The material of art passes--human love, human beauty--but art remains.

It is the image, not the reality, that is everlasting.

I will live in the image." "But I know now," he once more resumed, "that there is a higher immortality than art's,--the immortality of love.

The immortality of art indeed is one of those curious illusions of man's self-love which a moment's thought dispels.

Art, who need be told, is as dependent for its survival on the survival of its physical media as man's body itself--and though the epic and the great canvas escape combustion for a million years, they must burn at last, burn with all the other accumulated shadows of time.