n irreproachable, it is elevated and noble, it is in the
grand style; but it is plain that its impressiveness is due to the fact
that the subject is conceived as the Orator in general and handled with
almost a single eye to style. The personal interest that accentuates
every detail of the "Voltaire"--the physiognomy, the pose, the right
hand, are marvellously characteristic--simply is not sought for in
Chapu's work. Of this quality there is more in Houdon's bust of Moliere,
whom of course Houdon never saw, than in almost any production of the
modern school. Chapu's works, and such exceptions as the heads of Baudry
and Renan already mentioned, apart, one perceives that the modern
school has made too many statues of the Republique, too many "Ledas" and
"Susannahs" and "Quand-Memes" and "Gloria Victis." And its penchant for
Renaissance canons only emphasizes the absolute commonplace of many of
these.

On the other hand, if Houdon's felicitous harmony of style and
individual force are forgotten, there is hardly any recognized
succession to the imaginative freedom, the _verve_, the triumphant
personal fertility of Rude and Carpeaux. At least, such as there is has
not preserved the dignity and in many instances scarcely the decorum of
those splendid artists. Much of the sculpture which figures at the
yearly Salons is, to be sure, the absolute negation of style; its main
characteristic is indeed eccentricity; its main virtues, sincerity
(which in art, of course, is only a very elementary virtue) and good
modelling (which in sculpture is equally elementary). Occasionally in
the midst of this display of fantasticality there is a work of promise
or even of positive interest. The observer who has not a weak side for
the graceful conceits, invariably daintily presented and beautifully
modelled, of M. Moreau-Vauthier for example, must be hard to please;
they are of the very essence of the _article de Paris_, and only
abnormal primness can refuse to recognize the truth that the _article
de Paris_ has its art side. M. Moreau-Vauthier is not perhaps a modern
Cellini; he has certainly never produced anything that could be classed
with the "Perseus" of the Loggia de' Lanzi, or even with the
Fontainebleau "Diana;" but he does more than anyone else to keep alive
the tradition of Florentine preciosity, and about everything he does
there is something delightful.

Still the fantastic has not made much headway in the Institute, and it
is so