If death is the privacy of the woods, it is the more conspicuously secret because it is their only privacy.  You may watch or may surprise everything else.  The nest is retired, not hidden.  The chase goes on everywhere.  It is wonderful how the perpetual chase seems to cause no perpetual fear.  The songs are all audible.  Life is undefended, careless, nimble and noisy.

It is a happy thing that minor artists have ceased, or almost ceased, to paint dead birds.  Time was when they did it continually in that British School of water-colour art, stippled, of which surrounding nations, it was agreed, were envious.  They must have killed their bird to paint him, for he is not to be caught dead.  A bird is more easily caught alive than dead.

A poet, on the contrary, is easily—­too easily—­caught dead.  Minor artists now seldom stipple the bird on its back, but a good sculptor and a University together modelled their Shelley on his back, unessentially drowned; and everybody may read about the sick mind of Dante Rossetti.

THE HONOURS OF MORTALITY

The brilliant talent which has quite lately and quite suddenly arisen, to devote itself to the use of the day or of the week, in illustrated papers—­the enormous production of art in black and white—­is assuredly a confession that the Honours of Mortality are worth working for.  Fifty years ago, men worked for the honours of immortality; these were the commonplace of their ambition; they declined to attend to the beauty of things of use that were destined to be broken and worn out, and they looked forward to surviving themselves by painting bad pictures; so that what to do with their bad pictures in addition to our own has become the problem of the nation and of the householder alike.  To-day men have began to learn that their sons will be grateful to them for few bequests.  Art consents at last to work upon the tissue and the china that are doomed to the natural and necessary end—­destruction; and art shows a most dignified alacrity to do her best, daily, for the “process,” and for oblivion.

Doubtless this abandonment of hopes so large at once and so cheap costs the artist something; nay, it implies an acceptance of the inevitable that is not less than heroic.  And the reward has been in the singular and manifest increase of vitality in this work which is done for so short a life.  Fittingly indeed does life reward the acceptance of death, inasmuch as to die is to have been alive.  There is a real circulation of blood-quick use, brief beauty, abolition, recreation.  The honour of the day is for ever the honour of that day.  It goes into the treasury of things that are honestly and—­completely ended and done with.  And when can so happy a thing be said of a lifeless oil-painting?  Who of the wise would hesitate?  To be honourable for one day—­one named and dated day, separate from all other days of the ages—­or to be for an unlimited time tedious?