work; and the non-essential, which is usually more obvious, is allowed
to creep in and obscure the original impression. Of course, had the
finished drawing been done with the mind centred upon the particular
form significance aimed at, and every touch and detail added in tune to
this idea, the comparison might have been different. But it is rarely
that good drawings are done this way. Fine things seem only to be seen
in flashes, and the nature that can carry over the impression of one of
these moments during the labour of a highly-wrought drawing is very
rare, and belongs to the few great ones of the craft alone.

It is difficult to know why one should be moved by the expression of
form; but it appears to have some physical influence over us. In looking
at a fine drawing, say of a strong man, we seem to identify ourselves
with it and feel a thrill of its strength in our own bodies, prompting
us to set our teeth, stiffen our frame, and exclaim "That's fine." Or,
when looking at the drawing of a beautiful woman, we are softened by its
charm and feel in ourselves something of its sweetness as we exclaim,
"How beautiful." The measure of the feeling in either case will be the
extent to which the artist has identified himself with the subject when
making the drawing, and has been impelled to select the expressive
elements in the forms.

Art thus enables us to experience life at second hand. The small man may
enjoy somewhat of the wider experience of the bigger man, and be
educated to appreciate in time a wider experience for himself. This is
the true justification for public picture galleries. Not so much for the
moral influence they exert, of which we have heard so much, but that
people may be led through the vision of the artist to enlarge their
experience of life. This enlarging of the experience is true education,
and a very different thing from the memorising of facts that so often