in a work of art; they are always one.  But for purposes of analysis, and setting the wholeness of aesthetic impression aside for a moment, we can intellectually so separate them.  An unhealthy work of art, on the other hand, is a work whose style is obvious, old-fashioned, and common, and whose subject is deliberately chosen, not because the artist has any pleasure in it, but because he thinks that the public will pay him for it.  In fact, the popular novel that the public calls healthy is always a thoroughly unhealthy production; and what the public call an unhealthy novel is always a beautiful and healthy work of art.

I need hardly say that I am not, for a single moment, complaining that the public and the public press misuse these words.  I do not see how, with their lack of comprehension of what Art is, they could possibly use them in the proper sense.  I am merely pointing out the misuse; and as for the origin of the misuse and the meaning that lies behind it all, the explanation is very simple.  It comes from the barbarous conception of authority.  It comes from the natural inability of a community corrupted by authority to understand or appreciate Individualism.  In a word, it comes from that monstrous and ignorant thing that is called Public Opinion, which, bad and well-meaning as it is when it tries to control action, is infamous and of evil meaning when it tries to control Thought or Art.

Indeed, there is much more to be said in favour of the physical force of the public than there is in favour of the public’s opinion.  The former may be fine.  The latter must be foolish.  It is often said that force is no argument.  That, however, entirely depends on what one wants to prove.  Many of the most important problems of the last few centuries, such as the continuance of personal government in England, or of feudalism in France, have been solved entirely by means of physical force.  The very violence of a revolution may make the public grand and splendid for a moment.  It was a fatal day when the public discovered that the pen is mightier than the paving-stone, and can be made as offensive as the brickbat.  They at once sought for the journalist, found him, developed him, and made him their industrious and well-paid servant.  It is greatly to be regretted, for both their sakes.  Behind the barricade there may be much that is noble and heroic.  But what is there behind the leading-article but prejudice, stupidity, cant, and twaddle?  And when these four are joined together they make a terrible force, and constitute the new authority.

In old days men had the rack.  Now they have the press.  That is an improvement certainly.  But still it is very bad, and wrong, and demoralising.  Somebody—­was it Burke?—­called journalism the fourth estate.  That was true at the time, no doubt.  But at the present moment it really is the only estate.  It has eaten up the other three.  The Lords Temporal say nothing,