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less likely to forget form in feeling or to accept the passion of
creation as any substitute for the beauty of the created thing。
The artist is indeed the child of his own age； but the present will
not be to him a whit more real than the past； for； like the
philosopher of the Platonic vision； the poet is the spectator of
all time and of all existence。 For him no form is obsolete； no
subject out of date； rather； whatever of life and passion the world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 or in Arcadian valley； by the rivers
of Troy or the rivers of Damascus； in the crowded and hideous
streets of a modern city or by the pleasant ways of Camelot … all
lies before him like an open scroll； all is still instinct with
beautiful life。 He will take of it what is salutary for his own
spirit； no more； choosing some facts and rejecting others with the
calm artistic control of one who is in possession of the secret of
beauty。
There is indeed a poetical attitude to be adopted towards all
things； but all things are not fit subjects for poetry。 Into the
secure and sacred house of Beauty the true artist will admit
nothing that is harsh or disturbing； nothing that gives pain；
nothing that is debatable； nothing about which men argue。 He can
steep himself； if he wishes； in the discussion of all the social
problems of his day； poor…laws and local taxation； free trade and
bimetallic currency； and the like； but when he writes on these
subjects it will be； as Milton nobly expressed it； with his left
hand； in prose and not in verse； in a pamphlet and not in a lyric。
This exquisite spirit of artistic choice was not in Byron：
Wordsworth had it not。 In the work of both these men there is much
that we have to reject； much that does not give us that sense of
calm and perfect 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 A GRECIAN URN it found its most secure and
faultless expression； in the pageant of the EARTHLY PARADISE and
the knights and ladies of Burne…Jones it is the one dominant note。
It is to no avail that the Muse of Poetry be called； even by such a
clarion note as Whitman's； to migrate from Greece and Ionia and to
placard 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；
the Sphinx is not yet silent； nor the fountain of Castaly dry。 For
art is very life itself and knows nothing of death； she is absolute
truth and takes no care of fact； she sees （as I remember Mr。
Swinburne insisting on at dinner） that Achilles is even now more
actual and real than Wellington； not merely more noble and
interesting as a type and figure but more positive and real。
Literature must rest always on a principle； and temporal
considerations are 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 is inept； no past or present
preferable。 The steam whistle will not affright him nor the flutes
of Arcadia weary him： for him there is but one time； the artistic
moment； but one law； the law of form； but one land； the land of
Beauty … a land removed indeed from the real world and yet more
sensuous because more enduring； calm； yet with that calm which
dwells in the faces of the Greek statues； the calm which comes not
from the rejection but from the absorption of passion； the calm
which despair and sorrow cannot disturb but intensify only。 And so
it comes that he who 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 of
ecstasy； those mighty…limbed and Titan prophets； labouring with the
secret of the earth and the burden of mystery； that guard and
glorify the chapel of Pope Sixtus at Rome … do they not tell us
more of the real spirit of the Italian Renaissance； of the dream of
Savonarola and of the sin of Borgia； than all the brawling boors
and cooking women of Dutch art can teach us of the real spirit of
the history of Holland？
And so in our own day； also； the two most vital tendencies of the
nineteenth century … the democratic and pantheistic tendency and
the tendency to value life for the sake of art … found their most
complete and perfect utterance in the poetry of Shelley and Keats
who； to the blind eyes of their own time； seemed to be as wanderers
in the wilderness； preachers of vague or unreal things。 And I
remember once； in talking to Mr。 Burne…Jones about modern science；
his saying to me； 'the more materialistic science becomes； the more
angels shall I paint： their wings are my protest in favour of the
immortality of the soul。'
But these are the intellectual speculations that underlie art。
Where in the arts themselves are we to find that breadth of human
sympathy which is the condition of all noble work； where in the
arts are we to look for what Mazzini would call the social ideas as
opposed to the merely personal ideas？ By virtue of what claim do I
demand for the artist the love and loyalty of the men and women of
the world？ I think I can answer that。
Whatever spiritual message an artist brings to his aid is a matter
for his own soul。 He may bring judgment like Michael Angelo or
peace like Angelico； he may come with mourning like the great
Athenian or with mirth like the singer of Sicily； nor is it for us
to do aught but accept his teaching； knowing that we cannot smite
the bitter lips of Leopardi into laughter or burden with our
discontent Goethe's serene calm。 But for warrant of its truth such
message must have the flame of eloquence in the lips that speak it；
splendour and glory in the vision that is its witness； being
justified by one thing only … the flawless beauty and perfect form
of its expression： this indeed being the social idea； being the
meaning of joy in art。
Not laughter where none should laugh； nor the calling of peace
where there is no peace； not in painting the subject ever； but the
pictorial charm only； the wonder of its colour； the satisfying
beauty of its design。
You have most of you seen； probably； that great masterpiece of
Rubens which hangs in the gallery of Brussels； that swift and
wonderful pageant of horse and rider arrested in its most exquisite
and fiery moment when the winds are caught in crimson banner and
the air lit by the gleam of armour and the flash of plume。 Well；
that is joy in art； though that golden hillside be trodden by the
wounded feet of Christ and it is for the death of the Son of Man
that that gorgeous cavalcade is passing。
But this restless modern intellectual spirit of ours is not
receptive enough of the sensuous element of art； and so the real
influence of the arts is hidden from many of us： only a few；
escaping from the tyranny of the soul； have learned the secret of
those high hours when thought is not。
And this indeed is the reason of the influence which Eastern art is
having on us in Europe； and of the fascination of all Japanese
work。 While the Western world has been laying on art the
intolerable burden of its 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 and completely gratified by the splendid curves of those
marble lips that are dumb to our complaint； the noble modelling of
those limbs that are powerless to help us。 In its primary aspect a
painting has no more spiritual message or meaning than an exquisite
fragment of Venetian glass or a blue tile from the wall of
Damascus： it is a beautifully coloured surface； nothing more。 The
channels by which all noble imaginative work in painting should
touch； and do touch the soul； are not those of the truths of life；
nor metaphysical truths。 But that pictorial charm which does not
depend on any literary reminiscence for its effect on the one hand；
nor is yet a mere result of communicable technical skill on the
other； comes of a certain inventive and creative handling of
colour。 Nearly always in Dutch painting and often in the works of
Giorgione or Titian； it is entirely independent of anything
definitely poetical in the subject； a kind of form and choice in
workmanship which is itself entirely 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；
comes never from the subject but from an inventive handling of
rhythmical language； from what Keats called the 'sensuous life of
verse。' The element of song in the singing accompanied by the
profound joy of motion； is so sweet that； while the incomplete