The next year I took courage and sent another canvas to the Academy—this time an inoffensive thing of an old man kissing his wife good-by—which I called “Darby and Joan.” Through some mistake, it was marked “sold” in the book which is left on a table to give the record of sales. Some of my friends seeing this, and having it confirmed by the person in charge, telegraphed me congratulations, I being away down in Cornwall. It was customary to notify the artist as soon as a sale was consummated and, as I heard nothing, I wrote to the secretary (whom we always called “Pants Exclusively,” on account of his tradesman instincts) and asked him to confirm it. He answered that one of the officials had marked the book by mistake and that the picture was not sold. I wrote and asked him to take it off the book and to advertise it as “still for sale.” No answer. All through that exhibition my picture was hung and marked “sold,” thereby preventing anyone else from buying it, and this in spite of the fact that I wrote to protest about it three times. Then I did a terrible thing! I issued a writ against the Royal Academy! British honor was sullied, British institutions had been assailed. Never before had anyone dared to invoke the law against that august and distinguished body—the Royal Academy! [Illustration: “THE CARPENTER’S SON” Hitherto unpublished photograph of the painting by Edward Simmons, now hanging on the walls of the home of Miss Amelia Jones, New Bedford, Massachusetts _Copyright by Edward Simmons; from a Copley Print, Copyright by Curtis & Cameron, Publishers, Boston_ ] My final letter ran something like this: DEAR SIR—In my country, when dealing with gentlemen, I get an answer. In dealing with you, I do not. I appeal to the law. I received a most pathetic letter from “Pants Exclusively” and a large, formidable parchment apology from the trustees of the Academy. In the meantime the London papers burst out with indignant articles against the person who had dared to sue the Academy, calling him all sorts of names and saying it was a bit of “cheap American advertising.” Immediately a flock of reporters came down to Cornwall, all ready to start a beautiful fight. I produced my parchment apology, resulting in the gentle fading away of newspaper representatives and a lovely article about me in the next morning’s papers. This carelessness of the Academy had been going on for years. I had known of several similar cases where the artist supposed his work had been sold and was afterwards told it was a mistake. One year a friend of mine, with true artistic optimism, gave a large dinner party to celebrate his good luck, and, of course, expected to settle for it with the check he was to receive. He was months paying for that dinner. At that he may have been lucky. He at least got his picture back. There were many lost and never returned, and any protest from the painter only met with indifferent silence.