The faults of our Arts to-day are the faults of zeal and of adventure, the faults and crudities of pioneers, the errors and mishaps of the explorer.  They must pass through many fevers, and many times lose their way; but at all events they shall not go dying in their beds, and be buried at Kensal Green.  And, here and there, amid the disasters and wreckage of their voyages of discovery, they will find something new, some fresh way of embellishing life, or of revealing the heart of things.  That characteristic of to-day’s Art—­the striving of each branch of Art to burst its own boundaries—­which to many spells destruction, is surely of happy omen.  The novel straining to become the play, the play the novel, both trying to paint; music striving to become story; poetry gasping to be music; painting panting to be philosophy; forms, canons, rules, all melting in the pot; stagnation broken up!  In all this havoc there is much to shock and jar even the most eager and adventurous.  We cannot stand these new-fangled fellows!  They have no form!  They rush in where angels fear to tread.  They have lost all the good of the old, and given us nothing in its place!  And yet—­only out of stir and change is born new salvation.  To deny that is to deny belief in man, to turn our backs on courage!  It is well, indeed, that some should live in closed studies with the paintings and the books of yesterday—­such devoted students serve Art in their own way.  But the fresh-air world will ever want new forms.  We shall not get them without faith enough to risk the old!  The good will live, the bad will die; and tomorrow only can tell us which is which!

Yes—­I thought—­we naturally take a too impatient view of the Art of our own time, since we can neither see the ends toward which it is almost blindly groping, nor the few perfected creations that will be left standing amidst the rubble of abortive effort.  An age must always decry itself and extol its forbears.  The unwritten history of every Art will show us that.  Consider the novel—­that most recent form of Art!  Did not the age which followed Fielding lament the treachery of authors to the Picaresque tradition, complaining that they were not as Fielding and Smollett were?  Be sure they did.  Very slowly and in spite of opposition did the novel attain in this country the fulness of that biographical form achieved under Thackeray.  Very slowly, and in face of condemnation, it has been losing that form in favour of a greater vividness which places before the reader’s brain, not historical statements, as it were, of motives and of facts, but word-paintings of things and persons, so chosen and arranged that the reader may see, as if at first hand, the spirit of Life at work before him.  The new novel has as many bemoaners as the old novel had when it was new.  It is no question of better or worse, but of differing forms—­of change dictated by gradual suitability to the changing conditions of our social life, and to the ever fresh