plate and another, begins, although he is the last to admit it, to lose the broader grasp of his subject. His love of minutiæ seems to warp his finer judgment. Pedant is a rude name to apply to him, but his fine distinctions elude the very essence of the art to which he has lovingly devoted himself. There are niceties in collecting which govern prices that cannot be upheld by any cogent reasoning. Art cannot be governed by the same hard and fast axioms which control the world of fact. Art is not science. Its masterpieces hold their place by reason of their support by an acknowledged plebiscite of trained minds. The world of science and of fact is one thing, the world of fashion and of fashionable caprice is another—a world run riot into extravagance led by unbalanced or interested persons—the world of taste is yet another. If a man of otherwise well-balanced mind cannot appreciate Millet or Corot, Canaletto or Méryon, Bewick or Whistler, it proves nothing other than that he is not possessed of a catholic taste. It goes without saying that the man who can appreciate them all is a natural artist, and he who can appreciate each at his true worth is a natural critic. But taste is not given to all, nor need any one blush because he cannot see beauties in work which to many another seems unsurpassed in excellence. "The voice of the people is the voice of God" cannot be applied to last year's Academy, but it can and does apply to art as a whole. Somehow the truth has filtered through the ages, and fashions have declined and slighted masters have come into their own. The esoteric judgment of that
