Sometime ago M. de Mun said:

"Not to take sides is what the author is inhibited from doing. Art, to
my way of thinking, is a setting forth of ideas. If it is not that--if
it limits itself solely to considerations of form, to a worship of
beauty for its own sake, without regard to the deeds and thoughts it
brings to light, then it seems to me no better than the vain effort of
an unproductive cleverness."

The eminent speaker is absolutely right as far as prose is concerned,
but we cannot agree with him if poetry is considered.

Victor Hugo, in his marvellous ode, _La Lyre et La Harpe_ brings
Paganism and Christianity face to face. Each speaks in turn, and the
poet in his last stanza seems to acknowledge that both are right, but
that does not prevent the ode from being a masterpiece. That would
not be possible in prose, but in the poem the poetry carries all before
it.

[Illustration: M. Saint-Saëns in his Later Years]

Why is it that geniuses like Victor Hugo, distinguished minds, thinkers,
and profound critics, refuse to see that Art is a special entity which
responds to a certain sense? If Art accommodates itself marvellously, if
it accords itself with the precepts of morality and passion, it is
nevertheless sufficient unto itself--and in its self-sufficiency lies
its heights of greatness.

The first prelude of Sebastian Bach's _Wohltemperirte Klavier_ expresses
nothing, and yet that is one of the marvels of music. The Venus de Milo