similar cases of Manet and Whistler, whose countrymen refused to recognize their genius. until it had received the stamp of foreign approval. Zuloaga did not have to wait long for vindication. His picture was purchased by the Brussels Museum almost at the same time that the Luxembourg acquired his "Daniel Zuloaga." The new painter has traits of striking originality. His modeling is vigorous and of a characteristic nobility, and this strength of touch, suggestive of the masters, does not exclude a certain delicacy and refinement which are thoroughly modern. What stamps him a painter of extraordinary creative gifts is the slight use which he makes of models. They pose merely for his first sketch. He has no further need of them, and yet his finished picture is as full of the movement and natualness of life as though each completed detail had been wrought after the living model. Another trait is still more remarkable, and the only analogy that comes to mind is that of Gustave Doré. It is this: Zuloaga relies absolutely on memory aided by his imagination for the landscape backgrounds which are so notable an accompaniment of his pictures. He never makes open-air studies; but depends en tirely upon the impressions which he bears in his memory. These impressions are so vivid that he is able to reproduce them upon canvas even after a considerable lapse of time. The women that Zuloaga has painted are the women of Byron's dreams, glorious creatures compact of fire and passion, born for love Their beauty has almost nothing of the spiritual, yet it never approaches grossness. Their attitudes and gestures, full of grace, their dark languishing glances, the adorable coquetry of their costume-all is of the essence of Spanish romance. The native luxuriance of the Andalusian is admirably expressed by Zuloaga's brush. In these figures, full of life, and character, and beauty, he has expressed the unique charm of Spanish womanhood as perhaps no other modern artist has done. He has not confined himself to one type of beauty, as painters usually do, but has exhibited an extraordinary variety. He has painted with equal power and charm the cultured beauty, enthroned in her balcony in all the glory of priceless lace and mantilla, and the daughter of the people, hardly less attractive in her naive, innocent grace. One can see that the peasant type has made a strong impression upon the artist. Hardly The peasant type has made a strong impression upon the artist. Hardly less interesting than the seductive charm of his women is the rugged nobility of his men. These men of the people stand out in Zuloaga's canvases, figures of compelling interest. Their attitudes and gestures, full of grace, their dark, languishing glances, the adorable coquetry of their costume-all is of the essence of Spanish romance.' less interesting than the seductive charm of his women is the rugged nobility of his men. It is only in Spain that one can see the actual survival of the antique Roman type of manhood, in which personal honor is not merely a conception, but the breath of life. The very rags of the Spanish peasant have a sort of dignity. These men of the people stand out. in Zuloaga's canvases, figures of compelling interest. Their peasant costumes fall in almost classic folds round their figures, full of dignity and characteristic grace. The portrait of Don Miguel of Segovia, the poet of the people, is a fine example of this. "Though a revolutionary in the eyes of his compatriots," writes M. Leclère, "Zuloaga is deeply imbued with the national traditions." He says further: "Like all the painters of the Spanish school, from Greco to Goya, he loves grays-iron grays, ashen and silver grays. Like them he is instinctively a realist: forms and tones enchant him. Like them he has taken his subjects from his environ ment; and if one is inclined to reproach him for this, it must be remembered that these models have remained the same for time out of mind, that the topers of Zuloaga are the topers of Velasquez, that it is the same blood that flows under the brown and weather-beaten faces of the men, the same smiles that light up the black eyes and lurk upon blance, however, ceases there: it is a resemblance the charming lips of the women. The resemof race, of climate, for which Ignacio Zuloaga merits the highest praise. The individuality of the painter is always dominant. His manner has nothing in common with that of Goya, still less with that of Velasquez. He has not, like the latter, especially in his later period, made use of impasting, for the purpose of expressing textures of the flesh. He paints directly, seeking to impart at once the just degree of tone and strength and to preserve to the end the freshness of improvisation. If we must perforce give him a direct ancestry, we must go back to the Greeks. His coloring, powerful at the outset, but moderate and confined to a few elements, becomes gradually diversified; in the last stage the grays give place to the whole gamut of nuances, and the shadows are full of color. Nevertheless, the artist keeps to the palette of the ancients; he avoids the new and brilliant colors that have no permanence." THE "FLABBERGASTING GENIUS" OF MR. CHESTERTON "gifted, graceful, flabbergasting become an artist. Even now, it is said, he is ist and novelist, who is regarded as the most able antagonist in English journalism of the redoubtable Bernard Shaw. In the quality of cleverness and in the challenging audacity of their views, the two men are very similar. In more respects they present a marked contrast. "I am neither young nor a Liberal," wrote Shaw not long since, declining a dinner invitation. Mr. Chesterton is quite youngthirty-three-and very Liberal. "I don't care for anything except to be in the present stress of life as it is," he said recently to an interviewer. "It so happens that I couldn't be immortal; but if I could I shouldn't want to be. . . . No, I don't believe in a man working purely for the sake of art. It does him good to work for bread and cheese. It is putting himself into the stream of life. What I value in my own work is what I may succeed in striking out of others." Of his latest book of essays, he remarks: "Heretics' isn't certainly a particularly good sort of book, but I enjoyed it because it was so very rude to all my contemporaries." In personal appearance, Mr. Chesterton is of gigantic stature, writes his friend and fellow Liberal, Mr. C. F. G. Masterman, recently. He "presents a formidable appearance when swaggering down Fleet Street in the small hours of the morning, or in the midst of the crowd which surges around him, and to which he is entirely oblivious. He wears a huge slouch hat, which is the despair of his friends, and is accustomed to pursue long, solitary walks through London, often penetrating right through the great town, from north to south or east to west. When over-wearied with journalism, he will suddenly start on a country ramble, taking the train to some station, the name of which pleases him, on the time table, and striking thence in any direction to any destination. Here he wanders till his friends organize relief parties, or till he strikes another railway line, when he contentedly journeys homeward." He is a mystic and optimist, this swaggering young giant, who can say with Walt Whitman, "No array of terms can express how much at peace I am about God." Mr. Chesterton was born in London about thirty-three years ago. He was educated at St. Paul's, and on leaving school intended to a successful real-estate agent-chose a business career for his son, and for a while young Chesterton was hitched to a desk in a publisher's office. His first book, printed in 1900, was a little volume of nonsense verses, "Greybeards at Play," illustrated by the author. Then followed shortly a collection of serious verses "The Wild Knight, and Other Poems" -which was considered a work of great promise. "I think everybody, right in the middle of them, would sooner write poetry than anything else," says Mr. Chesterton. But his next, and more popular book-"The Defendant"-was made up not of poems, but of brief paradoxical essays. These "defences" of Penny Dreadfuls, Rash Vows, Slang, BabyWorship, etc., were laughed over as great jokeş by many readers; but we find the author earnestly defending them (in the preface to a second edition) as "ethically sincere, since they seek to remind men that things must be loved first and improved afterwards." About this time, Mr. Chesterton left his desk in the publisher's office and began to give all his time to literary journalism, contributing to dailies, weeklies and monthlies an astonishing amount and variety of matter. Some of his friends think that he has been writing too much and kindly advise him to go bury himself in the desert for a few years before bringing out another book; but it is not likely that he will follow their advice while public and publishers are eagerly asking for more. Besides, Mr. Chesterton is a family man, and his wife might object. Moreover, he is not the writer to get much inspiration from the back of a camel. Mr. Chesterton gets his daily inspiration right in the heart of John Burns's Battersea, where he is deep in local politics, frequenting the ale-houses, drinking with the men, and listening to their opinions on municipal milk or their own Right Honorable. He is ambitious to be their representative on the borough council, just as Bernard Shaw was representative for St. PanOnly Chesterton intends to represent his constituency-which he claims Shaw never did. "Shaw succeeded in representing merely himself," says this romantic young Liberal, who thinks that because he goes into ale-houses and drinks with the men, he is a fitting rep cras. resentative of the workers in one of the poorest districts of London. Mr. Chesterton is also very busy combating the "efficiency" of the Fabian Society, the determinism of Robert Blatchford, the Socialist editor of the London Clarion, and the Superman. And he is on the committee of an energetic Anti-Puritan League, organized “for the defense of the people's pleasures." The list of Chesterton's published works is already long. It includes, besides the nonsense and serious verses and controversial essays, a romance, biographical sketches and a "Life of Robert Browning" in the dignified English "Men of Letters" series, edited by John Morley. It is in "Heretics" especially that Chesterton has proved himself such a militant opponent of Bernard Shaw's philosophy. He makes no mistakes about the famous Fabian's qualities. He does not call him a "soul-destroying cynic," a farceur or a poseur, etc. He simply says: "I am not concerned with Mr. Bernard Shaw as one of the most brilliant and one of the most honest men alive; I am concerned with him as a Heretic”—that is to say, with a man whose philosophy seems to him "quite solid, quite coherent, and quite wrong." To quote more fully: "Mr. Bernard Shaw is always represented by those who disagree with him, and, I fear, also (if such exist) by those who agree with him, as a capering humorist, a dazzling acrobat, a quickchange artist. It is said that he cannot be taken seriously, that he will defend anything or attack anything, that he will do anything to startle and amuse. All this is not only untrue, but it is, glaringly, the opposite of the truth; it is as wild as to say that Dickens had not the boisterous masculinity of Jane Austen. The whole force and triumph of Mr. Bernard Shaw lie in the fact that he is a thoroughly consistent man. So far from his power consisting in jumping through hoops or standing on his head, his power consists in holding his own fortress night and day. He puts the Shaw test rapidly and rigorously to everything that happens in heaven or earth. His standard never varies. The thing which weak-minded revolutionists and weak-minded conservatives really hate (and fear) in him, is exactly this, that his scales, such as they are, are held even, and that his law, such as it is, is justly enforced. You may attack his principles, as I do; but I do not know of any instance in which you can attack their application. If he dislikes lawlessness, he dislikes the lawlessness of Socialists as much as that of Individualists. If he dislikes the fever of patriotism, he dislikes it in Boers and Irishmen as well as in Englishmen. If he dislikes the vows and bonds of marriage, he dislikes still more the fiercer bonds and wilder vows that are made by lawless love. If he laughs at the authority of priests, he laughs louder at the pomposity of men of science. If he condemns the irresponsibility of faith, he condemns with a sane consistency the equal irresponsibility of art. He has pleased all the bobut he has infuriated them by suggesting that hemians by saying that women are equal to men; men are equal to women. He is almost mechanically just; he has something of the terrible quality whirling, the man who is really fantastic and inof a machine. The man who is really wild and calculable, is not Mr. Shaw, but the average Cabinet Minister." After which appreciation, Mr. Chesterton proceeds at once to knock down not Mr. Shaw, but his Superman. "He who had laid all the blame on ideals," he says, "set up the most impossible of all ideals, the ideal of a new creature." Yet Shaw predicts that every ideal broken will be replaced by a new one. It is the clinging to old, outworn ideals which, he practical side perhaps the most humane man Moreover, Mr. Chesterton picks a quarrel with Mr. Shaw because he thinks him an ascetic, a Puritan, and an old maid! "He is, strictly speaking, 'in maiden meditation, fancy free'"-so it is written. "He is innocent, and he is free from fancies, as a person must be who is too innocent to be romantic. But all this is only a part of that weird austerity and perfection of Mr. Shaw's mind. his diet he is too healthy for this world. his politics he is too practical for this world.” One would suppose that Mr. Shaw had refused to join the Anti-Puritan League. In In |