You are all wild, for instance, with
admiration of Gustave Dore. Well, suppose I were to tell you, in the
strongest terms I could use, that Gustave Dore's art was bad--bad, not
in weakness,--not in failure,--but bad with dreadful power--the power
of the Furies and the Harpies mingled, enraging, and polluting; that
so long as you looked at it, no perception of pure or beautiful art
was possible for you. Suppose I were to tell you that! What would be
the use? Would you look at Gustave Dore less? Rather, more, I fancy.
On the other hand, I could soon put you into good humour with me, if I
chose. I know well enough what you like, and how to praise it to your
better liking. I could talk to you about moonlight, and twilight, and
spring flowers, and autumn leaves, and the Madonnas of Raphael--how
motherly! and the Sibyls of Michael Angelo--how majestic! and the
Saints of Angelico--how pious! and the Cherubs of Correggio--how
delicious! Old as I am, I could play you a tune on the harp yet, that
you would dance to. But neither you nor I should be a bit the better
or wiser; or, if we were, our increased wisdom could be of no
practical effect. For, indeed, the arts, as regards teachableness,
differ from the sciences also in this, that their power is founded not
merely on facts which can be communicated, but on dispositions which
require to be created.
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