“But can’t each generation find out its own Art?” Matt asked, timidly.
“Can each generation find out its own science?” Tarmigan retorted, sharply. “In all things there is a great human tradition, and the torch is handed down from generation to generation; otherwise we should be in a nice fog,” he added, grimly, and coughed again. “And a nice fog the young men are in who reject the light of the past, with their azure Art, and their violet nonsense, and their slapdash sketchiness.”
“But they seem to be gaining the public ear,” Matt murmured, liking neither to contradict his master nor to agree with him.
“The public ear!” Tarmigan laughed scornfully. “Yes, they gain that, but not the public eye, thank God. That can still tell slipshod botchery from honest, faithful work.”
“But Cornpepper is in the Academy this year,” Matt reminded him.
“Yes; the Academy lets itself be outbawled,” said Tarmigan, sharply. “I wish I were a member!”
“I wish you were,” said Matt, fervently.
Tarmigan coughed.
“I didn’t mean what you mean,” he said, gruffly.
“Oh, but they ought to elect you, sir!” said Matt, rushing in on delicate ground in his enthusiasm for the man’s character. “Everybody says so.”