the girls or in their parents? To this question, those instruments brought out by virtuosi in the miserable attendance at the Quintet Club's concerts is a sufficient answer. Of their four concerts in a small hall, not one was played before a full house. Society as a body does not go to concerts unless the musicians, through the newspapers or otherwise, have somehow become the object of fashionable talk, so that not to have heard them becomes the dreaded sign of being not up to the fashion. As for the general public, in spite of the boasted cosmopolitanism of San Francisco, it is now generally conceded that for music without beer they have no taste. It remained, therefore, for a very small body of listeners, who lacked nothing in enthusiasm, to enjoy the musical feast that was offered. The nature of the concerted pieces given is sufficiently indicated when we say that among them were Beethoven's Quintet in C, Mendelssohn's Quintet in A, Schubert's Quartet in D minor, quartets by Raff and Rubinstein, and a minuet by Boccherini-all truly interpreted by the players. Besides this, four of the club appeared repeatedly as distinguished soloists Mr. Giese on the violoncello, Mr. Schnitzler on the violin, Mr. Ryan on the clarinette, and Mr. Schade on the flute. Whatever one may think of the flute and the clarinette, it was a pleasure to hear the full capacities of a manner highly instructive to any young musicians who may be studying among us. Mr. Schnitzler came too soon after Wilhelmj for the best effect of his talents. He is an admirable artist, though not endowed with genius. That quality, if it exist in the club, belongs to Mr. Giese. His playing on the 'cello was truly wonderful. Our only regret was that he chose rather to display the difficulties of that instrument than its true nature and deep emotional expressiveness. His playing was, therefore, at times more interesting to us in concerted pieces than in the solos by Servais with their quick time and acrobatic nimbleness. Of the singing of Miss Nellini we have only space to say that the purity and volume of her voice and her fine style made us regret that she is not to stay permanently with us. She possesses the uncommon gift of being alike at home in the execution of a florid operatic air, and in expressing the deep pathos of a simple ballad. Her singing does not depend for its effect merely upon being sweet and charming, it has also the power to take command of the listener's feelings, and carry them along with it. Miss Nellini will be remembered with pleasure by all who attended these delightful concerts. ART AND ARTISTS. "Degrade first the arts if you would mankind degrade." Not a picture was sold at the last art exhibition. The public did not even pay the artists the compliment of going to see their work, and, poor as they may be, appreciation is always worth more to artists than money. But money is not to be scorned just at present. Artists cannot live on air, and a bit of white lead on a sable brush would prove a deadly diet for the most robust of them. It is about all any of them will have to eat soon. Local pride and patriotism have fallen below zero. We may have money, but we have none but imported cultivation, for even our glorious climate cannot cause the home-made article to thrive. The artists who had pictures in the last exhibition are vastly worse off than before. The majority of them are minus canvas, paints, and about three months of hard labor, to say nothing of the internal wear and tear of blighted hopes and blasted expectations. The Hanging and Rejection Committees have had the additional disadvantage of several solid columns of abuse in the daily papers. A rejection' committee is a necessity, and the Art Association can never give another exhibition without one. It would be as absurd and as disastrous to exclude no pictures as it would be for the editor of a magazine to print all the trash that is sent to him for that purpose. Judging from a partial exhibition of the rejected pictures at a local gallery, no artists were excluded this time save a few of the notoriously incompetent. Hell hath no fury like a painter scorned," and never one yet was so wretchedly inefficient that he could not prove himself in endless newspaper columns a veritable Michael Angelo and the victim of envy and jealousy. It is to be hoped that the small savage tribe of the rejected shall have learned in the course of another year either to do better work or to swallow their ignoble and impotent rage with gentle manly unconcern. There is, naturally enough, but little new at the various local galleries. At Morris & Kennedy's may be seen the first painting yet exhibited by Mr. George Brush. Mr. Brush is a new comer-young, talented, and fresh from studies abroad under Gérome. Let us hope that this budding flower of genius is of hardy stock, else he will soon wither in this uncongenial atmosphere. His picture brings to mind the line, "the green lanes of England." Down the winding lane comes the bridal procession-first, a little lad strewing flowers; then come the bride and groom; she with sweet uplifted face, soft blonde hair, and quaint, old-fashioned robe of rich brocade; he in the costume of a hundred years ago, stiff and conscious as bridegrooms are ever. After them walk mother, father, and priest, while a pair of lagging young folks bring up the rear. The figures, though interesting, are subordinate to the landscape, which is admirable in its way, full of soft greens and spring-time freshness. The winding road is lost to sight in the distance behind them, and the procession wends its way in the cool shadow of the luxuriant, spreading foliage of the trees by the roadside. Between the bars some of the greatest masters of the century have been hung in indiscriminate confusion around the walls, and made use of solely as a background for bits of bric-àbrac, which would be very pleasing did they not interfere with the view of something vastly more valuable and interesting. The local critics, taking their cue from the Hanging Committee, have made sad havoc with the reputations of these European artists. One condescend another demolishes him with his little pop-gun. The great Vibert's drawing is coldly criticised by one cruel pen, and another connoisseur instructs the masterly Schreyer that his picture is not at all what it purports to be. Meissonnier and Zamaçois are hardly noticed, and the wonderful Détaille is absolutely ignored! of the rail-fence on the right is seen a glimpse of daz-ingly bestows upon Gérome a nod of approbation, while zling green, where the sun is shining bright on the fields beyond. There may be some fault found with the introduction of two wee toddlers of the Kate Greenaway school, who, wandering by the roadside, rather disturb than add to the harmony of the composition. As a whole, the picture is a simple subject, modestly treated, and full of the poetry of youth, love, and springtime. It is said that Mr. Brush's picture of "Miggles" will soon be exhibited here. The picture, having already been engraved in Scribner's Monthly, will be a familiar acquaintance to the many readers of that magazine. There is in the same gallery a treat in store for the public, in the shape of a "Twilight," by Harvey Young, not yet exhibited. It is something worth watching for, being by far the best treatment of the subject, as well as the best work of that artist ever brought to this coast. The rooms of the Art Association, so short a time ago the scene of the last hard struggle of local art for appreciation and a living, are now given over to the loan exhibition of the Society of Decorative Art. This society has a most worthy object, having been organized for the purpose of opening a new and remunerative field in the industrial arts for women; or, in the words of one of the lady managers, "we desire to give ladies in reduced circumstances an opportunity to earn money in a way that shall be agreeable and appropriate." To those who know the ups and downs of life in San Francisco, the object is indeed a worthy one. How a woman, absolutely incapable of any labor, mental or physical, worth remunerating, shall earn an honest living, is one of the problems of the day that seems incapable of solution. The ideas of the refined and estimable ladies who have taken this matter in hand are in every way worthy of them. They intend to import competent teachers from New York or England to instruct indigent ladies, free of charge, in such branches of art as they have any aptitude for, and to provide a store where the work they produce may be exposed for sale. Everything seems to have been nicely calculated, save the apparent overlooking of the fact that in the best of times there is a very dull market for such wares in San Francisco. The present Loan Exhibition is one of which we may well be proud. Its object is to stimulate public interest in the work of the society, and the proceeds will be devoted to defraying the necessary expenses of their new work. The bric-à-brac exhibited merits an article by itself, and is a gratifying proof of the taste and cultivation of our best people. The collection of paintings is a rare treat to all who are interested in art. With the exception of a few of the water-colors in the exhibition room, there has been no attention paid to their value in hanging them. The gallery is marred by two large cases in the center of the room, which entirely prevent anything like a general view of this department. There is a good light and ample space for these cases in the arge room adjoining the gallery. The disposition of the paintings is a great disappointment. The creations of The most glaring mistake of the Hanging Committee is that of placing "The Halt," by Détaille, in an obscure corner, where it is almost entirely concealed by an immense Japanese bronze. Twelve years ago, when this artist was only twenty years old, the incomparable critic, Théophile Gautier, pronounced him already a master. His subsequent success and fame were only one of the many proofs of the great critic's unerring judgment. The picture of "The Halt" is in his best style, and it is unpardonable to put such a picture in a corner, while a prominent position is given to a pearl gray sylph, by Voillemot. Gérome's "Sword Dance," but recently purchased by Charles Crocker, Esq., is exhibited here for the first time in San Francisco. The picture is not displayed to advantage. It is a most fascinating work of art, the entire painting being subordinated to the small central figure of the dancing girl. The walls and rafters of the rude interior are broadly, almost carelessly painted, and the dim figures of the three musicians, two men and a woman, in the somber background, are hardly more than expressive suggestions of a master hand. The face of the woman is particularly good; she is weary and distrait, oblivious of her surroundings, and one can almost hear the wailing, monotonous song with which she is accompanying the barbaric music. The dancing girl is poised lightly in the center of a small square of Oriental carpet, a little to the left, in the foreground. The dark interior is hardly lighted by the two or three slant rays of sunshine which fall from an opening in the roof across the figure of the dancer and the carpet. The light just touches a sword poised precariously across her head, and flashes on another in her right hand. A dainty green gauze veil is wound round the head, half-concealing a lovely, luxurious face, and floating, almost visibly undulating, in vapory folds on the air. The figure of the girl is superb in its supple grace. Only a master could have painted the shapely hands and the firm yet velvety texture of the arm, which the dainty transparency of a gauze sleeve serves only to reveal. In the language of Gautier, "Gérome has searched the Orient for characteristic types," and "has applied himself to reproducing the sculptural forms and grand style of the races which have never been deformed by civilization." The dancing girl's figure, the flexibility of the waist, the perfect curves of the hips, the poise of the feet, are all beyond description. There is a lovely bit of color and handling in the light that flashes from the glittering mass of coins on her bosom. The surroundings are bare, poor, and rude; but, by the artist's power, in the one small figure of the dancing girl is epitomized all the sensuous splendor, the undulating grace, the barbaric beauty of the Orient. The figure of the "Halberdier," by Meissonier, is another notable work of art, and should be one of the features of the exhibition. It is a small single standing figure, and a wonderful thing to study as an example of the master's style. This style, which is his and his alone, is a combination of breadth of handling and minuteness of detail that bewilders the beholder and is the despair of an artist. The picture well repays the most careful study, and it is almost impossible to realize the breadth of the style without observing it through a magnifying glass. The brilliant satirist, J. G. Vibert, must have recognized in Swift a kindred spirit, to have abandoned the priesthood, the standing subject of his subtle satirical paintings, and chosen a theme from Gulliver's Travels. That he has appreciated the true inwardness of this subject, may be seen in his admirable handling of it. He calls his picture "Gulliver," and it represents that hero at the moment when, fast asleep, he is being bound hand and foot by the Lilliputs. There is a wonderful bit of foreshortening in the prostrate body of Gulliver, lying feet foremost and body at an angle. The drawing is made to express all that drawing can do for such a subject. In the grouping of the swarms of Lilliputian figures there is much interesting detail. As is usual with Vibert, the greatest charm is his humorous and satirical treatment of the subject. The "Duet of Love" and "The Smuggler," the latter in black and white, are the two other pictures by Vibert on exhibition, and both are interesting examples of his delightfully clever satires on the priesthood. There are two pictures by Schreyer-"Turkish Horseman" and "Winter in Russia." Both are fine-the latter superb. "Winter in Russia" represents a wagon, to which are harnessed a number of horses, which are being driven through the forest in the face of a driving storm. The fine drawing, depth and richness of color, wonderful atmospheric effect, and masterly expression of sentiment, make it a picture to remember. It is not often our privilege to have such a one in San Francisco. "Flowers," by Robie, is a perfect revel of pure, rich, lovely color, and merits, as does the "Cock Fight," by Roybet, an extended description, which space will not allow. "Three Friends," by Toulmouche, is a picture clever in drawing and manipulation, delightful in its way, but of a style which is rapidly going out of date; for, sad to say, there are fashions even in painting, and more especially in this class of work. It is a pity there is nothing on exhibition by Kaemmerer, who is much newer, brighter, and better. "The Tourists," by Madrazo, is an uneven but agreeable picture. Some of the figures are slighted, but it contains some clever things-notably, a figure of an urchin in the foreground, with the most deliciously droll bare legs that it is possible to imagine. Madrazo, like Kaemmerer, is among the rising people of the new school, and we will doubtless, in time, see more of him here. Much that is interesting and deserves a special mention will have to be reserved for another time, there being, besides the many oil paintings in the gallery, some gems in water-color in the exhibition room. BOOKS RECEIVED. CESAR. A Sketch. By James Anthony Froude, M. A. New York: Harper & Brothers. 1881. For sale in San Francisco by Payot, Upham & Co. Given so great a man as Cæsar, and so able and practiced a historian as Mr. Froude, and we could hardly fail to find a volume of much historical interest. But this "sketch" is far from satisfactory. It does not impress one as being an honest attempt to throw new light on a most important period of Roman history. It is not a careful study of character. It does not sum up the good and the bad qualities of a great man, and give an impartial judgment on his deeds. It is rather the work of a pronounced admirer of the Roman dictator, who weighs no opposing evidence, who strikes right and left at all who refuse homage to his idol. Cicero especially comes in for an immense amount of disparagement. For instance: "So Cicero meditated, thinking, as usual, of himself first, and of his duty afterward." "He had preferred characteristically to be out of the way at the moment when he expected that the storm would break." When the infamous Clodius, at last, procured Cicero's banishment, it was, as Mr. Froude blandly confesses, with the powerful countenance of Cæsar. And this is the easy justification of Cæsar's motive in helping Clodius: "Cicero ha refused Cæsar's offered friendship. Cæsar had not cared to leave so powerful a person free to support the intended attacks on his legislation." All through the book the chief authority cited is the letters of Cicero, and from these frank, impulsive outpourings of the great orator's soul to a most intimate friend, material is culled to bring the author of the letters into contempt. But no charge against his hero is suffered for an instant to trouble Mr. Froude's mind. He brushes them all away with an easy assurance that borders on downright impudence. Cæsar was a great, an immeasurably great man. Cæsar was always master of the situation. Cæsar could do no wrong. The key-note of this persistent eulogy is given in one of the earlier pages: "Here philosophy is at fault. Philosophy, when we are face to face with real men, is as powerless as over the Iliad or King Lear. The overmastering interest transcends explanation. We do not sit in judgment on the right or the wrong. We do not seek out causes to account for what takes place, feeling too conscious of the inadequacy of our analysis." Mr. Froude is fond of philosophizing. We see how safe a guide he is. In this volume he is simply an advocate. The cause he advocates is the cause of one of the greatest men the world has ever seen-great as an orator, a writer, a soldier; greatest of all as a statesman. But this same great man was wanting in personal purity, in genuine patriotism, in essential goodness. His ambition was intensely selfish, and it was used to overthrow what remained of Roman liberty. If Cæsar's conduct can be justified, so can the first and great Napoleon's, as the second and petty French Emperor seemed to think. Indiscriminate praise of such a man might well be left to Louis Napoleon. This American edition of Mr. Froude's sketch is not up to the Harper's usual level. It is in unfavorable contrast with the fair volumes in which the same publishers have given us Mr. Trollope's Life of Cicero, as the blurred character of the unscrupulous dictator is in everlasting contrast with that of the great orator, who, with all his weaknesses, was a pure man, an honest patriota man whom we should like to see transplanted to our own times. Who could bear another Julius Cæsar? REMINISCENCES. By Thomas Carlyle. Edited by endured for years the indifference of the world, and finally wrung from it their reward. This struggle, and the courage of it, by Carlyle himself, may now be read of in one of the sincerest books thus far written in the English tongue. Had we more space, it would be well worth while to give the details of a contest which is full of a meaning as universal as the human race and as enduring as time; but we must leave it to the reader to get this book and keep it near him. THE NEW NOBILITY. A Story of Europe and America. By John W. Forney. New York; D. Appleton & Co. 1881. Mr. Forney is an editor of too much ability and ex In spite of the detractions of a great many people perience to have written such a book as the one under who have never read his books, Thomas Carlyle looms up for all time as one of the greatest figures of the nineteenth century. The best minds of England and America have acknowledged their debt to him for the powerful stimulus of his works, and when he died, on the 5th of last February, the verdict of England was that her leading man of letters had passed away. Even here in California, we know there are men to whom his death was like a personal bereavement; men whom we have heard say that out of Carlyle's works they have got, and perpetually do get, the same sort of stimulus to right living that others get from the Bible. "From Carlyle," said one to us not long since, "I first learned the imperative duty of every man to find out what is best in his own nature and be true to that. What the eternal truth is about himself and about the world-this is the inquiry which the reader of Carlyle is compelled to set about; and if, when the inquiry about the world is over, reader and author are sometimes found to disagree (as, in the difficulty of collecting evidence, they are very likely to do), let not this diminish one particle of the gratitude due the stirring impulse of Carlyle." There are doubtless many among our readers who, though not wholly ignorant of Carlyle, are yet unable to acquiesce in this estimate of the moral stimulus of his teaching. To these we recommend, once for all, that instead of plunging into Latter Day Pamphlets, or into Frederick the Great, works of his maturest years, they take up Carlyle from the beginning. In his Essays, the fruit of the first ten years of his mature literary life, they will find a body of thought the freshness of which fifty years have not been able to dim. If he had written nothing else, his estimate of the great English, German, and French men of letters at the dawn of this century— Johnson, Burns, and Scott; Goethe, Schiller, and Richter; Voltaire, Diderot, and Mirabeau-would have made him one of the most potent spiritual influences of the age. It is, therefore, intelligible enough that such a man's Reminiscences should have drawn upon them the attention of the world. Nominally, the book is divided into four parts, devoted to Carlyle's rugged peasant father; to the stanch friend of his early life, Edward Irving; to the famous editor of the Edinburgh Review, Lord Jeffrey; and to Carlyle's self-sacrificing wife. But underlying each of these divisions, and welding the book into an undivided whole, is the history of Carlyle himself. How Thomas Carlyle fought with the world and conquered it-this is the real subject of this book, transcending in interest all mere incisive delineation of distinguished people. Nobody ever loved better than Carlyle to dwell on the valor of men who, for the sake of giving permanent form to what was best within them, consideration; nor is the matter made any better by the prefatory statement that he was assisted in it by W. M. Baker, the author, we presume, of The New Timothy, Carter Quarterman, and other books of interest. This book is simply a glorification of America and American ideas, at the expense of "the effete civilization and tottering dynasties of Europe," as Colonel Elijah Pogram would call them. The author, or authors, certainly possess the merit, if merit it be, of versatility. The reader is transported in the twinkling of an eye from a dinner party in Paris, given by Hop Fun, a Chinese mandarin, at which were present Hindus, Persians, Afghans, Abyssinians, Turks, Americans, Englishmen, and Frenchmen, to the heart of Russia and the hot-bed of Nihilism. Of the various adventures of Henry Harris, the American, and Lord Conyngham, the Englishman, of their perils by flood and fire, their dangers in the imminent, deadly breach, their researches among French Communists, English trades - unions, German Socialists, and Russian Nihilists, suffice it to say that they could scarcely have had an existence, save in the active imagination of Messrs. Forney and Baker. Had our authors divided their subject, and made about three books out of the materials at hand, instead of one, it would have been infinitely more agreeable for the reader and more to the credit of the authors. book is especially lacking in two necessary characteristics of a good novel-simplicity and directness. Were Mr. Forney a novice in the art of writing, one might well recommend to him the Horatian doctrine of the labor lima; but we fear such advice would be thrown away upon him. The As a whole, the book is not a success, although we apprehend it will commend itself to a certain class of readers, whose consciousness of its demerits will be overshadowed by their admiration for the seemingly vast erudition and breadth of thought displayed by its authors. A CENTURY OF DISHONOR. A Sketch of the United Just why Bishop Whipple should have written a "preface," or President Seelye an "introduction," to this work it is hard to conceive, unless it was to give an air of clerical sanctity and professional dignity to the crusade which the title leads one to expect. The eminent respectability of the book being thus guaranteed, the reader is in some measure prepared for the narration of a series of unjust acts, of the authenticity of which, un That the book fortunately, there can be little doubt. contains the truth there can be no question; that it contains the whole truth the author herself would probably not contend. The East, as a usual thing, prefers to look upon the Indian question from the standpoint of the Indian, and reproduces no end of stories of fraud and injustice; the West generally looks upon it from the standpoint of the settler, and adduces innumerable instances of barbarity and cruelty. And the most that any one can do who attempts to view the subject from both standpoints, is to shake his head and declare it sorry business. And probably this will be the utmost that can be done so long as our Government, which is so jealous of its sovereignty as to repudiate the State rights doctrine, yet acknowledges the separate nationality of wandering tribes and makes treaties with them as with foreign nations. The Indian must, like the white man, be treated as an individual. He must be protected in his individual rights, and punished for his individual transgressions. If he is lazy or profligate he has no more claim to be supported than the white or colored citizen. The reservation system-which provides a place of retreat, a rendezvous, an asylum in winter from which to raid in summer-with its concomitants, the thieving agents and dishonest contractors, has proved a colossal failure. It would prove a failure if the wards so segregated were whites instead of Indians. The most industrious classes would be utterly ruined by being treated by the Government as it treats the red men. President Seelye in his "Introduction," says: "Such treaties have proceeded upon the false viewfalse in principle, and equally false in fact-that an Indian tribe, roaming in the wilderness and living by hunting and plunder, is a nation. In order to be a nation there must be a people with a code of laws which they practice, and a government which they maintain. No vague sense of some unwritten law, to which human nature in its lowest stages doubtless feels some obligation, and no regulations instinctively adopted for common defense, which the rudest people herded together will always follow, are enough to constitute a nation. These Indian tribes are not a nation, and nothing either in their history or their condition could properly invest them with a treaty-making power." THE LOST CASKET. Translated from La Main Coupée of F. de Boisgobey, by S. Lee. New York: G. P. Putnam's Sons. 1881. For sale in San Francisco by Billings, Harbourne & Co. While Nihilism is undoubtedly a misfortune to those who experience its terrors and realities, it is none the less a godsend to the sensational novelist. Scarcely a novel of the past or present year has made its appearance, without some reference more or less direct to this subject. M. de Boisgobey, upon whose shoulders the mantle of the late Emile Gaboriau seems to have fallen has written a very readable novel, with Nihilism as its key-note, The scene is laid in Paris, and the attempts of the Nihilists to obtain possession of certain Russian State papers, in the possession of Bousoff, an emissary of the secret police of Russia, form the groundwork of the book. While the plot is not so intricately involved as were many of Gaboriau's, the interest is skillfully kept up, and the unity carefully preserved from the first chapter to the last. Madame Yatta, the heroine, is a well drawn character, and we think the author might have rewarded her courage and zeal better than by allowing her to fall a victim to the rage of Dr. Villagos, whose scheme she had, in a measure, frustrated by her exertions in favor of De Carnoël. We often long for the good old days of novels, where the hero and heroine, after overcoming all sorts of obstacles were happily married in the last chapter to slow music and blue fire, but we long in vain. Nowadays, the hero or heroine (and sometimes both) is bound to die by consumption, or small pox, or prussic acid, without any reason apparent to the average reader why the "other fellow" shouldn't have died and let the young couple be happily married and a' that. So in the present book. Why our author couldn't have killed Dr. Villagos, and allowed Maxime Dorgères and the Countess Yatta to have been happy ever after, we do not see. However, the reader may possibly solve the problem for himself better than we can. The translation seems to be carefully made, although there are evidences, in some few places, of the French idiom having got rather the better of the translator. But this is always so, as the best translation is only a travesty, more or less agreeable, of the original. The book is well worth reading by those who admire this style of literature, and they are many. MEMOIRS OF Prince MetterNICH. Edited by Prince Richard Metternich. The papers classified and arranged by M. A. de Klinkowström. Translated by Mrs. Alexander Napier. In two volumes. New York: Harper & Brothers. 1881. For sale in San Francisco by A. L. Bancroft & Co. Few books have been published of late years of more interest than these memoirs of Prince Metternich. Throughout the entire period of a long career, one of the principal actors upon the mighty stage of international politics in Europe, at a time when nations were struggling for existence, no man had ever a better opportunity to see that life behind the scenes which is the real impulse and inspiration of history. Metternich's natural inclination was for science, but he was early diverted to the public service. His memoirs are full of incidents and anecdotes, relating to the principal men of the age. He was on intimate terms with Napoleon, and throws much light upon the real character of that imperial freebooter. The portrait which he draws of Bonaparte is at once impartial, appreciative, and discerning, and is one of the best things in the work. The portrait of Prince Metternich, which is revealed throughout the memoirs, is perhaps more appreciative than impartial or discerning. GLEANINGS IN the Fields OF ART. By Ednah D. Cheney. Boston: Lee & Shepard. 1881. For sale in San Francisco by Doxey & Co. It is nothing against these gleanings that they are from familiar fields; it is something decidedly in their favor that this fact is modestly assumed in the title. So much that is new is each year added to that which is old in art as well as in science, that one needs constantly to modify, and, as it were, readjust his most fixed conclusions. The book before us opens with a well considered essay on art, which is defined to be, in its broadest sense, "all that which seeks to express thought in a material form, without reference to its use for any material function." Art is spirit materialized. It is thought embodied in matter. Beauty and Use are omitted from the definition as not necessarily forming the great objects in art, "any more than 'happiness' is |