ne. Such are the verses, intricately designed, which we have
learnt to admire, with a certain smiling admiration, at the hands of Mr.
Lang and Mr. Dobson; such, too, are those canvases where dexterity or
even breadth of plastic style takes the place of pictorial nobility of
design. So, it may be remarked, it was easier to begin to write "Esmond"
than "Vanity Fair," since, in the first, the style was dictated by the
nature of the plan; and Thackeray, a man probably of some indolence of
mind, enjoyed and got good profit of this economy of effort. But the
case is exceptional. Usually in all works of art that have been
conceived from within outwards, and generously nourished from the
author's mind, the moment in which he begins to execute is one of
extreme perplexity and strain. Artists of indifferent energy and an
imperfect devotion to their own ideal make this ungrateful effort once
for all; and, having formed a style, adhere to it through life. But
those of a higher order cannot rest content with a process which, as
they continue to employ it, must infallibly degenerate towards the
academic and the cut-and-dried. Every fresh work in which they embark is
the signal for a fresh engagement of the whole forces of their mind; and
the changing views which accompany the growth of their experience are
marked by still more sweeping alterations in the manner of their art. So
that criticism loves to dwell upon and distinguish the varying periods
of a Raphael, a Shakespeare, or a Beethoven.

It is, then, first of all, at this initial and decisive moment when
execution is begun, and thenceforth only in a less degree, that the
ideal and the real do indeed, like good and evil angels, contend for the
direction of the work. Marble, paint, and language, the pen, the needle,
and the brush, all have their grossnesses, their ineffable impotences,
their hours, if I may so express myself, of insubordination. It is the
work and it is a great part of the delight of any artist to contend with
these unruly tools, and now by brute energy, now by witty expedient, to
drive and coax them to effect his will. Given these means, so laughably
inadequate, and given the interest, the intensity, and the multiplicity
of the actual sensation whose effect he is to render with their aid, the
artist has one main and necessary resource which he must, in every case
and upon any theory, employ. He must, that is, suppress much and omit
more. He must omit what is tedio