tand it. This is Poetry, sitting by the
fountain of Castalia, which flows first out of a formal urn, to show
that it is not artless; but the rocks of Parnassus are behind, and on
the top of them--only one tree, like a mushroom with a thick stalk. You
at first are inclined to say, How very absurd, to put only one tree on
Parnassus! but this one tree is the Immortal Plane Tree, planted by
Agamemnon, and at once connects our Poesia with the Iliad. Then, this
is the hem of the robe of Poetry,--this is the divine vegetation which
springs up under her feet,--this is the heaven and earth united by her
power,--this is the fountain of Castalia flowing out afresh among the
grass,--and these are the drops with which, out of a pitcher, Poetry is
nourishing the fountain of Castalia.

All which you may find out if you happen to know anything about
Castalia, or about poetry; and pleasantly think more upon, for yourself.
But the poor dunces, Sandro and Baccio, feeling themselves but 'goffi
nell' arte,' have no hope of telling you all this, except suggestively.
They can't engrave grass of Parnassus, nor sweet springs so as to look
like water; but they can make a pretty damasked surface with ornamental
leaves, and flowing lines, and so leave you something to think of--if
you will.

139. 'But a great many people won't, and a great many more can't; and
surely the finished engravings are much more delightful, and the only
means we have of giving any idea of finished pictures, out of our
reach.'

Yes, all that is true; and when we examine the effects of line engraving
upon taste in recent art, we will discuss these matters; for the
present, let us be content with knowing what the best work is, and why
it is so. Although, however, I do not now press further my cavils at the
triumph of modern line engraving, I must assign to you, in few words,
the reason of its recent decline. Engravers complain that photography
and cheap wood-cutting have ended their finer craft. No complaint can be
less grounded. They themselves destroyed their own craft, by vulgarizing
it. Content in their beautiful mechanism, they ceased to learn, and to
feel, as artists; they put themselves under the order of publishers and
print-sellers; they worked indiscriminately from whatever was put into
their hands,--from Bartlett as willingly as from Turner, and from
Mulready as carefully as from Raphael. They filled the windows of
print-sellers, the pages of gift books, with e