else, for that picture at the farther end hanging against the wall is the
picture of the world . . ."

Yes, go thy way, young enthusiast, and, whether to London town or to old
Rome, may success attend thee; yet strange fears assail me and misgivings
on thy account. Thou canst not rest, thou say'st, till thou hast seen
the picture in the chamber at old Rome hanging over against the wall; ay,
and thus thou dost exemplify thy weakness--thy strength too, it may
be--for the one idea, fantastic yet lovely, which now possesses thee,
could only have originated in a genial and fervent brain. Well, go, if
thou must go; yet it perhaps were better for thee to bide in thy native
land, and there, with fear and trembling, with groanings, with straining
eyeballs, toil, drudge, slave, till thou hast made excellence thine own;
thou wilt scarcely acquire it by staring at the picture over against the
door in the high chamber of old Rome. Seekest thou inspiration? thou
needest it not, thou hast it already; and it was never yet found by
crossing the sea. What hast thou to do with old Rome, and thou an
Englishman? "Did thy blood never glow at the mention of thy native
land?" as an artist merely? Yes, I trow, and with reason, for thy native
land need not grudge old Rome her "pictures of the world"; she has
pictures of her own, "pictures of England"; and is it a new thing to toss
up caps and shout--England against the world? Yes, against the world in
all, in all; in science and in arms, in minstrel strain, and not less in
the art "which enables the hand to deceive the intoxicated soul by means
of pictures". {137} Seek'st models? to Gainsborough and Hogarth turn,
not names of the world, maybe, but English names--and England against the
world! A living master? why, there he comes! thou hast had him long, he
has long guided thy young hand towards the excellence which is yet far
from thee, but which thou canst attain if thou shouldst persist and
wrestle, even as he has done, 'midst gloom and despondency--ay, and even
contempt; he who now comes up the creaking stair to thy little studio in
the second floor to inspect thy last effort before thou departest, the
little stout man whose face is very dark, and whose eye is vivacious;
that man has attained excellence, destined some day to be acknowledged,
though not till he is cold, and his mortal part returned to its kindred
clay. He has painted, not pictures of the world, but English pictures,