an artistic life. The artist is not a product of spon- 
taneous generation. Every Athenian, every Florentine 
boy, saw daily in the street the expression of the most 
perfect thought of his people, reflecting their thought of 
God ; and he saw it, side by side with God's own thought, 
undefaced and undefiled. He saw column and tower and 
statue standing against a sky, the pure, serene, tender, 
infinite mirror of the divine intelligence and love ; and 
hills, the unswerving image of divine steadfastness. He 
saw them unpolluted by the smoke, and undistracted by 
the din of commercial strife. Poor or rich, the best his 
nation wrought was his. He must be taught his art as 
a craft, if he were to follow it ; and he did learn it pre- 
cisely as a craft which must be honestly and industri- 
ously practised. But first and always he lived it, as a 
life, in common with the life of his nation. 
The boy of our great cities, rich or poor (we are so 
far democratic), has this common inheritance. He sees 
from his earliest years the mart ; not the mercato vecchio 
of Florence, where the angel faces of Della Robbia looked 
down above the greengrocer's wares in the open booth, 
from out wreaths of fruit and flowers that vied with 
those below ; but our mercato nuovo. He sees there 
walls high and monotonous ; windows all alike (which 
he who built had no pleasure in) ; piles of merchandise, 
not devised with curious interest and pleasant exercise 
of inventive faculty, but with stolid, mechanical indif- 
ference ; garish wares, and faces too harassed and hur- 
ried to give back greeting. These belong to rich and 
poor alike. But here the lots diverge. The poor lad 
goes, not to his sheep, like Giotto, nor to keeping his 
feet warm, like Luca, in a basket of shavings, while he