done by Gillot (and it is interesting to compare the latter’s work of ten years ago with that in this volume done by him to-day), while the printing of Lahure was most careful and satisfactory; but the appearance of Vierge’s work in many cases was entirely changed, though he himself knew how it would be changed. Vierge, as anyone can see from these new reproductions, drew openly, freely, boldly, but most carefully. The reproductions in Bonhoure’s edition gave one the impression of exquisite delicacy, a refinement of line which did not altogether exist in the original drawings, but was produced because the artist knew exactly what he wanted, and because the engraver was able to obtain it.

The drawings were made upon white paper—Bristol board or drawing paper—with a pen and liquid Indian ink. Vierge uses now a glass pen like an old stylus, and this, I believe, he prefers to all others. The drawings were then given to Gillot, the photo-engraver, who, by means of photography and handwork, produced in a metal block a reproduction of the original drawing which could be printed with type. It is a favourite, but fallacious, statement of the art critics that mechanical reproduction not only ruins the drawing, but is not to be compared to facsimile woodcutting. This is absolutely untrue if the artist is a craftsman, and the engraver, who is a craftsman, is also an artist. Vierge and Gillot fulfill these conditions. No woodcutter, not even Whitney, Collins, Gamm or Léveillé (there are, unfortunately, none in England to be considered) could reproduce any one of these drawings in the wood a bit better than Gillot has done by the mechanical process. Many of Vierge’s lines are so clear and so pure and so simple, that they would be comparatively easy to cut in the wood. Other arrangements of lines are so complex, that no woodcutter could ever follow them, but would have to suggest them. Gillot has reproduced them perfectly, and almost altogether by mechanical means. But, granted that the woodcutters could have made equally good reproductions, unless you could find a consummate artist, who, for the love of the thing, was willing to give years of his life to it, it would be much more sensible to do what has been done—give the work to a mechanical engraver like Gillot. For the woodcutter would be sure to put some of his own personality into his block, and for my part I prefer Vierge unadulterated. But it is one of the art critic’s absurd canons of belief that in taking work away from woodcutters and handing it over to mechanical reproducers you are ruining the art of wood-engraving. The process man has merely removed much drudgery from the wood-engraver, and obtained for him the chance to produce work of his own. In the reproduction of pen drawings like those of Vierge, nearly as much depends upon the printer as upon anyone else, and I look forward with much interest to the appearance the book will present. Even authorities on the subject of illustration continually go wrong in this matter, by accusing artists, who know perfectly well what they are about, of being unable to draw for reproduction, when the engraver’s proofs which are sent them are almost perfect, though the final result is almost invariably ruined, owing in some degree to the artlessness of printers, who, of course, in a fine book should never be trusted, but principally to the imperfections of the modern steam-printing press, and quality of the paper supplied by publishers. No illustrated book can have full justice done to it unless it is printed by hand as carefully as an etching. No art critic displays anything but his small knowledge of the subject when he blames the artist for what may be due to the incapacity of the engraver or the imperfections of the press. Though the critic and the public have only to consider the result—the printed book—in almost every case, the artist is absolutely helpless, as he is not allowed to have anything to do with this result. That comparative perfection may be reached has, however, been shown, on the one hand, by the productions of the Kelmscott Press in hand-work, and, on the other, by the De Vinne Press with steam.

Fifty years ago Vierge’s illustrations could not have been printed with type. Because once this could not be done—because until the present century and the coming of Menzel and Fortuny there never was a man who could draw like Vierge; are not new styles of reproduction to be invented for his benefit, and new methods of printing to be employed? No doubt the early printed books, now the pride of the collector and the dealer, were sneered at by the illuminator and damned by the critic. Some day Bonhoure’s edition of Pablo will be quite as highly prized as the most precious Caxton.

I have no intention of going into the analysis of the motives which prompted Vierge to undertake the illustration of Pablo de Segovia. I have never asked him why he took it up, and most likely if he were asked it would be impossible for him to suggest any reason, other than that the book appealed to him. I do not believe that any artist could definitely explain why he endeavoured to produce a certain work of art. He merely wanted to do it, and then the opportunity presented itself. Nor do I think the literary artist would know why he wrote a certain novel. The idea came to him, and he had to. The literary man can describe his sensations, and tell you how he actually walked across the street to see a house, or re-wrote a page which did not please him, or hunted for months for a character: it is the fashion for him to do so. The artist experiences the same sensations. He not only has to go across the street to see the house, but he may probably have to stand before it, on the side-walk, for a couple of days amidst the crowd and traffic, working under the most difficult conditions; he too has to search for his model, and, when he has found him, obtain the actual costumes he wants, or have them made. The literary man, too, can get almost all his accessories out of books, or if he has to go to a Museum and cannot send some one, a glance and a few words are enough. The result, if well done, is hailed as great literature; but the artist, who probably has worked quite as long, quite as hard, and put quite as much brains into his work, is told, if he is told anything, that his drawings are pretty. He seldom has the opportunity of showing how well and how faithfully he has done his part. It is more than possible that if he has really studied his subject carefully the author will not like the result, and the public will complain because the artist has given them more than the author was able to make them see for themselves, or else they will demand a photograph because he has made them look at nature with his eyes.

However, it cannot any longer be said that the illustrator’s life is not reasonably successful. The Paris Exhibition of 1889 brought the gold medal, to which I have referred, to Vierge for these very drawings, and the French nation has since decorated him, and in his case it certainly was a reward for merit and nothing else. Then, also, in illustrating a book like Pablo, of course a certain amount of latitude was allowable. The artist could pick and choose his architecture in the most picturesque spots of Spain, and produce a harmonious whole. Nor did he have to consider Quevedo’s personal whims; in this case the author, being dead, could not demand that the artist should illustrate exactly those portions of his work which are not illustratable, or which do not appeal to him. He could work away at just the time when he wished to; having no Salon to get ready for, he could make his drawings in whatever fashion he chose, trying all kinds of methods and experiments, with no hanging committee to reject him because his originality would cast their own productions into the shade; he could then have his drawings joyfully accepted by a publisher, and work sympathetically with the engraver and printer. But it was just