There is infinitely more hope for the man who goes to Madrid, or any other shrine, in a spirit of opposition,—­supremely egotistical, supremely confident of his own methods, disposed to belittle the teaching and example of others,—­than there is for the man who goes to servilely copy and imitate.  The disposition to learn is a good thing, but in all walks of life, as well as in art, it may be carried too far.  No man should surrender his individuality, should yield that within him which is peculiarly and essentially his own.  An urchin may dispute with a Plato, if the urchin sticks to the things he knows.

Between the lawless who defy all authority and the servile who submit to all influences, there are the chosen few who assert themselves, and at the same time clearly appreciate the strength of those who differ from them.  The urchin painter may assert himself in the presence of Velasquez, providing he keeps within the limits of his own originality.

It is for those who buy pictures to look out for the man who arbitrarily and suddenly changes his manner or method; he is as a cork tossed about on the surface of the waters, drifting with every breeze, submerged by every ripple, fickle and unstable; if his work possess any merit, it will be only the cheap merit of cleverness; its brilliancy will be simply the gloss of dash.

It requires time to absorb an impression.  Distance diminishes the force of attraction.  The best of painters will not regain immediately his equilibrium after a winter in Florence or in Rome.  The enthusiasm of the hour may bring forth some good pictures, but the effect of the impression will be too pronounced, the copy will be too evident.  Time and distance will modify an impression and lessen the attraction; the effect will remain, but no longer dominate.

It was so dark we could scarcely see the road as we approached New York.

How gracious the mantle of night; like a veil it hides all blemishes and permits only fair outlines to be observed.  Details are lost in vast shadows; huge buildings loom up vaguely towards the heavens, impressive masses of masonry; the bridges, outlined by rows of electric lights, are strings of pearls about the throat of the dusky river.  The red, white, and green lights of invisible boats below are so many colored glow-worms crawling about, while the countless lights of the vast city itself are as if a constellation from above had settled for the time being on the earth beneath.

It is by night that the earth communes with the universe.  During the blinding brightness of the day our vision penetrates no farther than our own great sun; but at night, when our sun has run its course across the heavens, and we are no longer dazzled by its overpowering brilliancy, the suns of other worlds come forth one by one until, as the darkness deepens, the vault above is dotted with these twinkling lights.  Dim, distant, beacons of suns and planets like our own, what manner of life do they contain? what are we to them? what are they to us?  Is there aught between us beyond the mechanical laws of repulsion and attraction?  Is there any medium of communication beyond the impalpable ether which brings their light?  Are we destined to know each other better by and by, or does our knowledge forever end with what we see on a cloudless night?