artists when he declares that beauty "to them was as much a matter of
certainty and triumph as is to the astronomer the verification of the
result, foreseen with the light granted to him alone." No, he only sets
up a false analogy; for the true parallel to the artist is the saint,
not the astronomer; both are convinced, neither understands. Art is no
more the reward of intelligence than of virtue. She permits no caprice
in her own realm. Loyalty is the only virtue she insists on, loyalty in
regard to her servant's experience of beauty; he may be immoral in every
other way and she not desert him; but let him turn Balaam and declare
beauty absent where he feels its presence--though in doing this he hopes
to advance virtue or knowledge, she needs no better than an ass to
rebuke him. Nothing effects more for anarchy than these notions that art
derives from individual caprice, or defends virtue, or demonstrates
knowledge; for they are all based on those flattering hopes of the
unsuccessful, that chance, rules both in life and art, or that it is
possible to serve two masters.

Doctrines often repeated gain easy credence; and, since art demands
leisure in order to be at all enjoyed, ideas about it, in so fatiguing a
life as ours has become, take men off their guard, when their habitual
caution is laid to sleep, and, by an over-easiness, they are inclined to
spoil both their sense of distinction and their children. Yes, they
consent to theatres that degrade them, because they distract and amuse;
and read journals that are smart and diverting at the expense of dignity
and truth--in the same way as they smile at the child whom reason bids
them reprove, and with the like tragic result; for they become incapable
of enjoying works of art, as the child is incapacitated for the best of
social intercourse. To prophesy smooth things to people in this
condition, and flatter their dulness, is to be no true friend; and so
the modern art-critic and journalist is often the insidious enemy of the