can be reduced to formulæ, and if these things spring from science, it is from some science mingled with art, intuitive, restless, and always incomplete. This science, or rather this art, exists: it is philosophy, morality, history, criticism; in short, the whole beautiful romance of Humanity. All works of art or poetry have for all time been the subject of dispute, and it is one of the great attractions of beautiful things to remain thus doubtful, for it is impossible to deny that they are so. M. Brunetière is unwilling altogether to admit this fatal and universal uncertainty. It is too repugnant to his authoritative and methodical mind, which always wishes to judge and classify everything. As he is judicially minded, let him sit in the seat of judgment! And as he is a warlike critic, let him advance his close-packed arguments in tortoise formation! But can he not forgive a simple soul for concerning himself less severely with art matters, and for displaying fewer reasons, and particularly fewer arguments?—for restricting criticism to the familiar style of conversation, and the idle pace of the saunter; for stopping where he chooses, and indulging in an occasional confidence; for following his tastes, fancies, and even caprices, on condition of being always honest, sincere, and benevolent; for not being all-knowing, and not explaining everything; for believing in the irremediable diversity of opinions and ideas, and for speaking more unconstrainedly of what one should admire? A. F. |