many inducements for the artist thus to narrow his function, and for the critic to assist him by applying the canons of a soulless connoisseurship to his work; for the conception of the subject is but the starting-point in art-production, and the artist’s difficulties and triumphs as a craftsman lie in the region of technicalities.  He knows, moreover, that, however deep or noble his idea may be, his work of art will be worthless if it fail in skill or be devoid of beauty.  What converts a thought into a statue or a picture, is the form found for it; and so the form itself seems all-important.  The artist, therefore, too easily imagines that he may neglect his theme; that a fine piece of colouring, a well-balanced composition, or, as Cellini put it, ‘un bel corpo ignudo,’ is enough.  And this is especially easy in an age which reflects much upon the arts, and pursues them with enthusiasm, while its deeper thoughts and feelings are not of the kind which translate themselves readily into artistic form.  But, after all, a fine piece of colouring, a well-balanced composition, a sonorous stanza, a learned essay in counterpoint, are not enough.  They are all excellent good things, yielding delight to the artistic sense and instruction to the student.  Yet when we think of the really great statues, pictures, poems, music of the world, we find that these are really great because of something more—­and that more is their theme, their presentation of a noble portion of the human soul.  Artists and art-students may be satisfied with perfect specimens of a craftsman’s skill, independent of his theme; but the mass of men will not be satisfied; and it is as wrong to suppose that art exists for artists and art-students, as to talk of art for art’s sake.  Art exists for humanity.  Art transmutes thought and feeling into terms of beautiful form.  Art is great and lasting in proportion as it appeals to the human consciousness at large, presenting to it portions of itself in adequate and lovely form.

VI

It was necessary in the first place firmly to apprehend the truth that the final end of all art is the presentation of a spiritual content; it is necessary in the next place to remove confusions by considering the special circumstances of the several arts.

Each art has its own vehicle of presentation.  What it can present and how it must present it, depends upon the nature of this vehicle.  Thus, though architecture, sculpture, painting, music, poetry, meet upon the common ground of spiritualised experience—­though the works of art produced by the architect, sculptor, painter, musician, poet, emanate from the spiritual nature of the race, are coloured by the spiritual nature of the men who make them, and express what is spiritual in humanity under concrete forms invented for them by the artist—­yet it is certain that all of these arts do not deal exactly with the same portions of this common material in the same way or with the same results.  Each has its own department.  Each exhibits qualities of strength and weakness special to itself.  To define these several departments, to explain the relation of these several vehicles of presentation to the common subject-matter, is the next step in criticism.