The odd-looking stranger is ever treated with scant courtesy and unbecoming curiosity; the strange machine fares no better.  The man or the boy who is not unduly curious, not unduly aggressive, not unduly loquacious, not unduly insistent, who preserves his poise in the presence of an automobile, is quite out of the ordinary,—­ my little New Haven friend was of that sort.

It is a beautiful ride from New Haven to New York, and to it we devoted the entire day, from half-past eight until half-past seven.

At Norwalk the people were celebrating the two hundred and fiftieth anniversary of the founding of the town; the hotel where we dined may have antedated the town a century or two.

Later in the afternoon, while wheeling along at twenty miles an hour, we caught a glimpse of a signpost pointing to the left and reading, “To Sound Beach.”  The name reminded us of friends who were spending a few weeks there; we turned back and made them a flying call.

Again a little farther on we stopped for gasoline in a dilapidated little village, and found it was Mianus, which we recalled as the home of an artist whose paintings, full of charm and tender sentiment, have spread the fame of the locality and river.  It was only a short run of two or three miles to the orchard and hill where he has his summer home, and we renewed an acquaintance made several years before.

It is interesting to follow an artist’s career and note the changes in manner and methods; for changes are inevitable; they come to high and low alike.  The artist may not be conscious that he no longer sees things and paints things as he did, but time tells and the truth is patent to others.  But changes of manner and changes of method are fundamentally unlike.  Furthermore, changes of either manner or method may be unconscious and natural, or conscious and forced.

For the most part, an artist’s manner changes naturally and unconsciously with his environment and advancing years; but in the majority of instances changes in method are conscious and forced, made deliberately with the intention—­frequently missed—­of doing better.  One painter is impressed with the success of another and strives to imitate, adopts his methods, his palette, his key, his color scheme, his brush work, and so on;—­these conscious efforts of imitation usually result in failures which, if not immediately conspicuous, soon make their shortcomings felt; the note being forced and unnatural, it does not ring true.

A man may visit Madrid without imitating Velasquez; he may live in Harlem without consciously yielding to Franz Hals; he may spend days with Monet without surrendering his independence; but these strong contacts will work their subtle effects upon all impressionable natures; the effects, however, may be wrought unconsciously and frequently against the sturdy opposition of an original nature.

No painter could live for a season in Madrid without being affected by the work of Velasquez; he might strive against the influence, fight to preserve his own eccentric originality and independence, but the very fact that for the time being he is confronted with a force, an influence, is sufficient to affect his own work, whether he accepts the influence reverentially or rejects it scoffingly.