Let us clear our minds, then, of the illusion that there is in any important sense such a thing as progress in the fine arts. We may with a clear conscience judge every new work for what it appears in itself to be, asking of it that it be noble and beautiful and reasonable, not that it be novel or progressive. If it be great art, it will always be novel enough; for there will be a great mind behind it, and no two great minds are alike. And if it be novel without being great, how shall we be the better off? There are enough forms of mediocre or evil art in the world already. Being no longer intimidated by the fetish of progress, when a thing calling itself a work of art seems to us hideous and degraded, indecent and insane, we shall have the courage to say so and shall not care to investigate it further. Detestable things have been produced in the past, and they are none the less detestable because we are able to see how they came to be produced. Detestable things are produced now, and they will be no more admirable if we learn to understand the minds that create them. Even should such things prove to be not the mere freaks of a diseased intellect that they seem, but a necessary outgrowth of the conditions of the age and a true prophecy of “the art of the future,” they are not necessarily the better for that. It is only that the future will be very unlucky in its art. TO THE EXPERIMENTERS BY CHARLES BADGER CLARK, JR. Help me live long, O keen, cool servants of science! Give me a hundred years, for life is good and I love it, And wonders are easy for you. Yet, by a rule that is older than Æsculapius, I still must reckon my time to that luckless day When a ’whelming foe will cross a frontier unguarded Into this myriad nation of cells that bears my name, Storming fort after fort till the swarming defenders have perished And the strangled empire shall fall. My friends, simple folk, will weep and say, “He is dead!” But you will smile at their terrible, black-winged angel, And jot his name and description down in your note-book-- The bitter song of the ages in a line of chemic formula! Aye, and perchance you can take the components of living,-- Provinces, ravaged and waste, of that ruinous empire,-- And cunningly right them again. Then call in the mourners. “Say you your friend is dead? See through that glass how his heart is pulsating steadily. Look there, and there, at the beautiful play of the organs-- All the reactions of life restored by our science! Where is your death?” But I--is there not an I?--catch you that in a test-tube! [Illustration: Owned by Mr. Hugo Reisinger NONCHALANCE FROM THE PAINTING BY JOHN S. SARGENT] WAR-HORSES OF FAMOUS GENERALS WASHINGTON--WELLINGTON--NAPOLEON--GRANT--LEE--SHERMAN--SHERIDAN BY JAMES GRANT WILSON