ear our minds, then, of the illusion that there is in any
important sense such a thing as progress in the fine arts. We may with
a clear conscience judge every new work for what it appears in itself to
be, asking of it that it be noble and beautiful and reasonable, not that
it be novel or progressive. If it be great art it will always be novel
enough, for there will be a great mind behind it, and no two great minds
are alike. And if it be novel without being great, how shall we be the
better off? There are enough forms of mediocre or evil art in the world
already. Being no longer intimidated by the fetich of progress, when a
thing calling itself a work of art seems to us hideous and degraded,
indecent and insane, we shall have the courage to say so and shall not
care to investigate it further. Detestable things have been produced in
the past, and they are none the less detestable because we are able to
see how they came to be produced. Detestable things are produced now,
and they will be no more admirable if we learn to understand the minds
that create them. Even should such things prove to be not the mere
freaks of a diseased intellect that they seem but a necessary outgrowth
of the conditions of the age and a true prophecy of "the art of the
future," they are not necessarily the better for that. It is only that
the future will be very unlucky in its art.

IV

RAPHAEL

There used to be on the cover of the "Portfolio Monographs" little
medallions of Raphael and Rembrandt, placed there, as the editor, Mr.
Hamerton, has somewhere explained, as portraits of the two most widely
influential artists that ever lived. In the eighteenth century, one
imagines, Rembrandt's presence by the side of Raphael would have been
thought little less than a scandal. To-day it is Raphael's place that
would be contested, and he would be superseded, likely enough, by
Velazquez.

There is no more striking instance of the vicissitudes of critical
opinion than the sudden fall of Raphael from his conceded rank as "the
prince of painters." Up to the middle of the nineteenth century his
right to that title was so uncontested that it alone was a sufficient
identification of him--only one man could possibly be meant. That he
should ever need defending or re-explaining to a generation grown cold
to him would have seemed incredible. Then came the rediscovery of an
earlier art that seemed more frank and simple than his; still later the
disc