Mourn over it, my dear professor, as you will—that is the ideal of
youth; and, so long as human nature remains what it is, will continue
to be so. It is a materialistic ideal—a sordid ideal. Maybe it is
necessary. Maybe the world would not move much if the young men
started thinking too early. They want to be rich, so they fling
themselves frenziedly into the struggle. They build the towns, and
make the railway tracks, hew down the forests, dig the ore out of the
ground. There comes a day when it is borne in upon them that trying
to get rich is a poor sort of game—that there is only one thing more
tiresome than being a millionaire, and that is trying to be a
millionaire. But, meanwhile, the world has got its work done.

   The American professor fears that the artistic development of America
leaves much to be desired. I fear the artistic development of most
countries leaves much to be desired. Why the Athenians themselves
sandwiched their drama between wrestling competitions and boxing
bouts. The plays of Sophocles, or Euripides, were given as "side
shows."  The chief items of the fair were the games and races.
Besides, America is still a young man. It has been busy "getting on
in the world."  It has not yet quite finished. Yet there are signs
that young America is approaching the thirty-nines. He is finding a
little time, a little money to spare for art. One can almost hear
young America—not quite so young as he was—saying to Mrs. Europe as
he enters and closes the shop door:

   "Well, ma'am, here I am, and maybe you'll be glad to hear I've a
little money to spend. Yes, ma'am, I've fixed things all right
across the water; we shan't starve. So now, ma'am, you and I can
have a chat concerning this art I've been hearing so much about.
Let's have a look at it, ma'am, trot it out, and don't you be afraid
of putting a fair price upon it."

   I am inclined to think that Mrs. Europe has not hesitated to put a
good price upon the art she has sold to Uncle Sam. I am afraid Mrs.
Europe has occasionally "unloaded" on Uncle Sam. I talked to a
certain dealer one afternoon, now many years ago, at the Uwantit
Club.

   "What is the next picture likely to be missing?" I asked him in the
course of general conversation.

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