It is unjust to an artist to write on the spur of the moment of
his work--of the just seen picture which pleases or displeases.
For what instantly delights the eye may never win its way into the
heart, and what repels at first may steal later on into the
understanding, and find its interpretation in a deeper mood. The
final test of a picture, or of any work of art, is its power of
enduring charm. There are many circles in the Paradise of Beautiful
Memories, and half unconsciously, but with a justice, we at last
place each in its hierarchy, remote or near to the centre of our
being; and I propose here rather to speak of the impression left
in my memory after seeing the work of Yeats and Hone for many years,
than to describe in detail the pictures--some new, some familiar--
which by a happy thought have been gathered together for exhibition.
To tell an artist that you remember his pictures with love after
many years is the highest praise you can give him; and to
distinguish the impression produced from others is a pleasure I
am glad to be here allowed.

An artist like Mr. Yeats, whose main work has been in portraiture,
must often find himself before sitters with whom he has little
sympathy, and we all expect to find portraits which do not interest
us, because the interpreter has been at fault, and has failed in
his vision. With the born craftsman, who always gives us beautiful
brushwork, we do not expect these inequalities, but with Mr. Yeats
technical power is not the most prominent characteristic. He broods
or dreams over his sitters, and his meditation always tends to the
discovery of some spiritual or intellectual life in them, or some
hidden charm in the nature, or something to love; and if he finds