leavens natural passion, and gives its mad rage to it.  It creates for it ‘a twilight where virtues are vices.’  The pleasures thus sought for are supposed to enthral men not in proportion to their intensity (for this through all their varieties would be probably nearly equal) but in proportion to their lowness—­to their sullying power.  Degradation is the measure of enjoyment; or rather it is an increasing numeral by which one constant figure of enjoyment is multiplied.

    Ah, where shall we go then, for pastime,
    If the worst that can be has been done?

This is the great question of the votaries of such joys as these.[24]

Thus if we look at life in the mirror of art, we shall see how the supernatural is ever present to us.  If we climb up into heaven it is there; if we go down into hell it is there also.  We shall see it at the bottom of those two opposite sets of pleasures, to the one or the other of which all human pleasures belong.  The source of one is an impassioned struggle after the supernatural right, or an impassioned sense of rest upon attaining it; the source of the other is the sense of revolt against it, which in various ways flatters or excites us.  In both cases the supernatural moral judgment is the sense appealed to, primarily in the first case, and secondarily if not primarily in the second.  All the life about us is coloured by this, and naturally if this be destroyed or wrecked, the whole aspect of life will change for us.  What then will this change be?  Looking still into the mirror of art, the general character of it will be very readily perceptible.  I noticed just now, in passing, how Measure for Measure and Faust would suffer in their meaning and their interest, by the absence on our part of a certain moral judgment.  They would become like a person singing to a deaf audience—­a series of dumb grimaces with no meaning in them.  The same thing is equally true in all the other cases.  Antigone’s heroism will evaporate;[25] she will be left obstinate only.  The lives of Macbeth and Hamlet will be tales of little meaning for us, though the words are strong.  They will be full of sound and fury, but they will signify nothing.  What they produce in us will be not interest but a kind of wondering weariness—­weariness at the weary fate of men who could ‘think so brainsickly of things.’  So in like manner will all the emphasis and elaboration in the literature of sensuality become a weariness without meaning, also.  Congreve’s caustic wit will turn to spasmodic truism; and Theophile Gautier’s excess of erotic ardour, into prolix and fantastic affectation.  All its sublimity, its brilliance, and a large part of its interest, depend in art on the existence of the moral sense, and would in its absence be absolutely unproducible.  The reason of this is plain.  The natural pains and pleasures of life, merely manipulated by the imagination and the memory, have too little variety or magnitude in them without further aid.  Art without the moral sense to play upon, is like a pianist whose keyboard is reduced to a single octave.