Art is the work of the mind of man. If that mind is mean, his art is poor. The virtues he possesses are reproduced in his picture. They elevate or debase, according to the depth and greatness of the mind. If there is too much ornament, man is given to pleasure. If not enough, he is stupid and rude. If man is licentious, this habit gives rise to a weak, loose expression. The faults in the work are the faults in the man. A man's work is the Book of Life, by which he is judged. His traits are stamped therein. The history of an age can be read in its monuments and paintings. Honor, liberty, valor, cleverness,—the passions and ideals of an age,—are all in its works of art. This history may be read as so many legends, or as we read the character of individuals,—in their works, in their faces, in their manners.
What one dwells on the most, that he becomes. We are good or evil, sick or well, in proportion as these conditions occupy our thoughts.
If we contemplate man in purity of conduct, in habitual moral goodness and discipline, in elevated thought, if we cherish spontaneous tenderness and a sweet disposition, thinking no evil, then we delineate these in life and character.
