Letters of James Smethans. Edited by Sarah Smetham and William
Davies. (Macmillan.)—It is impossible to read this book without being struck by it, and yet it is difficult to justify the praise which one would like to give it. It consists of a Life, which occupies some forty-odd pages, and of letters extending over a period of about twenty-five years. James Smetham was an artist who did not accept the art conventions of his time, and who was not great enough to make himself known and admired in spite of them. One of his pictures was hung on the line when Mr. Watts was one of the "hangers ; " afterwards, when the choice fell into other hands, he had two sent back. After this, he never attempted to exhibit again. He did not want friends and patrons, and he did some good work as a teacher; but he could hardly be called successful. His letters are full of power, the work of a well-read, cultured man, with no small gift of humour. To criticise them is impossible; we can only say, read them. One utterance on art we must quote :—" 'Lust, hard by hate.' has been the dominating genius of the French school for long past. So their canvas either drips with blood, or glows with false passion. It would be better for us to have no name for art among the nations, or to go on with our harmless domestic subjects—as little girls with sashes, saying,
Come and tee me dump '—than that this reek of hot blood should steam up from our studios."
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