in the motion of waters, and in the unending evolution of gay and
delicate forms of leaf and wing.

The artist may be no philosopher, no mystic; he may be with or
without a moral sense, he may not believe in more than his eye can
see; but in so far as he can shape clay into beautiful and moving
forms he is imitating Deity; when his eye has caught with delight
some subtle relation between color and color there is mysticism
in his vision. I am not concerned here to prove that there is a
spirit in nature or humanity; but for those who ask from art a
serious message, here, I say, is a way of receiving from art an
inspiration the most profound that man can receive. When you ask
from the artist that he should teach you, be careful that you are
not asking him to be obvious, to utter platitudes--that you are
not asking him to debase his art to make things easy for you, who
are too indolent to climb to the mountain, but want it brought to
your feet. There are people who pass by a nocturne by Whistler,
a misty twilight by Corot, and who whisper solemnly before a Noel
Paton as if they were in a Cathedral. Is God, then, only present
when His Name is uttered? When we call a figure Time or Death,
does it add dignity to it? What is the real inspiration we derive
from that noble design by Mr. Watts? Not the comprehension of Time,
not the nature of Death, but a revelation human form can express
of the heroic dignity. Is it not more to us to know that man or
woman can look half-divine, that they can wear an aspect such as
we imagine belongs to the immortals, and to feel that if man is
made in the image of his Creator, his Creator is the archetype of
no ignoble thing? There were immortal powers in Watts' mind when
those figures surged up in it; but they were neither Time nor Death.
He was rather near to his own archetype, and in that mood in which