when he thought success within his grasp, and the book was almost finished, that he was paralysed. Vierge’s case, so far as the first edition of Pablo is concerned, is one of the most cruel. The relations of artists and publishers that is, publishers who understand the production of fine books—have usually been happy. But there are exceptions.

I cannot point out whether these drawings, from the author’s point of view, illustrate the text. I have never read the whole book. But I only care to consider the illustrations as the most remarkable series of little pictures in black and white that have been produced. That this will be admitted I do not believe for a minute. More probably Dürer or Botticelli will be cited, and the nobility of their composition extolled, and the purity of their ideals dilated upon, while the meanness of Vierge’s imagination, and the baseness of his ideals, are exhibited as a painful contrast. I find, however, Vierge’s true and brilliant realism much more interesting than the conventional idealism of the past. The man who can interest and delight you by the way he draws an old shoe, or a broken pot, as Vierge has done, is quite as great as he who must take a heavenly host to produce the same impression.

And from the point of view of technique Vierge’s work is the most perfect that has been done, and it is this quality alone—that is technique—which has made the reputation of Rembrandt and Velasquez. It is not because of its subject that a picture is great, but because of the manner in which it is worked out. To rank subject above execution, from which it is absolutely inseparable, is intolerable to the artist, and is merely a device of the inartistic to palm off their incompetent productions. Nowhere save among Teutonic nations would it be necessary to make this explanation. But in a land where Art with a Mission, and a big A, has descended upon the people, it cannot be too strongly insisted upon. It may be well, therefore, to show wherein the greatness of Vierge’s technique lies.

It is most evident in his power of expressing many facts with the fewest possible lines. Each one of these lines is put down with the thought of the engraver for ever in his mind. This, however, does not mean that he is less free in his handling. It merely implies his complete command of his materials. The art of leaving out, and yet conveying the right impression, probably is the most difficult in the world. Like all art, which is most subtle, it appears ridiculously easy. Every line is drawn with the utmost care—a care so great that it is not apparent. The figures in the little pictures are worked out with a thorough knowledge of anatomy. The architecture and landscapes, and especially one or two drawings of mountains, have been studied and rendered in marvellous fashion. All these pictures are filled with the sunlight and atmosphere of the south; and all look so simple and so slight that anyone would think he could almost do them himself. Possibly he could—almost. For the boundary between good work and bad is nearly imperceptible; in fact, it is quite so except to a few artists. And it is really only to those few artists that a work of art does truly appeal in its entirety.

This, as a whole, is the last and the most important complete work which Vierge has ever produced. But for a man who probably has so many working years before him—Vierge cannot be much more than forty—it may be the first of a long series of masterpieces. I know that he has schemes for such work in his head, and he has now found the most important person for an illustrator—a publisher. But even should he never be able to realise his dreams of illustrating the great authors of his own country, he has already done more than most men: not only has he produced work which has delighted the artistic world, work which will live, but he has created a method and a science of illustration acknowledged by the few to be hitherto unequalled for brilliancy of execution and adaptability for the printing press.

Joseph Pennell.

NOTE.—At my request, Vierge has furnished the following brief details of so much of his life and work as he wishes to make public:—

QUEVEDO AND HIS WORKS:

With an Essay on the Picaresque Novel.

NOT more unquestioned is Cervantes’ claim to be the first of Spanish humorists than that of Quevedo to be the second. Among his own countrymen the title, which is generally the more disputable, has been by a singular consensus of opinion assigned to Quevedo. The author of Don Quixote apart, who is with the Immortals, there is no greater name among the writers of Spain than that of the author of The Visions, of Don Pablo, of innumerable poems, pamphlets, satires, pieces of wit, and works serious, moral, sportive, and fanciful. In that Golden Age, prolific of authors, the hundred years between the birth of Cervantes and the prime of Calderon, there was no genius so fruitful in every kind of intellectual product. Poet, politician, humorist, satirist, theologian, moralist, historian, novelist—Quevedo stands out a prodigy of learning, wit, and quick and various invention, even among the crowd of gifted writers who made that period famous in letters. He has been called the Spanish Juvenal—the Spanish Ovid—the Spanish Lucian. He is something of all these, and yet is unlike any of them. He wrote lyrics with the grace, simplicity, and ease of Horace. He is as prodigal of humour as Rabelais, whom he resembles also in his unfastidiousness, his obscurity, and his extravagance. He has been likened to our English