cal French one, at a
forward angle, as if for ready speech. But, different as these people
are, they are alike in the main features of symmetry and balance; they
haven't two sets of lungs and a duplicate stomach, like Centaurs, whom
every one found so difficult to deal with; nor do any of them end off in
a single forked tail, twisting about on which accounts for the
proverbial untrustworthiness of mermaids. Being alike, all human
creatures require free space and breathable air; and, being unlike, some
of them hanker after the sea, and others cannot watch without longing
the imitation mountains into which clouds pile themselves on dreary flat
horizons. And similarly in the matter of art. We all delight in the
ineffable presence of transcending power; we all require to renew our
soul's strength and keenness in the union with souls stronger and keener
than ours. But the power which appeals to some of us is struggling and
brooding tragically, as in Michelangelo and Beethoven; while the power
which straightway subdues certain others is easy, temperate, and
radiant, as in Titian and Mozart. And thus it comes about that every
soul--"where a soul can be discerned"--is the citizen, conscious or not,
of a spiritual country, and obeys a hierarchy, bends before a sovereign
genius, crowned or mitred by inscrutable right divine, never to be
deposed. But there are many kingdoms and principalities, not necessarily
overlapping; and the subjects of them are by no means the same.

Take M. Ingres, for instance. He is, it seems, quite a tremendous
potentate. I recognize his legitimate sway, like that of Prester John,
or of the Great Mogul. Only I happen not to obey it, for I am a born
subject of the King of Hearts. And who should that be but
Apollo-Wolfgang-Amadeus, driving with easy wrist his teams, tandem or
abreast, of winged, effulgent melodies?

It was raining, as I told you, that morning which I spent in the Ingres
Museum at Montauban. It was raining melted snow in hurricanes off the
mountains that other day of travel, and I was on the top of a Tyrolese
diligence. The roads were heavy; and we splashed slowly along the brink
of roaring torrents and through the darkness of soaked and steaming fir
woods. At the end of an hour's journey we had already lost four. "If you
stop to dine," said successive jack-booted postilions, quickly fastening
the traces at each relay, "you will never catch the Munich train at
Garmisch. But the Herrschafte