art resembles him even more
than your genius: you have the same noble enthusiasm for your sublime
profession; the same lofty freedom from envy, and the spirit that
depreciates; the same generous desire not to war with but to serve
artists in your art; aiding, strengthening, advising, elevating the
timidity of inexperience, and the vague aspirations of youth. By
the intuition of a kindred mind, you have equalled the learning
of Winckelman, and the plastic poetry of Goethe, in the intimate
comprehension of the antique. Each work of yours, rightly studied, is in
itself a CRITICISM, illustrating the sublime secrets of the Grecian
Art, which, without the servility of plagiarism, you have contributed to
revive amongst us; in you we behold its three great and long-undetected
principles,--simplicity, calm, and concentration.

But your admiration of the Greeks has not led you to the bigotry of
the mere antiquarian, nor made you less sensible of the unappreciated
excellence of the mighty modern, worthy to be your countryman,--though
till his statue is in the streets of our capital, we show ourselves not
worthy of the glory he has shed upon our land. You have not suffered
even your gratitude to Canova to blind you to the superiority of
Flaxman. When we become sensible of our title-deeds to renown in that
single name, we may look for an English public capable of real patronage
to English Art,--and not till then.

I, artist in words, dedicate, then, to you, artist whose ideas speak in
marble, this well-loved work of my matured manhood. I love it not the
less because it has been little understood and superficially judged
by the common herd: it was not meant for them. I love it not the more
because it has found enthusiastic favorers amongst the Few. My affection
for my work is rooted in the solemn and pure delight which it gave me
to conceive and to perform. If I had graven it on the rocks of a desert,
this apparition of my own innermost mind, in its least-clouded moments,
would have been to me as dear; and this ought, I believe, to be the
sentiment with which he whose Art is born of faith in the truth and
beauty of the principles he seeks to illustrate, should regard his work.
Your serener existence, uniform and holy, my lot denies,--if my heart
covets. But our true nature is in our thoughts, not our deeds: and
therefore, in books--which ARE his thoughts--the author's character lies
bare to the discerning eye. It is not in the life