nobs of the literary profession.

_Truth_, Aug. 19, 1886.

"_Nous avons change tout cela!_"

[Sidenote: _Truth_, Sept. 2, 1886.]

Hoity-toity! my dear Henry!--What is all this? How can you startle the
"Constant Reader," of this cold world, by these sudden dashes into the
unexpected?

Perceive also what happens.

Sweet in the security of my own sense of things, and looking upon you
surely as the typical "_Sapem_" of modern progress and civilization,
here do I, in full Paris, _a l'heure de l'absinthe_, upon mischievous
discussion intent, call aloud for "_Truth_."

"_Vous allez voir_," I say to the brilliant brethren gathered about my
table, "you shall hear the latest beautiful thing and bold, said by
our great Henry--'_capable de tout_,' beside whom '_ce coquin d'Habacuc_'
was mild indeed and usual!" And straightway to my stultification, I
find myself translating paragraphs of pathos and indignation, in which
a colourless old gentleman of the Academy is sympathized with, and
made a doddering hero of, for no better reason than that he _is_
old--and those who would point out the wisdom and comfort of his
withdrawal into the wigwam of private life, sternly reproved and
anathematized and threatened with shame--until they might well expect
to find themselves come upon by the bears of the aged and irascible,
though bald-headed, Prophet, whom the children had thoughtfully urged
to "go up."

Fancy the Frenchmen's astonishment as I read, and their placid
amusement as I attempted to point out that it was "meant drolly--that
_enfin_ you were a _mystificateur_!"

Henry, why should I thus be mortified? Also, why this new _pose_, this
cheap championship of senility?

How, in the name of all that is incompetent, do you find much virtue
in work spreading over more time! What means this affectation of
_naivete_?

We all know that work excuses itself only by reason of its quality.

If the work be foolish, it surely is not less foolish because an
honest and misspent lifetime has been passed in producing it.

What matters it that the offending worker has grown old among us, and
has endeared himself to many by his caprices as ratepayer and
neighbour?

Personally, he may have claims upon his surroundings; but, as the
painter of poor pictures, he is damned for ever.

You see, my Henry, that it is not sufficient to be, as you are in wit
and wisdom, among us, amazin