The lowest common denominator of artistic taste among those who claim to be educated is indeed low in this country, but that is not surprising, for it is the same in every country; and those who are inclined to lift up their hands in horror at the philistinism of their countrymen, while gushing over the higher artistic standards of other nations, are singularly beside the mark. They are usually applying different standards in one judgment, comparing what is common in the one case with what is remarkable in the other, forgetting that, if masterpieces are in question, England stands below no country in the world save possibly in music, and ignoring the M. Jourdains, the M. Perrichons, the Buchholtz families and other ordinary folk at which the artists of all nations have habitually poked fun. What we have not got is some compensating national felicity in the domain of art, such as the German sensitiveness to musical beauty, the French aptitude for elegant diction, the histrionic talent of the Italian or, possibly, the Spanish gift of rhythmical movement. The unprejudiced foreigner could hardly be struck by any national accomplishment of this kind among English people, whose most obvious national quality is their admirable capacity for practical action. This holds true even of our women, and the point I am inclined to make is that this is strange when it is considered that a greater proportion of educated women practise, albeit with one finger, some art or another in England than in any other country. This is partly due to educational tradition and partly to the greater independence of Englishwomen. For many generations educational tradition has laid stress on the importance of “accomplishments” in the upbringing of a girl, while administering the same in homoeopathic doses and insisting on a more than Greek moderation in the enthusiasm with which they were to be embraced. Most of us remember the faint and ladylike water colours of a great-grandmother, who would have blushed as much to paint anything resembling a picture seen with an artist’s eye as she would to have infused a breath of passion into the ditties she so artlessly sang to the harp or to the guitar. Squire Western wanted nothing but a few old English melodies from Sophia’s piano, and it is not likely that Mr Woodhouse’s taste in music was any higher. Accomplishments were “very nice” for a girl, adding to her attractions, but art was quite a different thing, most unladylike, an affair for not too reputable men, beset with temptations to every kind of depravity. And if women were so bold as to write anywhere but in albums they were well advised to do so anonymously, as did Miss Edgworth, Fanny Burney and Jane Austen. During the nineteenth century, of course, this tradition grew fainter, and for the present generation, with their eurhythmics, their ballet dancing and their self-expression, it has become most admirably attenuated, so that there is good hope