L. LEMMAH. THE SCHOOL OF NECESSITY. If we are to come into our inheritance as an artistic people, let us hear less of Art with a big A. Let us turn from the oracle of the Personally Conducted and make bonfires of our Baedeckers. The “Old Masters” were plain men, for the most part, with the virtues and vices of their time, and would kill a man or paint a Madonna with equal skill and enthusiasm. Art was to them only one form of a manifold activity, not a problem to be solved nor a fetish to be worshipped. Cellini made salt cellars and bragged about them long before he cast his Perseus. Michaelangelo painted the Sistine ceiling because the Pope commanded him, and not because he was divinely inspired to do it. Raphael and Rubens ran picture factories which turned out paintings of a certain brand, like so many barrels of flour. Shakespeare patched together threadbare scenes and situations for special occasions, as managers now prepare a Christmas pantomime; and Balzac wrote the “Comedie Humaine” to pay his debts. Literature is not a thing of limited editions, nor painting of spring exhibitions. While you are seeking the coming novelist between rich covers he may be doing a daily “story” for some sensational morning paper; and the new Raphael you think of as hid away in some sequestered north-lit studio may be designing labels for boxes in a lithograph factory. Respect, therefore, the poster, though it _is_ obtrusive, and despise not the Japanese print, though it be cheap. Admit that there is more merit in the pen and ink picture of which are printed a million copies, than in the etching on your library walls, of which there are only ten. Believe that the baths and aqueducts of Rome, however marvellous, are puerile as feats of engineering compared with a city floated on Lake Michigan mud; and learn that while you drowse over your “standard authors” of today the work of him who will be the standard author of tomorrow may be appearing in these despised pages. CLAUDE FAYETTE BRAGDON. BUBBLE AND SQUEAK. Let the world wag as it may, the wits must live by waggery. The optimists who are so comfortably situated that they can support optimism without any severe strain upon their imaginations, say, “What is, is right.” But they fail to tackle the corollary proposition, “What isn’t, isn’t.”