expressing, are really what are noteworthy in his pictures, far more than their monotonous coloration and the coldness and unreality of the pictures themselves, considered as moving, real, or significant compositions.  In admiration of these it is impossible for us nowadays to go as far as even the romanticist, though extremely catholic, Gautier.  They leave us cold.  We have a wholly different ideal, which in order to interest us powerfully painting must illustrate—­an ideal of more pertinence and appositeness to our own moods and manner of thought and feeling.

Ingres, a painter of considerably less force, I think, comes much nearer to doing this.  He is more elastic, less devoted to system.  Without being as free, as sensitive to impressions as we like to see an artist of his powers, he escapes pedantry.  His subject is not “The Rape of the Sabines,” but “The Apotheosis of Homer,” academic but not academically fatuitous.  To follow the inspiration of the Vatican Stanze in the selection and treatment of ideal subjects is to be far more closely in touch with contemporary feeling as to what is legitimate and proper in imaginative painting, than to pictorialize an actual event with a systematic artificiality and conformity to abstractions that would surely have made the sculptor of the Trajan column smile.  Yet I would rather have “The Rape of the Sabines” within visiting distance than “The Apotheosis of Homer.”  It is better, at least solider, painting.  The painter, however dominated by his theory, is more the master of its illustration than Ingres is of the justification of his admiration for Raphael.  The “Homer” attempts more, but it is naturally not as successful in getting as effective a unity out of its greater complexity.  It is in his less ambitious pictures that the genius of Ingres is unmistakably evident—­his heads, his single figures, his exquisite drawings almost in outline.  His “Odalisque” of the Louvre is not as forceful as David’s portrait of Madame Recamier, but it is a finer thing.  I should like the two to have changed subjects in this instance.  His “Source” is beautifully drawn and modelled.  In everything he did distinction is apparent.  Inferior assuredly to David when he attempted the grand style, he had a truer feeling for the subtler qualities of style itself.  All his works are linearly beautiful demonstrations of his sincerity—­his sanity indeed—­in proclaiming that drawing is “the probity of art.”

With a few contemporary painters and critics, whose specific penetration is sometimes in curious contrast with their imperfect catholicity, he has recently come into vogue again, after having been greatly neglected since the romantic outburst.  But he belongs completely to the classic epoch.  Neither he nor his refined and sympathetic pupil, Flandrin, did aught to pave the way for the modern movement.  Intimations of the shifting point of view are discoverable rather in a painter of far deeper poetic interest than either,