the above sentence the exact counterpart to the words of Antigone that I have already quoted.  For just as her life lay in conformity to ’The unwritten, and the enduring laws of God,’ so does the life of the profligate lie in the violation of them.  To each the existence of laws is equally essential.  For profligacy is not merely the gratification of the appetites, but the gratification of them at the expense of something else.  Beasts are not profligate.  We cannot have a profligate goat.

In what I have called concupiscent art, the case might seem different, and to a certain extent it is so.  The objects of struggle that we are there presented with are meant to be presented as pleasures, not in defiance of right and wrong, but independently of them.  The chief of these, indeed, as Theophile Gautier has told us, are the physical endearments of a man and a woman, with no other qualification than that they are both of them young and beautiful.  But though this art professes to be thus independent of the moral judgment, and to trust for none of its effects to the discernment between good and evil, this really is very far from being the case.  Let us turn once again to the romance we have already quoted from.  The hero says, as we have seen already, that he has completely lost the power of discernment in question.  Now, even this, as might be shown easily, is not entirely true; for argument’s sake, however, we may grant him that it is so.  The real point in the matter to notice is that he is at any rate conscious of the loss.  He is a man tingling with the excitement of having cast off some burden.  The burden may be gone, but it is still present in the sharp effects of its absence.  He is a kind of moral poacher, who, though he may not live by law, takes much of his life’s tone from the sense that he is eluding it.  His pleasures, though pleasurable in themselves, yet have this quality heightened by the sense of contrast. ‘I am at any rate not virtuous,’ his mistress says to him, ‘and that is always something gained.’  George Eliot says of Maggie Tulliver, that she liked her aunt Pullet chiefly because she was not her aunt Gleg.  Theophile Gautier’s hero likes the Venus Anadyomene, partly at least, because she is not the Madonna.

Nay, let us even descend to worse spectacles—­to the sight of men struggling for enjoyments that are yet more obviously material, more devoid yet of any trace of mind or morals, and we shall see plainly, if we consult the mirror of art, that the moral element is present even here.  We shall trace it even in such abnormal literature of indulgence as the erotic work commonly ascribed to Meursius.  We shall trace it in the orgies of Tiberius at Capri; or of Quartilla, as Petronius describes them, at Neapolis.  It is like a ray of light coming in at the top of a dark cavern, whose inmates see not it, but by it; and which only brings to them a consciousness of shadow.  It is this supernatural element that