at is why no mind is more valuable than
the images it contains. The imaginative writer differs from the saint in
that he identifies himself--to the neglect of his own soul, alas!--with
the soul of the world, and frees himself from all that is impermanent in
that soul, an ascetic not of women and wine, but of the newspapers. That
which is permanent in the soul of the world upon the other hand, the
great passions that trouble all and have but a brief recurring life of
flower and seed in any man, is the renunciation of the saint who seeks
not an eternal art, but his own eternity. The artist stands between the
saint and the world of impermanent things, and just in so far as his
mind dwells on what is impermanent in his sense, on all that 'modern
experience and the discussion of our interests,' that is to say, on what
never recurs, as desire and hope, terror and weariness, spring and
autumn, recur in varying rhythms, will his mind become critical, as
distinguished from creative, and his emotions wither. He will think less
of what he sees and more of his own attitude towards it, and will
express this attitude by an essentially critical selection and emphasis.
I am not quite sure of my memory, but I think that Mr. Ricketts has said
in his book on the Prado that he feels the critic in Velasquez for the
first time in painting, and we all feel the critic in Whistler and
Degas, in Browning, even in Mr. Swinburne, in the finest art of all ages
but the greatest. The end for art is the ecstasy awakened by the
presence before an ever-changing mind of what is permanent in the world,
or by the arousing of that mind itself into the very delicate and
fastidious mood habitual with it when it is seeking those permanent and
recurring things. There is a little of both ecstasies at all times, but
at this time we have a small measure of the creative impulse itself, of
the divine vision, a great one of 'the lost traveller's dream under the
hill,' perhaps because all the old simple things have been painted or
written, and they will only have meaning for us again when a new race or
a new civilisation has made us look upon all with new eyesight.

IN THE SERPENT'S MOUTH

There is an old saying that God is a circle whose centre is everywhere.
If that is true, the saint goes to the centre, the poet and artist to
the ring where everything comes round again. The poet must not seek for
what is still and fixed, for that has no life for him; and if he di