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In Memory of Abraham Lincoln.
our own people. Such art might show
itself clever, learned, skilful; we would
give very little for it. If we thought
that bringing over even the works of
such masters as Luys, G6rome, Tissot,
Millais, Rossetti, would tend to that re-
sult, we vwould fight against them with
all our might. For we value nationality,
individuality most highly, and don't be-
lieve in any literature or art largely ab-
stracted from these notions. We believe
Homer, Dante, Chaucer, Shakspeare,
Milton, are greater, not less, because their
verse smacks strongly of Greece, Italy,
and England. We like Diirer's Teuton-
ism, Van Eyck's Netherlandishness, An-
gelico's, Giotto's, Orcagna's, Titian's, Ital-
ian flavor.  And so in our own dear
land we like best the men who paint
America, and American men and women;
we like the homely fields, the native
bills, red shirts, plain ways, refinement
not borrewed from abroad-the men
who give us these, as they are, we count
our best men; we will forgive much in
their work for the savor of that salt.
Therefore, if we thought this element
put in jeopardy by the introduction of
foreign pictures, we would say so, and
act on our belhef to the extent of our
ability. But we recognize only a stirm-
ulating, healthy influence. The pictures
painted to-day are more national by far,
more individual, more of all that we
mean of best when we say American,
than ever before. Eastman Johnson,
and Griswold, and the Hills, and Charles
Moore, and Furness, and Farrer, are of
to-day and of here, not of yesterday and
Italy. And the older men, the very ones
who grumble at the advent of these
strange faces, how un-American they
were, and are! Ilow seldom their work
tastes of the soil ! Ilow they paint It-
aly, Italy, Italy, and classic plhantasnms,
and seem to shun the comnion as if it
were unclean, the homely as if it were
and must be low!
We don't in the least doubt that these
works are influencing us-both the art-
ists and the public-but it is in a good
way. It is a little sad, sometimes, to see
poor, feeble, slovenly pictures, hung
for sale on the walls of public galleries
by the side of these noble guests of
Ours, creep away to some remoter place
where ignorance and inexperience may
perhaps think their defects beauties, so
that out of the splendor of that dazzling
neighborhood they may be bought by
some one who has not seen the master-
pieces. But the painter, if he be earn-
est, ,id modest, and faithful, will not be
humtby the experience; he will be
roused to new effort, he will aspire to
new excellence, and the lance that
wounded him will cure him, as that
Achillean one did Telephus of old.
LMay.
un   IaflclorlI of
ABRAHAM LINCOLN.
" His mute dust
We honor, and his living worth;
A man more pure and bold and just,
Was never born into the earth.
Sleep sweetly, tender heart, in peace:
Sleep, holy spirit, blessed soul,
While the stars burn, the moons increase,
And the great ages onward roll."