Critique By Creating.

It Is Better Decoration When, In Painting, Some Monstrosity Is Introduced For Variety And A Relaxation Of The Senses And To Attract The Attention Of Mortal Eyes, Which At Times Desire To See That Which They Have Never Seen.

There Is No Tongue To Speak His Eulogy; Too Brightly Burned His Splendour For Our Eyes: Far Easier To Condemn His Injurers, Than For The Tongue To Reach His Smallest Worth. He To The Realms Of Sinfulness Came Down, To Teach Mankind; Ascending Then To God, Heaven Unbarred To Him Her Lofty Gates, To Whom His Country Hers Refused To Ope. Ungrateful Land, To Its Own Injury Nurse Of His Fate! Well Too Does This Instruct, That Greatest Ills Fall To The Perfectest. And 'midst A Thousand Proofs, Let This Suffice, That, As His Exile Had No Parallel, So Never Was There Man More Great Than He.

As When, O Lady Mine, With Chiselled Touch, The Stone Unhewn And Cold, Becomes A Living Mould, The More The Marble Wastes, The More The Statue Grows.

Is It Any Wonder, Since, When Near The Fire, I Was Melted And Burned, If Now That It's Extinguished Outside Me, It Besets And Consumes Me Inside, And Bit By Bit Reduces Me To Ashes?

A Good Artist Ought Never To Allow Impatience To Overcome His Sense Of The Main End Of Art - Perfection