For over two hundred years I have never spoken myself: you, I
hear, are not so reticent. I only speak now because one of you
said a beautiful thing that touched me. If we all might but go
back to our makers! Ah, yes! if we might! We were made in days
when even men were true creatures, and so we, the work of their
hands, were true too. We, the begotten of ancient days, derive all
the value in us from the fact that our makers wrought at us with
zeal, with piety, with integrity, with faith,--not to win fortunes
or to glut a market, but to do nobly an honest thing and create
for the honor of the Arts and God. I see amidst you a little human
thing who loves me, and in his own ignorant childish way loves
Art. Now, I want him forever to remember this night and these
words; to remember that we are what we are, and precious in the
eyes of the world, because centuries ago those who were of single
mind and of pure hand so created us, scorning sham and haste and
counterfeit. Well do I recollect my master, Augustin Hirschvogel.
He led a wise and blameless life, and wrought in loyalty and love,
and made his time beautiful thereby, like one of his own rich,
many-colored church casements, that told holy tales as the sun
streamed through them. Ah, yes, my friends, to go back to our
masters!--that would be the best that could befall us.
Pages:
43
44
45
46
47
48
49
50
51
52
53
54
55
56
57
58
59
60
61
62
63
64
65
66
67