Yet the public demand that a tree shall be reproduced as _they_ see it,--that the picture shall be a substitute for the reality. Why not go to the window and look at the tree? For, as a _tree_, with its quivering leaves and the infinite play of light and shadow, it is more beautiful than any realistic photograph, drawing, or painting possibly could be. But to see the reflection of the tree in the depths of a human soul one must turn to art, to poetry, to music, or to painting. The reflection may not at all resemble the reality any more than Keats’s “Ode to a Nightingale” resembles the bird or the song of the bird; but it will be far more interesting and far more beautiful because a human expression. The child’s mud-house and the boy’s snow-man are of greater concern to humankind than all the plains and mountains of the earth. _VIII_ _The Royal Society of British Artists--In Paris once more--At Home and at Work._ In June, 1886, Whistler was elected president of the Royal Society of British Artists. Prior to that time he had exhibited in the rooms of the society in Suffolk Street, and he was no doubt elected to give life to a moribund association. He succeeded beyond the wildest anticipations of the most sanguine members. He rearranged the exhibitions by excluding sufficient of the unworthy to leave ample space on the walls for the proper exhibition of such pictures as were accepted. When the Prince of Wales, now King Edward, visited the galleries for the first time, Whistler, as president, received him. And when the prince said he had never before heard of the society and asked its history, Whistler, with the grace of a courtier, replied: “It has none, your Highness. Its history dates from to-day.” Two years of so revolutionary a president were all the ancient association could stand. As has been well said:[45] “That Suffolk-Street episode was, perhaps, the oddest of an odd career. The most mediocre and middle-class of all the artistic societies of London was in low water, and the thought occurred to some revolutionary members to make Whistler president. It was like electing a sparrow-hawk to rule a community of bats. Some of the bats moved out, some followers of the sparrow-hawk came in; but the interesting new community did not last long. The suburban ladies, who had been the support of the Society of British Artists, were shocked at the changes. They found no pleasure in the awning stretched across the middle of the room, the battened walls, the spaced-out ‘impressionist’ pictures, and the total absence of the anecdotes and bright colors which they loved. A few hundred visitors of another sort came, and were charmed, but the commercial test of success was not satisfied. Before long Whistler ceased to be president, and the society, under a more congruous chief, ‘relapsed to its ancient mood.’”