es. For what
instantly delights the eye may never win its way into the heart, and
what repels at first may steal later on into the understanding, and find
its interpretation in a deeper mood. The final test of a picture, or of
any work of art, is its power of enduring charm. There are many circles
in the Paradise of Beautiful Memories, and half unconsciously, but with
a justice, we at last place each in its hierarchy, remote or near to
the centre of our being; and I propose here rather to speak of the
impression left in my memory after seeing the work of Yeats and Hone
for many years, than to describe in detail the pictures--some new,
some familiar--which by a happy thought have been gathered together for
exhibition. To tell an artist that you remember his pictures with
love after many years is the highest praise you can give him; and to
distinguish the impression produced from others is a pleasure I am glad
to be here allowed.

An artist like Mr. Yeats, whose main work has been in portraiture, must
often find himself before sitters with whom he has little sympathy, and
we all expect to find portraits which do not interest us, because the
interpreter has been at fault, and has failed in his vision. With the
born craftsman, who always gives us beautiful brushwork, we do not
expect these inequalities, but with Mr. Yeats technical power is not the
most prominent characteristic. He broods or dreams over his sitters,
and his meditation always tends to the discovery of some spiritual
or intellectual life in them, or some hidden charm in the nature, or
something to love; and if he finds what he seeks, we are sure, not
always of a complete picture, but of a poetic illumination, a revelation
of character, a secret sweetness for which we forgive the weakness or
indecision manifest here and there, and which are relics of the hours
before the final surety was attained.

I do not know what Mr. Yeats' philosophy of life is, but in his work
he has been over-mastered by the spirit of his race, and he belongs to
those who from the earliest dawn of Ireland have sought for the Heart's
Desire, and who have refined away the world, until only fragments
remained to them. They have not accepted life as it is, and Mr. Yeats
could not paint like Reynolds or Romney the beauty of every day in its
best attire. He is like the Irish poets who have rarely left a complete
description of women, but who speak of some transitory motion or fragile
charm-