G. F. Watts (Paperback) | Released: 06 Feb 2021

a general way, than talking about a century as if it were some kind of animal with a head and tail, instead of an arbitrary length cut from an unending scroll. Nor is it less erroneous to assume thateven if a period be definitely vital or disturbing, art must be a mirror of it; the greatest political stormflutters only a fringe of humanity; poets, like bricklayers, work on through a century of wars, andBewick's birds, to take an instance, have the air of persons unaffected by the French Revolution. Butin the case of Watts there are two circumstances which render the dates relevant. The first is that thenineteenth century was self-conscious, believed itself to be an idea and an atmosphere, and changedits name from a chronological almost to a philosophical term. I do not know whether all centuriesdo this or whether an advanced and progressive organ called "The Eleventh Century" was ever incontemplation in the dawn of the Middle Ages. But with us it is clear that a certain spirit was rightlyor wrongly associated with the late century and that it called up images and thoughts like any historicor ritual date, like the Fourth of July or the First of April. What these images and thoughts were weshall be obliged in a few minutes and in the interests of the subject to inquire. But this is the firstcircumstance which renders the period important; and the second is that it has always been soregarded by Watts himself. He, more than any other modern man, more than politicians whothundered on platforms or financiers who captured continents, has sought in the midst of his quietand hidden life to mirror his age. He was born in the white and austere dawn of that great reformingcentury, and he has lingered after its grey and doubtful close. He is above all things a typical figure, asurvival of the nineteenth century.It will appear to many a somewhat grotesque matter to talk about a period in which most of uswere born and which has only been dead a year or two, as if it were a primal Babylonian empire ofwhich only a few columns are left crumbling in the desert. And yet such is, in spirit, the fact. Thereis no more remarkable psychological element in history than the way in which a period can suddenlybecome unintelligible. To the early Victorian period we have in a moment lost the key: the CrystalPalace is the temple of a forgotten creed