deliberate failure to present him
faithfully, it is as monstrous and unnatural as it would be for a man
to disavow his own flesh and bones. Here we are every one of us going
through life committed and attached to our bodies; for all that we do
we are held responsible; if we misbehave, the world will take it out of
our hide. But here is our friend, the artist, committing his spiritual
energy to his art, to an embodiment outside himself, and escaping down
a by-path from all the consequences--what shall be said of him? The
insincere artist is as much beyond the pale of human sympathy as the
murderer. Morally he is a felon.

"There is no excuse for him, either. There was no call for him to make a
liar of himself, other than the most sordid of reasons, the little gain,
the jingling reward of gold. For no man would ever be insincere in his
art, except for pay, except to cater to some other taste than his own,
and to win approval and favor by sycophancy. If he were assured of his
competency in the world, and placed beyond the reach of necessitous
want, how would it ever occur to him to create an insincere art? Art is
so simple, so spontaneous, so dependent on the disingenuous emotion,
that it can never be insincere, unless violence is done to all laws of
nature and of spirit. Since art arises from the sacramental blending of
the inward spirit with the outward form, any touch of insincerity in it
assumes the nature of a horrible crime, a pitiable revolt against the
order and eternity of the universe.

[Sidenote: =Sincerity in Humor=]

"It is not necessary, as I say, for art to be solemn and wholly
serious-minded in order to be sincere. Comedy is quite sincere. Yet it
is easy to usurp her name and play the fool for pennies, with never a
ray of appreciation of her true character. Sincerity, then, is not the
least averse to fun; it only requires that the fun shall be genuine and
come from the heart, as it requires that every note of whatever sort
shall be genuine and spring from the real personality of the writer."

On Time

BY JOHN MILTON.

Fly, envious Time, till thou run out thy race,
Call on thy lazy, leaden-stepping hours,
Whose speed is but the heavy plummet's pace;
And glut thyself with what thy womb devours,
Which is no more than what is false and vain,
And merely mortal dross;
So little is our loss,
So little is thy gain.
For when as each thing bad thou hast entomb'd,
And last of al