life which those makers held. When it comes to the higher products,
character, temperament, and genius are discerned in every mutilated
fragment. The line on an urn reveals the spirit of the unknown sculptor
who cut it in the enduring stone. It has often been said that if every
memorial of the Greek race save the Parthenon had perished, it would be
possible to gain a clear and true impression of the spiritual condition
and quality of that race.

The great artists are the typical and representative men of the race, and
whatever is true of them is true, in a lesser degree, of men in general.
There is in the work of every great sculptor, painter, writer, composer,
architect, a distinctive and individual manner so marked and unmistakable
as to identify the man whenever and wherever a bit of his work appears. If
a statue of Phidias were to be found without any mark of the sculptor upon
it, there would be no delay in determining whose work it was; no educated
musician would be uncertain for a moment about a composition of Wagner's
if he heard it for the first time without knowledge of its source; nor
would a short story from the hand of Hawthorne remain unclaimed a day
after its publication. Now, this individual manner and quality, so evident
that it is impossible not to recognise it whenever it appears, is not a
trick of skill; it has its source in a man's temperament and genius; it is
the subtlest and most deep-going disclosure of his nature. In so far as a
spiritual quality can be contained and expressed in any form of speech
known among men--and all the arts are forms of speech--that which is most
secret and sacred in a man is freely given to the world in his work.

Work is sacred, therefore, not only because it is the fruit of self-
denial, patience, and toil, but because it uncovers the soul of the
worker. We deal with each other on so many planes, and have so much speech
with each other about things of little moment, that we often lose the