s but merely "conveyed"
From the stock of the Ames and the Purcells of yore;
That there's nothing, in short, in the words or the score,
That is not as out-worn as the "Wandering Jew";
Make answer--Beethoven could scarcely do more--
That the man who plants cabbages imitates, too!

If they tell you, Sir Artist, your light and your shade
Are simply "adapted" from other men's lore;
That--plainly to speak of a "spade" as a "spade"--
You've "stolen" your grouping from three or from four;
That (however the writer the truth may deplore),
'Twas Gainsborough painted your "Little Boy Blue";
Smile only serenely--though cut to the core--
For the man who plants cabbages imitates, too!

And you too, my Poet, be never dismayed
If they whisper your Epic--"Sir Eperon d'Or"--
Is nothing but Tennyson thinly arrayed
In a tissue that's taken from Morris's store;
That no one, in fact, but a child could ignore
That you "lift" or "accommodate" all that you do;
Take heart--though your Pegasus' withers be sore--
For the man who plants cabbages imitates, too!

POSTCRIPTUM.--And you, whom we all so adore,
Dear Critics, whose verdicts are always so new!--
One word in your ear. There were Critics before....
And the man who plants cabbages imitates, too!

Austin Dobson [1840-1921]

THE CONUNDRUM OF THE WORKSHOPS

When the flush of a new-born sun fell first on Eden's green and gold,
Our father Adam sat under the Tree and scratched with a stick in
the mould;
And the first rude sketch that the world had seen was joy to
his mighty heart,
Till the Devil whispered behind the leaves: "It's pretty, but is it Art?"

Wherefore he called to his wife, and fled to fashion his work anew--
The first of his race who cared a fig for the first, most dread review;
And he left his lore to the use of his sons--and that was a glorious gain
When the Devil chuckled: "Is it Art?" in the ear of the branded Cain.

They builded a tower to shiver the sky and wrench the stars apart,
Till the Devil grunted behind the bricks: "It's striking, but is it Art?"
The stone was dropped at the quarry-side and the idle derrick swung,
While each man talked of the aims of Art, and each in an alien tongue.

They fought and they talked in the North and the South, they talked
and they fought in the West,
Till the waters rose on the pitiful land, and the poor Red Clay had rest--
Had rest till that dank, blank-canvas dawn when the dove was
preened to start,
And th