What a contrast while he was alive! One friend of his has in his possession to-day many exquisite sketches which he purchased from time to time for twenty-five dollars apiece. They are now worth thousands. I remember walking wearily up and down Fifth Avenue all of one afternoon with Twachtman, each of us with one of his unframed landscapes under his arm, visiting dealer after dealer in a vain effort to sell one of them for twenty-five dollars in order that he might obtain enough money to remain a member of The Players. In one gallery we were offered fifteen dollars. By that time we were quite tired, and I had to restrain John from striking the man. In sadness we returned to the club and placing the canvases in the cloak room, went downstairs to cheer ourselves with a drink, where I (talking as usual) told our afternoon’s experience to a limited number of friends. I had hardly finished when the clerk reached out through the side window and handed John a receipted bill for his dues. Stanford White had heard the story and paid them. As a sequel to this tale: a year or two ago at a picture shop of the second rate—the kind that is hung with framed canvases to the ceiling—I saw in the window, in a gorgeous and very vulgar frame, one of those pictures that we had carried unsuccessfully along the Avenue so long ago. On a card in large letters was printed, “One of the greatest landscapes of John Twachtman.” I went in and inquired the price. It was thirty-five hundred dollars! Twachtman painted such exquisite small things. It made no difference to him—the size, shape, or texture of his material—he could always conjure up an idea that fitted it perfectly. Whenever I was working at a large decoration he would come up to my studio and carry away the triangular pieces of canvas that inevitably come off a work of this kind. I suppose the pictures he made on them have sold for more, since he died, than all of my decorations put together. He looked like a faun; one would expect, upon moving back his hair, to find some furry ears. He had the nature of a faun. There was no place for him in the nineteenth century; he would have been a normal creature in the Golden Age. His simplicity of mind showed in his work. I have stood before one of his landscapes and thought: “How _did_ you do it? How _could_ you see the thing so simply?” My mind is always cluttered up with details, but, for him, they just did not exist. I cannot imagine John in an airplane; it would have been incongruous. His place was in the fields, living on berries and herbs, refreshing himself at the brooks and streams, as he went his merry way, here and there catching and keeping for the world a fleeting glimpse of Nature as she showed her secret self to him. John Twachtman is as good an example as I know, of my own definition of an artist—”_one who shall show you the stars during the daytime_.”