d weaknesses, but his pictures would undeniably be a less
precious heritage to American art than they now are, if he had not been
great enough to perceive that academic skill becomes weak by just so
much as it is magnified, and is strong only when viewed in its just
relation, as the means to an end. We perplex and confuse ourselves in
studying his work, and are naturally a little irritated that he keeps
his secret of power so well; yet we cannot help feeling that his style
is wonderfully adapted to the end in view, and perhaps the only
appropriate medium for the expression of a habit of thought that is as
peculiar as itself. Schools will insist, and with reason, upon working
by rule; yet in art, as in other discipline of teaching, genius does not
develop itself until it escapes from its instructors.

Mr. Fuller's life was constantly swayed by circumstances, and through it
all he was impelled to steps which he might never have taken of his own
accord. He was drawn by influences that he could not control into his
fruitful course of study and experience at Deerfield, where his farm
gave him support, and permitted him to indulge in an unembarrassed
practice of his art; then, when his time was ripe, he was driven by the
sharp lash of financial embarrassment into the world again. Eight years
ago he reappeared in Boston, with about a dozen paintings of landscapes,
ideal heads, and small figures, which were exhibited and promptly sold
amid every expression of interest and favor. Confirmed and strengthened
in his belief by this success, he again established his studio here, and
began that series of remarkable works which have given him a place among
the greatest of American painters. The touch of popular favor quickened
him into a lofty and quiet enthusiasm, and stimulated both his
imagination and his descriptive powers. During all his experience at
Deerfield a certain lack of self-confidence seems to have prevented him
from making any large endeavor, but with his convictions endorsed by the
public, he attempted at once to labor on a more ambitious scale. He
broadened his canvases, and increased the size of his figures and
landscapes, and where he was before sweet and inviting, became strong
and impressive, yet still holding all his former qualities. The first
year of his new residence in Boston saw the production of The Dandelion
Girl, a light-hearted, careless creature, full of a life that had no
touch of responsibility, and de