An old college friend of mine once wrote to me and asked what he should do about his son, who was in Harvard, but wished to give up college and become a painter. I answered and said: “Discourage him; discourage him to the point of starvation, for if he be sincere in his love of the fine arts, he will pay no attention to you. No man is a real artist unless he finds the impetus toward it so great that he sticks to it in spite of every deprivation.” I do not know whether my friend took my advice or not, but at any rate his son, Barry Faulkner, has become, with or without discouragements, one of our foremost younger decorative painters. Emerson understood, perhaps better than anyone, as he tells us in his TO AN ARTIST Forget the hut and seek the palace, Reck not what the people say, For where’er the trees grow biggest Huntsmen find the easiest Way. George Lathrop told me that shortly after his marriage with one of the daughters of Nathaniel Hawthorne he was very much surprised at receiving a formal visit from Mr. Emerson one afternoon. The poet was old then and was not in the habit of going about much, so the call portended something of importance. After the usual conversation, Emerson said, pointedly: “Mr. Lathrop, I understand that you have chosen words as a means of livelihood?” “Yes, sir,” said Lathrop. “And have married?” continued Emerson. “An added insanity?” Poverty is one of the strongest enemies that the artist has to fight. We should each one have a Mæcenas to keep us; I know of but one or two cases in this country where men have succeeded in gaining membership in the first rank in the opinion of other artists (for they are his peers and deciding fact) without money behind them. They inherit it, they marry it, or they are backed by some one so that they may have a security of rental, food, and materials. There is not enough market for the fine arts that a man may live by them alone. After all, it is as it should be. We are a young nation, really in our infancy, and babies do not need art until they have been fed and kept warm. It takes many generations of growing wheat until the body is ready for something finer. So far, the fine arts have been an indication of the coming death of the country that produced them—like a bush or vine, a nation flowers and then dies. Only the seeds grow, and those in another place. If I were asked to give my opinion, I would vote against forcing the people to accept the fine arts, as I would vote against giving a baby tobacco or alcohol, which would most assuredly stop its growth. (However, Emerson says, “America has a genius for making new law,” and it may be that we can change this. I sincerely hope so.)