What is Beauty? the perfection of the type it represents, And the true fulfilment of the picture that the mind contents. It is in the babbling streamlet, with its birch and fern-lined strands, It is in the factory chimney which against the cloud gaunt stands, In the blasted trunk that fork-like rears its bleached bare arms on high, Framing sedgy moors and uplands past soft tones that melt in sky. Nestling in the yellow short-gown, couched in costly wreaths of lace, In the heart, voice, walk, and gesture, more than in the form or face. The painter must work out his own redemption in this pursuit of the beautiful. No imitation of the beauty of another will help him; his sense must be innate and out-coming; from him the well must spring which has to quench the thirst of nations--living water and quenchless fire--to flow on and light on, long after his own creative powers have ended. As Buddha again tells us: 'Ask not from the silence, for it cannot speak; vex not your mournful minds with pious pains. Ah! brothers, sisters, seek naught from the helpless gods by gift or hymn, nor bribe with blood, nor feed with fruit and cakes. Within yourselves deliverance must be sought. Each man his prison makes.' As I have said, the beginning of painting is very easy. A straight line done fairly well, drawn with the full comprehension of the mind, and a flowing hand which can pause and run on at will, the knowledge of the rainbow colours and blendings, are the alphabet of the artist. Afterwards, as he grows in stature, his wants and wishes grow in proportion; and the nearer we seem (to the eyes of those behind us) to be approaching the goal, Perfection, the farther away it is from us. To the public, for whose instruction and pleasure the artists paint, I would fain close this by saying just a few words. Beware how you are satisfied with a picture; misjudge your own eyes when they are gratified only. Is the painted cornfield exactly like the cornfields you have seen? Is it a _dead_ or a _living_ portrait of the corn-ears? Has the painter, in letting go the exact facsimile, not given you something beyond and better--the motion and soul of that cornfield? Are those eyes exactly like the eyes of the one you love or mourn for? They may be the exact shape and size and shade, but are they the eyes you used to look into and let out your soul after? Or has the painter been careless about the shape or shade or size, and yet given you a gleam of the heart-longings that cling to your heart-longings with unseen angel-claspings? Weigh it all carefully, whether you want the shape and number of the houses in the home of your childhood, or the indefinite thrill which shall wake into the active music of long ago. Do you want the cold clay that is lying under the senseless stones, or the spirit which is hovering about you still?