ne that they find an expression of their most intimate
and mysterious feelings; and, though they miss, not utterly but to some
extent, the best that art has to give, if of art they make a religion I
do not blame them.

In the days of Alexander Severus there lived at Rome a Greek freed man.
As he was a clever craftsman his lot was not hard. His body was secure,
his belly full, his hands and brain pleasantly busy. He lived amongst
intelligent people and handsome objects, permitting himself such
reasonable emotions as were recommended by his master, Epicurus. He
awoke each morning to a quiet day of ordered satisfaction, the
prescribed toll of unexacting labour, a little sensual pleasure, a
little rational conversation, a cool argument, a judicious appreciation
of all that the intellect can apprehend. Into this existence burst
suddenly a cranky fanatic, with a religion. To the Greek it seemed that
the breath of life had blown through the grave, imperial streets. Yet
nothing in Rome was changed, save one immortal, or mortal, soul. The
same waking eyes opened on the same objects; yet all was changed; all
was charged with meaning. New things existed. Everything mattered. In
the vast equality of religious emotion the Greek forgot his status and
his nationality. His life became a miracle and an ecstasy. As a lover
awakes, he awoke to a day full of consequence and delight. He had learnt
to feel; and, because to feel a man must live, it was good to be alive.
I know an erudite and intelligent man, a man whose arid life had been
little better than one long cold in the head, for whom that madman, Van
Gogh, did nothing less.

FOOTNOTES:

[Footnote 23: Need I say that this list is not intended to be
exhaustive? It is merely representative.]

[Footnote 24: Let us hope that it will. There certainly are ominous
signs of academization amongst the minor men of the movement. There is
the beginning of a tendency to regard certain simplifications and
distortions as ends in themselves and party badges. There is some danger
of an attempt to impose a formula on the artist's individuality. At
present the infection has not spread far, and the disease has taken a
mild form.]

[Footnote 25: Of course there are some good artists alive who owe
nothing to Cezanne. Fortunately two of Cezanne's contemporaries, Degas
and Renoir, are still at work. Also there are a few who belong to the
older movement, _e.g._ Mr. Walter Sickert, M. Simon Bussy, M. Vui