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profound joy of motion; is so sweet that; while the incomplete

lives of ordinary men bring no healing power with them; the thorn…

crown of the poet will blossom into roses for our pleasure; for our

delight his despair will gild its own thorns; and his pain; like

Adonis; be beautiful in its agony; and when the poet's heart breaks

it will break in music。



And health in art … what is that?  It has nothing to do with a sane

criticism of life。  There is more health in Baudelaire than there

is in 'Kingsley'。  Health is the artist's recognition of the

limitations of the form in which he works。  It is the honour and

the homage which he gives to the material he uses … whether it be

language with its glories; or marble or pigment with their glories

… knowing that the true brotherhood of the arts consists not in

their borrowing one another's method; but in their producing; each

of them by its own individual means; each of them by keeping its

objective limits; the same unique artistic delight。  The delight is

like that given to us by music … for music is the art in which form

and matter are always one; the art whose subject cannot be

separated from the method of its expression; the art which most

completely realises the artistic ideal; and is the condition to

which all the other arts are constantly aspiring。



And criticism … what place is that to have in our culture?  Well; I

think that the first duty of an art critic is to hold his tongue at

all times; and upon all subjects:  C'EST UN GRAND 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 any

knowledge of the quality of created things。  You have listened to

PATIENCE for a hundred nights and you have heard me for one only。

It will make; no doubt; that satire more piquant by knowing

something about the subject of it; but you must not judge of

aestheticism by the satire of Mr。 Gilbert。  As little should you

judge of the strength and splendour of sun or sea by the dust that

dances in the beam; or the bubble that breaks on the wave; as take

your critic for any sane test of art。  For the artists; like the

Greek gods; are revealed only to one another; as Emerson says

somewhere; their real value and place time only can show。  In this

respect also omnipotence is with the ages。  The true critic

addresses not the artist ever but the public only。  His work lies

with them。  Art can never have any other claim but her own

perfection:  it is for the critic to create for art the social aim;

too; by teaching the people the spirit in which they are to

approach all artistic work; the love 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 modern

progress and civilisation; and to make herself the mouthpiece for

the voice of humanity; these appeals to art 'to have a mission;'

are appeals which should be made to the public。  The art which has

fulfilled the conditions of beauty has fulfilled all conditions:

it is for the critic to teach the people how to find in the calm of

such art the highest expression of their own most stormy passions。

'I have no reverence;' said Keats; 'for the public; nor for

anything in existence but the Eternal Being; the memory of great

men and the principle of Beauty。'



Such then is the principle which I believe to be guiding and

underlying our English Renaissance; a Renaissance many…sided and

wonderful; productive of strong ambitions and lofty personalities;

yet for all its splendid achievements in poetry and in the

decorative arts and in painting; for all the increased comeliness

and grace of dress; and the furniture of houses and the like; not

complete。  For there can be no great sculpture without a beautiful

national life; and the commercial spirit of England has killed

that; no great drama without a noble national life; and the

commercial spirit of England has killed that too。



It is not that the flawless serenity of marble cannot bear the

burden of the modern intellectual spirit; or become instinct with

the fire of romantic passion … the tomb of Duke Lorenzo and the

chapel of the Medici show us that … but it is that; as Theophile

Gautier used to say; the visible world is dead; LE MONDE VISIBLE A

DISPARU。



Nor is it again that the novel has killed the play; as some critics

would persuade us … the romantic movement of France shows us that。

The work of Balzac and of Hugo grew up side by side together; nay;

more; were complementary to each other; though neither of them saw

it。  While all other forms of poetry may flourish in an ignoble

age; the splendid individualism of the lyrist; fed by its own

passion; and lit by its own power; may pass as a pillar of fire as

well across the desert as across places that are pleasant。  It is

none the less glorious though no man follow it … nay; by the

greater sublimity of its loneliness it may be quickened into

loftier utterance and intensified into clearer song。  From the mean

squalor of the sordid life that limits him; the dreamer or the

idyllist may soar on poesy's viewless wings; may traverse with

fawn…skin and spear the moonlit heights of Cithaeron though Faun

and Bassarid dance there no more。  Like Keats he may wander through

the old…world forests of Latmos; or stand like Morris on the

galley's deck with the Viking when king and galley have long since

passed away。  But the drama is the meeting…place of art and life;

it deals; as Mazzini said; not merely with man; but with social

man; with man in his relation to God and to Humanity。  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 the

age of Elizabeth in London and of Pericles at Athens; it is part of

such lofty moral and spiritual ardour as came to Greek after the

defeat of the Persian fleet; and to Englishman after the wreck of

the Armada of Spain。



Shelley felt how incomplete our movement was in this respect; and

has shown in one great tragedy by what terror and pity he would

have purified our age; but in spite of THE CENCI the drama is one

of the artistic forms through which the genius of the England of

this century seeks in vain to find outlet and expression。  He has

had no worthy imitators。



It is rather; perhaps; to you that we should turn to complete and

perfect this great movement of ours; for there is something

Hellenic in your air and world; something that has a quicker breath

of the joy and power of Elizabeth's England about it than our

ancient civilisation can give us。  For you; at least; are young;

'no hungry generations tread you down;' and the past does not weary

you with the intolerable burden of its memories nor mock you with

the ruins of a beauty; the secret of whose creation you have lost。

That very absence of tradition; which Mr。 Ruskin thought would 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 the movements of animals; and the unimpeachableness of the

sentiment of trees in the woods and grass by the roadside; has been

defined by one of your poets as a flawless triumph of art。  It is a

triumph which you above all nations may be destined to achieve。

For the voices that have their dwelling in sea and mountain are not

the chosen music of Liberty only; other messages are there in the

wonder of wind…swept height and the majesty of silent deep …

messages that; if you will but listen to them; may yield you the

splendour of some new imagination; the marvel of some new beauty。



'I foresee;' said Goethe; 'the dawn of a new literature which all

people may 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 as that of Europe lie all around you; what

profit; you will ask me; will all this study of our poets and

painters be to you?  I might answer that the intellect can be

engaged without direct didactic object on an artistic and

historical problem; that the demand of the intellect is merely to

feel itself alive; that nothing which has ever interested men or

women can cease to be a fit subject for culture。



I might remind you of what all Europe owes to the sorrow of a

single Florentine in exile at Verona; or to the love of Petrarch by

that little well in Southern France; nay; more; how even in this

dull; materialistic age the simple expression of an old man's

simple life; passed away from the clamour of great cities amid the

lakes and misty hills of Cumberland; has opened out for England

treasures of new joy compared with which the treasures of her

luxury are as barren as the sea which she has made her highway; and

as bitter as the fire which she would make her slave。



But I think it wi

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