o the French school the greatest injustice in rating it
by its achievements of thirty years ago. Since then it has made
enormous strides in a branch totally different from that
signalising its decline. Not, however, that the man who ruined it
was not gifted with a very superior talent. Boucher was a born
colourist. He had discrimination in composing and good taste in
the choice of his figures. But of a sudden he stopped working
except for the dainty chambers of women, when his colouring
became insipid, his style affected; and, this example once set,
all painters tried to follow it. His defects were carried to the
extreme, as always happens; things went from bad to worse, and
art seemed irretrievably destroyed. Then came an able painter,
called Vien, whose style was simple and severe. He was
appreciated by true art-lovers, and regenerated our school. We
have since produced David, young Louis Drouais--who died at Rome,
aged twenty-five, just as he seemed to give promise of becoming
a second Raphael--Gerard, Gros, Girodet, Guerin, and a number of
others I might cite.

"It is not surprising that after criticising the works of David,
which you evidently do not know at all, you do me the honour of
criticising mine, which you know no better. Being ignorant of the
English language, I had not been able to read what you wrote
about my painting, and when I was told, without being given the
particulars, that you had abused me soundly, I answered that,
however much you might disparage my pictures, all the worst you
could say of them would be less than I think. I do not suppose
that any artist imagines he has attained perfection, and, far
from any such presumption on my part, I have never yet been quite
satisfied with any work of mine. Nevertheless, being now more
fully informed, and knowing that your criticism bears principally
on a point that appears important to me, I believe my duty is to
repudiate it in the interest of art.

"Patience, the only merit you allow me, is unfortunately not one
of the virtues of my character. Only, it is true that I am loath
to leave my work. I consider it is never complete enough, and, in
the fear of leaving it too imperfect, my conscience makes me
think about it a long time and touch it up repeatedly.

"It seems th