ofone's own moments of highest passion or the most sensuous expression ofthose thoughts that are the farthest removed from sense; in accustomingit to love the things of the imagination for their own sake, and todesire beauty and grace in all things. For he who does not love art inall things does not love it at all, and he who does not need art in allthings does not need it at all. 

I will not dwell here on what I am sure has delighted you all in ourgreat Gothic cathedrals. I mean how the artist of that time, handicraftsman himself in stone or glass, found the best motives for hisart, always ready for his hand and always beautiful, in the daily work ofthe artificers he saw around him--as in those lovely windows ofChartres--where the dyer dips in the vat and the potter sits at thewheel, and the weaver stands at the loom: real manufacturers these, workers with the hand, and entirely delightful to look at, not like thesmug and vapid shopman of our time, who knows nothing of the web or vasehe sells, except that he is charging you double its value and thinkingyou a fool for buying it. Nor can I but just note, in passing, theimmense influence the decorative work of Greece and Italy had on itsartists, the one teaching the sculptor that restraining influence ofdesign which is the glory of the Parthenon, the other keeping paintingalways true to its primary, pictorial condition of noble colour which isthe secret of the school of Venice; for I wish rather, in this lecture atleast, to dwell on the effect that decorative art has on human life--onits social not its purely artistic effect. 

There are two kinds of men in the world, two great creeds, two differentforms of natures: men to whom the end of life is action, and men to whomthe end of life is thought. As regards the latter, who seek forexperience itself and not for the fruits of experience, who must burnalways with one of the passions of this fiery-coloured world, who findlife interesting not for its secret but for its situations, for itspulsations and not for its purpose; the passion for beauty engendered bythe decorative arts will be to them more satisfying than any political orreligious enthusiasm, any enthusiasm for humanity, any ecstasy or sorrowfor love. For art comes to one professing primarily to give nothing butthe highest quality to one's moments, and for those moments' sake. Sofar for those to whom the end of life is thought. As regards the others, who hold that life is inseparable from labour, to them should thismovement be specially dear: for, if our days are barren without industry, industry without art is barbarism. 

Hewers of wood and drawers of water there must be always indeed among us. Our modern machinery has not much lightened the labour of man after all:but at least let the pitcher that stands by the well be beautiful andsurely the labour of the day will be lightened: let the wood be madereceptive of some lovely form, some gracious design, and there will comeno longer discontent but joy to the toiler. For what is decoration butthe worker's expression of joy in his work? And not joy merely--that isa great thing yet not enough--but that opportunity of expressing his ownindividuality which, as it is the essence of all life, is the source ofall art. 'I have tried, ' I remember William Morris saying to me once, 'Ihave tried to make each of my workers an artist, and when I say an artistI mean a man. ' For the worker then, handicraftsman of whatever kind heis, art is no longer to be a purple robe woven by a slave and thrown overthe whitened body of a leprous king to hide and to adorn the sin of hisluxury, but rather the beautiful and noble expression of a life that hasin it something beautiful and noble. 

And so you must seek out your workman and give him, as far as possible, the right surroundings, for remember that the real test and virtue of aworkman is not his earnestness nor his industry even, but his power ofdesign merely; and that 'design is not the offspring of idle fancy: it isthe studied result of accumulative observation and delightful habit. ' Allthe teaching in the world is of no avail if you do not surround yourworkman with happy influences and with beautiful things. It isimpossible for him to have right ideas about colour unless he sees thelovely colours of Nature unspoiled; impossible for him to supplybeautiful incident and action unless he sees beautiful incident andaction in the world about him. 

For to cultivate sympathy you must be among living things and thinkingabout them, and to cultivate admiration you must be among beautifulthings and looking at them. 'The steel of Toledo and the silk of Genoadid but give strength to oppression and lustre to pride, ' as Mr. Ruskinsays; let it be for you to create an art that is made by the hands of thepeople for the joy of the people, to please the hearts of the people, too; an art that will be your expression of your delight in life. Thereis nothing 'in common life too mean, in common things too trivial to beennobled by your touch'; nothing in life that art cannot sanctify. 

You have heard, I think, a few of you, of two flowers connected with theaesthetic movement in England, and said (I assure you, erroneously) to bethe food of some aesthetic young men. Well, let me tell you that thereason we love the lily and the sunflower, in spite of what Mr. Gilbertmay tell you, is not for any vegetable fashion at all. It is becausethese two lovely flowers are in England the two most perfect models ofdesign, the most naturally adapted for decorative art--the gaudy leoninebeauty of the one and the precious loveliness of the other giving to theartist the most entire and perfect joy. And so with you: let there be noflower in your meadows that does not wreathe its tendrils around yourpillows, no little leaf in your Titan forests that does not lend its formto design, no curving spray of wild rose or brier that does not live forever in carven arch or window or marble, no bird in your air that is notgiving the iridescent wonder of its colour, the exquisite curves of itswings in flight, to make more precious the preciousness of simpleadornment. For the voices that have their dwelling in sea and mountainare not the chosen music of liberty only. Other messages are there inthe wonder of wind-swept heights and the majesty of silent deep--messagesthat, if you will listen to them, will give you the wonder of all newimagination, the treasure of all new beauty. 

We spend our days, each one of us, in looking for the secret of life. Well, the secret of life is in art. 

HOUSE DECORATION

A lecture delivered in America during Wilde's tour in 1882. It wasannounced as a lecture on 'The Practical Application of the Principles ofthe AEsthetic Theory to Exterior and Interior House Decoration, WithObservations upon Dress and Personal Ornaments. ' The earliest date onwhich it is known to have been given is May 11, 1882. 

In my last lecture I gave you something of the history of Art in England. I sought to trace the influence of the French Revolution upon itsdevelopment. I said something of the song of Keats and the school of thepre-Raphaelites. But I do not want to shelter the movement, which I havecalled the English Renaissance, under any palladium however noble, or anyname however revered. The roots of it have, indeed, to be sought for inthings that have long passed away, and not, as some suppose, in the fancyof a few young men--although I am not altogether sure that there isanything much better than the fancy of a few young men. 

When I appeared before you on a previous occasion, I had seen nothing ofAmerican art save the Doric columns and Corinthian chimney-pots visibleon your Broadway and Fifth Avenue. Since then, I have been through yourcountry to some fifty or sixty different cities, I think. I find thatwhat your people need is not so much high imaginative art but that whichhallows the vessels of everyday use. I suppose that the poet will singand the artist will paint regardless whether the world praises or blames. He has his own world and is independent of his fellow-men. But thehandicraftsman is dependent on your pleasure and opinion. He needs yourencouragement and he must have beautiful surroundings. Your people loveart but do not sufficiently honour the handicraftsman. Of course, thosemillionaires who can pillage Europe for their pleasure need have no careto encourage such; but I speak for those whose desire for beautifulthings is larger than their means. I find that one great trouble allover is that your workmen are not given to noble designs. You cannot beindifferent to this, because Art is not something which you can take orleave. It is a necessity of human life. 

And what is the meaning of this beautiful decoration which we call art?In the first place, it means value to the workman and it means thepleasure which he must necessarily take in making a beautiful thing. Themark of all good art is not that the thing done is done exactly orfinely, for machinery may do as much, but that it is worked out with thehead and the workman's heart. I cannot impress the point too frequentlythat beautiful and rational designs are necessary in all work. I did notimagine, until I went into some of your simpler cities, that there was somuch bad work done. I found, where I went, bad wall-papers horriblydesigned, and coloured carpets, and that old offender the horse-hairsofa, whose stolid look of indifference is always so depressing. I foundmeaningless chandeliers and machine-made furniture, generally ofrosewood, which creaked dismally under the weight of the ubiquitousinterviewer. I came across the small iron stove which they alwayspersist in decorating with machine-made ornaments, and which is as greata bore as a wet day or any other particularly dreadful institution. Whenunusual extravagance was indulged in, it was garnished with two funeralurns. 

It must always be remembered that what is well and carefully made by anhonest workman, after a rational design, increases in beauty and value asthe years go on. The old furniture brought over by the Pilgrims, twohundred years ago, which I saw in New England, is just as good and asbeautiful today as it was when it first came here. Now, what you must dois to bring artists and handicraftsmen together. Handicraftsmen cannotlive, certainly cannot thrive, without such companionship. Separatethese two and you rob art of all spiritual motive. 

Having done this, you must place your workman in the midst of beautifulsurroundings. The artist is not dependent on the visible and thetangible. He has his visions and his dreams to feed on. But the workmanmust see lovely forms as he goes to his work in the morning and returnsat eventide. And, in connection with this, I want to assure you thatnoble and beautiful designs are never the result of idle fancy orpurposeless day-dreaming. They come only as the accumulation of habitsof long and delightful observation. And yet such things may not betaught. Right ideas concerning them can certainly be obtained only bythose who have been accustomed to rooms that are beautiful and coloursthat are satisfying. 

Perhaps one of the most difficult things for us to do is to choose anotable and joyous dress for men. There would be more joy in life if wewere to accustom ourselves to use all the beautiful colours we can infashioning our own clothes. The dress of the future, I think, will usedrapery to a great extent and will abound with joyous colour. At presentwe have lost all nobility of dress and, in doing so, have almostannihilated the modern sculptor. And, in looking around at the figureswhich adorn our parks, one could almost wish that we had completelykilled the noble art. To see the frockcoat of the drawing-room done inbronze, or the double waistcoat perpetuated in marble, adds a new horrorto death. But indeed, in looking through the history of costume, seekingan answer to the questions we have propounded, there is little that iseither beautiful or appropriate. One of the earliest forms is the Greekdrapery which is so exquisite for young girls. And then, I think we maybe pardoned a little enthusiasm over the dress of the time of Charles I. , so beautiful indeed, that in spite of its invention being with theCavaliers it was copied by the Puritans. And the dress for the childrenof that time must not be passed over. It was a very golden age of thelittle ones. I do not think that they have ever looked so lovely as theydo in the pictures of that time. The dress of the last century inEngland is also peculiarly gracious and graceful. There is nothingbizarre or strange about it, but it is full of harmony and beauty. Inthese days, when we have suffered so dreadfully from the incursions ofthe modern milliner, we hear ladies boast that they do not wear a dressmore than once. In the old days, when the dresses were decorated withbeautiful designs and worked with exquisite embroidery, ladies rathertook a pride in bringing out the garment and wearing it many times andhanding it down to their daughters--a process that would, I think, bequite appreciated by a modern husband when called upon to settle hiswife's bills. 

And how shall men dress? Men say that they do not particularly care howthey dress, and that it is little matter. I am bound to reply that I donot think that you do. In all my journeys through the country, the onlywell-dressed men that I saw--and in saying this I earnestly deprecate thepolished indignation of your Fifth Avenue dandies--were the Westernminers. Their wide-brimmed hats, which shaded their faces from the sunand protected them from the rain, and the cloak, which is by far the mostbeautiful piece of drapery ever invented, may well be dwelt on withadmiration. Their high boots, too, were sensible and practical. Theywore only what was comfortable, and therefore beautiful. As I looked atthem I could not help thinking with regret of the time when thesepicturesque miners would have made their fortunes and would go East toassume again all the abominations of modern fashionable attire. Indeed, so concerned was I that I made some of them promise that when they againappeared in the more crowded scenes of Eastern civilisation they wouldstill continue to wear their lovely costume. But I do not believe theywill. 

Now, what America wants today is a school of rational art. Bad art is agreat deal worse than no art at all. You must show your workmenspecimens of good work so that they come to know what is simple and trueand beautiful. To that end I would have you have a museum attached tothese schools--not one of those dreadful modern institutions where thereis a stuffed and very dusty giraffe, and a case or two of fossils, but aplace where there are gathered examples of art decoration from variousperiods and countries. Such a place is the South Kensington Museum inLondon whereon we build greater hopes for the future than on any otherone thing. There I go every Saturday night, when the museum is openlater than usual, to see the handicraftsman, the wood-worker, the glass-blower and the worker in metals. And it is here that the man ofrefinement and culture comes face to face with the workman who ministersto his joy. He comes to know more of the nobility of the workman, andthe workman, feeling the appreciation, comes to know more of the nobilityof his work. 

You have too many white walls. More colour is wanted. You should havesuch men as Whistler among you to teach you the beauty and joy of colour. Take Mr. Whistler's 'Symphony in White, ' which you no doubt have imaginedto be something quite bizarre. It is nothing of the sort. Think of acool grey sky flecked here and there with white clouds, a grey ocean andthree wonderfully beautiful figures robed in white, leaning over thewater and dropping white flowers from their fingers. Here is noextensive intellectual scheme to trouble you, and no metaphysics of whichwe have had quite enough in art. But if the simple and unaided colourstrike the right keynote, the whole conception is made clear. I regardMr. Whistler's famous Peacock Room as the finest thing in colour and artdecoration which the world has known since Correggio painted thatwonderful room in Italy where the little children are dancing on thewalls. Mr. Whistler finished another room just before I came away--abreakfast room in blue and yellow. The ceiling was a light blue, thecabinet-work and the furniture were of a yellow wood, the curtains at thewindows were white and worked in yellow, and when the table was set forbreakfast with dainty blue china nothing can be conceived at once sosimple and so joyous. 

The fault which I have observed in most of your rooms is that there isapparent no definite scheme of colour. Everything is not attuned to akey-note as it should be. The apartments are crowded with pretty thingswhich have no relation to one another. Again, your artists must decoratewhat is more simply useful. In your art schools I found no attempt todecorate such things as the vessels for water. I know of nothing uglierthan the ordinary jug or pitcher. A museum could be filled with thedifferent kinds of water vessels which are used in hot countries. Yet wecontinue to submit to the depressing jug with the handle all on one side. I do not see the wisdom of decorating dinner-plates with sunsets and soup-plates with moonlight scenes. I do not think it adds anything to thepleasure of the canvas-back duck to take it out of such glories. Besides, we do not want a soup-plate whose bottom seems to vanish in the distance. One feels neither safe nor comfortable under such conditions. In fact, Idid not find in the art schools of the country that the difference wasexplained between decorative and imaginative art. 

The conditions of art should be simple. A great deal more depends uponthe heart than upon the head. Appreciation of art is not secured by anyelaborate scheme of learning. Art requires a good healthy atmosphere. The motives for art are still around about us as they were round aboutthe ancients. And the subjects are also easily found by the earnestsculptor and the painter. Nothing is more picturesque and graceful thana man at work. The artist who goes to the children's playground, watchesthem at their sport and sees the boy stop to tie his shoe, will find thesame themes that engaged the attention of the ancient Greeks, and suchobservation and the illustrations which follow will do much to correctthat foolish impression that mental and physical beauty are alwaysdivorced. 

To you, more than perhaps to any other country, has Nature been generousin furnishing material for art workers to work in. You have marblequarries where the stone is more beautiful in colour than any the Greeksever had for their beautiful work, and yet day after day I am confrontedwith the great building of some stupid man who has used the beautifulmaterial as if it were not precious almost beyond speech. Marble shouldnot be used save by noble workmen. There is nothing which gave me agreater sense of barrenness in travelling through the country than theentire absence of wood carving on your houses. Wood carving is thesimplest of the decorative arts. In Switzerland the little barefootedboy beautifies the porch of his father's house with examples of skill inthis direction. Why should not American boys do a great deal more andbetter than Swiss boys?

There is nothing to my mind more coarse in conception and more vulgar inexecution than modern jewellery. This is something that can easily becorrected. Something better should be made out of the beautiful goldwhich is stored up in your mountain hollows and strewn along your riverbeds. When I was at Leadville and reflected that all the shining silverthat I saw coming from the mines would be made into ugly dollars, it mademe sad. It should be made into something more permanent. The goldengates at Florence are as beautiful today as when Michael Angelo saw them. 

We should see more of the workman than we do. We should not be contentto have the salesman stand between us--the salesman who knows nothing ofwhat he is selling save that he is charging a great deal too much for it. And watching the workman will teach that most important lesson--thenobility of all rational workmanship. 

I said in my last lecture that art would create a new brotherhood amongmen by furnishing a universal language. I said that under its beneficentinfluences war might pass away. Thinking this, what place can I ascribeto art in our education? If children grow up among all fair and lovelythings, they will grow to love beauty and detest ugliness before theyknow the reason why. If you go into a house where everything is coarse, you find things chipped and broken and unsightly. Nobody exercises anycare. If everything is dainty and delicate, gentleness and refinement ofmanner are unconsciously acquired. When I was in San Francisco I used tovisit the Chinese Quarter frequently. There I used to watch a greathulking Chinese workman at his task of digging, and used to see him everyday drink his tea from a little cup as delicate in texture as the petalof a flower, whereas in all the grand hotels of the land, where thousandsof dollars have been lavished on great gilt mirrors and gaudy columns, Ihave been given my coffee or my chocolate in cups an inch and a quarterthick. I think I have deserved something nicer. 

The art systems of the past have been devised by philosophers who lookedupon human beings as obstructions. They have tried to educate boys'minds before they had any. How much better it would be in these earlyyears to teach children to use their hands in the rational service ofmankind. I would have a workshop attached to every school, and one houra day given up to the teaching of simple decorative arts. It would be agolden hour to the children. And you would soon raise up a race ofhandicraftsmen who would transform the face of your country. I have seenonly one such school in the United States, and this was in Philadelphiaand was founded by my friend Mr. Leyland. I stopped there yesterday andhave brought some of the work here this afternoon to show you. Here aretwo discs of beaten brass: the designs on them are beautiful, theworkmanship is simple, and the entire result is satisfactory. The workwas done by a little boy twelve years old. This is a wooden bowldecorated by a little girl of thirteen. The design is lovely and thecolouring delicate and pretty. Here you see a piece of beautiful woodcarving accomplished by a little boy of nine. In such work as this, children learn sincerity in art. They learn to abhor the liar in art--theman who paints wood to look like iron, or iron to look like stone. It isa practical school of morals. No better way is there to learn to loveNature than to understand Art. It dignifies every flower of the field. And, the boy who sees the thing of beauty which a bird on the wingbecomes when transferred to wood or canvas will probably not throw thecustomary stone. What we want is something spiritual added to life. Nothing is so ignoble that Art cannot sanctify it. 

ART AND THE HANDICRAFTSMAN

The fragments of which this lecture is composed are taken entirely fromthe original manuscripts which have but recently been discovered. It isnot certain that they all belong to the same lecture, nor that all werewritten at the same period. Some portions were written in Philadelphiain 1882. 

People often talk as if there was an opposition between what is beautifuland what is useful. There is no opposition to beauty except ugliness:all things are either beautiful or ugly, and utility will be always onthe side of the beautiful thing, because beautiful decoration is alwayson the side of the beautiful thing, because beautiful decoration isalways an expression of the use you put a thing to and the value placedon it. No workman will beautifully decorate bad work, nor can youpossibly get good handicraftsmen or workmen without having beautifuldesigns. You should be quite sure of that. If you have poor andworthless designs in any craft or trade you will get poor and worthlessworkmen only, but the minute you have noble and beautiful designs, thenyou get men of power and intellect and feeling to work for you. Byhaving good designs you have workmen who work not merely with their handsbut with their hearts and heads too; otherwise you will get merely thefool or the loafer to work for you. 

That the beauty of life is a thing of no moment, I suppose few peoplewould venture to assert. And yet most civilised people act as if it wereof none, and in so doing are wronging both themselves and those that areto come after them. For that beauty which is meant by art is no mereaccident of human life which people can take or leave, but a positivenecessity of life if we are to live as nature meant us to, that is to sayunless we are content to be less than men. 

Do not think that the commercial spirit which is the basis of your lifeand cities here is opposed to art. Who built the beautiful cities of theworld but commercial men and commercial men only? Genoa built by itstraders, Florence by its bankers, and Venice, most lovely of all, by itsnoble and honest merchants. 

I do not wish you, remember, 'to build a new Pisa, ' nor to bring 'thelife or the decorations of the thirteenth century back again. ' 'Thecircumstances with which you must surround your workmen are those' ofmodern American life, 'because the designs you have now to ask for fromyour workmen are such as will make modern' American 'life beautiful. ' Theart we want is the art based on all the inventions of moderncivilisation, and to suit all the needs of nineteenth century life. 

Do you think, for instance, that we object to machinery? I tell you wereverence it; we reverence it when it does its proper work, when itrelieves man from ignoble and soulless labour, not when it seeks to dothat which is valuable only when wrought by the hands and hearts of men. Let us have no machine-made ornament at all; it is all bad and worthlessand ugly. And let us not mistake the means of civilisation for the endof civilisation; steam-engine, telephone and the like, are all wonderful, but remember that their value depends entirely on the noble uses we makeof them, on the noble spirit in which we employ them, not on the thingsthemselves. 

It is, no doubt, a great advantage to talk to a man at the Antipodesthrough a telephone; its advantage depends entirely on the value of whatthe two men have to say to one another. If one merely shrieks slanderthrough a tube and the other whispers folly into a wire, do not thinkthat anybody is very much benefited by the invention. 

The train that whirls an ordinary Englishman through Italy at the rate offorty miles an hour and finally sends him home without any memory of thatlovely country but that he was cheated by a courier at Rome, or that hegot a bad dinner at Verona, does not do him or civilisation much good. But that swift legion of fiery-footed engines that bore to the burningruins of Chicago the loving help and generous treasure of the world wasas noble and as beautiful as any golden troop of angels that ever fed thehungry and clothed the naked in the antique times. As beautiful, yes;all machinery may be beautiful when it is undecorated even. Do not seekto decorate it. We cannot but think all good machinery is graceful, also, the line of strength and the line of beauty being one. 

Give then, as I said, to your workmen of today the bright and noblesurroundings that you can yourself create. Stately and simplearchitecture for your cities, bright and simple dress for your men andwomen; those are the conditions of a real artistic movement. For theartist is not concerned primarily with any theory of life but with lifeitself, with the joy and loveliness that should come daily on eye and earfor a beautiful external world. 

But the simplicity must not be barrenness nor the bright colour gaudy. For all beautiful colours are graduated colours, the colours that seemabout to pass into one another's realm--colour without tone being likemusic without harmony, mere discord. Barren architecture, the vulgar andglaring advertisements that desecrate not merely your cities but everyrock and river that I have seen yet in America--all this is not enough. Aschool of design we must have too in each city. It should be a statelyand noble building, full of the best examples of the best art of theworld. Furthermore, do not put your designers in a barren whitewashedroom and bid them work in that depressing and colourless atmosphere as Ihave seen many of the American schools of design, but give them beautifulsurroundings. Because you want to produce a permanent canon and standardof taste in your workman, he must have always by him and before himspecimens of the best decorative art of the world, so that you can say tohim: 'This is good work. Greek or Italian or Japanese wrought it so manyyears ago, but it is eternally young because eternally beautiful. ' Workin this spirit and you will be sure to be right. Do not copy it, butwork with the same love, the same reverence, the same freedom ofimagination. You must teach him colour and design, how all beautifulcolours are graduated colours and glaring colours the essence ofvulgarity. Show him the quality of any beautiful work of nature like therose, or any beautiful work of art like an Eastern carpet--being merelythe exquisite graduation of colour, one tone answering another like theanswering chords of a symphony. Teach him how the true designer is nothe who makes the design and then colours it, but he who designs incolour, creates in colour, thinks in colour too. Show him how the mostgorgeous stained glass windows of Europe are filled with white glass, andthe most gorgeous Eastern tapestry with toned colours--the primarycolours in both places being set in the white glass, and the tone colourslike brilliant jewels set in dusky gold. And then as regards design, show him how the real designer will take first any given limited space, little disk of silver, it may be, like a Greek coin, or wide expanse offretted ceiling or lordly wall as Tintoret chose at Venice (it does notmatter which), and to this limited space--the first condition ofdecoration being the limitation of the size of the material used--he willgive the effect of its being filled with beautiful decoration, filledwith it as a golden cup will be filled with wine, so complete that youshould not be able to take away anything from it or add anything to it. For from a good piece of design you can take away nothing, nor can youadd anything to it, each little bit of design being as absolutelynecessary and as vitally important to the whole effect as a note or chordof music is for a sonata of Beethoven. 

But I said the effect of its being so filled, because this, again, is ofthe essence of good design. With a simple spray of leaves and a bird inflight a Japanese artist will give you the impression that he hascompletely covered with lovely design the reed fan or lacquer cabinet atwhich he is working, merely because he knows the exact spot in which toplace them. All good design depends on the texture of the utensil usedand the use you wish to put it to. One of the first things I saw in anAmerican school of design was a young lady painting a romantic moonlightlandscape on a large round dish, and another young lady covering a set ofdinner plates with a series of sunsets of the most remarkable colours. Let your ladies paint moonlight landscapes and sunsets, but do not letthem paint them on dinner plates or dishes. Let them take canvas orpaper for such work, but not clay or china. They are merely painting thewrong subjects on the wrong material, that is all. They have not beentaught that every material and texture has certain qualities of its own. The design suitable for one is quite wrong for the other, just as thedesign which you should work on a flat table-cover ought to be quitedifferent from the design you would work on a curtain, for the one willalways be straight, the other broken into folds; and the use too one putsthe object to should guide one in the choice of design. One does notwant to eat one's terrapins off a romantic moonlight nor one's clams offa harrowing sunset. Glory of sun and moon, let them be wrought for us byour landscape artist and be on the walls of the rooms we sit in to remindus of the undying beauty of the sunsets that fade and die, but do not letus eat our soup off them and send them down to the kitchen twice a day tobe washed and scrubbed by the handmaid. 

All these things are simple enough, yet nearly always forgotten. Yourschool of design here will teach your girls and your boys, yourhandicraftsmen of the future (for all your schools of art should be localschools, the schools of particular cities). We talk of the Italianschool of painting, but there is no Italian school; there were theschools of each city. Every town in Italy, from Venice itself, queen ofthe sea, to the little hill fortress of Perugia, each had its own schoolof art, each different and all beautiful. 

So do not mind what art Philadelphia or New York is having, but make bythe hands of your own citizens beautiful art for the joy of your owncitizens, for you have here the primary elements of a great artisticmovement. 

For, believe me, the conditions of art are much simpler than peopleimagine. For the noblest art one requires a clear healthy atmosphere, not polluted as the air of our English cities is by the smoke and grimeand horridness which comes from open furnace and from factory chimney. You must have strong, sane, healthy physique among your men and women. Sickly or idle or melancholy people do not do much in art. And lastly, you require a sense of individualism about each man and woman, for thisis the essence of art--a desire on the part of man to express himself inthe noblest way possible. And this is the reason that the grandest artof the world always came from a republic, Athens, Venice, andFlorence--there were no kings there and so their art was as noble andsimple as sincere. But if you want to know what kind of art the folly ofkings will impose on a country look at the decorative art of France underthe grand monarch, under Louis the Fourteenth; the gaudy gilt furniturewrithing under a sense of its own horror and ugliness, with a nymphsmirking at every angle and a dragon mouthing on every claw. Unreal andmonstrous art this, and fit only for such periwigged pomposities as thenobility of France at that time, but not at all fit for you or me. We donot want the rich to possess more beautiful things but the poor to createmore beautiful things; for every man is poor who cannot create. Norshall the art which you and I need be merely a purple robe woven by aslave and thrown over the whitened body of some leprous king to adorn orto conceal the sin of his luxury, but rather shall it be the noble andbeautiful expression of a people's noble and beautiful life. Art shallbe again the most glorious of all the chords through which the spirit ofa great nation finds its noblest utterance. 

All around you, I said, lie the conditions for a great artistic movementfor every great art. Let us think of one of them; a sculptor, forinstance. 

If a modern sculptor were to come and say, 'Very well, but where can onefind subjects for sculpture out of men who wear frock-coats and chimney-pot hats?' I would tell him to go to the docks of a great city and watchthe men loading or unloading the stately ships, working at wheel orwindlass, hauling at rope or gangway. I have never watched a man doanything useful who has not been graceful at some moment of his labour;it is only the loafer and the idle saunterer who is as useless anduninteresting to the artist as he is to himself. I would ask thesculptor to go with me to any of your schools or universities, to therunning ground and gymnasium, to watch the young men start for a race, hurling quoit or club, kneeling to tie their shoes before leaping, stepping from the boat or bending to the oar, and to carve them; and whenhe was weary of cities I would ask him to come to your fields and meadowsto watch the reaper with his sickle and the cattle driver with liftedlasso. For if a man cannot find the noblest motives for his art in suchsimple daily things as a woman drawing water from the well or a manleaning with his scythe, he will not find them anywhere at all. Gods andgoddesses the Greek carved because he loved them; saint and king the Gothbecause he believed in them. But you, you do not care much for Greekgods and goddesses, and you are perfectly and entirely right; and you donot think much of kings either, and you are quite right. But what you dolove are your own men and women, your own flowers and fields, your ownhills and mountains, and these are what your art should represent to you. 

Ours has been the first movement which has brought the handicraftsman andthe artist together, for remember that by separating the one from theother you do ruin to both; you rob the one of all spiritual motive andall imaginative joy, you isolate the other from all real technicalperfection. The two greatest schools of art in the world, the sculptorat Athens and the school of painting at Venice, had their origin entirelyin a long succession of simple and earnest handicraftsmen. It was theGreek potter who taught the sculptor that restraining influence of designwhich was the glory of the Parthenon; it was the Italian decorator ofchests and household goods who kept Venetian painting always true to itsprimary pictorial condition of noble colour. For we should remember thatall the arts are fine arts and all the arts decorative arts. Thegreatest triumph of Italian painting was the decoration of a pope'schapel in Rome and the wall of a room in Venice. Michael Angelo wroughtthe one, and Tintoret, the dyer's son, the other. And the little 'Dutchlandscape, which you put over your sideboard today, and between thewindows tomorrow, is' no less a glorious 'piece of work than the extentsof field and forest with which Benozzo has made green and beautiful theonce melancholy arcade of the Campo Santo at Pisa, ' as Ruskin says. 

Do not imitate the works of a nation, Greek or Japanese, Italian orEnglish; but their artistic spirit of design and their artistic attitudetoday, their own world, you should absorb but imitate never, copy never. Unless you can make as beautiful a design in painted china or embroideredscreen or beaten brass out of your American turkey as the Japanese doesout of his grey silver-winged stork, you will never do anything. Let theGreek carve his lions and the Goth his dragons: buffalo and wild deer arethe animals for you. 

Golden rod and aster and rose and all the flowers that cover your valleysin the spring and your hills in the autumn: let them be the flowers foryour art. Not merely has Nature given you the noblest motives for a newschool of decoration, but to you above all other countries has she giventhe utensils to work in. 

You have quarries of marble richer than Pantelicus, more varied thanParos, but do not build a great white square house of marble and thinkthat it is beautiful, or that you are using marble nobly. If you buildin marble you must either carve it into joyous decoration, like the livesof dancing children that adorn the marble castles of the Loire, or fillit with beautiful sculpture, frieze and pediment, as the Greeks did, orinlay it with other coloured marbles as they did in Venice. Otherwiseyou had better build in simple red brick as your Puritan fathers, with nopretence and with some beauty. Do not treat your marble as if it wasordinary stone and build a house of mere blocks of it. For it is indeeda precious stone, this marble of yours, and only workmen of nobility ofinvention and delicacy of hand should be allowed to touch it at all, carving it into noble statues or into beautiful decoration, or inlayingit with other coloured marbles: for the true colours of architecture arethose of natural stone, and I would fain see them taken advantage of tothe full. Every variety is here, from pale yellow to purple passingthrough orange, red and brown, entirely at your command; nearly everykind of green and grey also is attainable, and with these and with purewhite what harmony might you not achieve. Of stained and variegatedstone the quantity is unlimited, the kinds innumerable. Were brightercolours required, let glass, and gold protected by glass, be used inmosaic, a kind of work as durable as the solid stone and incapable oflosing its lustre by time. And let the painter's work be reserved forthe shadowed loggia and inner chamber. 

This is the true and faithful way of building. Where this cannot be, thedevice of external colouring may indeed be employed without dishonour--butit must be with the warning reflection that a time will come when suchaids will pass away and when the building will be judged in itslifelessness, dying the death of the dolphin. Better the less bright, more enduring fabric. The transparent alabasters of San Miniato and themosaics of Saint Mark's are more warmly filled and more brightly touchedby every return of morning and evening rays, while the hues of the Gothiccathedrals have died like the iris out of the cloud, and the temples, whose azure and purple once flamed above the Grecian promontory, stand intheir faded whiteness like snows which the sunset has left cold. 

* * * * *

I do not know anything so perfectly commonplace in design as most modernjewellery. How easy for you to change that and to produce goldsmiths'work that would be a joy to all of us. The gold is ready for you inunexhausted treasure, stored up in the mountain hollow or strewn on theriver sand, and was not given to you merely for barren speculation. Thereshould be some better record of it left in your history than themerchant's panic and the ruined home. We do not remember often enoughhow constantly the history of a great nation will live in and by its art. Only a few thin wreaths of beaten gold remain to tell us of the statelyempire of Etruria; and, while from the streets of Florence the nobleknight and haughty duke have long since passed away, the gates which thesimple goldsmith Gheberti made for their pleasure still guard theirlovely house of baptism, worthy still of the praise of Michael Angelo whocalled them worthy to be the Gates of Paradise. 

Have then your school of design, search out your workmen and, when youfind one who has delicacy of hand and that wonder of invention necessaryfor goldsmiths' work, do not leave him to toil in obscurity and dishonourand have a great glaring shop and two great glaring shop-boys in it (notto take your orders: they never do that; but to force you to buysomething you do not want at all). When you want a thing wrought ingold, goblet or shield for the feast, necklace or wreath for the women, tell him what you like most in decoration, flower or wreath, bird inflight or hound in the chase, image of the woman you love or the friendyou honour. Watch him as he beats out the gold into those thin platesdelicate as the petals of a yellow rose, or draws it into the long wireslike tangled sunbeams at dawn. Whoever that workman be help him, cherishhim, and you will have such lovely work from his hand as will be a joy toyou for all time. 

This is the spirit of our movement in England, and this is the spirit inwhich we would wish you to work, making eternal by your art all that isnoble in your men and women, stately in your lakes and mountains, beautiful in your own flowers and natural life. We want to see that youhave nothing in your houses that has not been a joy to the man who madeit, and is not a joy to those that use it. We want to see you create anart made by the hands of the people to please the hearts of the peopletoo. Do you like this spirit or not? Do you think it simple and strong, noble in its aim, and beautiful in its result? I know you do. 

Folly and slander have their own way for a little time, but for a littletime only. You now know what we mean: you will be able to estimate whatis said of us--its value and its motive. 

There should be a law that no ordinary newspaper should be allowed towrite about art. The harm they do by their foolish and random writing itwould be impossible to overestimate--not to the artist but to the public, blinding them to all, but harming the artist not at all. Without them wewould judge a man simply by his work; but at present the newspapers aretrying hard to induce the public to judge a sculptor, for instance, neverby his statues but by the way he treats his wife; a painter by the amountof his income and a poet by the colour of his necktie. I said thereshould be a law, but there is really no necessity for a new law: nothingcould be easier than to bring the ordinary critic under the head of thecriminal classes. But let us leave such an inartistic subject and returnto beautiful and comely things, remembering that the art which wouldrepresent the spirit of modern newspapers would be exactly the art whichyou and I want to avoid--grotesque art, malice mocking you from everygateway, slander sneering at you from every corner. 

Perhaps you may be surprised at my talking of labour and the workman. Youhave heard of me, I fear, through the medium of your somewhat imaginativenewspapers as, if not a 'Japanese young man, ' at least a young man towhom the rush and clamour and reality of the modern world weredistasteful, and whose greatest difficulty in life was the difficulty ofliving up to the level of his blue china--a paradox from which Englandhas not yet recovered. 

Well, let me tell you how it first came to me at all to create anartistic movement in England, a movement to show the rich what beautifulthings they might enjoy and the poor what beautiful things they mightcreate. 

One summer afternoon in Oxford--'that sweet city with her dreamingspires, ' lovely as Venice in its splendour, noble in its learning asRome, down the long High Street that winds from tower to tower, pastsilent cloister and stately gateway, till it reaches that long, greyseven-arched bridge which Saint Mary used to guard (used to, I say, because they are now pulling it down to build a tramway and a light cast-iron bridge in its place, desecrating the loveliest city inEngland)--well, we were coming down the street--a troop of young men, some of them like myself only nineteen, going to river or tennis-court orcricket-field--when Ruskin going up to lecture in cap and gown met us. Heseemed troubled and prayed us to go back with him to his lecture, which afew of us did, and there he spoke to us not on art this time but on life, saying that it seemed to him to be wrong that all the best physique andstrength of the young men in England should be spent aimlessly on cricket-ground or river, without any result at all except that if one rowed wellone got a pewter-pot, and if one made a good score, a cane-handled bat. He thought, he said, that we should be working at something that would dogood to other people, at something by which we might show that in alllabour there was something noble. Well, we were a good deal moved, andsaid we would do anything he wished. So he went out round Oxford andfound two villages, Upper and Lower Hinksey, and between them there lay agreat swamp, so that the villagers could not pass from one to the otherwithout many miles of a round. And when we came back in winter he askedus to help him to make a road across this morass for these village peopleto use. So out we went, day after day, and learned how to lay levels andto break stones, and to wheel barrows along a plank--a very difficultthing to do. And Ruskin worked with us in the mist and rain and mud ofan Oxford winter, and our friends and our enemies came out and mocked usfrom the bank. We did not mind it much then, and we did not mind itafterwards at all, but worked away for two months at our road. And whatbecame of the road? Well, like a bad lecture it ended abruptly--in themiddle of the swamp. Ruskin going away to Venice, when we came back forthe next term there was no leader, and the 'diggers, ' as they called us, fell asunder. And I felt that if there was enough spirit amongst theyoung men to go out to such work as road-making for the sake of a nobleideal of life, I could from them create an artistic movement that mightchange, as it has changed, the face of England. So I sought themout--leader they would call me--but there was no leader: we were allsearchers only and we were bound to each other by noble friendship and bynoble art. There was none of us idle: poets most of us, so ambitiouswere we: painters some of us, or workers in metal or modellers, determined that we would try and create for ourselves beautiful work: forthe handicraftsman beautiful work, for those who love us poems andpictures, for those who love us not epigrams and paradoxes and scorn. 

Well, we have done something in England and we will do something more. Now, I do not want you, believe me, to ask your brilliant young men, yourbeautiful young girls, to go out and make a road on a swamp for anyvillage in America, but I think you might each of you have some art topractise. 

* * * * *

We must have, as Emerson said, a mechanical craft for our culture, abasis for our higher accomplishments in the work of our hands--theuselessness of most people's hands seems to me one of the mostunpractical things. 'No separation from labour can be without some lossof power or truth to the seer, ' says Emerson again. The heroism whichwould make on us the impression of Epaminondas must be that of a domesticconqueror. The hero of the future is he who shall bravely and gracefullysubdue this Gorgon of fashion and of convention. 

When you have chosen your own part, abide by it, and do not weakly tryand reconcile yourself with the world. The heroic cannot be the commonnor the common the heroic. Congratulate yourself if you have donesomething strange and extravagant and broken the monotony of a decorousage. 

And lastly, let us remember that art is the one thing which Death cannotharm. The little house at Concord may be desolate, but the wisdom of NewEngland's Plato is not silenced nor the brilliancy of that Attic geniusdimmed: the lips of Longfellow are still musical for us though his dustbe turning into the flowers which he loved: and as it is with the greaterartists, poet and philosopher and songbird, so let it be with you. 

LECTURE TO ART STUDENTS

Delivered to the Art students of the Royal Academy at their Club inGolden Square, Westminster, on June 30, 1883. The text is taken from theoriginal manuscript. 

In the lecture which it is my privilege to deliver before you to-night Ido not desire to give you any abstract definition of beauty at all. For, we who are working in art cannot accept any theory of beauty in exchangefor beauty itself, and, so far from desiring to isolate it in a formulaappealing to the intellect, we, on the contrary, seek to materialise itin a form that gives joy to the soul through the senses. We want tocreate it, not to define it. The definition should follow the work: thework should not adapt itself to the definition. 

Nothing, indeed, is more dangerous to the young artist than anyconception of ideal beauty: he is constantly led by it either into weakprettiness or lifeless abstraction: whereas to touch the ideal at all youmust not strip it of vitality. You must find it in life and re-create itin art. 

While, then, on the one hand I do not desire to give you any philosophyof beauty--for, what I want to-night is to investigate how we can createart, not how we can talk of it--on the other hand, I do not wish to dealwith anything like a history of English art. 

To begin with, such an expression as English art is a meaninglessexpression. One might just as well talk of English mathematics. Art isthe science of beauty, and Mathematics the science of truth: there is nonational school of either. Indeed, a national school is a provincialschool, merely. Nor is there any such thing as a school of art even. There are merely artists, that is all. 

And as regards histories of art, they are quite valueless to you unlessyou are seeking the ostentatious oblivion of an art professorship. It isof no use to you to know the date of Perugino or the birthplace ofSalvator Rosa: all that you should learn about art is to know a goodpicture when you see it, and a bad picture when you see it. As regardsthe date of the artist, all good work looks perfectly modern: a piece ofGreek sculpture, a portrait of Velasquez--they are always modern, alwaysof our time. And as regards the nationality of the artist, art is notnational but universal. As regards archaeology, then, avoid italtogether: archaeology is merely the science of making excuses for badart; it is the rock on which many a young artist founders and shipwrecks;it is the abyss from which no artist, old or young, ever returns. Or, ifhe does return, he is so covered with the dust of ages and the mildew oftime, that he is quite unrecognisable as an artist, and has to concealhimself for the rest of his days under the cap of a professor, or as amere illustrator of ancient history. How worthless archaeology is in artyou can estimate by the fact of its being so popular. Popularity is thecrown of laurel which the world puts on bad art. Whatever is popular iswrong. 

As I am not going to talk to you, then, about the philosophy of thebeautiful, or the history of art, you will ask me what I am going to talkabout. The subject of my lecture to-night is what makes an artist andwhat does the artist make; what are the relations of the artist to hissurroundings, what is the education the artist should get, and what isthe quality of a good work of art. 

Now, as regards the relations of the artist to his surroundings, by whichI mean the age and country in which he is born. All good art, as I saidbefore, has nothing to do with any particular century; but thisuniversality is the quality of the work of art; the conditions thatproduce that quality are different. And what, I think, you should do isto realise completely your age in order completely to abstract yourselffrom it; remembering that if you are an artist at all, you will be notthe mouthpiece of a century, but the master of eternity; that all artrests on a principle, and that mere temporal considerations are noprinciple at all; and that those who advise you to make your artrepresentative of the nineteenth century are advising you to produce anart which your children, when you have them, will think old-fashioned. But you will tell me this is an inartistic age, and we are an inartisticpeople, and the artist suffers much in this nineteenth century of ours. 

Of course he does. I, of all men, am not going to deny that. Butremember that there never has been an artistic age, or an artisticpeople, since the beginning of the world. The artist has always been, and will always be, an exquisite exception. There is no golden age ofart; only artists who have produced what is more golden than gold. 

_What_, you will say to me, the Greeks? were not they an artistic people?

Well, the Greeks certainly not, but, perhaps, you mean the Athenians, thecitizens of one out of a thousand cities. 

Do you think that they were an artistic people? Take them even at thetime of their highest artistic development, the latter part of the fifthcentury before Christ, when they had the greatest poets and the greatestartists of the antique world, when the Parthenon rose in loveliness atthe bidding of a Phidias, and the philosopher spake of wisdom in theshadow of the painted portico, and tragedy swept in the perfection ofpageant and pathos across the marble of the stage. Were they an artisticpeople then? Not a bit of it. What is an artistic people but a peoplewho love their artists and understand their art? The Athenians could doneither. 

How did they treat Phidias? To Phidias we owe the great era, not merelyin Greek, but in all art--I mean of the introduction of the use of theliving model. 

And what would you say if all the English bishops, backed by the Englishpeople, came down from Exeter Hall to the Royal Academy one day and tookoff Sir Frederick Leighton in a prison van to Newgate on the charge ofhaving allowed you to make use of the living model in your designs forsacred pictures?

Would you not cry out against the barbarism and the Puritanism of such anidea? Would you not explain to them that the worst way to honour God isto dishonour man who is made in His image, and is the work of His hands;and, that if one wants to paint Christ one must take the most Christlikeperson one can find, and if one wants to paint the Madonna, the purestgirl one knows?

Would you not rush off and burn down Newgate, if necessary, and say thatsuch a thing was without parallel in history?

Without parallel? Well, that is exactly what the Athenians did. 

In the room of the Parthenon marbles, in the British Museum, you will seea marble shield on the wall. On it there are two figures; one of a manwhose face is half hidden, the other of a man with the godlike lineamentsof Pericles. For having done this, for having introduced into a basrelief, taken from Greek sacred history, the image of the great statesmanwho was ruling Athens at the time, Phidias was flung into prison andthere, in the common gaol of Athens, died, the supreme artist of the oldworld. 

And do you think that this was an exceptional case? The sign of aPhilistine age is the cry of immorality against art, and this cry wasraised by the Athenian people against every great poet and thinker oftheir day--AEschylus, Euripides, Socrates. It was the same with Florencein the thirteenth century. Good handicrafts are due to guilds not to thepeople. The moment the guilds lost their power and the people rushed in, beauty and honesty of work died. 

And so, never talk of an artistic people; there never has been such athing. 

But, perhaps, you will tell me that the external beauty of the world hasalmost entirely passed away from us, that the artist dwells no longer inthe midst of the lovely surroundings which, in ages past, were thenatural inheritance of every one, and that art is very difficult in thisunlovely town of ours, where, as you go to your work in the morning, orreturn from it at eventide, you have to pass through street after streetof the most foolish and stupid architecture that the world has ever seen;architecture, where every lovely Greek form is desecrated and defiled, and every lovely Gothic form defiled and desecrated, reducingthree-fourths of the London houses to being, merely, like square boxes ofthe vilest proportions, as gaunt as they are grimy, and as poor as theyare pretentious--the hall door always of the wrong colour, and thewindows of the wrong size, and where, even when wearied of the houses youturn to contemplate the street itself, you have nothing to look at butchimney-pot hats, men with sandwich boards, vermilion letterboxes, and dothat even at the risk of being run over by an emerald-green omnibus. 

Is not art difficult, you will say to me, in such surroundings as these?Of course it is difficult, but then art was never easy; you yourselveswould not wish it to be easy; and, besides, nothing is worth doing exceptwhat the world says is impossible. 

Still, you do not care to be answered merely by a paradox. What are therelations of the artist to the external world, and what is the result ofthe loss of beautiful surroundings to you, is one of the most importantquestions of modern art; and there is no point on which Mr. Ruskin soinsists as that the decadence of art has come from the decadence ofbeautiful things; and that when the artist can not feed his eye onbeauty, beauty goes from his work. 

I remember in one of his lectures, after describing the sordid aspect ofa great English city, he draws for us a picture of what were the artisticsurroundings long ago. 

Think, he says, in words of perfect and picturesque imagery, whose beautyI can but feebly echo, think of what was the scene which presenteditself, in his afternoon walk, to a designer of the Gothic school ofPisa--Nino Pisano or any of his men {317}:

 On each side of a bright river he saw rise a line of brighter palaces, arched and pillared, and inlaid with deep red porphyry, and with serpentine; along the quays before their gates were riding troops of knights, noble in face and form, dazzling in crest and shield; horse and man one labyrinth of quaint colour and gleaming light--the purple, and silver, and scarlet fringes flowing over the strong limbs and clashing mail, like sea-waves over rocks at sunset. Opening on each side from the river were gardens, courts, and cloisters; long successions of white pillars among wreaths of vine; leaping of fountains through buds of pomegranate and orange: and still along the garden-paths, and under and through the crimson of the pomegranate shadows, moving slowly, groups of the fairest women that Italy ever saw--fairest, because purest and thoughtfullest; trained in all high knowledge, as in all courteous art--in dance, in song, in sweet wit, in lofty learning, in loftier courage, in loftiest love--able alike to cheer, to enchant, or save, the souls of men. Above all this scenery of perfect human life, rose dome and bell-tower, burning with white alabaster and gold: beyond dome and bell-tower the slopes of mighty hills, hoary with olive; far in the north, above a purple sea of peaks of solemn Apennine, the clear, sharp-cloven Carrara mountains sent up their steadfast flames of marble summit into amber sky; the great sea itself, scorching with expanse of light, stretching from their feet to the Gorgonian isles; and over all these, ever present, near or far--seen through the leaves of vine, or imaged with all its march of clouds in the Arno's stream, or set with its depth of blue close against the golden hair and burning cheek of lady and knight, --that untroubled and sacred sky, which was to all men, in those days of innocent faith, indeed the unquestioned abode of spirits, as the earth was of men; and which opened straight through its gates of cloud and veils of dew into the awfulness of the eternal world;--a heaven in which every cloud that passed was literally the chariot of an angel, and every ray of its Evening and Morning streamed from the throne of God. 

What think you of that for a school of design?

And then look at the depressing, monotonous appearance of any moderncity, the sombre dress of men and women, the meaningless and barrenarchitecture, the colourless and dreadful surroundings. Without abeautiful national life, not sculpture merely, but all the arts will die. 

Well, as regards the religious feeling of the close of the passage, I donot think I need speak about that. Religion springs from religiousfeeling, art from artistic feeling: you never get one from the other;unless you have the right root you will not get the right flower; and, ifa man sees in a cloud the chariot of an angel, he will probably paint itvery unlike a cloud. 

But, as regards the general idea of the early part of that lovely bit ofprose, is it really true that beautiful surroundings are necessary forthe artist? I think not; I am sure not. Indeed, to me the mostinartistic thing in this age of ours is not the indifference of thepublic to beautiful things, but the indifference of the artist to thethings that are called ugly. For, to the real artist, nothing isbeautiful or ugly in itself at all. With the facts of the object he hasnothing to do, but with its appearance only, and appearance is a matterof light and shade, of masses, of position, and of value. 

Appearance is, in fact, a matter of effect merely, and it is with theeffects of nature that you have to deal, not with the real condition ofthe object. What you, as painters, have to paint is not things as theyare but things as they seem to be, not things as they are but things asthey are not. 

No object is so ugly that, under certain conditions of light and shade, or proximity to other things, it will not look beautiful; no object is sobeautiful that, under certain conditions, it will not look ugly. Ibelieve that in every twenty-four hours what is beautiful looks ugly, andwhat is ugly looks beautiful, once. 

And, the commonplace character of so much of our English painting seemsto me due to the fact that so many of our young artists look merely atwhat we may call 'ready-made beauty, ' whereas you exist as artists not tocopy beauty but to create it in your art, to wait and watch for it innature. 

What would you say of a dramatist who would take nobody but virtuouspeople as characters in his play? Would you not say he was missing halfof life? Well, of the young artist who paints nothing but beautifulthings, I say he misses one half of the world. 

Do not wait for life to be picturesque, but try and see life underpicturesque conditions. These conditions you can create for yourself inyour studio, for they are merely conditions of light. In nature, youmust wait for them, watch for them, choose them; and, if you wait andwatch, come they will. 

In Gower Street at night you may see a letterbox that is picturesque; onthe Thames Embankment you may see picturesque policemen. Even Venice isnot always beautiful, nor France. 

To paint what you see is a good rule in art, but to see what is worthpainting is better. See life under pictorial conditions. It is betterto live in a city of changeable weather than in a city of lovelysurroundings. 

Now, having seen what makes the artist, and what the artist makes, who isthe artist? There is a man living amongst us who unites in himself allthe qualities of the noblest art, whose work is a joy for all time, whois, himself, a master of all time. That man is Mr. Whistler. 

But, you will say, modern dress, that is bad. If you cannot paint blackcloth you could not have painted silken doublet. Ugly dress is betterfor art--facts of vision, not of the object. 

What is a picture? Primarily, a picture is a beautifully colouredsurface, merely, with no more spiritual message or meaning for you thanan exquisite fragment of Venetian glass or a blue tile from the wall ofDamascus. It is, primarily, a purely decorative thing, a delight to lookat. 

All archaeological pictures that make you say 'How curious!' allsentimental pictures that make you say 'How sad!' all historical picturesthat make you say 'How interesting!' all pictures that do not immediatelygive you such artistic joy as to make you say 'How beautiful!' are badpictures. 

* * * * *

We never know what an artist is going to do. Of course not. The artistis not a specialist. All such divisions as animal painters, landscapepainters, painters of Scotch cattle in an English mist, painters ofEnglish cattle in a Scotch mist, racehorse painters, bull-terrierpainters, all are shallow. If a man is an artist he can painteverything. 

The object of art is to stir the most divine and remote of the chordswhich make music in our soul; and colour is, indeed, of itself a mysticalpresence on things, and tone a kind of sentinel. 

Am I pleading, then, for mere technique? No. As long as there are anysigns of technique at all, the picture is unfinished. What is finish? Apicture is finished when all traces of work, and of the means employed tobring about the result, have disappeared. 

In the case of handicraftsmen--the weaver, the potter, the smith--ontheir work are the traces of their hand. But it is not so with thepainter; it is not so with the artist. 

Art should have no sentiment about it but its beauty, no technique exceptwhat you cannot observe. One should be able to say of a picture not thatit is 'well painted, ' but that it is 'not painted. '

What is the difference between absolutely decorative art and a painting?Decorative art emphasises its material: imaginative art annihilates it. Tapestry shows its threads as part of its beauty: a picture annihilatesits canvas; it shows nothing of it. Porcelain emphasises its glaze:water-colours reject the paper. 

A picture has no meaning but its beauty, no message but its joy. That isthe first truth about art that you must never lose sight of. A pictureis a purely decorative thing. 

BIBLIOGRAPHY BY STUART MASON

NOTE

Part I. Includes all the authorised editions published in England, andthe two French editions of Salome published in Paris. Authorisededitions of some of the works were issued in the United States of Americasimultaneously with the English publication. 

Part II. Contains the only two 'Privately Printed' editions which areauthorised. 

Part III. Is a chronological list of all contributions (so far as atpresent known) to magazines, periodicals, etc. , the date given being thatof the first publication only. Those marked with an asterisk (*) werepublished anonymously. Many of the poems have been included inanthologies of modern verse, but no attempt has been made to giveparticulars of such reprints in this Bibliography. 

I. --AUTHORISED ENGLISH EDITIONS

NEWDIGATE PRIZE POEM. RAVENNA. Recited in the Theatre, Oxford, June 26, 1878. By OSCAR WILDE, Magdalen College. Oxford: Thos. Shrimpton andSon, 1878. 

POEMS. London: David Bogue, 1881 (June 30). 

Second and Third Editions, 1881. 

Fourth and Fifth Editions [Revised], 1882. 

220 copies (200 for sale) of the Fifth Edition, with a new title-page andcover designed by Charles Ricketts. London: Elkin Mathews and John Lane, 1892 (May 26). 

THE HAPPY PRINCE AND OTHER TALES. ('The Happy Prince, ' 'The Nightingaleand the Rose, ' 'The Selfish Giant, ' 'The Devoted Friend, ' 'The RemarkableRocket. ') Illustrated by Walter Crane and Jacomb Hood. London: DavidNutt, 1888 (May). 

Also 75 copies (65 for sale) on Large Paper, with the plates in twostates. 

Second Edition, January 1889. 

Third Edition, February 1902. 

Fourth Impression, September 1905. 

Fifth Impression, February 1907. 

INTENTIONS. ('The Decay of Lying, ' 'Pen, Pencil, and Poison, ' 'TheCritic as Artist, ' 'The Truth of Masks. ') London: James R. Osgood, McIlvaine and Co. , 1891 (May). New Edition, 1894. 

Edition for Continental circulation only. The English Library, No. 54. Leipzig: Heinemann and Balestier, 1891. Frequently reprinted. 

THE PICTURE OF DORIAN GRAY. London: Ward, Lock and Co. [1891 (July 1). ]

Also 250 copies on Large Paper. Dated 1891. 

[Note. --July 1 is the official date of publication, but presentationcopies signed by the author and dated May 1891 are known. ]

New Edition [1894 (October 1). ] London: Ward, Lock and Bowden. 

Reprinted. Paris: Charles Carrington, 1901, 1905, 1908 (January). 

Edition for Continental circulation only. Leipzig: Bernhard Tauchnitz, vol. 4049. 1908 (July). 

LORD ARTHUR SAVILE'S CRIME AND OTHER STORIES. ('Lord Arthur Savile'sCrime, ' 'The Sphinx Without a Secret, ' 'The Canterville Ghost, ' 'TheModel Millionaire. ') London: James R. Osgood, McIlvaine and Co. , 1891(July). 

A HOUSE OF POMEGRANATES. ('The Young King, ' 'The Birthday of theInfanta, ' 'The Fisherman and His Soul, ' 'The Star Child. ') With Designsand Decorations by Charles Ricketts and C. H. Shannon. London: James R. Osgood, McIlvaine and Co. , 1891 (November). 

SALOME. DRAME EN UN ACTE. Paris: Librairie de l'Art Independant. Londres: Elkin Mathews et John Lane, 1893 (February 22). 

600 copies (500 for sale) and 25 on Large Paper. 

New Edition. With sixteen Illustrations by Aubrey Beardsley. Paris:Edition a petit nombre imprimee pour les Souscripteurs. 1907. 

500 copies. 

[Note. --Several editions, containing only a portion of the text, havebeen issued for the performance of the Opera by Richard Strauss. London:Methuen and Co. ; Berlin: Adolph Furstner. ]

LADY WINDERMERE'S FAN. A PLAY ABOUT A GOOD WOMAN. London: Elkin Mathewsand John Lane, 1893 (November 8). 

500 copies and 50 on Large Paper. 

Acting Edition. London: Samuel French. (Text Incomplete. )

SALOME. A TRAGEDY IN ONE ACT. Translated from the French [by LordAlfred Bruce Douglas. ] Pictured by Aubrey Beardsley. London: ElkinMathews and John Lane, 1894 (February 9). 

500 copies and 100 on Large Paper. 

With the two suppressed plates and extra title-page. Preface by RobertRoss. London: John Lane, 1907 (September 1906). 

New Edition (without illustrations). London: John Lane, 1906 (June), 1908. 

THE SPHINX. With Decorations by Charles Ricketts. London: Elkin Mathewsand John Lane, 1894 (July). 

200 copies and 25 on Large Paper. 

A WOMAN OF NO IMPORTANCE. London: John Lane, 1894 (October 9). 

500 copies and 50 on Large Paper. 

THE SOUL OF MAN. London: Privately Printed, 1895. 

[Reprinted from the Fortnightly Review (February 1891), by permission ofthe Proprietors, and published by A. L. Humphreys. ]

New Edition. London: Arthur L. Humphreys, 1907. 

Reprinted in Sebastian Melmoth. London: Arthur L. Humphreys, 1904, 1905. 

THE BALLAD OF READING GAOL. By C. 3. 3. London: Leonard Smithers, 1898(February 13). 

800 copies and 30 on Japanese Vellum. 

Second Edition, March 1898. 

Third Edition, 1898. 99 copies only, signed by the author. 

Fourth, Fifth and Sixth Editions, 1898. 

Seventh Edition, 1899. {328a}

[Note. --The above are printed at the Chiswick Press on handmade paper. All reprints on ordinary paper are unauthorised. ]

THE IMPORTANCE OF BEING EARNEST. A TRIVIAL COMEDY FOR SERIOUS PEOPLE. BYTHE AUTHOR OF LADY WINDERMERE'S FAN. London: Leonard Smithers and Co. , 1899 (February). 

1000 copies. Also 100 copies on Large Paper, and 12 on Japanese Vellum. 

Acting Edition. London: Samuel French. (Text Incomplete. )

AN IDEAL HUSBAND. BY THE AUTHOR OF LADY WINDERMERE'S FAN. London:Leonard Smithers and Co. , 1889 (July). 

1000 copies. Also 100 copies on Large Paper, and 12 on Japanese Vellum. 

DE PROFUNDIS. London: Methuen and Co. , 1905 (February 23). 

Also 200 copies on Large Paper, and 50 on Japanese Vellum. 

Second Edition, March 1905. 

Third Edition, March 1905. 

Fourth Edition, April 1905. 

Fifth Edition, September 1905. 

Sixth Edition, March 1906. 

Seventh Edition, January 1907. 

Eighth Edition, April 1907. 

Ninth Edition, July 1907. 

Tenth Edition, October 1907. 

Eleventh Edition, January 1908. {328b}

THE WORKS OF OSCAR WILDE. London: Methuen and Co. , 1908 (February 13). In thirteen volumes. 1000 copies on Handmade Paper and 80 on JapaneseVellum. 

THE DUCHESS OF PADUA. A PLAY. 

SALOME. A FLORENTINE TRAGEDY. VERA. 

LADY WINDERMERE'S FAN. A PLAY ABOUT A GOOD WOMAN. 

A WOMAN OF NO IMPORTANCE. A PLAY. 

AN IDEAL HUSBAND. A PLAY. 

THE IMPORTANCE OF BEING EARNEST. A TRIVIAL COMEDY FOR SERIOUS PEOPLE. 

LORD ARTHUR SAVILE'S CRIME AND OTHER PROSE PIECES. 

INTENTIONS AND THE SOUL OF MAN. 

THE POEMS. 

A HOUSE OF POMEGRANATES, THE HAPPY PRINCE AND OTHER TALES. 

DE PROFUNDIS. 

REVIEWS. 

MISCELLANIES. 

Uniform with the above. Paris: Charles Carrington, 1908 (April 16). 

THE PICTURE OF DORIAN GRAY. 

II. --EDITIONS PRIVATELY PRINTED FOR THE AUTHOR

VERA; OR, THE NIHILISTS. A DRAMA IN A PROLOGUE AND FOUR ACTS. [NewYork] 1882. 

THE DUCHESS OF PADUA: A TRAGEDY OF THE XVI CENTURY WRITTEN IN PARIS INTHE XIX CENTURY. Privately Printed as Manuscript. [New York, 1883(March 15). ]

III. --MISCELLANEOUS CONTRIBUTIONS TO MAGAZINES, PERIODICALS, Etc. 

1875

November. CHORUS OF CLOUD MAIDENS ([Greek], 275-287 and 295-307). DublinUniversity Magazine, Vol. LXXXVI. No. 515, page 622. 

1876

January. FROM SPRING DAYS TO WINTER. (FOR MUSIC. ) Dublin UniversityMagazine, Vol. LXXXVII. No. 517, page 47. 

March. GRAFFITI D'ITALIA. I. SAN MINIATO. (JUNE 15. ) DublinUniversity Magazine, Vol. LXXXVII. No. 519, page 297. 

June. THE DOLE OF THE KING'S DAUGHTER. Dublin University Magazine, Vol. LXXXVII. No. 522, page 682. 

Trinity Term. [Greek]. (THE ROSE OF LOVE, AND WITH A ROSE'S THORNS. )Kottabos, Vol. II. No. 10, page 268. 

September. [Greek]. Dublin University Magazine, Vol. LXXXVIII. No. 525, page 291. 

September. THE TRUE KNOWLEDGE. Irish Monthly, Vol. IV. No. 39, page594. 

September. GRAFFITI D'ITALIA. (ARONA. LAGO MAGGIORE. ) Month andCatholic Review, Vol. Xxviii. No. 147, page 77. 

Michaelmas Term. [Greek]. Kottabos, Vol. II. No. 11, page 298. 

1877

February. LOTUS LEAVES. Irish Monthly, Vol. V. No. 44, page 133. 

Hilary Term. A FRAGMENT FROM THE AGAMEMNON OF AESCHYLOS. Kottabos, Vol. II. No. 12, page 320. 

Hilary Term. A NIGHT VISION. Kottabos, Vol. II. No. 12, page 331. 

June. SALVE SATURNIA TELLUS. Irish Monthly, Vol. V. No. 48, page 415. 

June. URBS SACRA AETERNA. Illustrated Monitor, Vol. IV. No. 3, page130. 

July. THE TOMB OF KEATS. Irish Monthly, Vol. V. No. 49, page 476. 

July. SONNET WRITTEN DURING HOLY WEEK. Illustrated Monitor, Vol. IV. No. 4, page 186. 

July. THE GROSVENOR GALLERY. Dublin University Magazine, Vol. XC. No. 535, page 118. 

Michaelmas Term. WASTED DAYS. (FROM A PICTURE PAINTED BY MISS V. T. )Kottabos, Vol. III. No. 2, page 56. 

December. [Greek]. Irish Monthly, Vol. V. No. 54, page 746. 

1878

April. MAGDALEN WALKS. Irish Monthly, Vol. VI. No. 58, page 211. 

1879

Hilary Term. 'LA BELLE MARGUERITE. ' BALLADE DU MOYEN AGE. Kottabos, Vol. III. No. 6, page 146. 

April. THE CONQUEROR OF TIME. Time, Vol. I. No. 1, page 30. 

May 5. GROSVENOR GALLERY (First Notice. ) Saunders' Irish Daily News, Vol. CXC. No. 42, 886, page 5. 

June. EASTER DAY. Waifs and Strays, Vol. I. No. 1, page 2. 

June 11. TO SARAH BERNHARDT. World, No. 258, page 18. 

July. THE NEW HELEN. Time, Vol. I. No. 4, page 400. 

July 16. QUEEN HENRIETTA MARIA. (Charles I, act iii. ) World, No. 263, page 18. 

Michaelmas Term. AVE! MARIA. Kottabos, Vol. III. No. 8, page 206. 

1880

January 14. PORTIA. World, No. 289, page 13. 

March. IMPRESSION DE VOYAGE. Waifs and Strays, Vol. I. No. 3, page 77. 

August 25. AVE IMPERATRIX! A POEM ON ENGLAND. World, No. 321, page 12. 

November 10. LIBERTATIS SACRA FAMES. World, No. 332, page 15. 

December. SEN ARTYSTY; OR, THE ARTIST'S DREAM. Translated from thePolish of Madame Helena Modjeska. Routledge's Christmas Annual: TheGreen Room, page 66. 

1881

January. THE GRAVE OF KEATS. Burlington, Vol. I. No. 1, page 35. 

March 2. IMPRESSION DE MATIN. World, No. 348, page 15. 

1882

February 15. IMPRESSIONS: I. LE JARDIN. II. LA MER. Our Continent(Philadelphia), Vol. I. No. 1, page 9. 

November 7. MRS. LANGTRY AS HESTER GRAZEBROOK. New York World, page 5. 

L'ENVOI, An Introduction to Rose Leaf and Apple Leaf, by Rennell Rodd, page 11. Philadelphia: J. M. Stoddart and Co. 

[Besides the ordinary edition a limited number of an edition de luxe wasissued printed in brown ink on one side only of a thin transparenthandmade parchment paper, the whole book being interleaved with greentissue. ]

1883

November 14. TELEGRAM TO WHISTLER. World, No. 489, page 16. 

1884

May 29. UNDER THE BALCONY. Shaksperean Show-Book, page 23. 

(Set to Music by Lawrence Kellie as OH! BEAUTIFUL STAR. SERENADE. London: Robert Cocks and Co. , 1892. )

October 14. MR. OSCAR WILDE ON WOMAN'S DRESS. Pall Mall Gazette, Vol. XL. No. 6114, page 6. 

November 11. MORE RADICAL IDEAS UPON DRESS REFORM. (With twoillustrations. ) Pall Mall Gazette, Vol. XL. No. 6138, page 14. 

1885

February 21. MR. WHISTLER'S TEN O'CLOCK. Pall Mall Gazette, Vol. XLI. No. 6224, page 1. 

February 25. TENDERNESS IN TITE STREET. World, No. 556, page 14. 

February 28. THE RELATION OF DRESS TO ART. A NOTE IN BLACK AND WHITE ONMR. WHISTLER'S LECTURE. Pall Mall Gazette, Vol. XLI. No. 6230, page 4. 

March 7. *DINNERS AND DISHES. Pall Mall Gazette, Vol. XLI. No. 6236, page 5. 

March 13. *A MODERN EPIC. Pall Mall Gazette, Vol. XLI. No. 6241, page11. 

March 14. SHAKESPEARE ON SCENERY. Dramatic Review, Vol. I. No. 7, page99. 

March 27. *A BEVY OF POETS. Pall Mall Gazette, Vol. XLI. No. 6253, page5. 

April 1. *PARNASSUS VERSUS PHILOLOGY. Pall Mall Gazette, Vol. XLI. No. 6257, page 6. 

April 11. THE HARLOT'S HOUSE. Dramatic Review, Vol. I. No. 11, page167. 

May. SHAKESPEARE AND STAGE COSTUME. Nineteenth Century, Vol. XVII. No. 99, page 800. 

May 9. HAMLET AT THE LYCEUM. Dramatic Review, Vol. I. No. 15, page 227. 

May 15. *TWO NEW NOVELS. Pall Mall Gazette, Vol. XLI. No. 6293, page 4. 

May 23. HENRY THE FOURTH AT OXFORD. Dramatic Review, Vol. I. No. 17, page 264. 

May 27. *MODERN GREEK POETRY. Pall Mall Gazette, Vol. XLI. No. 6302, page 5. 

May 30. OLIVIA AT THE LYCEUM. Dramatic Review, Vol. I. No. 18, page278. 

June. LE JARDIN DES TUILERIES. (With an illustration by L. Troubridge. )In a Good Cause, page 83. London: Wells Gardner, Darton and Co. 

June 6. AS YOU LIKE IT AT COOMBE HOUSE. Dramatic Review, Vol. I. No. 19, page 296. 

July. ROSES AND RUE. Midsummer Dreams, Summer Number of Society. 

(No copy of this is known to exist. )

November 18. *A HANDBOOK TO MARRIAGE. Pall Mall Gazette, Vol. XLII. No. 6452, page 5. 

1886

January 15. *HALF-HOURS WITH THE WORST AUTHORS. Pall Mall Gazette, Vol. XLIII. No. 6501, page 4. 

January 23. SONNET. ON THE RECENT SALE BY AUCTION OF KEATS' LOVELETTERS. Dramatic Review, Vol. II. No. 52, page 249. 

February 1. *ONE OF MR. CONWAY'S REMAINDERS. Pall Mall Gazette, Vol. XLIII. No. 6515, page 5. 

February 8. TO READ OR NOT TO READ. Pall Mall Gazette, Vol. XLIII. No. 6521, page 11. 

February 20. TWELFTH NIGHT AT OXFORD. Dramatic Review, Vol. III. No. 56, page 34. 

March 6. *THE LETTERS OF A GREAT WOMAN. Pall Mall Gazette, Vol. XLIII. No. 6544, page 4. 

April 12. *NEWS FROM PARNASSUS. Pall Mall Gazette, Vol. XLIII. No. 6575, page 5. 

April 14. *SOME NOVELS. Pall Mall Gazette, Vol. XLIII. No. 6577, page5. 

April 17. *A LITERARY PILGRIM. Pall Mall Gazette, Vol. XLIII. No. 6580, page 5. 

April 21. *BERANGER IN ENGLAND. Pall Mall Gazette, Vol. XLIII. No. 6583, page 5. 

May 13. *THE POETRY OF THE PEOPLE. Pall Mall Gazette, Vol. XLIII. No. 6601, page 5. 

May 15. THE CENCI. Dramatic Review, Vol. III. No. 68, page 151. 

May 22. HELENA IN TROAS. Dramatic Review, Vol. III. No. 69, page 161. 

July. KEATS' SONNET ON BLUE. (With facsimile of original Manuscript. )Century Guild Hobby Horse, Vol. I. No. 3, page 83. 

August 4. *PLEASING AND PRATTLING. Pall Mall Gazette, Vol. XLIV. No. 6672, page 5. 

September 13. *BALZAC IN ENGLISH. Pall Mall Gazette, Vol. XLIV. No. 6706, page 5. 

September 16. *TWO NEW NOVELS. Pall Mall Gazette, Vol. XLIV. No. 6709, page 5. 

September 20. *BEN JONSON. Pall Mall Gazette, Vol. XLIV. No. 6712, page6. 

September 27. *THE POETS' CORNER. Pall Mall Gazette, Vol. XLIV. No. 6718, page 5. 

October 8. *A RIDE THROUGH MOROCCO. Pall Mall Gazette, Vol. XLIV. No. 6728, page 5. 

October 14. *THE CHILDREN OF THE POETS. Pall Mall Gazette, Vol. XLIV. No. 6733, page 5. 

October 28. *NEW NOVELS. Pall Mall Gazette, Vol. XLIV. No. 6745, page4. 

November 3. *A POLITICIAN'S POETRY. Pall Mall Gazette, Vol. XLIV. No. 6750, page 4. 

November 10. *MR. SYMONDS' HISTORY OF THE RENAISSANCE. Pall MallGazette, Vol. XLIV. No. 6756, page 5. 

November 18. *A 'JOLLY' ART CRITIC. Pall Mall Gazette, Vol. XLIV. No. 6763, page 6. 

November 24. NOTE ON WHISTLER. World, No. 647, page 14. 

December 1. *A 'SENTIMENTAL JOURNEY' THROUGH LITERATURE. Pall MallGazette, Vol. XLIV. No. 6774, page 5. 

December 11. *TWO BIOGRAPHIES OF SIR PHILIP SIDNEY. Pall Mall Gazette, Vol. XLIV. No. 6783, page 5. 

1887

January 8. *COMMON SENSE IN ART. Pall Mall Gazette, Vol. XLV. No. 6806, page 5. 

February 1. *MINER AND MINOR POETS. Pall Mall Gazette, Vol. XLV. No. 6826, page 5. 

February 17. *A NEW CALENDAR. Pall Mall Gazette, Vol. XLV. No. 6840, page 5. 

February 23. THE CANTERVILLE GHOST--I. Illustrated by F. H. Townsend. Court and Society Review, Vol. IV. No. 138, page 193. 

March 2. THE CANTERVILLE GHOST--II. Illustrated by F. H. Townsend. Court and Society Review, Vol. IV. No. 139, page 207. 

March 8. *THE POETS' CORNER. Pall Mall Gazette, Vol. XLV. No. 6856, page 5. 

March 23. *THE AMERICAN INVASION. Court and Society Review, Vol. IV. No. 142, page 270. 

March 28. *GREAT WRITERS BY LITTLE MEN. Pall Mall Gazette, Vol. XLV. No. 6873, page 5. 

March 31. *A NEW BOOK ON DICKENS. Pall Mall Gazette, Vol. XLV. No. 6876, page 5. 

April 12. *OUR BOOK SHELF. Pall Mall Gazette, Vol. XLV. No. 6885, page5. 

April 18. *A CHEAP EDITION OF A GREAT MAN. Pall Mall Gazette, Vol. XLV. No. 6890, page 5. 

April 26. *MR. MORRIS'S ODYSSEY. Pall Mall Gazette, Vol. XLV. No. 6897, page 5. 

May 2. *A BATCH OF NOVELS. Pall Mall Gazette, Vol. XLV. No. 6902, page11. 

May 7. *SOME NOVELS. Saturday Review, Vol. LXIII. No. 1645, page 663. 

May 11. LORD ARTHUR SAVILE'S CRIME. A STORY OF CHEIROMANCY. --I. II. Illustrated by F. H. Townsend. Court and Society Review, Vol. IV. No. 149, page 447. 

May 18. LORD ARTHUR SAVILE'S CRIME. A STORY OF CHEIROMANCY. --III. IV. Court and Society Review, Vol. IV. No. 150, page 471. 

May 25. LORD ARTHUR SAVILE'S CRIME. A STORY OF CHEIROMANCY. --V. VI. Illustrated by F. H. Townsend. Court and Society Review, Vol. IV. No. 151, page 495. 

May 25. LADY ALROY. World, No. 673, page 18. 

May 30. *THE POETS' CORNER. Pall Mall Gazette, Vol. XLV. No. 6926, page5. 

June 11. *MR. PATER'S IMAGINARY PORTRAITS. Pall Mall Gazette, Vol. XLV. No. 6937, page 2. 

June 22. THE MODEL MILLIONAIRE. World, No. 677, page 18. 

August 8. *A GOOD HISTORICAL NOVEL. Pall Mall Gazette, Vol. XLVI. No. 6986, page 3. 

August 20. *NEW NOVELS. Saturday Review, Vol. LXIV. No. 1660, page 264. 

September 27. *TWO BIOGRAPHIES OF KEATS. Pall Mall Gazette, Vol. XLVI. No. 7029, page 3. 

October 15. *SERMONS IN STONES AT BLOOMSBURY. Pall Mall Gazette, Vol. XLVI. No. 7045, page 5. 

October 24. *A SCOTCHMAN ON SCOTTISH POETRY. Pall Mall Gazette, Vol. XLVI. No. 7052, page 3. 

November. LITERARY AND OTHER NOTES. Woman's World, Vol. I. No. 1, page36. 

November 9. *MR. MAHAFFY'S NEW BOOK. Pall Mall Gazette, Vol. XLVI. No. 7066, page 3. 

November 24. *MR. MORRIS'S COMPLETION OF THE ODYSSEY. Pall MallGazette, Vol. XLVI. No. 7079, page 3. 

November 30. *SIR CHARLES BOWEN'S VIRGIL. Pall Mall Gazette, Vol. XLVI. No. 7084, page 3. 

December. LITERARY AND OTHER NOTES. Woman's World, Vol. I. No. 2, page81. 

December 12. *THE UNITY OF THE ARTS. Pall Mall Gazette, Vol. XLVI. No. 7094, page 13. 

December 13. UN AMANT DE NOS JOURS. Court and Society Review, Vol. IV. No. 180, page 587. 

December 16. *ARISTOTLE AT AFTERNOON TEA. Pall Mall Gazette, Vol. XLVI. No. 7098, page 3. 

December 17. *EARLY CHRISTIAN ART IN IRELAND. Pall Mall Gazette, Vol. XLVI. No. 7099, page 3. 

December 25. *ART AT WILLIS'S ROOMS. Sunday Times, No. 3376, page 7. 

December 25. FANTAISIES DECORATIVES. I. LE PANNEAU. II. LES BALLONS. Illustrated by Bernard Partridge. Lady's Pictorial Christmas Number, pages 2, 3. 

1888

January. LITERARY AND OTHER NOTES. Woman's World, Vol. I. No. 3, page132. 

January 20. *THE POETS' CORNER. Pall Mall Gazette, Vol. XLVII. No. 7128, page 3. 

February. LITERARY AND OTHER NOTES. Woman's World, Vol. I. No. 4, page180. 

February 15. THE POETS' CORNER. Pall Mall Gazette, Vol. XLVII. No. 7150, page 3. 

February 24. *VENUS OR VICTORY. Pall Mall Gazette, Vol. XLVII. No. 7158, page 2. 

March. LITERARY AND OTHER NOTES. Woman's World, Vol. I. No. 5, page229. 

April. CANZONET. Art and Letters, Vol. II. No. 1, page 46. 

April 6. *THE POETS' CORNER. Pall Mall Gazette, Vol. XLVII. No. 7193, page 3. 

April 14. *M. CARO ON GEORGE SAND. Pall Mall Gazette, Vol. XLVII. No. 7200, page 3. 

October 24. *THE POETS' CORNER. Pall Mall Gazette, Vol. XLVIII. No. 7365, page 5. 

November. A FASCINATING BOOK. A NOTE BY THE EDITOR. Woman's World, Vol. II. No. 13, page 53. 

November 2. *MR. MORRIS ON TAPESTRY. Pall Mall Gazette, Vol. XLVIII. No. 7373, page 6. 

November 9. *SCULPTURE AT THE 'ARTS AND CRAFTS. ' Pall Mall Gazette, Vol. XLVIII. No. 7379, page 3. 

November 16. *THE POETS' CORNER. Pall Mall Gazette, Vol. XLVIII. No. 7385, page 2. 

November 16. *PRINTING AND PRINTERS. Pall Mall Gazette, Vol. XLVIII. No. 7385, page 5. 

November 23. *THE BEAUTIES OF BOOKBINDING. Pall Mall Gazette, Vol. XLVIII. No. 7391, page 3. 

November 30. *THE CLOSE OF THE 'ARTS AND CRAFTS. ' Pall Mall Gazette, Vol. XLVIII. No. 7397, page 3. 

December. A NOTE ON SOME MODERN POETS. Woman's World, Vol. II. No. 14, page 108. 

December 8. ENGLISH POETESSES. Queen, Vol. LXXXIV. No. 2189, page 742. 

December 11. *SIR EDWIN ARNOLD'S LAST VOLUME. Pall Mall Gazette, Vol. XLVIII. No. 7046, page 3. 

December 14. *AUSTRALIAN POETS. Pall Mall Gazette, Vol. XLVIII. No. 7409, page 3. 

December. THE YOUNG KING. Illustrated by Bernard Partridge. Lady'sPictorial Christmas Number, page 1. 

1889

January. THE DECAY OF LYING: A DIALOGUE. Nineteenth Century, Vol. XXV. No. 143, page 35. 

January. PEN, PENCIL, AND POISON: A STUDY. Fortnightly Review, Vol. XLV. No. 265, page 41. 

January. LONDON MODELS. Illustrated by Harper Pennington. EnglishIllustrated Magazine, Vol. VI. No. 64, page 313. 

January. SOME LITERARY NOTES. Woman's World, Vol. II. No. 15, page 164. 

January 3. *POETRY AND PRISON. Pall Mall Gazette, Vol. XLIX. No. 7425, page 3. 

January 25. *THE GOSPEL ACCORDING TO WALT WHITMAN. Pall Mall Gazette, Vol. XLIX. No. 7444, page 3. 

January 26. *THE NEW PRESIDENT. Pall Mall Gazette, Vol. XLIX. No. 7445, page 3. 

February. SOME LITERARY NOTES. Woman's World, Vol. II. No. 16, page221. 

February. SYMPHONY IN YELLOW. Centennial Magazine (Sydney), Vol. II. No. 7, page 437. 

February 12. *ONE OF THE BIBLES OF THE WORLD. Pall Mall Gazette, Vol. XLIX. No. 7459, page 3. 

February 15. *POETICAL SOCIALISTS. Pall Mall Gazette, Vol. XLIX. No. 7462, page 3. 

February 27. *MR. BRANDER MATTHEWS' ESSAYS. Pall Mall Gazette, Vol. XLIX. No. 7472, page 3. 

March. SOME LITERARY NOTES. Woman's World, Vol. III. No. 17, page 277. 

March 2. *MR. WILLIAM MORRIS'S LAST BOOK. Pall Mall Gazette, Vol. XLIX. No. 7475, page 3. 

March 25. *ADAM LINDSAY GORDON. Pall Mall Gazette, Vol. XLIX. No. 7494, page 3. 

March 30. *THE POETS' CORNER. Pall Mall Gazette, Vol. XLIX. No. 7499, page 3. 

April. SOME LITERARY NOTES. Woman's World, Vol. II. No. 18, page 333. 

April 13. MR. FROUDE'S BLUE-BOOK. Pall Mall Gazette, Vol. XLIX. No. 7511, page 3. 

May. SOME LITERARY NOTES. Woman's World, Vol. Ii. No. 19, page 389. 

May 17. *OUIDA'S NEW NOVEL. Pall Mall Gazette, Vol. XLIX. No. 7539, page 3. 

June. SOME LITERARY NOTES. Woman's World, Vol. II. No. 20, page 446. 

June 5. *A THOUGHT-READER'S NOVEL. Pall Mall Gazette, Vol. XLIX. No. 7555, page 2. 

June 24. *THE POETS' CORNER. Pall Mall Gazette, Vol. XLIX. No. 7571, page 3. 

June 27. *MR. SWINBURNE'S LAST VOLUME. Pall Mall Gazette, Vol. XLIX. No. 7574, page 3. 

July. THE PORTRAIT OF MR. W. H. Blackwood's Edinburgh Magazine, Vol. CXLVI. No. 885, page 1. 

July 12. *THREE NEW POETS. Pall Mall Gazette, Vol. I. No. 7587, page 3. 

December. IN THE FOREST. Illustrated by Bernard Partridge. Lady'sPictorial Christmas Number, page 9. 

(Set to music by Edwin Tilden and published by Miles and Thompson, Boston, U. S. A. , 1891. )

1890

January 9. REPLY TO MR. WHISTLER. Truth, Vol. XXVII. No. 680, page 51. 

February 8. A CHINESE SAGE. Speaker, Vol. I. No. 6, page 144. 

March 22. MR. PATER'S LAST VOLUME. Speaker, Vol. I. No. 12, page 319. 

May 24. *PRIMAVERA. Pall Mall Gazette, Vol. LI. No. 7856, page 3. 

June 20. THE PICTURE OF DORIAN GRAY. Lippincott's Monthly Magazine(July), Vol. XLVI. No. 271, page 3. 

(Containing thirteen chapters only. )

June 26. MR. WILDE'S BAD CASE. St. James's Gazette, Vol. XX. No. 3135, page 4. 

June 27. MR. OSCAR WILDE AGAIN. St. James's Gazette, Vol. XX. No. 3136, page 5. 

June 28. MR. OSCAR WILDE'S DEFENCE. St. James's Gazette, Vol. XX. No. 3137, page 5. 

June 30. MR. OSCAR WILDE'S DEFENCE. St. James's Gazette, Vol. XX. No. 3138, page 5. 

July. THE TRUE FUNCTION AND VALUE OF CRITICISM; WITH SOME REMARKS ON THEIMPORTANCE OF DOING NOTHING: A DIALOGUE. Nineteenth Century, Vol. XXVIII. No. 161, page 123. 

July 2. 'DORIAN GRAY. ' Daily Chronicle and Clerkenwell News, No. 8830, page 5. 

July 12. MR. WILDE'S REJOINDER. Scots Observer, Vol. IV. No. 86, page201. 

August 2. ART AND MORALITY. Scots Observer, Vol. IV. No. 89, page 279. 

August 16. ART AND MORALITY. Scots Observer, Vol. IV. No. 91, page 332. 

September. THE TRUE FUNCTION AND VALUE OF CRITICISM; WITH SOME REMARKSON THE IMPORTANCE OF DOING NOTHING: A DIALOGUE (concluded). NineteenthCentury, Vol. XXVIII. No. 163, page 435. 

1891

February. THE SOUL OF MAN UNDER SOCIALISM. Fortnightly Review, Vol. XLIX. No. 290, page 292. 

March. A PREFACE TO 'DORIAN GRAY. ' Fortnightly Review, Vol. XLIX. No. 291, page 480. 

September 26. AN ANGLO-INDIAN'S COMPLAINT. Times, No. 33, 440, page 10. 

December 5. 'A HOUSE OF POMEGRANATES. ' Speaker, Vol. IV. No. 101, page682. 

December 11. MR. OSCAR WILDE'S 'HOUSE OF POMEGRANATES. ' Pall MallGazette, Vol. LIII. No. 8339, page 2. 

1892

February 20. PUPPETS AND ACTORS. Daily Telegraph, No. 11, 470, page 3. 

February 27. MR. OSCAR WILDE EXPLAINS. St. James's Gazette, Vol. XXIV. No. 3654, page 4. 

December 6. THE NEW REMORSE. Spirit Lamp, Vol. II. No. 4, page 97. 

1893

February 17. THE HOUSE OF JUDGMENT. Spirit Lamp, Vol. III. No. 2, page52. 

March 2. MR. OSCAR WILDE ON 'SALOME. ' Times, No. 33, 888, page 4. 

June 6. THE DISCIPLE. Spirit Lamp, Vol. IV. No. 2, page 49. 

TO MY WIFE: WITH A COPY OF MY POEMS; AND WITH A COPY OF 'THE HOUSE OFPOMEGRANATES. ' Book-Song, An Anthology of Poems of Books and Bookmenfrom Modern Authors. Edited by Gleeson White, pages 156, 157. London:Elliot Stock. 

[This was the first publication of these two poems. Anthologiescontaining reprints are not included in this list. ]

1894

January 15. LETTER TO THE PRESIDENT OF THE THIRTEEN CLUB. Times, No. 34, 161, page 7. 

July. POEMS IN PROSE. ('The Artist, ' 'The Doer of Good, ' 'TheDisciple, ' 'The Master, ' 'The House of Judgment. ') Fortnightly Review, Vol. LIV. No. 331, page 22. 

September 20. THE ETHICS OF JOURNALISM. Pall Mall Gazette, Vol. LIX. No. 9202, page 3. 

September 25. THE ETHICS OF JOURNALISM. Pall Mall Gazette, Vol. LIX. No. 9206, page 3. 

October 2. 'THE GREEN CARNATION. ' Pall Mall Gazette, Vol. LIX. No. 9212, page 3. 

December. PHRASES AND PHILOSOPHIES FOR THE USE OF THE YOUNG. Chameleon, Vol. I. No. 1, page 1. 

1895

April 6. LETTER ON THE QUEENSBERRY CASE. Evening News, No. 4226, page3. 

1897

May 28. THE CASE OF WARDER MARTIN. SOME CRUELTIES OF PRISON LIFE. DailyChronicle, No. 10, 992, page 9. 

1898

March 24. LETTER ON PRISON REFORM. Daily Chronicle, No. 11, 249, page 5. 

Footnotes. 

{0a} See Lord Arthur Savile's Crime and other Prose Pieces in thisedition, page 223. 

{3} Reverently some well-meaning persons have placed a marble slab onthe wall of the cemetery with a medallion-profile of Keats on it and somemediocre lines of poetry. The face is ugly, and rather hatchet-shaped, with thick sensual lips, and is utterly unlike the poet himself, who wasvery beautiful to look upon. 'His countenance, ' says a lady who saw himat one of Hazlitt's lectures, 'lives in my mind as one of singular beautyand brightness; it had the expression as if he had been looking on someglorious sight. ' And this is the idea which Severn's picture of himgives. Even Haydon's rough pen-and-ink sketch of him is better than this'marble libel, ' which I hope will soon be taken down. I think the bestrepresentation of the poet would be a coloured bust, like that of theyoung Rajah of Koolapoor at Florence, which is a lovely and lifelike workof art. 

{19} It is perhaps not generally known that there is another and olderpeacock ceiling in the world besides the one Mr. Whistler has done atKensington. I was surprised lately at Ravenna to come across a mosaicceiling done in the keynote of a peacock's tail--blue, green, purple, andgold--and with four peacocks in the four spandrils. Mr. Whistler wasunaware of the existence of this ceiling at the time he did his own. 

{43} An Unequal Match, by Tom Taylor, at Wallack's Theatre, New York, November 6, 1882. 

{74} 'Make' is of course a mere printer's error for 'mock, ' and wassubsequently corrected by Lord Houghton. The sonnet as given in TheGarden of Florence reads 'orbs' for 'those. '

{158} September 1890. See Intentions, page 214. 

{163} November 30, 1891. 

{164} February 12, 1892. 

{170} February 23, 1893. 

{172} The verses called 'The Shamrock' were printed in the Sunday Sun, August 5, 1894, and the charge of plagiarism was made in the issue datedSeptember 16, 1894. 

{188} Cousin errs a good deal in this respect. To say, as he did, 'Giveme the latitude and the longitude of a country, its rivers and itsmountains, and I will deduce the race, ' is surely a glaring exaggeration. 

{190} The monarchical, aristocratical, and democratic elements of theRoman constitution are referred to. 

{193a} Polybius, vi. 9. [Greek]. 

{193b} [Greek]. 

{193c} The various stages are [Greek]. 

{197a} Polybius, xii. 24. 

{197b} Polybius, i. 4, viii. 4, specially; and really passim. 

{198a} He makes one exception. 

{198b} Polybius, viii. 4. 

{199} Polybius, xvi. 12. 

{200a} Polybius, viii. 4: [Greek]. 

{200b} Polybius resembled Gibbon in many respects. Like him he heldthat all religions were to the philosopher equally false, to the vulgarequally true, to the statesman equally useful. 

{203} Cf. Polybius, xii. 25, [Greek]. 

{205} Polybius, xxii. 22. 

{207} I mean particularly as regards his sweeping denunciation of thecomplete moral decadence of Greek society during the Peloponnesian Warwhich, from what remains to us of Athenian literature, we know must havebeen completely exaggerated. Or, rather, he is looking at men merely intheir political dealings: and in politics the man who is personallyhonourable and refined will not scruple to do anything for his party. 

{211} Polybius, xii. 25. 

{253} As an instance of the inaccuracy of published reports of thislecture, it may be mentioned that all previous versions give this passageas The artist may trace the depressed revolution of Bunthorne simply tothe lack of technical means!

{317} The Two Paths, Lect. III. P. 123 (1859 ed. ). 

{328a} Edition for Continental circulation only. Leipzig: BernhardTauchnitz, vol. 4056. 1908 (August). 

{328b} Edition for Continental circulation only. Leipzig: BernhardTauchnitz, vol. 4056. 1908 (August).