y Mr. Balfour surely
is wrong when he suggests that the youthful delight in blood-curdling
adventures is an "enjoyment of what is Art, and nothing but Art." But
I agree that we are confronted with an antinomy which seems hard
enough to overcome--on the one hand art is only good because some
people have judged or felt it to be good; on the other hand all
sincere critics are convinced that some works are absolutely good,
that their excellence is beyond reasonable challenge, and that those
who do not perceive this excellence are lacking in fineness of
perception.

The anarchistic side of the paradox is put in its crudest form by Mr.
Balfour. It has been put in perhaps its finest and truest form by Mr.
Henry James:

Art is the one corner of human life in which we may take our
ease. To justify our presence there the only thing demanded of
us is that we shall have felt the representational impulse. In
other connections our impulses are conditioned and embarrassed;
we are allowed to have only so many as are consistent with those
of our neighbours; with their convenience and well-being, with
their convictions and prejudices, their rules and regulations.
Art means an escape from all this. Wherever her shining standard
floats the need for apology and compromise is over; there it is
enough simply that we please or are pleased. There the tree is
judged only by its fruits. If these are sweet the tree is
justified--and not less so the consumer.... Differences here are
not iniquity and righteousness; they are simply variations of
temperament, kinds of curiosity. We are not under theological
government.

It is true; in art, at least, we are "not under theological
government," and that was a maxim worth asserting at a time when the
_dicta_ of Matthew Arnold and Ruskin were being converted into
shibboleths. It is necessary for happiness no less than for honesty
that we should realise that poetry, music, and pictures are personal
things; that what they are worth to us is their sole measure of value.
And here it must be mentioned that Mr. Balfour puts forth two hints
which are inconclusive enough, but which do dimly suggest a truer way
of escape than that to which his argument leads. He notes, first of
all, that art is disinterested; that it is not a means, but an end in
itself. And, secondly, we feel towards beautiful things as we feel
towards persons; if they are congenial