that vague influence or tendency which we call the spirit of the age. In the first place, the fact that Wren chose a classical and not a Gothic type is directly and in the highest degree expressive of the spirit of his age, and if an artist of equal genius were to arise now the spirit of the age would impel him just as irresistibly to go to the past for inspiration and guidance. He would certainly not choose the same models as Wren, or employ them in the same way; but in this very difference we should detect the working of the changed spirit of the age. Again, the spirit of the age is not always or everywhere creative. While Newton was creating, Wren was adapting and combining; but, like corn in a field, they wereeach according to his position and stature-moved by the same breath. To argue that the spirit of the age stirs only in what is new in substance as well as in form is like contending that a man ceases to live when he ceases to grow.

However, though we cannot share the author's views of the historical method, we are none the less grateful for the results of his own subtle and elaborate inquiry. A book like this is specially welcome at the present day, when the plague of putrid anaemia is wasting the very substance of mind, when in literature egoism dominates, and impressionism in art, to the exclusion in the one case of truth, and in the other of thought.

The following passage, for example, throws a clear light upon a question which in this country it is very difficult to approach, or even to see, for the dust raised by contending amateurs:

No one will deny, probably, that most of the present French painters of the highest rank excel in imitation-i.e., in reproducing the exact appearance of nature; or that most of the English painters excel in expression— i.e., in arranging these appearances so as to be significant of ideas. As a consequence, the French are accused by their detractors of caring only for technique, and the English, especially so far as their arrangements suggest a story, of being literary. But why cannot, and why should not, a work of art be equally successful in imitation and in expression, in execution and in invention? There is no reason except that the most of us are narrow in our aims and sympathies, and prefer to have our art as contracted and onesided as ourselves. But this is not the spirit that will ever lead to the development of great art. It may foster the mechanical school, where everything runs to line, and the impressionist, where everything runs to colour; but it will not always blend both lines and colours sufficiently to produce even satisfactory form, and it will never make this form an inspiring pre

sence by infusing into it the vitality of that thought and feeling which alone can entitle it to be a work of the humanities.

In the course of his wide survey, the author glances now and again at music; but, though much that he says is original and suggestive, we are not satisfied on the whole with his treatment of "the perfect art." For example, he tells us that "there would be no melodies if it were not for the natural songs of men and birds, or for what are called 'the voices of nature,'" and, again, that “the term nature may apply to every effect that is not produced directly by the agency of distinctively human intelligence." On the contrary, we hold that the very pre-eminence of music as an art is due to the fact that its realm lies inward, in the depths of personality. Like number, it is a faculty of that inner sense, the form of which, according to Kant, is Time; but its freedom and power are even greater, for it comprehends and exhibits that which is " inexpressible by numbers that have name." The ancients, if we may judge from their choice of metaphors, were aware of this fact, and Leibnitz neatly expressed it when he said that "music is unconscious mathematics."

In conclusion, we would cordially recommend this book to all who desire to import something of deliberation and accuracy into their thinking about matters of art. For even if, as we believe, no theory in itself will outlast the dusk of the critics, on the other hand there is a chance that, when day does dawn, it may find us unnerved and untuned by bad dreams.

JOHN RUSSELL, R.A.'

[1895: AET. 31.]

T first sight it would seem as if the biographer in search of a hero would have to extend his inquiry far beyond the limits of the eighteenth century, for the wealth of this period both in matters and in men has attracted a host of explorers, after whose loving labour there is not much to glean. To most periods distance lends their enchantment. What we half invent we entirely approve. But it is otherwise with the eighteenth century, for here enchantment lessens the distance. Though we may have ceased to read "Rasselas," we are never tired of reading about "our great friend," as the late Master of Balliol called Johnson, and the "dear dead women" of Reynolds are far closer to our hearts than the domestic pruderies in ringlets and crinolines of the early and middle days of Victoria. In fact, now that the painter and decorator has arrived to finish up with "vignettes," it looks as if the solid and formal work of the historian were almost done.

It is, therefore, all the more surprising that a great portraitpainter of this brilliant and popular epoch should have had to wait until yesterday not only for the exhaustive biography which comes in due time to those that wait, but for any biography at all. Allan Cunningham, though he would squeeze in Runciman, Harlow, and Bird-only one of whom was a Scotchman-among the immortals, had no place for John Russell. This neglect our author is inclined to attribute in great part to the fact that the painter's diary, being written in a difficult system of shorthand, remained, as it were, locked away from those who might and would have rescued him from unmerited obscurity. But this surely is to mistake a mere accident for an efficient cause. What system of shorthand, or even

1 "John Russell, R.A.," by G. C. Williamson; "Guardian," February 13th, 1895.

of hieroglyphics, would have kept the world from a diary of Reynolds, if such a treasure had existed? On the contrary, the causes of the sudden decline and speedy disappearance of Russell's popularity must be sought in the man himself and the character of his art. As an oil painter he was no match for his great contemporaries, while his favourite medium, in force and range, is no match for oil. If Michelangelo stigmatized oil-painting as an employment only fit for women, what would he have said of pastel? It is true that the works of Russell still maintain their pristine prettiness almost unimpaired, while Sir Joshua's colours fleeted faster even than the youth and beauty they rivalled; nevertheless the grounds of Romney's opinion, that a faded Reynolds was better than a well-preserved picture by any other master, are so far from having been obscured by the lapse of time, that at the present day they look clearer and more decisive than ever. Again, while Reynolds and Romney are seen as much in the reflected light of their illustrious friendships as by their own achievements, great as these were, Russell, by embracing Methodism at a time when society did not suffer enthusiasts gladly, lost the chance of being carried down to posterity by the main stream. Only the stars of the very first magnitude shine alone; the rest maintain a corporate splendour in constellations, an arrangement which we see beautifully reflected in the theory now universally held that in literature, science, and art it is not so much practice as puffery that makes perfect.

John Russell was born at Guildford in the year 1745. His father seems to have possessed something of a talent for drawing, and the son early betrayed a similar bent; though the stories told of his precocity are in no way remarkable. When still young he was placed in the studio of Francis Cotes, R.A., whose reputation now suffers from the fact that his best works are generally attributed to Gainsborough. For his master Russell always entertained a strong feeling of respect and affection, though his conversion, the most important event in his life, was the cause of frequent disputes and misunderstandings between them. For instance, we read in his diary: "My master disturbed me with oaths at my prayers;" and again:

I had a religious argument with my master, Mr. Cotes, at dinner. I could not keep myself calm. I had the name of being a blasphemer given me

because I defended the doctrine of election, and spoke on the exceeding sinfulness of sin.

After leaving Cotes he paid a visit to the country before settling finally in London. His commissions were numerous: but his private utterances still show that his heart was more in his vocation than in his profession. He scattered the good seed right and left without respect of persons, preaching to noble sitters, coachmen, and servant-girls. In 1772 Russell became an associate of the Royal Academy, but is was not before 1789 that the honours of full membership were accorded to him. It seems that owing to his constant determination to keep himself unspotted from the world his intercourse with his colleages lacked freedom and cordiality. He made an occasional appearance at the annual banquets, once at the urgent request of Sir Joshua, but it always went against the grain. In January, 1773, he writes: "Obliged to fly from the R.A., as they were full of filthy blasphemy;" and again: "Spending the evening at the Royal Academy, but obliged to leave because of their filthy conversation." Nevertheless there must have been a certain method in his Methodism, if we may be allowed the expression, for, though in the case of Reynolds, the most invulnerable of men, his Whig sympathies were sufficient to lose him the esteem and support of the King, Russell eventually mounted the very summit of his profession as painter to the Prince Regent. A "bad eminence," surely, from his point of view; but those who are most deeply conscious that they are not as other men are can sometimes suck flattering unction and more solid stuff, too, out of the errors or the misfortunes of their neighbours. For instance, there was a certain Colonel Glover, to whom Russell was indebted, so he writes about him as follows:

He is a Deist, a man of very depraved morals, but has been raised up to serve me, when it shall not be accounted for but from Providence, who will feed his people by ravens as well as men.

Doubtless, his Royal Highness the Prince Regent was a bird of the same feather. Nor was Russell's personal humility by any means incompatible with the most ludicrous excess of intellectual arrogance. Our pastellist was a great amateur of astronomy. He made a map of the moon, and contrived a mechanical means of exhibiting its phases; accordingly, it is without surprise, though it