_Because it has become so cheap to photograph on zinc._

In old time a man that drew ill drew not at all. He did well. Then
either there were no pictures in his book, or (if there were any) they
were done by some other man that loved him not a groat and would not
have walked half a mile to see him hanged. But now it is so easy for a
man to scratch down what he sees and put it in his book that any fool
may do it and be none the worse--many others shall follow. This is the
first.

Before you blame too much, consider the alternative. Shall a man march
through Europe dragging an artist on a cord? God forbid!

Shall an artist write a book? Why no, the remedy is worse than the
disease.

Let us agree then, that, if he will, any pilgrim may for the future
draw (if he likes) that most difficult subject, snow hills beyond a
grove of trees; that he may draw whatever he comes across in order to
enliven his mind (for who saw it if not he? And was it not his
loneliness that enabled him to see it?), and that he may draw what he
never saw, with as much freedom as you readers so very continually see
what you never draw. He may draw the morning mist on the Grimsel, six
months afterwards; when he has forgotten what it was like: and he may
frame it for a masterpiece to make the good draughtsman rage.

The world has grown a boy again this long time past, and they are
building hotels (I hear) in the place where Acedes discovered the
Water of Youth in a hollow of the hill Epistemonoscoptes.