SUNDAY AT THE ZOO

"Excuse me, Sorr, but cud ye direct me to the goin' out

Size of the original drawing, 71⁄2 by 5 inches.

that they never saw a picture of his which did not, at least, compel their attention. He possessed in a high degree that rare and intangible gift of personality—or what the French call tempérament.

Du Maurier's notorious quarrel with Whistler (or rather Whistler's quarrel with him) grew out of a witty, and not unkindly, page in the novel "Trilby.” All the same, Whistler compelled the publishers to suppress it. As for du Maurier, he was by no means one of those geniuses who feel it incumbent upon them to attack and abuse their friends and acquaintances. The present writer knew him as a modest, reasonable, wellbred man, and in social intercourse he was a delightful companion by reason of his French brightness and vivacity. He was born at Paris in 1834, but removing to London at the age of seventeen, he died there in 1896.

In considering Phil May in company with his three famous predecessors we must put the clock of Time forward about a third of a century. Phil May was born in 1864 and died in 1903. He was one of the most highly paid illustrators in the world. Like every master in art, his style was all his own. His pictures are free and dashing, he never wastes a line and he never misplaces a line. As a draughtsman he is so unerring that he reminds one of the great singer who, when accused of having sung a note out of tune, calmly answered that the thing was impossible for the good reason that he never sang out of tune!

He was known to the writer as one of the most amiable and interesting men in London, and he was quite unspoiled by his brilliant success.

The art of such a master in painting as G. F. Watts is evidently removed from the art of Phil May "as far as the east is from the west," and yet that illustrious painter declared: "Other men may have great talent, but to me Phil May was simply a genius."

CHARLES KEENE

HE artistic and literary relations of Eng

THE

land and the United States are now become so intimate that famous British writers or illustrators no longer need any detailed introduction to people of taste in America.

But the late Charles Keene was one of the exceptions. His ever-growing fame has been slow in obtaining its just due of recognition here. This is partly because of his innate modesty as man and as artist, but mainly because his work was so intensely British. Dürer was not more thoroughly German in his art, Rembrandt more Dutch, or Velasquez more Spanish than Keene was English; and where is the artist so likely to find subjects of real value as in his own country, where he "lives and moves and has his being"?

The depicting of ancient classical scenes by David and his school, or of ancient Roman episodes by Alma Tadema, are all very well; but really vital art is the product of the artist's own times, his own country, and his intimate surroundings.

It is by no means essential that the man whom posterity delights to honor as a great original artist should have been the producer of ambitious and immense paintings such as those of Rubens.