joice; not
caring in the least to hear lectures on it; and since it is not among
us, be assured we have to go back to the root of it, or, at least, to
the place where the stock of it is yet alive, and the branches began
to die.

And now, may I have your pardon for pointing out, partly with
reference to matters which are at this time of greater moment than the
arts--that if we undertook such recession to the vital germ of
national arts that have decayed, we should find a more singular arrest
of their power in Ireland than in any other European country. For in
the eighth century Ireland possessed a school of art in her
manuscripts and sculpture, which, in many of its qualities--apparently
in all essential qualities of decorative invention--was quite without
rival; seeming as if it might have advanced to the highest triumphs in
architecture and in painting. But there was one fatal flaw in its
nature, by which it was stayed, and stayed with a conspicuousness of
pause to which there is no parallel: so that, long ago, in tracing the
progress of European schools from infancy to strength, I chose for the
students of Kensington, in a lecture since published, two
characteristic examples of early art, of equal skill; but in the one
case, skill which was progressive--in the other, skill which was at
pause. In the one case, it was work receptive of correction--hungry
for correction; and in the other, work which inherently rejected
correction. I chose for them a corrigible Eve, and an incorrigible
Angel, and I grieve to say[236] that the incorrigible Angel was also an
Irish angel!

And the fatal difference lay wholly in this. In both pieces of art
there was an equal falling short of the needs of fact; but the
Lombardic Eve knew she was in the wrong, and the Irish Angel thought
himself all right. The eager Lombardic sculptor, though firmly
insisting on his childish idea, yet showed in the irregular broken
touches of the features, and the imperfect struggle for softer lines
in the form, a perception of beauty and law that he could not render;
there was the strain of effort, under conscious imperfection, in every
line. But the Irish missal-painter had drawn his angel with no sense
of failure, in happy complacency, and put red dots into the palms of
each hand, and rounded the eyes into perfect circles, and, I regret to
say, left the mouth out altogether, with perfect satisfaction to
himself.

May I without offence ask you to conside