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be reproduced＇； as Homer calls it； copper…prowed and streaked with
vermilion； the great galleys of the Danaoi came in their gleaming
crescent； the lonely tunny…fisher sits in his little boat and
watches the bobbing corks of his net。 Yet； every morning the doors
of the city are thrown open； and on foot； or in horse…drawn chariot；
the warriors go forth to battle； and mock their enemies from behind
their iron masks。 All day long the fight rages； and when night
comes the torches gleam by the tents； and the cresset burns in the
hall。 Those who live in marble or on painted panel； know of life
but a single exquisite instant； eternal indeed in its beauty； but
limited to one note of passion or one mood of calm。 Those whom the
poet makes live have their myriad emotions of joy and terror； of
courage and despair； of pleasure and of suffering。 The seasons come
and go in glad or saddening pageant； and with winged or leaden feet
the years pass by before them。 They have their youth and their
manhood； they are children； and they grow old。 It is always dawn
for St。 Helena； as Veronese saw her at the window。 Through the
still morning air the angels bring her the symbol of God's pain。
The cool breezes of the morning lift the gilt threads from her brow。
On that little hill by the city of Florence； where the lovers of
Giorgione are lying； it is always the solstice of noon； of noon made
so languorous by summer suns that hardly can the slim naked girl dip
into the marble tank the round bubble of clear glass； and the long
fingers of the lute…player rest idly upon the chords。 It is
twilight always for the dancing nymphs whom Corot set free among the
silver poplars of France。 In eternal twilight they move； those
frail diaphanous figures； whose tremulous white feet seem not to
touch the dew…drenched grass they tread on。 But those who walk in
epos； drama； or romance； see through the labouring months the young
moons wax and wane； and watch the night from evening unto morning
star； and from sunrise unto sunsetting can note the shifting day
with all its gold and shadow。 For them； as for us； the flowers
bloom and wither； and the Earth； that Green…tressed Goddess as
Coleridge calls her； alters her raiment for their pleasure。 The
statue is concentrated to one moment of perfection。 The image
stained upon the canvas possesses no spiritual element of growth or
change。 If they know nothing of death； it is because they know
little of life； for the secrets of life and death belong to those；
and those only； whom the sequence of time affects； and who possess
not merely the present but the future； and can rise or fall from a
past of glory or of shame。 Movement； that problem of the visible
arts； can be truly realised by Literature alone。 It is Literature
that shows us the body in its swiftness and the soul in its unrest。…
…The Critic as Artist
THE CRITIC AND HIS MATERIAL
Who cares whether Mr。 Ruskin's views on Turner are sound or not？
What does it matter？ That mighty and majestic prose of his； so
fervid and so fiery…coloured in its noble eloquence； so rich in its
elaborate symphonic music； so sure and certain； at its best； in
subtle choice of word and epithet； is at least as great a work of
art as any of those wonderful sunsets that bleach or rot on their
corrupted canvases in England's Gallery； greater indeed； one is apt
to think at times； not merely because its equal beauty is more
enduring； but on account of the fuller variety of its appeal； soul
speaking to soul in those long…cadenced lines； not through form and
colour alone； though through these； indeed； completely and without
loss； but with intellectual and emotional utterance； with lofty
passion and with loftier thought； with imaginative insight； and with
poetic aim； greater； I always think； even as Literature is the
greater art。 Who； again； cares whether Mr。 Pater has put into the
portrait of Monna Lisa something that Lionardo never dreamed of？
The painter may have been merely the slave of an archaic smile； as
some have fancied； but whenever I pass into the cool galleries of
the Palace of the Louvre； and stand before that strange figure 'set
in its marble chair in that cirque of fantastic rocks； as in some
faint light under sea；' I murmur to myself； 'She is older than the
rocks among which she sits； like the vampire； she has been dead many
times； and learned the secrets of the grave； and has been a diver in
deep seas； and keeps their fallen day about her： and trafficked for
strange webs with Eastern merchants； and； as Leda； was the mother of
Helen of Troy； and； as St。 Anne； the mother of Mary； and all this
has been to her but as the sound of lyres and flutes； and lives only
in the delicacy with which it has moulded the changing lineaments；
and tinged the eyelids and the hands。' And I say to my friend； 'The
presence that thus so strangely rose beside the waters is expressive
of what in the ways of a thousand years man had come to desire'； and
he answers me； 'Hers is the head upon which all 〃the ends of the
world are come；〃 and the eyelids are a little weary。'
And so the picture becomes more wonderful to us than it really is；
and reveals to us a secret of which； in truth； it knows nothing； and
the music of the mystical prose is as sweet in our ears as was that
flute…player's music that lent to the lips of La Gioconda those
subtle and poisonous curves。 Do you ask me what Lionardo would have
said had any one told him of this picture that 'all the thoughts and
experience of the world had etched and moulded therein that which
they had of power to refine and make expressive the outward form；
the animalism of Greece； the lust of Rome； the reverie of the Middle
Age with its spiritual ambition and imaginative loves； the return of
the Pagan world； the sins of the Borgias？' He would probably have
answered that he had contemplated none of these things； but had
concerned himself simply with certain arrangements of lines and
masses； and with new and curious colour…harmonies of blue and green。
And it is for this very reason that the criticism which I have
quoted is criticism of the highest kind。 It treats the work of art
simply as a starting…point for a new creation。 It does not confine
itselflet us at least suppose so for the momentto discovering
the real intention of the artist and accepting that as final。 And
in this it is right； for the meaning of any beautiful created thing
is； at least； as much in the soul of him who looks at it； as it was
in his soul who wrought it。 Nay； it is rather the beholder who
lends to the beautiful thing its myriad meanings； and makes it
marvellous for us； and sets it in some new relation to the age； so
that it becomes a vital portion of our lives； and a symbol of what
we pray for； or perhaps of what； having prayed for； we fear that we
may receive。The Critic as Artist
DANTE THE LIVING GUIDE
There is no mood or