Criticism is too often local in its tone, being pledged, as it were, to the admiration of its favorite subjects and a corresponding disregard of those with which it is not familiar.  Particularly in Italy, where the municipal feeling has been so strong, the partisans of each school were greatly prejudiced.  Each people also very naturally prefers its own to another’s art, and does not always question its motives of preference.  The Florentines have overlooked the merits of their rivals, the Venetians and Sienese,—­who, in turn, have reciprocated; while Italy, as a whole, has had but small regard for the works of other nations.  England has been slow to recognize the great merits of the Southern schools; and France, Holland, and Germany are equally in the bondage of local tastes or transitory fashions.  But true criticism is cosmopolitan.  It tests merit according to the standard of the nature on which it is founded, not overlooking excellence in whatever respect or degree.  A truly catholic view of art is the result only of its universal study.  The critic may be just to all inspirations, and yet enjoy his own preferences.  But, as Blackwood observes, too many “are self-endowed with the capacity to judge all matters relating to the fine arts just in proportion to the extent of their ignorance, because it is not difficult to condemn in general terms and to attain notoriety by shallow pretence.”  Neither “the narrowness of sect nor the noise of party” should be heard in this matter.  As a great gallery should represent all phases of art through their several stages of progress and decay, meeting all wants and tastes, so criticism should be based upon a foundation equally broad,—­not proud of its erudition nor dictatorial, but with due humility uttering its opinions, prompt to sustain them, and yet ever ready to listen and learn.

“Old masters” are almost a by-word of doubt or contempt in America, owing to the influx of cheap copies and pseudo-originals of no artistic value whatever.  It is the more important, therefore, that they should be represented among us by such characteristic specimens as are still to be procured.  Some modern artists are jealous of or indifferent to past genius, and sedulously disparage it in view of their own immediate interests.  Bayle St. John, in his “Louvre,” relates that he heard an associate of the Royal Academy deliberately and energetically declare, that, if it were in his power, he would slash with his knife all the works of the old masters, and thus compel people to buy modern.  This spirit is both ungenerous and impolitic.  If neither respect nor care for the works of departed talent be bestowed, what future has the living talent itself to look forward to?  Art is best nourished by a general diffusion of aesthetic taste and feeling.  There can be no invidious rivalry between the dead and the living.  Alfred Tennyson looks not with evil eye upon John Milton.  Why should a modern be jealous of a mediaeval artist?  The public can love and appreciate both.  Nor should it be forgotten that it is precisely in those countries where old art is most appreciated that the modern is most liberally sustained.