e beautiful, and to that
extent Good--for I suppose you will admit that the Beautiful is a kind
of Good; and on the other hand, if I may dare to say so, to be, in a
certain sense, eternal."

"Eternal!" cried Ellis, "I only wish they were! What wouldn't we give
for the works of Polygnotus and Apelles!"

"Oh yes," I said, "of course, in that way, regarded as material
objects, they are as perishable as all the works of nature. But I was
talking of them as Art, not as mere things; and from that point of
view, surely, each is a moment, or a series of moments, cut away,
as it were, from the contact of chance or change and set apart in
a timeless world of its own, never of its own nature, to pass into
something else, but only through the alien nature of the matter to
which it is bound."

"What do you mean?" cried Parry. "I am quite at sea."

"Perhaps," I said, "you will understand the point better if I give it
you in the words of a poet."

And I quoted the well-known stanzas from Keats' "Ode on a Grecian
Urn":

"Heard melodies are sweet, but those unheard
Are sweeter; therefore, ye soft pipes, play on;
Not to the sensual ear, but, more endear'd.
Pipe to the spirit ditties of no tone;
Fair youth beneath the trees, thou canst not leave
Thy song, nor ever can those trees be bare;
Bold lover, never, never canst thou kiss,
Though winning near the goal--yet, do not grieve;
She cannot fade, though thou hast not thy bliss,
For ever wilt thou love and she be fair!

"Ah, happy, happy boughs! that cannot shed
Your leaves, nor ever bid the spring adieu;
And, happy melodist, unwearied,
For ever piping songs for ever new;
More happy love! more happy, happy love!
For ever warm and still to be enjoyed,
For ever panting and for ever young;
All breathing human passion far above,
That leaves a heart high-sorrowful and cloyed,
A burning forehead, and a parching tongue."

"Well," said Parry, when I had done, "that's very pretty; but I don't
see how it bears on the argument."

"I think," I replied, "that it illustrates the point I wanted to make.
Part, I mean, of the peculiar charm of works of Art consists in the
fact that they arrest a fleeting moment of delight, lift it from our
sphere of corruption and change, and fix it like a star in the eighth
heaven."

"Yes," said Ellis, "we grant you that"

"Or at least," added Parry, "we don't care to dispute it"