g and astute; a very Daniel in your
judgment of many vexed questions; of a frankness and loyalty withal in
your crusade against abuses, that makes of the keen litigator a most
dangerous Quixote.

This peculiar temperament gives you that superb sense of right,
_outside the realms of art_, that amounts to genius, and carries with
it continued success and triumph in the warfare you wage.

But here it helps you not. And so you find yourself, for instance,
pleasantly prattling in print of "English Art."

Learn, then, O! Henry, that there is no such thing as English Art. You
might as well talk of English Mathematics. Art is Art, and Mathematics
is Mathematics.

What you call English Art, is not Art at all, but produce, of which
there is, and always has been, and always will be, a plenty, whether
the men producing it are dead and called ----, or (I refer you to your
own selection, far be it from me to choose)--or alive and called
----, whosoever you like as you turn over the Academy catalogue.

The great truth, you have to understand, is that it matters not at all
whom you prefer in this long list. They all belong to the excellent
army of mediocrity; the differences between them being infinitely
small--merely microscopic--as compared to the vast distance between
any one of them and the Great.

They are the commercial travellers of Art, whose works are their
wares, and whose exchange is the Academy.

They pass and are forgotten, or remain for a while in the memory of
the worthies who knew them, and who cling to their faith in them, as
it flatters their own place in history--famous themselves--the friends
of the famous!

Speak of them, if it please you, with uncovered head--even as in
France you would remove your hat as there passes by the hearse--but
remember it is from the conventional habit of awe alone, this show of
respect, and called forth generally by the casual corpse of the
commonest kind.

PARIS, Aug. 21, 1886.

[Illustration]

_The Inevitable_

[Sidenote: _Truth_, Sept. 9, 1886.]

When I suggested you as the "Sapeur of modern progress," my dear
Henry, I thought to convey delicately my appreciation, wrapped in
graceful compliment.

When I am made to say that you are the "Sapem" of
civilisation--whatever that may mean--I would seem to insinuate an
impertinence clothed in classic error.

I trust that, if you forgive me, you will never pardon the
printer.--Always,

[Illustrati