But by the time that the picture is painted, all is over. Faces are
the best part of a picture; but even faces are not what we chiefly
remember in what interests us most.--But it may be asked then, Is there
anything better than Claude Lorraine's landscapes, than Titian's
portraits, than Raphael's cartoons, or the Greek statues? Of the two
first I shall say nothing, as they are evidently picturesque, rather
than imaginative. Raphael's cartoons are certainly the finest comments
that ever were made on the Scriptures. Would their effect be the same if
we were not acquainted with the text? But the New Testament existed
before the cartoons. There is one subject of which there is no cartoon,
Christ washing the feet of the disciples the night before his death. But
that chapter does not need a commentary! It is for want of some such
resting place for the imagination that the Greek statues are little else
than specious forms. They are marble to the touch and to the heart. They
have not an informing principle within them. In their faultless
excellence they appear sufficient to themselves. By their beauty they
are raised above the frailties of passion or suffering. By their beauty
they are deified. But they are not objects of religious faith to us, and
their forms are a reproach to common humanity. They seem to have no
sympathy with us, and not to want our admiration.

Poetry in its matter and form is natural imagery or feeling, combined
with passion and fancy. In its mode of conveyance, it combines the
ordinary use of language with musical expression. There is a question of
long standing, in what the essence of poetry consists; or what it is
that determines why one set of ideas should be expressed in prose,
another in verse. Milton has told us his idea of poetry in a single
line--

"Thoughts that voluntary move
Harmonious numbers."

As there are certain sounds that excite certain movements, and the
song and dance go together, so there are, no doubt, certain thoughts
that lead to certain tones of voice, or modulations of sound, and change
"the words of Mercury into the songs of Apollo." There is a striking
instance of this adaptation of the movement of sound and rhythm to the
subject, in Spenser's description of the Satyrs accompanying Una to the
cave of Sylvanus.

"So from the ground she fearless doth arise
And walketh forth without suspect of crime.
They, all as glad as bird