e appreciator what the work _is_. That
revelation will be accomplished in terms of the critic's own
experience of the beauty of the work, an experience imaged forth in
such phrases that the pleasure the work communicates is conveyed
to his readers in its true quality and foil intensity. It is not enough to
dogmatize as Ruskin dogmatizes, to bully the reader into a terrified
acceptance. It is not enough to determine absolute values as
Matthew Arnold seeks to do, to fix certain canons of intellectual
judgment, and by the application of a formula as a touchstone, to
decide that this work is excellent and that another is less good.
Really serviceable criticism is that which notes the special and
distinguishing quality of beauty in any work and helps the reader to
live out that beauty in his own experience.

These generalizations may be made more immediate and practical
by examples. In illustration of the didactic manner in criticism I may
cite a typical paragraph of Ruskin, chosen from his "Mornings in
Florence."

First, look at the two sepulchral slabs by which you are standing.
That farther of the two from the west end is one of the most
beautiful pieces of fourteenth-century sculpture in this world. . . .
And now, here is a simple but most useful test of your capacity for
understanding Florentine sculpture or painting. If you can see that
the lines of that cap are both right, and lovely; that the choice of the
folds is exquisite in its ornamental relations of line; and that the
softness and ease of them is complete,--though only sketched with a
few dark touches,--then you can understand Giotto's drawing, and
Botticelli's;--Donatello's carving, and Luca's. But if you see nothing
in _this_ sculpture, you will see nothing in theirs, _of_ theirs. Where
they choose to imitate flesh, or silk, or to play any vulgar modern
trick with marble--(and they often do)--whatever, in a word, is
French, or American, or Cockney, in their work, you can see; but
what is Florentine, and for ever great--unless you can see also the
beauty of this old man in his citizen's cap,--you will see never.

The earnest and docile though bewildered layman is intimidated into
thinking that he sees it, whether he really does or not. But it is a
question if the contemplation of the "beauty of this old man in his
citizen's cap," however eager and serious the contemplation may be,
adds much to his experience; it may be doubted whether as a result
of his ef