just estimate of the rate of the changes which are, hour by hour in
accelerating catastrophe, manifesting themselves in the laws, the
arts, and the creeds of men, it seems to me, that now at least, if
never at any former time, the thoughts of the true nature of our
life, and of its powers and responsibilities, should present
themselves with absolute sadness and sternness. And although I know
that this feeling is much deepened in my own mind by disappointment,
which, by chance, has attended the greater number of my cherished
purposes, I do not for that reason distrust the feeling itself,
though I am on my guard against an exaggerated degree of it: nay, I
rather believe that in periods of new effort and violent change,
disappointment is a wholesome medicine; and that in the secret of
it, as in the twilight so beloved by Titian, we may see the colours
of things with deeper truth than in the most dazzling sunshine. And
because these truths about the works of men, which I want to bring
to-day before you, are most of them sad ones, though at the same
time helpful; and because also I believe that your kind Irish hearts
will answer more gladly to the truthful expression of a personal
feeling, than to the exposition of an abstract principle, I will
permit myself so much unreserved speaking of my own causes of
regret, as may enable you to make just allowance for what, according
to your sympathies, you will call either the bitterness, or the
insight, of a mind which has surrendered its best hopes, and been
foiled in its favourite aims.

I spent the ten strongest years of my life, (from twenty to thirty,)
in endeavouring to show the excellence of the work of the man whom I
believed, and rightly believed, to be the greatest painter of the
schools of England since Reynolds. I had then perfect faith in the
power of every great truth of beauty to prevail ultimately, and take