; he was shut out from the
disturbing currents of the world, he might forget that there existed
other and more pressing interests than that of art. But, in such a
place, it was hardly possible to write; he could not drug his
conscience, like the painter, by the production of listless studies; he
saw himself idle among many who were apparently, and some who were
really, employed; and what with the impulse of increasing health and the
continual provocation of romantic scenes, he became tormented with the
desire to work. He enjoyed a strenuous idleness, full of visions, hearty
meals, long, sweltering walks, mirth among companions; and, still
floating like music through his brain, foresights of great works that
Shakespeare might be proud to have conceived, headless epics, glorious
torsos of dramas, and words that were alive with import. So in youth,
like Moses from the mountain, we have sights of that House Beautiful of
art which we shall never enter. They are dreams and unsubstantial;
visions of style that repose upon no base of human meaning; the last
heart-throbs of that excited amateur who has to die in all of us before
the artist can be born. But they come to us in such a rainbow of glory
that all subsequent achievement appears dull and earthly in comparison.
We were all artists; almost all in the age of illusion, cultivating an
imaginary genius, and walking to the strains of some deceiving Ariel;
small wonder, indeed, if we were happy! But art, of whatever nature, is
a kind mistress; and though these dreams of youth fall by their own
baselessness, others succeed, graver and more substantial; the symptoms
change, the amiable malady endures; and still, at an equal distance, the
House Beautiful shines upon its hill-top.

V

Grez lies out of the forest, down by the bright river. It boasts a mill,
an ancient church, a castle, and a bridge of many sterlings. And the
bridge is a piece of public property; anonymously famous; beaming on the
incurious dilettante from the walls of a hundred exhibitions. I have
seen it in the Salon; I have seen it in the Academy; I have seen it in
the last French Exposition, excellently done by Bloomer; in a
black-and-white by Mr. A. Henley, it once adorned this essay in the
pages of the _Magazine of Art_. Long-suffering bridge! And if you visit
Grez to-morrow, you shall find another generation, camped at the bottom
of Chevillon's garden under their white umbrellas, and doggedly painting
it