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enjoyed and got good profit of this economy of effort. But the
case is exceptional. Usually in all works of art that have been
conceived from within outwards, and generously nourished from the
author's mind, the moment in which he begins to execute is one of
extreme perplexity and strain. Artists of indifferent energy and
an imperfect devotion to their own ideal make this ungrateful
effort once for all; and, having formed a style, adhere to it
through life. But those of a higher order cannot rest content with
a process which, as they continue to employ it, must infallibly
degenerate towards the academic and the cut-and-dried. Every fresh
work in which they embark is the signal for a fresh engagement of
the whole forces of their mind; and the changing views which
accompany the growth of their experience are marked by still more
sweeping alterations in the manner of their art. So that criticism
loves to dwell upon and distinguish the varying periods of a
Raphael, a Shakespeare, or a Beethoven.
It is, then, first of all, at this initial and decisive moment when
execution is begun, and thenceforth only in a less degree, that the
ideal and the real do indeed, like good and evil angels, contend
for the direction of the work. Marble, paint, and language, the
pen, the needle, and the brush, all have their grossnesses, their
ineffable impotences, their hours, if I may so express myself, of
insubordination. It is the work and it is a great part of the
delight of any artist to contend with these unruly tools, and now
by brute energy, now by witty expedient, to drive and coax them to
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