see, and Nature, who, for once, has
sung in tune, sings her exquisite song to the artist alone, her son
and her master--her son in that he loves her, her master in that he
knows her.

To him her secrets are unfolded, to him her lessons have become
gradually clear. He looks at her flower, not with the enlarging lens,
that he may gather facts for the botanist, but with the light of the
one who sees in her choice selection of brilliant tones and delicate
tints, suggestions of future harmonies.

He does not confine himself to purposeless copying, without thought,
each blade of grass, as commended by the inconsequent, but, in the
long curve of the narrow leaf, corrected by the straight tall stem, he
learns how grace is wedded to dignity, how strength enhances
sweetness, that elegance shall be the result.

In the citron wing of the pale butterfly, with its dainty spots of
orange, he sees before him the stately halls of fair gold, with their
slender saffron pillars, and is taught how the delicate drawing high
upon the walls shall be traced in tender tones of orpiment, and
repeated by the base in notes of graver hue.

In all that is dainty and lovable he finds hints for his own
combinations, and thus is Nature ever his resource and always at his
service, and to him is naught refused.

Through his brain, as through the last alembic, is distilled the
refined essence of that thought which began with the Gods, and which
they left him to carry out.

Set apart by them to complete their works, he produces that
wondrous thing called the masterpiece, which surpasses in perfection
all that they have contrived in what is called Nature; and the Gods
stand by and marvel, and perceive how far away more beautiful is the
Venus of Melos than was their own Eve.

* * * * *

For some time past, the unattached writer has become the middleman in
this matter of Art, and his influence, while it has widened the gulf
between the people and the painter, has brought about the most
complete misunderstanding as to the aim of the picture.

For him a picture is more or less a hieroglyph or symbol of
story. Apart from a few technical terms, for the display of which
he finds an occasion, the work is considered absolutely from a
literary point of view; indeed, from what other can he consider
it? And in his essays he deals with it as with a novel--a
history--or an anecdote. He fails entirely and most naturally to
see i