ust be careful to guard against the impression of Watts as a
lofty philosopher consciously issuing proclamations by means of his art.
Really he was not aware of being a philosopher at all; he was simply an
artist, an exquisitely delicate and sensitive medium, who, when once
before his canvas, suddenly filled with his idea, was compelled to say
his word. If there be any synthesis about his finished work--and no one
can deny this--it was not because Watts gave days and nights and years
to "thinking things out." His paintings are, as he used to call them,
"anthems," brought forth by the intuitive man, the musician. This was
the fundamental Watts. Whatever unity there be, is due rather to unity
of inspiration than to strength or definiteness of character and
accomplishment, and this was sometimes referred to by Watts as a golden
thread passing through his life--a thread of good intention--which he
felt would guide him through the labyrinth of distractions, mistakes,
irritations, ill health, and failures.

One of the striking incidents in the life of Watts was his offer to
decorate Euston Railway Station with frescoes entitled "The Progress of
Cosmos." "Chaos" we have in the Tate Gallery, full of suggestiveness and
interest. We see a deep blue sky above the distant mountains, gloriously
calm and everlasting; in the middle distance to the left is a nebulous
haze of light, while in the foreground the rocks are bursting open and
the flames rush through. Figures of men, possessed by the energy and
agony of creation, are seen wrestling with the elements of fire and
earth. One of these figures, having done his work, floats away from the
glow of the fire across the transparent water, while others of his
creative family have quite passed the struggling stage of movement and
are reclining permanent and gigantic to the right of the picture. The
same idea is repeated in the chain of draped women who are emerging from
the watery deep; at first they are swept along in isolation, then they
fly in closer company, next they dance and finally walk in orderly
procession. But Chaos, for all this, is a unity; of all material forms
it is the most ancient form; Cosmos however is the long-drawn tale
beginning with the day when "The Spirit of God brooded on the face of
the waters." Cosmos might have been Watts' synthetic pictorial
philosophy; Herbert Spencer with his pen, and he with his brush, as it
were, should labour side by side. But this was no