Aylwin, it renders in Art the inevitable attitude of
its own time and country towards the unseen world, and renders it as
completely as did the masterpiece of Polygnotus in the Lesche of the
Cnidians at Delphi--as completely as did the wonderful frescoes of
Andrea Orcagna on the walls of the Campo Santo at Pisa.'
'And you attribute your success to the inspiration you derived from
my father's hook?'
'To that and to the spirit of Mary Wilderspin in heaven.'
'Then you are a Spiritualist?'
'I am an Aylwinian, the opposite (need I say?) of a Darwinian.'
'Of the school of Blake, perhaps?' I asked.
'Of the school of Blake? No. He was on the right road; but he was a
writer of verses! Art is a jealous mistress, Mr. Aylwin: the painter
who rhymes is lost. Even the master himself is so much the weaker by
every verse he has written. I never could make a rhyme in my life,
and have faithfully shunned printer's ink, the black blight of the
painter. I am my own school; the school of the spirit world.'
'I am very curious,' I said, 'to know in what way my father and the
spirits can have inspired a great painter.
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