Experience teaches me that I must; else shall I have that annoying
animalcule, the microscopic critic, coming down upon me in print with
his petty objection that "Mr. Crawford is an American." Go to, oh, blind
one! And Whistler also, I suppose, and Sargent, and, perhaps, Ashmead
Bartlett! What! have you read "Sarracinesca" and not learnt that its
author is European to the core? 'Twas for such as you that the Irishman
invented his brilliant retort: "And if I was born in a stable would I be
a horse?"

Not merely, however, do our younger writers go into strange and novel
places for the scenes of their stories; the important point to notice in
the present connection is that, consciously or unconsciously to
themselves, they have perceived the mighty influence of this Clash of
Races, and have chosen the relations of the civilised people with their
savage allies, or enemies, or subjects, as the chief theme of their
handicraft. 'Tis a momentous theme, for it encloses in itself half the
problems of the future. The old battles are now well-nigh fought out;
but new ones are looming ahead for us. The cosmopolitanisation of the
world is introducing into our midst strange elements of discord. A
conglomerate of unwelded ethnical elements usurps the stage of history.
America and South Africa have already their negro question; California
and Australia have already their Chinese question; Russia is fast
getting her Asiatic, her Mahommedan question. Even France, the most
narrowly European in interest of European countries, has yet her
Algeria, her Tunis, her Tonquin. Spain has Cuba and the Philippines.
Holland has Java. Germany is burdening herself with the unborn troubles
of a Hinterland. And as for England, she staggers on still under the
increasing load of India, Hong Kong, Singapore, South Africa, the West
Indies, Fiji, New Guinea, North Borneo--all of them rife with endless
race-questions, all pregnant with difficulties.