Shorter Prose Pieces | Page 9

round of the studios and is
waited for in Holland Park? Do we not all recognize him, when, with
the gay insouciance of his nation, he reappears on the walls of our

summer exhibitions as everything that he is not, and as nothing that he
is, glaring at us here as a patriarch of Canaan, here beaming as a
brigand from the Abruzzi? Popular is he, this poor peripatetic professor
of posing, with those whose joy it is to paint the posthumous portrait of
the last philanthropist who in his lifetime had neglected to be
photographed,--yet he is the sign of the decadence, the symbol of
decay.
For all costumes are caricatures. The basis of Art is not the Fancy Ball.
Where there is loveliness of dress, there is no dressing up. And so, were
our national attire delightful in colour, and in construction simple and
sincere; were dress the expression of the loveliness that it shields and of
the swiftness and motion that it does not impede; did its lines break
from the shoulder instead of bulging from the waist; did the inverted
wineglass cease to be the ideal of form; were these things brought
about, as brought about they will be, then would painting be no longer
an artificial reaction against the ugliness of life, but become, as it
should be, the natural expression of life's beauty. Nor would painting
merely, but all the other arts also, be the gainers by a change such as
that which I propose; the gainers, I mean, through the increased
atmosphere of Beauty by which the artists would be surrounded and in
which they would grow up. For Art is not to be taught in Academies. It
is what one looks at, not what one listens to, that makes the artist. The
real schools should be the streets. There is not, for instance, a single
delicate line, or delightful proportion, in the dress of the Greeks, which
is not echoed exquisitely in their architecture. A nation arrayed in
stove-pipe hats and dress-improvers might have built the
Pantechnichon possibly, but the Parthenon never. And finally, there is
this to be said: Art, it is true, can never have any other claim but her
own perfection, and it may be that the artist, desiring merely to
contemplate and to create, is wise in not busying himself about change
in others: yet wisdom is not always the best; there are times when she
sinks to the level of common-sense; and from the passionate folly of
those--and there are many--who desire that Beauty shall be confined no
longer to the bric-a-brac of the collector and the dust of the museum,
but shall be, as it should be, the natural and national inheritance of all,--
from this noble unwisdom, I say, who knows what new loveliness shall

be given to life, and, under these more exquisite conditions, what
perfect artist born? Le milieu se renouvelant, l'art se renouvelle.

THE AMERICAN INVASION

A terrible danger is hanging over the Americans in London. Their
future and their reputation this season depend entirely on the success of
Buffalo Bill and Mrs. Brown-Potter. The former is certain to draw; for
English people are far more interested in American barbarism than they
are in American civilization. When they sight Sandy Hook they look to
their rifles and ammunition; and, after dining once at Delmonico's, start
off for Colorado or California, for Montana or the Yellow Stone Park.
Rocky Mountains charm them more than riotous millionaires; they
have been known to prefer buffaloes to Boston. Why should they not?
The cities of America are inexpressibly tedious. The Bostonians take
their learning too sadly; culture with them is an accomplishment rather
than an atmosphere; their "Hub," as they call it, is the paradise of prigs.
Chicago is a sort of monster-shop, full of bustle and bores. Political life
at Washington is like political life in a suburban vestry. Baltimore is
amusing for a week, but Philadelphia is dreadfully provincial; and
though one can dine in New York one could not dwell there. Better the
Far West with its grizzly bears and its untamed cowboys, its free
open-air life and its free open- air manners, its boundless prairie and its
boundless mendacity! This is what Buffalo Bill is going to bring to
London; and we have no doubt that London will fully appreciate his
show.
With regard to Mrs. Brown-Potter, as acting is no longer considered
absolutely essential for success on the English stage, there is really no
reason why the pretty bright-eyed lady who charmed us all last June by
her merry laugh and her nonchalant ways, should not-- to borrow an
expression from her native language--make a big boom and paint the
town red. We sincerely hope she will; for, on the whole,