It is with Art the Divinity bridges space and descends to man, to draw him up ward to brighter worlds.

This word transfigures everything, and brings fresh green shoots even from the dry wood of souls defrauded of love and hope.

Life is a thorny rose-bush, and Art its flower.

Here Mirth is melancholy--Joy is sorrowful and Liberty is dead.

Here Art withers and--like an exotic--is prevented perishing outright only by artificial culture.