s right, there will always be found some
compensating reaction in another sphere of intellectual activity which is
in process of development; and through which, by some divine alchemy,
providence, or nature, call it what you will, a new manifestation will be
made to the world. The arts which we suppose to have perished, of which,
indeed, we write affecting epitaphs, are merely hibernating; the
intellect which is necessary for their production and nutrition is simply
otherwise employed; while, of course, you must make allowances for the
appreciations of posterity, change of fashion and taste. From the middle
of the sixteenth century down to nearly the middle of the nineteenth, the
Middle Ages were always thought of as the Dark Ages. Scarcely any one
could appreciate either the pictorial art or architecture of mediaevalism;
those who did so always had to apologise for their predilection. The
wonders of Gothic art were furtively relished by a few antiquaries; and,
at certain periods, by men like Beckford and Walpole, as agreeable
drawing-room curiosities. The Romantic movement commenced by Chatterton
enabled us to revise a limited and narrow view, based on insufficient
information. It was John Ruskin, in England, who made us see what a
splendid heritage the Middle Ages had bequeathed to us. Ruskin and his
disciples then fell into the error of turning the tables on the
Renaissance, and regarded everything that deviated from Gothic convention
as _debased_; the whole art of the eighteenth century was anathema to
them. The decadence began, according to Ruskin, with Raphael. Out of
that ingenious error, or synchronous with it, began the brilliant
movement of the Pre-Raphaelites in the middle of the last century. And
when the Pre-Raphaelites appeared, every one said the end of Art had
arrived. Dickens openly attacked them; Thackeray ridiculed the new
tendencies; every one, great and small, spoke of decay and decline. The
French word _Decadence_ had not crept into use. However, the weary Titan
staggered on, as Matthew Arnold said, and when Mr. Whistler's art dawned
on the horizon, Ruskin was among the first to see in it signs of decay.
Except the poetry of Swinburne, never has any art met with such abuse. An
example of the immortal painter now adorns the National Gallery of
_British_ painting, which is cared for--oh, irony of circumstances--by
one of the first prophets of impressionism in this country, or, rather,
let