f youthful juxtaposition, they give us a sense, to
which nothing need be added, of the energy of Mr. Reinhart's pencil.
They are a final collection of pictorial notes on the manners and
customs, the aspects and habitats, in July and August, of the great
American democracy; of which, certainly, taking one thing with another,
they give a very comfortable, cheerful account. But they confirm that
analytic view of which I have ventured to give a hint--the view of Mr.
Reinhart as an artist of immense capacity who yet somehow doesn't care.
I must add that this aspect of him is modified, in the one case very
gracefully, in the other by the operation of a sort of constructive
humor, remarkably strong, in his illustrations of Spanish life and his
sketches of the Berlin political world.

His fashion of remaining outside, as it were, makes him (to the analyst)
only the more interesting, for the analyst, if he have any critical
life in him, will be prone to wonder _why_ he doesn't care, and whether
matters may not be turned about in such a way as that he should, with
the consequence that his large capacity would become more fruitful
still. Mr. Reinhart is open to the large appeal of Paris, where he
lives--as is evident from much of his work--where he paints, and where,
in crowded exhibitions, reputation and honors have descended upon him.
And yet Paris, for all she may have taught him, has not given him the
mystic sentiment--about which I am perhaps writing nonsense. Is it
nonsense to say that, being very much an incarnation of the modern
international spirit (he might be a Frenchman in New York were he not
an American in Paris), the moral of his work is possibly the inevitable
want of finality, of intrinsic character, in that sweet freedom?
Does the cosmopolite necessarily pay for his freedom by a want of
function--the impersonality of not being representative? Must one be a
little narrow to have a sentiment, and very local to have a quality, or
at least a style; and would the missing type, if I may mention it
yet again, haunt our artist--who is somehow, in his rare instrumental
facility, outside of quality and style--a good deal more if he were not,
amid the mixture of associations and the confusion of races, liable to
fall into vagueness as to what types are? He can do anything he likes;
by which I mean he can do wonderfully even the things he doesn't like.
But he strikes me as a force not yet fully used.

EDWIN A. ABBE