A vi that the world was now but a bundle ments possessed me without ceasing. I had tried this vi on The Rhymers, thereby plunging into greater silen already too silent evening. Johnson, I was aced to say, you are the only man I know whose silence has beak & claw. I had lectured on it to some London Irish society, and I was to lecture upon it later on in Dublin, but I never found but oerested man, an official of the Primrose League, who was also an active member of the Fenian Brotherhood. I am areme servative apart from Ireland, I have heard him explain; and I have no doubt that personal experience made him share the sight of ahat saw the world in fragments. I had been put inte by the followers of Huxley, Tyndall, Carolus Duran and Bastien?Lepage, who not only asserted the unimportance of subject, whether in art or literature, but the independence of the arts from one another. Upoher hand I delighted in every age where poet and artist fihemselves gladly to some ied subject matter known to the whole people, for I thought that in man and race alike there is something called unity of being, using that term as Dante used it when he pared beauty in the vito to a perfectly proportioned human body. My father, from whom I had learhe term, preferred a parison to a musical instrument s that if we touch a string all the strings murmur faintly. There is not more desire, he had said, in lust than in true love; but in true love desire awakens pity, hope, affe, admiration, and, given appropriate circumstance, every emotion possible to man. When I began, however, to apply this thought to the State and tue for a law?made balance among trades and occupations, my father displayed at ohe violent free?trader and propagandist of liberty. I thought that the enemy of this unity was abstraeaning by abstra not the distin but the isolation of occupation, or class or faculty??
Call down the hawk from the air Let him be hooded, ed, Till the yellow eye has grown mild, For larder and spit are bare, The old cook ehe scullion gone wild.
I knew no mediaeval cathedral, aminster, being a part of abhorred London, did not i me; but I thought stantly of Homer and Dante and the tombs of Mausolus and Artemisa, the great figures of King and Queen and the lesser figures of Greek and Amazoaur and Greek. I thought that all art should be a taur finding in the popular lore its bad its strong legs. I got great pleasure too from remembering that Homer was sung, and from that tale of Dante hearing a an sing some stanza from The Divine edy, and from Don Quixotes meeting with some an that sang Ariosto. Morris had never seemed to care for any poet later than Chaucer; and though I preferred Shakespeare to Chaucer I begrudged my own preference. Had not Europe shared one mind a, until both mind a began to break intments a little before Shakespeares birth? Musid verse began to fall apart when Chaucer robbed verse of its speed that he might give it greater meditation, though for aneion or so minstrels were to sing his long elaborated Troilus and Cressida; painting parted frion ier Renaissahat it might study effects of tangibility undisturbed; while, that it might characterise, where it had once personified, it renounced, in our own age, all that ied subject matter which we have named poetry. Presently I was io number character itself among the abstras, enced by greves saying that passions are too powerful in the fair sex to let humour, or as we say character, have its course. No