What are politics--or
social reform--or religion--or morals--compared to _art_? The true
artist, it has been pleaded again and again, has no country. He
follows Beauty wherever she pitches her tent--'an hourly neighbour.'
Woe to the interests that conflict with this interest! He simply
drives them out of doors, and turns the key upon them!
This, in fact, was the Squire's defence of himself, whenever he
troubled to defend himself. As to the pettinesses of a domineering
and irritable temper, cherished through long years, and flying out
on the smallest occasions--the Squire conveniently forgot them, in
those rare moments of self-vision which were all the gods allowed
him. Of course he was master in his own house and estate--why not?
Of course he fought those who would interfere with him, war or no
war--why not?
He sat down to his table, very sorry for himself, and hotly
indignant with an unreasonable woman. The absence of her figure from
the table on the further side of the room worked upon his nerves.
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