In art as in literature there seems to be an idea that crudity is strength, even at times a real brutality, as in much of Norman Lindsay’s clever work. Though it is little wonder if the Australian artists feel, as well as paint, with a sort of ferocity, seeing that art is about the last thing which appeals to those who are in the position to buy pictures; and, if they do buy, they want size, they want show, something “pretty,” and highly coloured, and smoothly finished; while it remains to the eternal credit of the artistic fraternity that they certainly do not pander to this demand, even if they go too far in the opposite direction. The trustees of the public galleries seem to try to elevate the masses by leaving their own artists severely alone, and spending enormous sums on pictures that are undoubtedly “caviare to the general,” Melbourne being far worse than Sydney in this respect, one of its most recent acquisitions being an ineffective and rather colourless Watteau, for which the trustees paid £3,125. Meanwhile the prices offered to local artists are often little short of ludicrous, the £100 paid to George Lambert for his picture, “The Shop,” which was lately hung in the Victorian Artists’ Exhibition, being regarded as something quite abnormal; while Mrs. Ellis Rowe’s wonderful collection of paintings of native flowers went begging for years before they were ultimately purchased by Sydney. It is odd that a country so frankly egotistical, so frankly immersed in all that is new and fresh, should allow its money to be spent on pictures which must represent—to 90 per cent. of those who see them—nothing more than a mere name. It is, indeed, as odd a contradiction as is the alacrity with which titles are seized by the representatives of this people, who so greatly pride themselves upon their democracy. Only a few years ago a really very large sum was spent upon a Corot for the Melbourne Gallery, “The Bent Tree.” Crowds flocked to see it, because it was the thing to do; but from the remarks I heard several times as I stood near it, they were only asking each other in sheer bewilderment, “What came ye out for to see?” very little admiration being expressed, save for the frame. Still, it is now only a matter of time, I really believe, until someone will find leisure to rebel against spending so much on a style of picture that is supposed to mould the tastes of the people—quite erroneously, for we are but little influenced by what we do not understand—and paintings which show an art as beautiful and more vital, and more comprehensible, to the people will be insisted on; for each year shows the Australians rebelling, with a greater persistency, against the adaptation of themselves to past ideals, the pouring of new wine into old bottles.