of thought, the amount of feeling, proper to
noble humanity, which we find adequately expressed in beautiful
aesthetic symbols. And the man who shall pronounce this verdict is, now
as in the days of Aristotle, the man of enlightened intelligence, sound
in his own nature and open to ideas. Even his verdict will not be final;
for no one is wholly free from partialities due to the age in which he
lives, and to his special temperament. Still, a consensus of such
verdicts eventually forms that voice of the people which, according to
an old proverb, is the voice of God. Slowly, and after many successive
siftings, the cumulative votes of the _phronimoi_ decide. Insurgents
against their judgment, in the case of acknowledged masters like
Pheidias, Michelangelo, Shakespeare, are doomed to final defeat, because
this judgment is really based upon abiding relations between art and
human nature.

Our hope with regard to the unity of taste in the future then is, that,
all sentimental or academical seekings after the ideal having been
abandoned, momentary theories founded upon idiosyncratic or temporary
partialities exploded, and nothing accepted but what is solid and
positive, the scientific spirit shall make men progressively more and
more conscious of those _bleibende Verhaeltnisse_, more and more capable
of living in the whole; also that, in proportion as we gain a firmer
hold upon our own place in the world, we shall come to comprehend with
more instinctive certitude what is simple, natural, and honest,
welcoming with gladness all artistic products that exhibit these
qualities. The perception of the enlightened man will then be the taste
of a healthy person who has made himself acquainted with the laws of
evolution in art and in society, and is able to test the excellence of
work in any stage, from immaturity to decadence, by discerning what
there is of truth, sincerity, and natural vigor in it.

This digression was forced upon me by the difficulty of properly
appreciating the Bolognese Eclectics now. What would be the amused
astonishment of Sir Joshua Reynolds, if he returned to London at the
present moment, and beheld the Dagon of his esteemed Caracci dashed to
pieces by the ark of Botticelli--Carpaccio enthroned--Raffaello
stigmatized as the stone of stumbling and the origin of evil? Yet
Reynolds had as good a right to his opinion as any living master of the
brush, or any living masters of language. There is no doubt that the