is the great and universal refreshment. For Art is never
dogmatic; holds no brief for itself you may take it or you may leave it.
It does not force itself rudely where it is not wanted. It is reverent
to all tempers, to all points of view. But it is wilful--the very wind
in the comings and goings of its influence, an uncapturable fugitive,
visiting our hearts at vagrant, sweet moments; since we often stand even
before the greatest works of Art without being able quite to lose
ourselves! That restful oblivion comes, we never quite know when--and it
is gone! But when it comes, it is a spirit hovering with cool wings,
blessing us from least to greatest, according to our powers; a spirit
deathless and varied as human life itself.

And in what sort of age--I thought--are artists living now? Are
conditions favourable? Life is very multiple; full of "movements,"
"facts," and "news"; with the limelight terribly turned on--and all this
is adverse to the artist. Yet, leisure is abundant; the facilities for
study great; Liberty is respected--more or less. But, there is one great
reason why, in this age of ours, Art, it seems, must flourish. For, just
as cross-breeding in Nature--if it be not too violent--often gives an
extra vitality to the offspring, so does cross-breeding of philosophies
make for vitality in Art. I cannot help thinking that historians,
looking back from the far future, will record this age as the Third
Renaissance. We who are lost in it, working or looking on, can neither
tell what we are doing, nor where standing; but we cannot help observing,
that, just as in the Greek Renaissance, worn-out Pagan orthodoxy was
penetrated by new philosophy; just as in the Italian Renaissance, Pagan
philosophy, reasserting itself, fertilised again an already too inbred
Christian creed; so now Orthodoxy fertilised by Science is producing a
fresh and fuller conception of life--a, love of Perfection, not for hope
of reward, not for fear of punishment, but for Perfection's sake. Slowly,
under our feet, beneath our consciousness, is forming that new
philosophy, and it is in times of new philosophies that Art, itself in
essence always a discovery, must flourish. Those whose sacred suns and
moons are ever in the past, tell us that our Art is going to the dogs;
and it is, indeed, true that we are in confusion! The waters are broken,
and every nerve and sinew of the artist is strained to discover his own
safety. It is an ag