Yet the trained
perception of the artist does not dwell upon the thought of the
place as upon a perpetual feast of beauty and delight. Rather, it
shames me to reflect, one dwells upon it as a quarry of effects,
where one can find and detach the note of background, the sweet
symbol that will lend point and significance to the scene that one
is labouring at. Instead of being content to gaze, to listen, to
drink in, one thinks only what one can carry away and make one's
own. If one's art were purely altruistic, if one's aim were to
emphasise some sweet aspect of nature which the careless might
otherwise overlook or despise; or even if the sight haunted one
like a passion, and fed the heart with hope and love, it would be
well. But does one in reality feel either of these purposes?
Speaking candidly, I do not. I care very little for my message to
the world. It is true that I have a deep and tender love for the
gracious things of earth; but I cannot be content with that. One
thinks of Wordsworth, rapt in contemplation, sitting silent for a
whole morning, his eyes fixed upon the pool of the moorland stream,
or the precipice with the climbing ashes. It was like a religion to
him, a communion with something holy and august which in that
moment drew near to his soul.
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