The accidents of a life turned by chance out of the beaten tracks,
have thrown me at times into acquaintanceship with some of the
greater lights of the last thirty years. And not only have they
been, as a rule, most unassuming men and women; but in the majority
of cases positively self-depreciatory; doubting of themselves and
their talents, constantly aiming at greater perfection in their art
or a higher development of their powers, never contented with what
they have achieved, beyond the idea that it has been another step
toward their goal. Knowing this, it is always a shock on meeting
the mediocre people who form such a discouraging majority in any
society, to discover that they are all so pleased with themselves,
their achievements, their place in the world, and their own ability
and discernment!

Who has not sat chafing in silence while Mediocrity, in a white
waistcoat and jangling fobs, occupied the after-dinner hour in
imparting second-hand information as his personal views on
literature and art? Can you not hear him saying once again: "I
don't pretend to know anything about art and all that sort of
thing, you know, but when I go to an exhibition I can always pick
out the best pictures at a glance. Sort of a way I have, and I
never make mistakes, you know."

Then go and watch, as I have, Henri Rochefort as he laboriously
forms the opinions that are to appear later in one of his "SALONS,"
realizing the while that he is FACILE PRINCEPS among the art
critics of his day, that with a line he can make or mar a
reputation and by a word draw the admiring crowd around an unknown
canvas. While Rochefort toils and ponders and hesitates, do you