are wreathed in darkness, and its forms and courses no less
fantastic, than spectral and obscure; so that not only in the vanity

which we cannot grasp, but in the shadow which we cannot pierce, it
is true of this cloudy life of ours, that "man walketh in a vain

shadow, and disquieteth himself in vain."
And least of all, whatever may have been the eagerness of our

passions, or the height of our pride, are we able to understand in
its depth the third and most solemncharacter in which our life is

like those clouds of heaven; that to it belongs not only their
transcience, not only their mystery, but also their power; that in

the cloud of the human soul there is a fire stronger than the
lightning, and a grace more precious than the rain; and that though

of the good and evil it shall one day be said alike, that the place
that knew them knows them no more, there is an infinite separation

between those whose brief presence had there been a blessing, like
the mist of Eden that went up from the earth to water the garden,

and those whose place knew them only as a drifting and changeful
shade, of whom the heavenlysentence is, that they are "wells

without water; clouds that are carried with a tempest, to whom the
mist of darkness is reserved for ever."

To those among us, however, who have lived long enough to form some
just estimate of the rate of the changes which are, hour by hour in

accelerating catastrophe, manifesting themselves in the laws, the
arts, and the creeds of men, it seems to me, that now at least, if

never at any former time, the thoughts of the true nature of our
life, and of its powers and responsibilities, should present

themselves with absolutesadness and sternness. And although I know
that this feeling is much deepened in my own mind by disappointment,

which, by chance, has attended the greater number of my cherished
purposes, I do not for that reason distrust the feeling itself,

though I am on my guard against an exaggerated degree of it: nay, I
rather believe that in periods of new effort and violent change,

disappointment is a wholesome medicine; and that in the secret of
it, as in the twilight so beloved by Titian, we may see the colours

of things with deeper truth than in the most dazzling sunshine. And
because these truths about the works of men, which I want to bring

to-day before you, are most of them sad ones, though at the same
time helpful; and because also I believe that your kind Irish hearts

will answer more gladly to the truthful expression of a personal
feeling, than to the exposition of an abstract principle, I will

permit myself so much unreserved speaking of my own causes of
regret, as may enable you to make just allowance for what, according

to your sympathies, you will call either the bitterness, or the
insight, of a mind which has surrendered its best hopes, and been

foiled in its favourite aims.
I spent the ten strongest years of my life, (from twenty to thirty,)

in endeavouring to show the excellence of the work of the man whom I
believed, and rightly believed, to be the greatest painter of the

schools of England since Reynolds. I had then perfect faith in the
power of every great truth of beauty to prevailultimately, and take

its right place in usefulness and honour; and I strove to bring the
painter's work into this due place, while the painter was yet alive.

But he knew, better than I, the uselessness of talking about what
people could not see for themselves. He always discouraged me

scornfully, even when he thanked me--and he died before even the
superficial effect of my work was visible. I went on, however,

thinking I could at least be of use to the public, if not to him, in
proving his power. My books got talked about a little. The prices

of modern pictures, generally, rose, and I was beginning to take
some pleasure in a sense of gradualvictory, when, fortunately or

unfortunately, an opportunity of perfect trial undeceived me at
once, and for ever. The Trustees of the National Gallery

commissioned me to arrange the Turner drawings there, and permitted
me to prepare three hundred examples of his studies from nature, for

exhibition at Kensington. At Kensington they were, and are, placed
for exhibition; but they are not exhibited, for the room in which

they hang is always empty.
Well--this showed me at once, that those ten years of my life had

been, in their chief purpose, lost. For that, I did not so much
care; I had, at least, learned my own business thoroughly, and

should be able, as I fondlysupposed, after such a lesson, now to
use my knowledge with better effect. But what I did care for was

the--to me frightful--discovery, that the most splendid genius in
the arts might be permitted by Providence to labour and perish

uselessly; that in the very fineness of it there might be something
rendering it invisible to ordinary eyes; but that, with this strange

excellence, faults might be mingled which would be as deadly as its
virtues were vain; that the glory of it was perishable, as well as

invisible, and the gift and grace of it might be to us as snow in
summer and as rain in harvest.

That was the first mystery of life to me. But, while my best energy
was given to the study of painting, I had put collateral effort,

more prudent if less enthusiastic, into that of architecture; and in
this I could not complain of meeting with no sympathy. Among

several personal reasons which caused me to desire that I might give
this, my closing lecture on the subject of art here, in Ireland, one

of the chief was, that in reading it, I should stand near the
beautiful building,--the engineer's school of your college,--which

was the first realization I had the joy to see, of the principles I
had, until then, been endeavouring to teach! but which, alas, is

now, to me, no more than the richly canopied monument of one of the
most earnest souls that ever gave itself to the arts, and one of my

truest and most loving friends, Benjamin Woodward. Nor was it here
in Ireland only that I received the help of Irish sympathy and

genius. When to another friend, Sir Thomas Deane, with Mr.
Woodward, was entrusted the building of the museum at Oxford, the

best details of the work were executed by sculptors who had been
born and trained here; and the first window of the facade of the

building, in which was inaugurated the study of natural science in
England, in true fellowship with literature, was carved from my

design by an Irish sculptor.
You may perhaps think that no man ought to speak of disappointment,

to whom, even in one branch of labour, so much success was granted.
Had Mr. Woodward now been beside me, I had not so spoken; but his

gentle and passionate spirit was cut off from the fulfilment of its
purposes, and the work we did together is now become vain. It may

not be so in future; but the architecture we endeavoured to
introduce is consistent" target="_blank" title="a.不一致的">inconsistent alike with the recklessluxury, the

deforming mechanism, and the squalid misery of modern cities; among
the formative fashions of the day, aided, especially in England, by

ecclesiastical sentiment, it indeed obtained notoriety; and
sometimes behind an engine furnace, or a railroad bank, you may

detect the patheticdiscord of its momentary grace, and, with toil,
decipher its floral carvings choked with soot. I felt answerable to

the schools I loved, only for their injury. I perceived that this
new portion of my strength had also been spent in vain; and from

amidst streets of iron, and palaces of crystal, shrank back at last
to the carving of the mountain and colour of the flower.

And still I could tell of failure, and failurerepeated, as years
went on; but I have trespassed enough on your patience to show you,

in part, the causes of my discouragement. Now let me more
deliberately tell you its results. You know there is a tendency in

the minds of many men, when they are heavily disappointed in the
main purposes of their life, to feel, and perhaps in warning,

perhaps in mockery, to declare, that life itself is a vanity.
Because it has disappointed them, they think its nature is of

disappointment always, or at best, of pleasure that can be grasped
by imagination only; that the cloud of it has no strength nor fire

within; but is a painted cloud only, to be delighted in, yet
despised. You know how beautifully Pope has expressed this

particular phase of thought:-
"Meanwhile opinion gilds, with varying rays,

These painted clouds that beautify our days;
Each want of happiness by hope supplied,

And each vacuity of sense, by pride.
Hope builds as fast as Knowledge can destroy;

In Folly's cup, still laughs the bubble joy.
One pleasure past, another still we gain,

And not a vanity is given in vain."
But the effect of failure upon my own mind has been just the reverse

of this. The more that my life disappointed me, the more solemn and
wonderful it became to me. It seemed, contrarily to Pope's saying,

that the vanity of it WAS indeed given in vain; but that there was
something behind the veil of it, which was not vanity. It became to

me not a painted cloud, but a terrible and impenetrable one: not a