attempt of that kind, if one be deserving and
fortunate, one may perchance attain to such clearness of sincerity that
at last the presented vision of regret or pity, of terror or mirth,
shall awaken in the hearts of the beholders that feeling of unavoidable
solidarity; of the solidarity in mysterious origin, in toil, in joy, in
hope, in uncertain fate, which binds men to each other and all mankind
to the visible world. It is evident that he who, rightly or wrongly,
holds by the convictions expressed above cannot be faithful to any one
of the temporary formulas of his craft. The enduring part of them--the
truth which each only imperfectly veils--should abide with him as the
most precious of his possessions, but they all: Realism, Romanticism,
Naturalism, even the unofficial sentimentalism (which like the poor, is
exceedingly difficult to get rid of,) all these gods must, after a short
period of fellowship, abandon him--even on the very threshold of the
temple--to the stammerings of his conscience and to the outspoken
consciousness of the difficulties of his work. In that uneasy solitude
the supreme cry of Art for Art itself, loses the exciting ring of its
apparent immorality. It sounds far off. It has ceased to be a cry, and
is heard only as a whisper, often incomprehensible, but at times and
faintly encouraging.

Sometimes, stretched at ease in the shade of a roadside tree, we watch
the motions of a labourer in a distant field, and after a time, begin to
wonder languidly as to what the fellow may be at. We watch the movements
of his body, the waving of his arms, we see him bend down, stand up,
hesitate, begin again. It may add to the charm of an idle hour to be
told the purpose of his exertions. If we know he is trying to lift
a stone, to dig a ditch, to uproot a stump, we look with a more real
interest at his efforts; we are disposed to condone the jar of his
agitation upon the restfulness of the landscape; and even, if in a
brotherly frame of mind, we may bring ourselves to forgive his failure.
We understood his object, and, after all, the fellow has tried, and
perhaps he had not the strength--and perhaps he had not the knowledge. We
forgive, go on our way--and forget.

And so it is with the workman of art. Art is long and life is short,
and success is very far off. And thus, doubtful of strength to travel
so far, we talk a little about the aim--the aim of art, which, like life
itself, is inspiring, difficult--obscur