the Artist, and what it is which he desires to communicate to us by his work, and be able to reproduce this purpose, as the pervading spirit of the whole work, out of all its parts, and again to deduce these from the purpose which created them. Still, this is not the work itself, but only the prosaic part of it;—that only which, in the contemplation of the work from this point of view, lays hold of and penetrates us with irresistible power, is the Truth of Art:—but still we must first possess this introductory knowledge, this comprehension of the work in its organic unity, before we are capable of its enjoyment. This organic unity indeed, like all works of Genius, still remains infinite and inexhaustible, but it is no mean pleasure to have approached it, although only at a distance. We may return to our common occupations, and forget this glorious revelation; but it will abide secretly in our souls, and gradually develop itself there unknown to us. After a time we will return to our work, and see it under another form; and thus it shall never become old to us, but with every new contemplation assume a new life before us. We shall no longer desire something new, for we shall have discovered the means of transforming even the oldest into fresh and living originality.
What this organic unity of a work of Art, which is before all things to be understood and comprehended, really is,—let no one ask to whom it is not already known, and whose own thoughts I have not either repeated, or at least given clearer utterance to, in what I have already said. With regard to the unity of a Scientific work, I could make myself quite clear to you, and I think that I have done so; not so with respect to the unity of a work of Art. At all events, the unity of which I speak is not that unity of its plot, and coherence of its parts, and its probability, and psychological value, and moral instructiveness, which are prated of in the common theories, and by the common critics of Art:—vain chatter of barbarians who wilfully
