When politics and the fine arts meet, there is sometimes a clash. Senators and aldermen may be good lawmakers, but they are not always judges of decorative painting. The funniest time I ever had was in trying to decorate the Baltimore Law Courts building. La Farge and Vedder had both refused the order, and I could easily see why, after my own experience. There were seven rhomboidal panels in the entrance. The first suggestion made to me was to have a representation of Francis Scott Key finding that the “flag was still there.” As he must have been below deck in a British war vessel at that moment, looking out of a porthole, the only way to do him would have been from the back view, while in the distance the flag would have been about the size of one of his ears. I might have been able to vary this seven times, but I doubt it. Then they suggested Religious Liberty as a subject. My argument against this was that it is an idea of the mind and not for the eye. Pope Hildebrand, a most wicked man, would be a far more decorative proposition than Bishop Potter, though not representing Religious Liberty nearly so well. I tried to make a composition, but failed and gave it up. I did propose, however, that it could be done by taking the color red for the Church of Rome, raising the tone to a lively pink for the Church of England, then a very faint rose shade for Unitarianism. In this way the idea might be made to last out the seven panels, the last being one where only the pure in heart could see any color at all. Brander Matthews once gave me the best illustration that I know of a purely literary subject that could not be painted. The ladies of New York presented a flag to a Negro regiment. The color sergeant stepped forward, as in duty bound, to accept it. He then should have stepped back, but, being a negro, had to say something. So, saluting, he remarked, “I’ll bring these colors back or I’ll report to God, the reason why.” Now this is a fine tale, but how to paint it? One would have a negro and a flag; the remainder would have to be printed underneath. Mistaking the subject for the artist is a great failing of a certain type of mind. This was true of Freddie Remington. He was a darling and we all loved him—one of those rare beings, a man without an enemy. When he began painting he was lucky enough to stumble upon a new field, one of great size, that had not been touched, and one that all America cared for. The West, the cowboy, soldier, and miner were virgin soil, waiting for his touch. Roosevelt, who did not know as much about painting as he did about roughriding, wanted to have a statue erected to him as the greatest American artist.