Little Journeys To the Homes of the Great, Volume 4 (of 14)

Little Journeys To The Homes Of Eminent Painters

Elbert Hubbard

Memorial Edition

Printed and made into a Book by The Roycrofters, who are in East Aurora, Erie County, New York

New York

1916

CONTENTS

 MICHELANGELO 3 REMBRANDT 39 RUBENS 79 MEISSONIER 117 TITIAN 145 ANTHONY VAN DYCK 171 FORTUNY 199 ARY SCHEFFER 223 FRANCOIS MILLET 257 JOSHUA REYNOLDS 285 LANDSEER 309 GUSTAVE DORE 327

MICHELANGELO

 How can that be, lady, which all men learn By long experience? Shapes that seem alive, Wrought in hard mountain marble, will survive Their maker, whom the years to dust return! Thus to effect, cause yields. Art hath her turn, And triumphs over Nature. I, who strive with sculpture, Know this well: her wonders live In spite of time and death, those tyrants stern. So I can give long life to both of us In either way, by color or by stone, Making the semblance of thy face and mine. Centuries hence when both are buried, Thus thy beauty and my sadness shall be shown, And men shall say, "For her 'twas wise to pine. "

 --_Sonnets of Michelangelo_

[Illustration: MICHELANGELO]

"Call me by my pet name, " wrote Elizabeth Barrett Browning, in one ofthose incomparable sonnets of which the Portuguese never heard. And thetask yet remains for some psychologist to tell us why, when we wish tobestow the highest honor, coupled with familiar affection, we call theindividual by a given name. 

Young men and maidens will understand my allusion; and I hope this bookwill not suffer the dire fate of falling into the hands of any one whohas forgotten the days of his youth. 

In addressing the one we truly revere, we drop all prefix and titles. Soldiers marching under the banner of a beloved leader ever have for hima name of their own. What honor and trust were once compressed into thediminutive, "Little Corporal" or Kipling's "Bobs"; or, to come down tosomething even more familiar to us, say, "Old Abe" and "Little Phil"!

The earth is a vast graveyard where untold millions of men lie buried, but out of the myriads who pass into forgetfulness every decade, the raceholds a few names embalmed in undying amber. 

Lovers of art, the round world over, carry in their minds one character, so harmoniously developed on every side of his nature that we say twentycenturies have never produced his equal. We call him "Leonardo"--the oneideal man. Leonardo da Vinci was painter, poet, sculptor, architect, mathematician, politician, musician, man of science, and courtier. Hisdisposition was so joyous, his manner so captivating, his form andcountenance so beautiful, that wherever he went all things were his. Andhe was so well ballasted with brains, and so acute in judgment, thatflattery spoiled him not. His untiring industry and transcendent talentbrought him large sums of money, and he spent them like a king. So potentwas his personality that wherever he made his home there naturally grewup around him a Court of Learning, and his pupils and followers werecounted by the score. To the last of his long life he carried with himthe bright, expectant animation of youth; and to all who knew him he was"Leonardo--the only Leonardo. "

But great as was Leonardo, we call the time in which he lived, the age ofMichelangelo. 

When Leonardo was forty, and at the very height of his power, MichelAgnola Buonarroti, aged twenty, liberated from the block a marble Cupidthat was so exquisite in its proportions that it passed for an antique, and men who looked upon it exclaimed, "Phidias!"

Michel Agnola became Michelangelo, that is to say, "Michel the Angel, " ina day. The name thrown at him by an unknown admirer stuck, and in hislater years when all the world called him "Angelo" he cast off the namehis parents had given him and accepted the affectionate pet name thatclung like the love of woman. 

Michelangelo was born in a shabby little village but a few miles fromFlorence. In another village near by was born Leonardo. "Great men nevercome singly, " says Emerson. And yet Angelo and Leonardo exercised noinfluence upon each other that we can trace. The younger man never cameunder the spell of the older one, but moved straight on to his destiny, showing not the slightest arc in his orbit in deference to the greatluminary of his time. 

The handsome Leonardo was social: he loved women, and music, andfestivals, and gorgeous attire, and magnificent equipage. His life wasfull of color and sweeping, joyous, rainbow tints. 

Michelangelo was homely in feature, and the aspect of his countenance wasmutilated by a crashing blow from a rival student's mallet that flattenedhis nose to his face. Torrigiano lives in history for this act alone, thus proving that there are more ways than one to gain immortality. 

Angelo was proud, self-centered, independent, and he sometimes lashed thecritics into a buzzing, bluebottle fury by his sarcastic speech. "Heaffronted polite society, conformed to no one's dictates, lived like anascetic and worked like a packmule, " says a contemporary. 

Vasari, who among his many other accomplishments seems to have been theBoswell of his time, compares Leonardo and Michelangelo. He says, "Angelocan do everything that Leonardo can, although he does it differently. "Further, he adds, "Angelo is painter, sculptor, engineer, architect andpoet. " "But, " adds this versatile Italian Samuel Pepys, somewhatsorrowfully, "he is not a gentleman. "

It is to be regretted that Signor Vasari did not follow up his remarkswith his definition of the term "gentleman. "

Leonardo was more of a painter than a sculptor. His pictures are full ofrollicking mirth, and the smile on the faces of his women is handed downby imitation even to this day. The joyous freedom of animal life beckonsfrom every Leonardo canvas; and the backgrounds fade off into fleecyclouds and shadowy, dreamy, opiate odor of violets. 

Michelangelo, however, is true to his own life as Leonardo was tohis--for at the last the artist only reproduces himself. He never painteda laugh, for life to him was serious and full of sober purpose. We cannot call his work somber--it does not depress--for it carries with it apoise and a strength that is sufficient unto itself. It is all heroic, and there is in it a subtle quality that exorcises fear and bids carebegone. 

No man ever portrayed the human figure with the same fidelity that Angelohas. The naked Adam, when the finger of the Almighty touched him intolife, gives one a thrill of health to look upon, even after these fourhundred years have struggled to obliterate the lines. 

His figures of women shocked the artistic sense of his time, for insteadof the Greek idealization of beauty he carved the swelling muscles andrevealed the articulations of form as no artist before him had everdared. His women are never young, foolish, timid girls--they are Amazons;and his men are the kind that lead nations out of captivity. The soft, the pretty, the yielding, were far from him. There is never a suggestionof taint or double meaning; all is frank, open, generous, honest andfearless. His figures are nude, but never naked. 

He began his artistic work when fourteen years old, and he lived to beeighty-nine; and his years did not outlast his zeal and zest. He wasabove the medium size, an athlete in his lean and sinewy strength, andthe whipcord quality of his body mirrored the silken strength of hiswill. 

In his old age the King arose when Michelangelo entered theCouncil-Chamber, and would not sit until he was seated at the right handof the throne; the Pope would not allow him to kneel before him; when hewalked through the streets of Rome the people removed their hats as hepassed; and today we who gaze upon his work in the Eternal City standuncovered. 

 * * * * *

Michelangelo was the firstborn in a large family. Simone Buonarroti, hisfather, belonged to an ebbtide branch of the nobility that had losteverything but the memory of great ancestors turned to dust. This fatherhad ambitions for his boy; ambitions in the line of the army or a snugoffice under the wing of the State, where he might, by following closelythe beck and nod of the prince in power, become a magistrate or a keeperof customs. 

But no boy ever disappointed a proud father more. 

When great men in gilt and gold braid, with scarlet sashes across theirbreasts, and dangling swords that clicked and clanged on the stonepavement, strode by, rusty, dusty little Michel refused to take off hiscap and wish them "Long life and God's favor, " as his father ordered. Instead, he hid behind his mother's gown and made faces. His father usedto say he was about as homely as he could be without making faces, and ifhe didn't watch out he would get his face crooked some day and couldn'tget it back. 

Simone Buonarroti had qualities very Micawber-like mixed in his clay, andthe way he cringed and crawled may have had something to do with settingthe son on the other tack. 

The mother was only nineteen when Michel was born, and although themoralists talk much about woman's vanity and extravagance, the theorygets no backing from this quarter. She was a plain woman in appearance, quiet and self-contained, with no nerves to speak of, a sturdy, physicalendowment, and commonsense enough for two. When scarcely out of dressesthe boy began to draw pictures. He drew with charcoal on the walls, orwith a stick in the sand, and shaped curious things out of mud in thegutters. 

It was an age of creative art, and most of the work being in the churchesthe common people had their part in it. In fact, the common people werethe artists. And when Simone Buonarroti found his twelve-year-old boyhaunting the churches to watch the workmen, and also discovered that hewas consorting with the youths who studied drawing in the atelier ofGhirlandajo, he was displeased. 

Painters, to this erstwhile nobleman, were simply men in blue blouses whoworked for low wages on high scaffolds, and occasionally spattered coloron the good clothes of ladies and gentlemen who were beneath. He didn'treally hate painters, he simply waived them; and to his mind there was nodifference between an artisan and an artist. 

The mother, however, took a secret pride in her boy's drawings, asmothers always do in a son's accomplishments. Doubtless she knewsomething of the art of decoration, too, for she had brothers who workedas day laborers on high scaffolds. Yet she didn't say much about it, forwomen then didn't have so much to say about anything as now. 

But I can imagine that this good woman, as she went daily to church topray, the year before her first child was born, watched the work of themen on the scaffolds, and observed that day by day the pictures grew; andas she looked, the sun streamed through stained windows and revealed toher the miracles of form and color, and the impressions of "TheAnnunciation, " "Mary's Visit to Elizabeth" and "The Babe in the Manger"filled her wondering soul with thoughts and feelings too great forspeech. To his mother was Michelangelo indebted for his leaning towardart. His father opposed such a plebeian bent vigorously:

"Bah! to love beautiful things is all right, but to wish to devote all ofone's time to making them, just for others--ouch! it hurts me to think ofit!"

The mother was lenient and said, "But if our child can not be anythingmore than a painter--why, we must be content, and God willing, let ushope he will be a good one. "

Ghirlandajo's was practically a school where, for a consideration, boyswere taught the secrets of fresco. The master always had contracts of hisown on hand and by using 'prentice talent made both ends meet. YoungMichel made it his lounging-place and when he strayed from home hismother always knew where to find him. 

The master looked upon him as a possible pupil, and instead of orderinghim away, smiled indulgently and gave him tasks of mixing colors andmaking simple lines. And the boy showed such zest and comprehension thatin a short time he could draw freehand with a confidence that set thebrightest scholar in the background. Such a pupil, so alert, so willing, so anxious, is the joy of a teacher's heart. Ghirlandajo must havehim--he would inspire the whole school!

So the master went to the father, but the father demurred, and hisscruples were only overcome when Ghirlandajo offered to reverse the rule, and pay the father the sum that parents usually paid the master. A cashpayment down caused pater to capitulate, and the boy went to work--agedfourteen. 

The terms of his apprenticeship called for three years, but after he hadbeen at work a year, the ability of the youth made such an impression onthe master that he took him to Lorenzo, Lorenzo the Magnificent, who thenruled over Florence. 

Lorenzo had him draw a few sketches, and he was admitted to the Academy. This "Academy" was situated in the palace of Lorenzo, and in the gardenswas a rich collection of antique marbles: busts, columns, and valuablefragments that had come down from the days when Pericles did for Athenswhat Lorenzo was then doing for Florence. The march of commerce hasoverrun the garden, but in the Uffizi Gallery are to be seen today mostof the curios that Lorenzo collected. 

By introducing the lad to Lorenzo, Ghirlandajo lost his best helper, butso unselfish was this excellent master that he seemed quite willing toforego his own profit that the boy might have the best possibleadvantages. And I never think of Ghirlandajo without mentally lifting myhat. 

At the Academy, Michelangelo ceased to paint and draw, and devoted allhis energies to modeling in clay. So intent was his application that in afew weeks he had mastered technicalities that took others years tocomprehend. 

One day the father came and found the boy in a blouse at work with malletand chisel on a block of marble. "And is it a stone-mason you want tomake of my heir and firstborn?" asked the fond father. 

It was explained that there were stone-masons and stone-masons. Astone-mason of transcendent skill is a sculptor, just as a painter whocan produce a beautiful picture is an artist. 

Simone Buonarroti acknowledged he had never looked at it just in thatway, but still he would not allow his son to remain at the tradeunless--unless he himself had an office under the government. 

Lorenzo gave him the desired office, and took the young stone-mason asone of the Medici family, and there the boy lived in the Palace, andLorenzo acted toward him as though he were his son. 

The favor with which he was treated excited the envy of some of theother pupils, and thus it was that in sudden wrath Torrigiano struck himthat murderous blow with the mallet. Torrigiano paid for his fiercetemper, not only by expulsion from the Academy, but by banishment fromFlorence. 

Michelangelo was the brightest of the hundred young men who worked andstudied at the Medici palace. 

But when this head scholar was eighteen Lorenzo died. The son of Lorenzocontinued his father's work in a feeble way, for Piero de Medici was agood example of the fact that great men seldom reproduce themselves afterthe flesh. Piero had about as much comprehension of the beautiful as theelder Buonarroti. He thought that all these young men who were beingeducated at the Academy would eventually be valuable adjuncts to theState, and as such it was a good scheme to give each a trade--besides, itkept them off the street; and then the work was amusing, a diversion tothe nobility when time hung heavy. 

Once there came a heavy snowstorm, and snow being an unusual thing inFlorence, Piero called a lot of his friends together in the gardens, andsummoning Michelangelo, ordered him to make a snow image for theamusement of the guests, just as Piero at other times had a dog jumpthrough a hoop. 

"What shall it be?" asked Michelangelo. 

"Oh, anything you please, " replied Piero; "only don't keep us waitinghere in the cold all day!"

Young Angelo cast one proud look of contempt toward the group and set towork making a statue. In ten minutes he had formed a satyr that bore sucha close resemblance to Piero that the guests roared with laughter. "Thatwill do, " called Piero; "like Deity, you make things in your own image. "Some of the company tossed silver coin at the young man, but he let themoney lie where it fell. 

Michel at this time was applying himself to the study of anatomy, andgiving his attention to literature under the tutorship of the famous poetand scholar, Poliziano, who resided at the court. 

So filled was the young man's mind with his work that he was blind to thediscontent arising in the State. To the young, governments andinstitutions are imperishable. Piero by his selfish whims had beendigging the grave of the Medici. From sovereignty they were flung intoexile. The palace was sacked, the beautiful gardens destroyed, andMichelangelo, being regarded as one of the family, was obliged to fleefor his life. He arrived in Bologna penniless and friendless, and appliedto a sculptor for work. "What can you do?" the old sculptor asked. Foranswer, Michelangelo silently took a crayon and sketched a human hand onthe wall. Marvelous were the lines! The master put his arms around theboy and kissed his cheek. 

This new-found friend took him into his house, and placed him at his owntable. Michelangelo was led into the library and workrooms, and toldthat all was his to use as he liked. 

The two years he remained at Bologna were a great benefit to the youngman. The close contact with cultured minds, and the encouragement hereceived, spurred his spirit to increased endeavor. It was here that hebegan that exquisite statue of a Cupid that passed for an antique, andfound its way into the cabinet of the Duchess of Mantua. 

Before long the discovery was made that the work was done by a young manonly a little past twenty, and Cardinal San Giorgio sent a messageinviting him to Rome. 

 * * * * *

Rome had long been the Mecca of the boy's ambitions, and he joyouslyaccepted the invitation. At Rome he was lodged in the Vatican, andsurrounded by that world of the beautiful, he went seriously about hislife's work. The Church must have the credit for being the mother ofmodern art. Not only did she furnish the incentive, but she supplied themeans. She gave security from the eternal grind of material wants andoffered men undying fame as reward for noble effort. 

The letter of religion was nothing to Michelangelo, but the eternalspirit of truth that broods over and beyond all forms and ceremoniestouched his soul. His heart was filled with the poetry of pagan times. The gods of ancient Greece on high Olympus for him still sang andfeasted, still lived and loved. 

But to the art of the Church he devoted his time and talents. Heconsidered himself a priest and servant to the cause of Christ. 

Established at Rome in the palace of the Pope, Michelangelo felt secure. He knew his power. He knew he could do work that would for generationsmove men to tears, and in his prophetic soul was a feeling that his namewould be inseparably linked with Rome. His wanderings and buffetings werethings of the past--he was necessary to the Church, and his position wasnow secure and safe. The favor of princes lasts but for a day, but theChurch is eternal. The Church should be his bride; to her and to heralone would he give his passionate soul. Thus mused Michelangelo, agedtwenty-two. His first work at Rome was a statue of Bacchus, done it seemsfor an exercise to give Cardinal Giorgio a taste of his quality, just ashe had drawn the human hand on the wall for his Bologna protector; forthis fine and lofty pride in his power was a thing that clung toMichelangelo from rosy youth to hoary age. 

The "Bacchus, " which is now in the National Museum at Florence, added tohis reputation; and the little world of art, whose orbit was the Vatican, anxiously awaited a more serious attempt, just as we crane our necks whenthe great violinist about to play awakens expectation by a fewpreliminary flourishes. 

His first great work at Rome was the "Pieta. " We see it today in SaintPeter's at the first chapel to the right as we enter, in a long row ofcommonplace marbles, in all its splendid beauty and strength. Itrepresents the Mother of Christ, supporting in her arms the dead bodyjust after it was lowered from the cross. In most of Michelangelo's workthere is a heroic quality in the figures and a muscular strength that ina degree detracts from the spirit of sympathy that might otherwise comeover us. It is admiration that seizes us, not sympathy. But this earlywork is the flower of Michelangelo's genius, round and full and complete. The later work may be different, but it is not better. 

When this group was unveiled in Fourteen Hundred Ninety-eight it was thesensation of the year. Old and young, rich and poor, learned andunlearned, flocked to see it, and the impression it made was mostprofound. If the Catholic Church has figured on the influence of statuaryand painting on the superstitious, as has been tauntingly said, she hasreckoned well. The story of steadfast love and loyalty is masterly toldin that first great work of Michelangelo. The artist himself oftenmingled with the crowds that surrounded his speaking marble, and thepeople who knelt before it assured him by their reverence that his handhad wrought well. And once he heard two able doctors disputing as to whothe artist was. They were lavish in their praise, and one insisted thatthe work was done by the great sculptor at Bologna, and he named themaster who had befriended Michelangelo. The artist stood by and heard theargument put forth that no mere youth could conceive such a work, muchless execute it. 

That night he stole into the church and by the wan light of a lanterncarved his name deep on the girdle of the Virgin, and there do we read ittoday. The pride of the artist, however, afterward took another turn, forhe never thereafter placed his name on a piece. "My work is unlike anyother--no lover of the beautiful can mistake it, " he proudly said. 

He worked away with untiring industry and the Church paid him well. Butmany of his pieces have been carried from Rome, and as they were notsigned and scores of imitations sprang up, it can not always bedetermined now what is his work and what not. He toiled alone, andallowed no 'prentice hand to use the chisel, and unlike the sculptors ofour day, did not work from a clay model, but fell upon the block direct. "I caught sight of Michelangelo at work, but could not approach for theshower of chips, " writes a visitor at Rome in the year Fifteen HundredOne. 

 * * * * *

Perfect peace is what Michelangelo expected to find in the palace of thePope. Later he came to know that life is unrest, and its passage at besta zigzag course, that only straightens to a direct line when viewedacross the years. If a man does better work than his fellows he must paythe penalty. Personality is an offense. 

In Rome there was a small army of painters and sculptors, each eager andanxious for the sole favor of the powers. They quibbled, quarreled, bribed, cajoled, and even fair women used their influence with cardinalsand bishops in favor of this artist or that. 

Michelangelo was never a favorite in society; simpering beauty peeked athim from behind feather fans and made jokes concerning his appearance. Yet Walter Pater thought he found evidence that at this time Michelangelowas beloved by a woman, and that the artist reproduced her face and form, and indirectly pictured her in poems. In feature she was as plain as he;but her mind matched his, and was of a cast too high and excellent toallow him to swerve from his high ideals. Yet the love ended unhappily, and in some mysterious way gave a tinge of melancholy and a secret springof sorrow to the whole long life of the artist. 

Jealous competitors made their influence felt. Michelangelo found hiswork relegated to corners and his supplies cut short. 

At this time an invitation came from Florence for him to come and makeuse of a gigantic block of marble that had lain there at the city gate, blackening in the dirt, for a century. 

The Florence that had banished him, now begged him to come back. 

"Those who once leave Florence always sigh to return, " says Dante. Hereturned, and at once began work on the "David. " The result was theheroic statue that stood for three hundred years at the entrance to thePalazzo Vecchio, only a hundred feet from where Savonarola was hanged andburned. The "David" is now in the Belle d' Arte, and if the custodianwill allow you to climb up on a ladder you will see that the top of thehead shows the rough unfinished slab, just as it was taken from thequarry. Any one but a master would have finished the work. 

This magnificent statue took nearly two years to complete. As a study ofgrowing youth, boldly recognizing all that is awkward and immature, ithas never ceased to cause wordy warfare to reign in the camp of thecritics. "The feet, hands and head are all too large, " the Athenians say. But linger around the "old swimmin'-hole" any summer day, and you willsee tough, bony, muscular boys that might have served as a model for the"David. "

The heads of statues made by the Greeks are small in proportion to thebody. The "Gladiator" wears a Number Six hat, and the "Discobolus" onesize smaller; yet the figures represent men weighing one hundred eightypounds each. The Greeks aimed to satisfy the eye, and as the man isusually seen clothed, they reduced the size of the head when they showedthe nude figure. 

But Michelangelo was true to Nature, and the severest criticism everbrought against him is that he is absolutely loyal to truth. He was thefirst man ever to paint or model the slim, slender form of a child thathas left its round baby shape behind and is shooting up like alily-stalk. A nude, hardy boy six years old reveals ankle-bones, kneecap, sharp hips, ribs, collar-bone and shoulder-blade with startling fidelity. And why, being Nature's work, it is any less lovely than a condition ofsoft, cushioned adipose, we must let the critics tell, but Michelangelothought it wasn't. 

From Fourteen Hundred Ninety-six, when Michelangelo first arrived inRome, to Fifteen Hundred Four, he worked at nothing but sculpture. Butnow a change came over his restless spirit, for an invitation had comefrom the Gonfaloniere of Florence to decorate one of the rooms of theTown Hall, in competition with Leonardo da Vinci--the only Leonardo. 

He painted that strong composition showing Florentine soldiers bathing inthe Arno. The scene depicts the surprise of the warriors as a trumpetsounds, calling them to battle with the enemy that is near at hand. Thesubject was chosen because it gave opportunity for exploiting theartist's marvelous knowledge of anatomy. Thirty figures are shown invarious attitudes. Nearly all are nude, and as they scramble up the bank, buckling on their armor as they rush forward, eager for the fight, we seethe wild, splendid swell of muscle and warm, tense, pulsing flesh. As anexample of Michelangelo's consummate knowledge of form it was believed tobe his finest work. 

But it did not last long; the jealous Bandinelli made a strong bid forfame by destroying it. And thus do Bandinelli and Torrigiano goclattering down the corridors of time hand in hand. Yet we know what thepicture was, for various men who saw it recorded their impressions; butalthough many of the younger artists of Italy flocked to Florence to seeit, and many copied it, only one copy has come down to us--the one in thecollection of the Earl of Leicester, at Holkham. 

So even beautiful Florence could not treat her gifted son withimpartiality, and when a call came from Pope Julius the Second, who hadbeen elected in Fifteen Hundred Three, to return to Rome, the summons waspromptly obeyed. 

 * * * * *

Julius was one of the most active and vigorous rulers the earth hasknown. He had positive ideas on many subjects and like Napoleon "could dothe thinking for a world. "

The first work he laid out for Michelangelo was a tomb, three storieshigh, with walls eighteen feet thick at the base, surrounded withnumerous bas-reliefs and thirty heroic statues. It was to be a monumenton the order of those worked out by the great Rameses, only incorporatingthe talent of Greece with that of ancient and modern Rome. 

Michelangelo spent nearly a year at the Carrara quarries, getting outmaterials and making plans for forwarding the scheme. But gradually itcame over him that the question of economy, which was deeply rooted inthe mind of Julius, forbade the completion of such a gigantic and costlywork. Had Julius given Michelangelo "carte-blanche" orders on thetreasury, and not meddled with the plans, this surpassing piece ofarchitecture might have found form. But the fiery Julius, agedseventy-four, was influenced by the architect Bramante to demand fromMichelangelo a bill of expense and definite explanation as to details. 

Very shortly after, Michelangelo quit work and sent a note to the Pope tothe effect that the tomb was in the mountain of Carrara, with manybeautiful statues, and if he wanted them he had better look for some oneto get them out. As for himself, his address was Florence. 

The Pope sent couriers after him, one after another until five had beendispatched, but neither pleading, bribes nor threats could induce him toreturn. 

As the scientist constructs the extinct animal from a thigh-bone, so wecan guess the grandeur of what the tomb might have been from the singlesample that has come down to us. The one piece of work that was completedfor this tomb is the statue of "Moses. " If the reputation of Michelangelorested upon nothing else than this statue, it would be sufficient forundying fame. The "Moses" probably is better known than any other pieceof Michelangelo's work. Copies of it exist in all important galleries;there are casts of it in fifty different museums in America, and picturesof it are numberless. There it stands in the otherwise obscure church ofSaint Pietro in Vincolo today, one hand grasping the flowing beard, andthe other sustaining the tables of the law--majesty, strength, wisdombeaming in every line. As Mr. Symonds has said, "It reveals the power ofPope Julius and Michelangelo fused into a Jove. "

And so the messengers and messages were in vain, and even when the Popesent an order to the Gonfaloniere Soderini, the actual ruler of Florence, to return the artist on pain of displeasure, the matter stillrested--Michelangelo said he was neither culprit nor slave, and wouldlive where he wished. 

At length the matter got so serious that it threatened the politicalpeace of Florence, and in the goodly company of cardinals, bishops andchief citizens, Michelangelo was induced to go to Bologna and make peacewith the Pope. 

His first task now was a bronze statue of Julius, made, it is stated, asa partial reproduction of the "Moses. " Descriptions of it declare it waseven finer than the "Moses, " but alas! it only endured four years, for amob evolved it into a cannon to shoot stones, and at the same time oustedJulius from Bologna. 

Michelangelo very naturally seconded the anathematization of theBolognese by Julius, not so much for the insult to the Pope as for thewretched lack of taste they had shown in destroying a work of art. Hadthey left the beautiful statue there on its pedestal, Bologna would nowon that account alone be a place of pilgrimage. The cannon they made islost and forgotten--buried deep in the sand by its own weight--for MeinHerr Krupp can make cannon; but, woe betide us! who can make a statuesuch as Michelangelo made?

Michelangelo now followed the Pope to Rome and began a work that noneother dare attempt, but which today excites the jealous admiration ofevery artist soul who views it--the ceiling of the Sistine Chapel. Ghirlandajo, Perugino, Botticelli and Luca Signorelli had worked on thewalls with good effect, but to lie on one's back and paint overhead so asto bring out a masterly effect when viewed from seventy feet below wassomething they dare not attempt. Michelangelo put up his scaffolds, drewdesigns, and employed the best fresco artists in Italy to fill in thecolor. But as they used their brushes he saw that the designs becameenfeebled under their attempts--they did not grasp the conception--and inwrath he discharged them all. He then obliterated all they had done, andshutting out the ceiling from every one but himself, worked alone. Oftenfor days he would not leave the building, for fear some one would meddlewith the work. He drew up food by a string and slept on the scaffoldwithout changing his clothes. 

After a year of intense application, no one but the artist had viewed thework. The Pope now demanded that he should be allowed to see it. A partof the scaffolding was struck, and the delight of the old Pope wasunbounded. This was in Fifteen Hundred Nine, but the completed work wasnot shown to the public until All Souls' Day, Fifteen Hundred Twelve. 

The guides at the Vatican tell us this ceiling was painted in twenty-twomonths, but the letters of Michelangelo, recently published, show that heworked on it over four years. 

It contains over three hundred figures, all larger than life, and someare fifteen feet long. A complete description of the work Michelangelodid in this private chapel of the Pope would require a book, and in factseveral books have been written with this ceiling as a subject. Thetechnical obstacles to overcome in painting scenes and figures on anoverhead surface can only be appreciated by those who have tried it. Wecan better appreciate the difficulties when we think that, in order evento view the decorations with satisfaction, large mirrors must be used, orone must lie prone on his back. In the ability to foreshorten and giveharmonious perspective--supplying the effect of motion, distance, uprightmovement, coming toward you or moving away--all was worked out in thishistoric chapel in a way that has excited the wondering admiration ofartists for three hundred years. 

When the scaffolding was at last removed, the artist thought for a timehe had done his last work. The unnatural positions he had been obliged totake had so strained the muscles of his neck that on the street he hadoften to look straight up at the sky to rest himself, and things on astraight line in front he could not distinguish. Eyes, muscles, hands, refused to act normally. 

"My life is there on the ceiling of the Chapel of Sixtus, " he said. 

He was then thirty-nine years old. 

Fifty eventful years of life and work were yet before him. 

 * * * * *

When Pope Julius died, in Fifteen Hundred Thirteen, Leo the Tenth, a sonof Lorenzo the Magnificent, was called to take his place. We mightsuppose that Leo would have remembered with pride the fact that it washis father who gave Michelangelo his first start in life, and havetreated the great artist in the way Lorenzo would, were he then alive. But the retiring, abstemious habits of Michelangelo did not appeal toLeo. The handsome and gracious Raphael was his favorite, and at theexpense of Michelangelo, Raphael was petted, feted and advanced. Hencearose that envious rivalry between these two great men, which revealseach in a light far from pleasant--just as if Rome were not big enoughfor both. The pontificate of Leo the Tenth lasted just ten years. Onaccount of the lack of encouragement Michelangelo received, it seems themost fruitless season of his whole life. 

Clement the Seventh, another member of the Medici family, succeeded Leo. Clement was too sensible of Michelangelo's merit to allow him to rust outhis powers in petty tasks. He conceived the idea of erecting a chapel tobe attached to the church of San Lorenzo, at Florence, to be the finalresting-place of the great members of the Medici family. Michelangeloplanned and built the chapel and for it wrought six great pieces of art. These are the statues of Lorenzo de Medici, father of Catherine de Medici(who was such a large, black blot on the page of history); a statue ofGiuliano de Medici (whose name lives now principally because Michelangelomade this statue); and the four colossal reclining figures known as"Night, " "Morning, " "Dawn" and "Twilight. " This chapel is now open to thepublic, and no visitor at Florence should miss seeing it. 

The statue of Lorenzo must ever rank as one of the world's masterpieces. The Italians call it "Il Pensiero. " The sullen strength of the attitudegives one a vague ominous impulse to get away. Some one has said that itfulfils Milton's conception of Satan brooding over his plans for the ruinof mankind. 

In Fifteen Hundred Twenty-seven, while Michelangelo was working on thechapel, Florence was attacked and sacked by the Constable de Bourbon. TheMedici family was again expelled, and from the leisurely decoration of achurch in honor of the gentle Christ, the artist was called upon to buildbarricades to protect his native city. His ingenuity as an engineer wasas consummate as his exquisite idea of harmony, and for nine months thecity was defended. 

Through treachery the enemy was then allowed to enter and Michelangelofled. Riots and wars seem as natural as thunderstorms to the Latinpeople; but after a year the clouds rolled by, Michelangelo was pardoned, and went back to his work of beautifying the chapel of San Lorenzo. 

In Fifteen Hundred Thirty-four, Pope Clement was succeeded by Paul theThird. Paul was seventy years old, but the vigor of his mind was verymuch like that of the great Julius. His first desire was to complete thedecoration of the Sistine Chapel, so that the entire interior shouldmatch the magnificence of the ceiling, and to the task he summonedMichelangelo. 

The great artist hesitated. The ceiling was his supreme work as apainter, and he knew down deep in his heart that he could not hope tosurpass it, and the risk of not equaling it was too great for him to run. The matter was too delicately personal to explain--only an artist couldunderstand. 

Michelangelo made excuses to the Pope and declared he had forgotten howto use a brush, that his eyesight was bad, and that the only thing hecould do was to carve. 

But Paul was not to be turned aside, and reluctantly Michelangelo wentback to the Sistine, that he had left over twenty years before. 

Then it was that he painted "The Last Judgment" on the wall of the upperend of the chapel. Hamerton calls this the grandest picture everexecuted, at the same time acknowledging its faults in taste. But it mustbe explained that the design was the conception of Julius, endorsed byPope Paul, and it surely mirrors the spiritual qualities (or lack ofthem) in these men better than any biography possibly could. 

The merciful Redeemer is shown as a muscular athlete, full of anger andthe spirit of revenge--proud, haughty, fierce. The condemned are rangedbefore him--a confused mass of naked figures, suspended in all attitudesof agony and terrible foreboding. The "saved" are ranged on one side, anddo not seem to be of much better intellectual and spiritual quality thanthe damned; very naturally they are quite pleased to think that it is theothers who are damned, and not they. The entire conception reveals thatmasterly ability to portray the human figure in every attitude of fear orpassion. A hundred years after the picture was painted, some dignitarytook it into his head that portions of the work were too "daring"; and apainter was set at work robing the figures. His fussy attempts are quiteapparent. 

Michelangelo's next work was to decorate the Paolina Chapel. As in hislast work on the Sistine, he was constantly interrupted and advised andcriticized. As he worked, cardinals, bishops and young artists watchedand suggested, but still the "Conversion of Saint Paul" and the"Crucifixion of Saint Peter, " in the Paolina, must ever rank as masterlyart. 

The frescoes in the Paolina Chapel occupied seven years and ended thegreat artist's career as a painter. He was seventy-three years old. 

Pope Paul then made him Chief Architect of Saint Peter's. Michelangeloknew the difficulties to be encountered--the bickerings, jealousies andcriticisms that were inseparable from the work--and was only moved toaccept the place on Pope Paul's declaration that no one else could do aswell, and that it was the will of God. Michelangelo looked upon theperformance as a duty and accepted the task, refusing to take anyrecompense for his services. He continued to discharge the duties of theoffice under the direction of Popes Paul, Pius the Fourth and Pius theFifth. In all he worked under the pontificates of seven different popes. 

The dome of Saint Peter's, soaring to the skies, is his finest monument. The self-sustaining, airy quality in this stupendous structure hushes thebeholder into silence; and yet that same quality of poise, strength andsufficiency marks all of the work of this colossus, whether it bepainting, architecture or sculpture. America has paid tribute toMichelangelo's genius by reproducing the dome of Saint Peter's over theCapitol at Washington. 

Michelangelo died at Rome, aged eighty-nine, working and planning to thelast. His sturdy frame showed health in every part, and he ceased tobreathe just as a clock runs down. His remains were secretly taken toFlorence and buried in the church of Santa Croce. A fine bust marks thespot, but the visitor can not help feeling a regret that the dust of thismarvelous man does not rest beneath the zenith of the dome of SaintPeter's at Rome. 

 * * * * *

Sitting calmly in this quiet corner, and with closed eyes, viewingMichelangelo's life as a whole, the impression is one of heroic strength, battling with fierce passions, and becoming victor over them by workingthem up into art. The mold of the man was masculine, and the subduedsorrow that flavors his whole career never degenerates into sicklysentimentality or repining. 

The sonnets of Michelangelo, recently given to the world, were writtenwhen he was nearly seventy years old. Several of the sonnets are directlyaddressed to Vittoria Colonna, and no doubt she inspired the wholevolume. A writer of the time has mentioned his accidentally findingMichelangelo and Vittoria Colonna seated side by side in the dim twilightof a deserted church, "talking soft and low. " Deserted churches have everbeen favorite trysting-places for lovers; and one is glad for this littleglimpse of quiet and peace in the tossing, troubled life-journey of thistireless man. In fact, the few years of warm friendship with VittoriaColonna is a charmed and temperate space, without which the struggle andunrest would be so ceaseless as to be appalling. Sweet, gentle andhelpful was their mutual friendship. At this period of Michelangelo'slife we know that the vehemence of his emotions subsided, and tranquilityand peace were his for the rest of his life, such as he had never knownbefore. 

The woman who stepped out of high society and won the love of this sternyet gentle old man must have been of a mental and spiritual quality tocommand our highest praise. The world loves Vittoria Colonna because sheloved Michelangelo, and led him away from strife and rivalry and toil. 

REMBRANDT

 The eyes and the mouth are the supremely significant features of the human face. In Rembrandt's portraits the eye is the center wherein life, in its infinity of aspect, is most manifest. Not only was his fidelity absolute, but there is a certain mysterious limpidity of gaze that reveals the soul of the sitter. A "Rembrandt" does not give up its beauties to the casual observer--it takes time to know it, but once known, it is yours forever. 

 --_Emile Michel_

[Illustration: REMBRANDT]

Swimming uneasily in my ink-bottle is a small preachment concerningnames, and the way they have been evolved, and lost, or added to. Someday I will fish this effusion out and give it to a waiting world. Thoseof us whose ancestors landed at Plymouth or Jamestown are very proud ofour family names, and even if we trace quite easily to Castle Garden wedo not always discard the patronymic. 

Harmen Gerritsz was a young man who lived in the city of Leyden, Holland, in the latter part of the Sixteenth Century. The letters "sz" at the endof his name stood for "szoon" and signified that he was the szoon ofMynheer Gerrit. 

Now Harmen Gerritsz duly served an apprenticeship with a miller, and whenhis time expired, being of an ambitious nature, he rented a mill on thecity wall, and started business for himself. Shortly after he verynaturally married the daughter of a baker. 

All of Mr. Harmen Gerritsz's customers called him Harmen, and when theywished to be exact they spoke of him as Harmen van Ryn--that is to say, Harmen of the Rhine, for his mill was near the river. "Out West, " evennow, if you call a man Mister, he will probably inquire what it is youhave against him. 

Mr. And Mrs. Harmen lived in the mill, and as years went by were blessedwith a nice little family of six children. The fifth child is the onlyone that especially interests us. They named him Rembrandt. 

Rembrandt Harmenszoon van Ryn, he called himself when he entered at thegrammar-school at Leyden, aged fourteen. His father's first name beingHarmen, he simply took that, and discarded the Gerrit entirely, accordingto the custom of the time. In fact, all our Johnsons are the sons ofJohn, and the names Peterson, Thompson and Wilson, in feudal times, hadtheir due and proper significance. Then when we find names with a finalending of "s, " such as Robbins, Larkins and Perkins, we are to understandthat the owner is the son of his father. And so we find RembrandtHarmenszoon in his later years writing his name Harmensz and then simplyHarmens. 

Mynheer Harmen Gerritszoon's windmill ground exceeding small, and theproduct found a ready market. There were no servants in the miller'sfamily--everybody worked at the business. In Holland people areindustrious. The leisurely ways of the Dutch can, I think, safely beascribed to their environment, and here is an argument Buckle might haveinserted in his great book, but did not, and so I will write it down. 

There are windmills in Holland (I trust the fact need not longer beconcealed) and these windmills are used for every possible mechanicalpurpose. Now the wind blows only a part of the time--except inChicago--and there may be whole days when not a windmill turns in allHolland. The men go out in the morning and take due note of the wind, andif there is an absolute calm many of them go back to bed. I have knownthe wind to die down during the day and the whole force of a windmilltroop off to a picnic, as a matter of course. So the elements in Hollandset man the example--he will not rush himself to death when not even thewind does. 

Then another thing: Holland has many canals. Farmers load their hay oncanal-boats and take it to the barn, women go to market in boats, loverssail, seemingly, right across the fields--canals everywhere. 

Traveling by canal is not rapid transit. So the people of Holland haveplenty of precedent for moving at a moderate speed. There are nomountains in Holland, so water never runs; it may move, but the law ofgravitation there only acts to keep things quiet. The Dutch never runfootraces--neither do they scorch. 

In Amsterdam I have seen a man sit still for an hour, and this with aglass of beer before him, gazing off into space, not once winking, noteven thinking. You can not do that in America, where trolley-cars whizand blizzards blow--there is no precedent for it in things animate orinanimate. In the United States everything is on the jump, art included. 

Rembrandt Harmens worked in his father's mill, but never strained hisback. He was healthy, needlessly healthy, and was as smart as hisbrothers and sisters, but no smarter, and no better looking. He wasexceedingly self-contained, and would sit and dream at his desk in thegrammar-school, looking out straight in front of him--just at nothing. 

The master tried flogging, and the next day found a picture of himself onthe blackboard, his face portrayed as anything but lovely. YoungRembrandt was sent home to fetch his father. The father came. 

"Look at that!" said the irate teacher; "see what your son did; look atthat!"

Mynheer Harmen sat down and looked at the picture in his deliberate Dutchway, and after about fifteen minutes said, "Well, it does look like you!"

Then he explained to the schoolmaster that the lad was sent to schoolbecause he would not do much around the mill but draw pictures in thedust, and it was hoped that the schoolmaster could teach him something. 

The schoolmaster decided that it was a hopeless case, and the miller wenthome to report to the boy's mother. 

Now, whenever a Dutchman is confronted by a problem too big to solve, ora task too unpleasant for him to undertake, he shows his good sense byturning it over to his wife. "You are his mother, anyway, " said Harmenvan Ryn, reproachfully. 

The mother simply waived the taunt and asked, "Do you tell me theschoolmaster says he will not do anything but draw pictures?"

"Not a tap will he do but make pictures--he can not multiply two by one. "

"Well, " said the mother, "if he will not do anything but draw pictures, Ithink we'd better let him draw pictures. "

 * * * * *

At that early age I do not think Rembrandt was ambitious to be a painter. Good healthy boys of fourteen are not hampered and harassed byambition--ambition, like love, camps hot upon our trail later. Ambitionis the concomitant of rivalry, and sex is its chief promoter--it is asecondary sex manifestation. 

The boy simply had a little intuitive skill in drawing, and the exerciseof the talent was a gratification. It pleased him to see the semblance offace or form unfold before him. It was a kind of play, a working off ofsurplus energy. 

Had the lad's mind at that time been forcibly diverted to books orbusiness, it is very probable that today the catalogs would be withoutthe name of Rembrandt. 

But mothers have ambitions, even if boys have not--they wish to see theirchildren do things that other women's children can not do. Among wildanimals the mother kills, when she can, all offspring but her own. Darwinrefers to mother-love as, "that instinct in the mind of the female whichcauses her to exaggerate the importance of her offspring--oftenprotecting them to the death. " Through this instinct of protection is thespecies preserved. In human beings mother-love is well flavored withpride, prejudice, jealousy and ambition. This is because the mother is awoman. And this is well--God made it all, and did He not look upon Hiswork and pronounce it good?

The mother of Rembrandt knew that in Leyden there were men who paintedbeautiful pictures. She had seen these pictures at the University, and inthe Town Hall and in the churches; and she had overheard men discussingand criticizing the work. She herself was poor and uneducated, herhusband was only a miller, with no recreation beyond the beer-garden anda clicking reluctantly off to church in his wooden shoes on Sunday. Theyhad no influential friends, no learned patrons--the men at the Universitynever so much as nodded to millers. Her lot was lowly, mean, obscure, andfilled with drudgery and pettiness. And now some one was saying her boyRembrandt was lazy; he would neither work nor study. The taunt stung hermother-pride--"He will do nothing but make pictures!"

Ah! a great throb came to her heart. Her face flushed, she saw itall--all in prophetic vision stood out like an etching on the blanknessof the future. "He will do nothing but draw pictures? Very well then, heshall draw pictures! He will draw so well that they shall adorn thechurches of Leyden, and the Town Hall, and yes! even the churches ofAmsterdam. Holland shall be proud of my boy! He will teach other men todraw, his pictures will command fabulous prices, and his name shall behonored everywhere! Yes, my boy shall draw pictures! This day will I takehim to Mynheer Jacob van Swanenburch, who was a pupil of the greatRubens, and who has scholars even from Antwerpen. I will take him to theMaster, and I will say: 'Mynheer, I am only a poor woman, the daughter ofan honest baker. My husband is a miller. This is my son. He will donothing but draw pictures. Here is a bag of gold--not much, but it is allgood gold; there are no bad coins in this bag; I've been ten years insaving them. Take this bag--it is yours--now teach my son to paint. Teachhim as you taught Valderschoon and those others--my memory is bad, I cannot remember the names--I'm only a poor woman. Show my boy how to paint. And when I am dead, and you are dead, men will come to your grave andsay, "It is here that he rests, here--the man who first taught RembrandtHarmenszoon to use a brush!" Do you hear, Mynheer Van Swanenburch? Thegold--it is yours--and this is my boy!'"

 * * * * *

The Van Swanenburches were one of the most aristocratic families ofLeyden. Jacob van Swanenburch's father had been burgomaster, and hehimself occupied from time to time offices of importance. He was not agreat painter, although several specimens of his work still adorn theTown Hall of his native city. 

Rembrandt was not very anxious to attend Swanenburch's classes. He was ahesitating, awkward youth, and on this account was regarded as unsocial. For a year the boy looked on, listened, and made straight marks andcurves and all that. He did not read, and the world of art was a thingunknown to him. 

There are two kinds of people to be found in all studios: those who talkabout art, and the fellows who paint the pictures. 

However, Rembrandt was an exception, and for a time would do neither. Hewould not paint, because he said he could not--anyway he would not; butno doubt he did a deal of thinking. This habit of reticence kept him inthe background, and even the master had suspicions that he was too beefyto hold a clear mental conception. 

The error of the Swanenburch atelier lay in the fact that quiet folks arenot necessarily stupid. It is doubtless true, however, that stupid men byremaining quiet may often pass for men of wisdom: this is because no mancan really talk as wisely as he can look. 

Young Rembrandt was handicapped by a full-moon face, and small gray eyesthat gave no glint, and his hair was so tousled and unruly that he couldnot wear a hat. 

So the sons of aristocrats who cracked sly jokes at the miller's boy hadtheir fun. 

Rembrandt usually came in late, after the master had begun his littlemorning lecture. The lad was barefoot, having left his wooden shoon inthe hallway "so as not to wear out the floor. " He would bow awkwardly tothe professor, fall over a chair or two that had been slyly pushed in hisway, and taking his seat chew the butt end of a brush. 

"Why are you always late?" asked the master one day. 

"Oh, I was working at home and forgot the time. "

"And what are you working at?"

"Me? I'm--I'm drawing a little, " and he colored vermilion to the back ofhis neck. 

"Well, bring your work here so we can profit by it, " exclaimed a joker, and the class guffawed. 

The next morning the lad brought his picture--a woman's face--a pictureof a face, homely, wrinkled, weather-beaten, but with a look of love andpatience and loyalty beaming out of the quiet eyes. 

"Who did this?" demanded the teacher. 

Rembrandt hesitated, stuttered, stammered, and then confessed that he didit himself--he could not tell a lie. 

He was sure the picture would be criticized and ridiculed, but he haddecided to face it out. It was a picture of his mother, and he hadsketched her just as she looked. He would let them laugh, and then atnoon he would wait outside the door and smash the boy who laughed loudestover the head with a wooden shoe--and let it go at that. 

But the scholars did not laugh, for Jacob van Swanenburch took the boy bythe hand and leading him out before the class told those young men tolook upon their master. 

From that time forth Rembrandt was regarded by the little art world ofLeyden as a prodigy. 

Like William Cullen Bryant, who wrote "Thanatopsis" when scarcelyeighteen, and writing for sixty years thereafter never equaled it, orDante Gabriel Rossetti, who wrote "The Blessed Damozel" at the same age, Rembrandt sprang into life full-armed. 

It is probably true that he could not then have produced an elaboratecomposition, but his faces were Rembrandtesque from the very first. 

Rembrandt is the king of light and shade. You never mistake his work. Asthe years passed, around him clustered a goodly company of pupils, hundreds in all, who diligently worked to catch the trick, but Rembrandtstands alone. "He is the only artist who could ever paint a wrinkle, "says Ruskin. All his portraits have the warts on. And the thought hasoften come to me that only a Rembrandt--the only Rembrandt--could haveportrayed the face of Lincoln. Plain, homely, awkward, eyes not mates, sunken cheeks, leathery skin, moles, uncombed hair, neckcloth askew; butover and above and beyond all a look of power--and the soul! that look ofhaunting sorrow and the great, gentle, compassionate soul within!

And so there is a picture of Rembrandt's mother which this son paintedthat must ever stand out as one of the world's masterpieces. Let whowill, declare that the portrait by Richter in the Gallery at Cologne, ofQueen Louise, is the handsomest portrait ever painted; yet the depth offeeling, the dignity and love in the homely old mother's face, pale notin comparison, but are things to which the proud and beautiful Queenherself paid homage. 

Rembrandt painted nearly a hundred pictures of his mother that we cantrace. In most of them she holds in her hands a little Bible, and thusdid the son pay tribute to her devoted piety. She was a model of which henever tired. He painted her in court dress, and various other fantasticgarbs, that she surely never wore. He painted her as a nun, as a queen, acourt beauty, a plain peasant, a musician; and in various large picturesher face and form are introduced. And most of these pictures of hismother are plainly signed with his monogram. He also painted his sisteras the Madonna, and this is signed; but although he doubtless painted hisfather's face, yet he did not sign such pictures, so their authenticityis a hazard. This fact gives a clue to his affections which each can workout for himself. 

Rembrandt remained with Swanenburch for three years, and the masterproved his faithful friend. He gave him an introduction into thearistocratic art world which otherwise might have barred its doorsagainst so profound a genius, as aristocracy has done time and again. 

The best artists are not necessarily the best teachers. If a man has toomuch skill along a certain line he will overpower and kill theindividuality in his pupil. There are teachers who smother a pupil withtheir own personality, and thus it often happens that the strongest menare not the most useful as instructors. The ideal teacher is not the onewho bends all minds to match his own; but the one who is able to bringout and develop the good that is in the pupil--him we will crown withlaurel. 

Swanenburch was pretty nearly the ideal teacher. His good nature, thefeminine quality of sympathy in his character, his freedom from allpetty, quibbling prejudice, and his sublime patience all worked to burstthe tough husk, and develop that shy and sensitive, yet uncouth andsilent youth, bringing out the best that was in him. A wrong environmentin those early years might easily have shaped Rembrandt into a morose andresentful dullard: the good in his nature, thrown back upon itself, wouldhave been turned to gall. 

 * * * * *

The little business on the city wall had prospered, and Harmen van Rynmoved, with his family, out of the old mill into a goodly residenceacross the street. He was carrying his head higher, and the fact that hisson Rembrandt was being invited to the homes of the professors at theUniversity was incidentally thrown off, until the patrons at thebeer-garden grew aweary and rapped their glasses on the table as a signalfor silence. 

Swanenburch had given a public exhibition of the work of his pupils, atwhich young Rembrandt had been pushed forward as an example of what rightmethods in pedagogics could do. 

"Well, why can not all your scholars draw like that, then?" asked abroad-beamed Dutchman. 

"They certainly could, if they would follow the principles I lay down, "answered the master severely. 

But admiration did not spoil Rembrandt. His temperature was too low forebullition--he took it all quite as a matter of course. His work was donewith such ease that he was not aware it was extraordinary in quality; andwhen Swanenburch sold several of his sketches at goodly prices and putthe silver in the lad's hand, he asked who the blockheads were who hadinvested. 

Swanenburch taught his pupils the miracle of spreading a thin coat of waxon a brass plate, and drawing a picture in the wax with a sharp graver;then acid was poured over it and the acid ate into the brass so as tomake a plate from which you could print. Etching was a delight toRembrandt. Expert illustrators of books were in demand at Leyden, for itwas then the bookmaking center of Northern Europe. The Elzevirs werepushing the Plantins of Antwerp hard for first place. 

So skilfully did Rembrandt sketch, that one of the great printers made aproposition to his father to take the boy until he was twenty-one, andpay the father a thousand florins a year for the lad's services as anillustrator. The father accepted the proposition; and the next daybrought around another Harmenszoon, who he declared was just as good. Butthe bookmaker was stubborn and insisted on having a certain one or none. So the bargain fell through. 

It was getting near four years since Swanenburch had taken Rembrandt intohis keeping, and now he went to the boy's parents and said: "I have givenall I have to offer to your son. He can do all I can, and more. There isonly one man who can benefit him and that is Pieter Lastman, ofAmsterdam. He must go and study with the great Lastman--I myself willtake him. "

Lastman had spent four years in Italy, and had come back full tooverflowing with classic ideas. His family was one of the mostaristocratic in Amsterdam, and whatever he said concerning art was quotedas final. He was the court of last appeal. His rooms were filled withclassic fragments, and on his public days visitors flocked to hear whathe might have to say about the wonders of Venice, Florence and Rome. Forin those days men seldom traveled out of their own countries, and thosewho did had strange tales to tell the eager listeners when they returned. 

Lastman was handsome, dashing, popular. His pictures were in demand, principally because they were Lastman's. Proud ladies came from afar andbegged the privilege of sitting as his model. In Italy, Lastman had foundthat many painters employed 'prentice talent. The great man would sketchout the pictures, and the boys would fill in the color. Lastman would gooff about his business, and perhaps drop in occasionally during the dayto see how the boys got on, adding a few touches here and there, andgently rebuking those who showed too much genius. Lastman believed ingenius, of course; but only his own genius filled his ideal. As aconsequence all of Lastman's pictures are alike--they are all equallybad. They represent neither the Italian school nor the Dutch, beinghybrids: Italian skies and Holland backgrounds; Dutchmen dressed asdagoes. 

Lastman was putting money in his purse. He closely studied public tastes, and conformed thereto. He was popular, and there is in America today acountryman of his, of like temperament, who is making much moneys out ofliterature by similar methods. 

Into Lastman's keeping came the young man, Rembrandt Harmens. Lastmanreceived him cordially, and set him to work. 

But the boy proved hard to manage: he had his own ideas about howportraits should be painted. 

Lastman tried to unlearn him. The master was patient, and endeavored hardto make the young man paint as he should--that is, as Lastman did; butthe result was not a success. The Lastman intellect felt sure thatRembrandt had no talent worth encouraging. 

Lastman produced a great number of pictures, and his name can be found inthe catalogs of the galleries of Amsterdam, Munich, Berlin and Antwerp;and his canvases are in many of the old castles and palaces of Germany. In recent years they have been enjoying a vogue, simply because it waspossible that Rembrandt had worked on them. All the "Lastmans" have beengotten out and thoroughly dusted by the connoisseurs, in a frantic searchfor earmarks. 

The perfect willingness of Lastman to paint a picture on any desiredsubject, and have it ready Saturday night, all in the colors the patrondesired, with a guarantee that it would give satisfaction, filled theheart of Rembrandt with loathing. 

At the end of six months, when he signified a wish to leave, it was aglad relief to the master. Lastman had tried to correct Rembrandt'svagaries as to chiaroscuro, but without success. So he wrote an ambiguousletter certifying to the pupil's "having all his future before him, " gavehim a present of ten florins in jingling silver, and sent him back to hisfolks. 

 * * * * *

Rembrandt had been disillusioned by his stay in the fashionable art-worldof Amsterdam. Some of his idols had crumbled, and there came into hisspirit a goodly dash of pessimism. His father was disappointed andsuggested that he get a place as illustrator at the bookmakers, beforesome one else stepped in and got the job. 

But Rembrandt was not ambitious. He decided he would not give uppainting, at least not yet--he would keep at it and he would paint as hepleased. He had lost faith in teachers. He moped around the town, andmade the acquaintance of the painter Engelbrechtsz and his talentedpupil, Lucas van Leyden. Their work impressed him greatly, and he studiedout every detail on the canvases until he had absorbed the very spirit ofthe artist. Then, when he painted, he very naturally took their designs, and treated them in his own way. Indeed, the paucity in invention ofthose early days must ever impress the student of art. 

In visiting the galleries of Europe, I made it my business to secure aphotograph of every "Madonna and Babe" of note that I could find. Mycollection now numbers over one hundred copies, with no two alike. 

The Madonna, of course, is the extreme example; but there are dozens of"The Last Supper, " "Abraham's Sacrifice, " "The Final Judgment, " "TheBrazen Serpent, " "Raising of Lazarus, " "The Annunciation, " "Rebekah atthe Well" and so on. 

If one painter produced a notable picture, all the other artists in thevicinity felt it their duty to treat the same subject; in fact, theirhonor was at stake--they just had to, in order to satisfy the clamor oftheir friends, and meet the challenges of detractors. 

This "progressive sketching" was kept up, each man improving, or tryingto improve, on the attempts of the former, until a Leonardo struck twelveand painted his "Last Supper, " or a Rubens did his "Descent From theCross"--then competitors grew pale, and tried their talent on a lessertheme. 

One of the most curious examples of the tendency to follow a bellwetheris found in the various pictures called "The Anatomy Lesson. " When Venicewas at its height, in the year Fourteen Hundred Ninety-two--a date we caneasily remember--an unknown individual drew a picture of a professor ofanatomy; on a table in the center is a naked human corpse, while allaround are ranged the great doctor's pupils. Dissection had just beenintroduced into Venice at that time, and in a treatise on the subject byAndrea Vesali, I find that it became quite the fad. The lecture-roomswere open to the public, and places were set apart for women visitors andthe nobility, while all around the back were benches for the plainpeople. On the walls were skeletons, and in cases were arranged saws, scalpels, needles, sponges and various other implements connected withthe cheerful art. 

The Unknown's picture of this scene made a sensation. And straightwayother painters tried their hands at it, the unclothed form of the corpseaffording a fine opportunity for the "classic touch. " Paul Veronese triedit, and so did the Bellinis--Titian also. 

Then a century passed, as centuries do, and the glory of Venice driftedto Amsterdam--commercially and artistically. Amsterdam painters usedevery design that the Venetians had, and some of their efforts were sorryattempts. In Sixteen Hundred Twenty, following Venetian precedent, dissection became a fad in Leyden and Amsterdam. Swanenburch engraved apicture of the Leyden dissecting-room, with a brace of gallant doctorsshowing some fair ladies the beauties of the place. The Dutch wereambitious--the young men, Rembrandt included, drew pictures entitled, "The Lesson in Anatomy. " Doctors who were getting on in the world gaveorders for portraits, showing themselves as about to begin work on asubject. One physician, with intent to get even with his rival, had theartist picture the rival in the background as a pupil. Then the rivalordered a picture of himself, proud and beautiful, giving a lesson inanatomy, armed and equipped for business, and the cadaver was--the otherdoctor. 

At the Chicago Fair, in Eighteen Hundred Ninety-three, there was shown amost striking "Anatomy Lesson" from the brush of a young New York artist. It pictures the professor removing the sheet from the face of thecorpse, and we behold the features of a beautiful young woman. 

Some day I intend to write a book entitled, "The Evolution andPossibilities of the Anatomy Lesson. " Keep your eye on the subject--weare not yet through with it. 

Swanenburch offered to give Rembrandt a room in his own house, but hepreferred the old mill, and a wheat-bin was fitted up for a privatestudio. The fittings of the studio must have cost fully two dollars, according to all accounts; there were a three-legged stool, an easel, awooden chest, and a straw bed in the corner. Only one window admitted thelight, and this was so high up that the occupant was not troubled byvisitors looking in. 

Our best discoveries are the result of accident. 

This single window, eight feet from the ground, allowed the rays of lightto enter in a stream. On cloudy days and early in the mornings or in theevenings, Rembrandt noted that when the light fell on the face of thevisitor the rest of the body was wholly lost in the shadow. He placed acurtain over the window with a varying aperture cut in it, and with hismother as model made numerous experiments in the effects of light andshade. He seems to have been the very first artist who could draw a partof the form, leaving all the rest in absolute blackness, and yet give theimpression to the casual onlooker that he sees the figure complete. Plainpeople with no interest in the technique of art will look upon a"Rembrandt, " and go away and describe things in the picture that are notthere. They will declare to you that they saw them--those obvious thingswhich one fills in at once with his inward eye. For instance, there is aportrait of a soldier, by Rembrandt, in the Louvre, and above thesoldier's head you see a tall cockade. You assume at once that thiscockade is in the soldier's hat, but no hat is shown--not the semblancenor the outline of a hat. There is a slight line that might be the rim ofa hat, or it might not. But not one person out of a thousand, lookingupon the picture, but would go away and describe the hat, and beaffronted if you should tell them there is no hat in the picture. Given acockade, we assume a hat. 

By the use of shadows Rembrandt threw the faces into relief; he showedthe things he wished to show and emphasized one thing by leaving all elseout. The success of art depends upon what you omit from your canvas. Thismasterly effect of illusion made the son of the miller stand out in theLeyden art-world like one of his own etchings. 

Curiously enough, the effect of a new model made Rembrandt lose hiscunning; with strangers he was self-conscious and ill at ease. His motherwas his most patient model; his father and sisters took their turn; andthen there was another model who stood Rembrandt in good stead. And thatwas himself. We have all seen children stand before a mirror and makefaces. Rembrandt very early contracted this habit, and it evidentlyclung to him through life. He has painted his own portrait withexpressions of hate, fear, pride, mirth, indifference, hope and wrathshown on his plastic features. 

There is also an old man with full white beard and white hair thatRembrandt has pictured again and again. 

This old man poses for "Lot, " "Abraham, " "Moses, " "A Beggar, " "A King, "and once he even figures as "The Almighty. " Who he was we do not know, and surely he did not realize the honor done him, or he would havewritten a proud word of explanation to be carved on his tomb. 

 * * * * *

In the Stuttgart Museum is a picture entitled, "Saint Paul in Prison, "signed by Rembrandt, with the date Sixteen Hundred Twenty-seven. "TheMoney-Changers" in the Berlin Gallery bears the same signature and date. Rembrandt was then twenty years of age, and we see that he was doing goodwork. We also know that there was a certain market for his wares. 

When twenty-two years of age his marvelous effects of light and shadeattracted people who were anxious to learn how to do it. According toreport he had sixteen pupils in Sixteen Hundred Twenty-eight, each ofwhom paid him the fixed sum of one hundred florins. This was not much, but it gave him an income equal to that of his father, and tended toconfirm his faith in his own powers. 

His energy was a surprise to all who had known him, for besides teachinghis classes he painted, sketched and etched. Most of his etchings were ofhis own face--not intended as portraits, for they are often purposelydisguised. It seemed to be the intent of the artist to run the wholegamut of the passions, portraying them on the human face. Six differentetchings done in the year Sixteen Hundred Twenty-eight are to be seen inthe British Museum. 

His most intimate friend at this time was Jan Lievens. The bond thatunited them was a mutual contempt for Lastman of Amsterdam. In fact, theyorganized a club, the single qualification required of each candidate foradmittance being a hatred for Lastman. This club met weekly at abeer-hall, and each member had to relate an incident derogatory to theLastman school. At the close of each story, all solemnly drank eternalperdition to Lastman and his ilk. Finally, Lastman was invited to join;and in reply he wrote a gracious letter of acceptance. This surely showsthat Lastman was pretty good quality, after all. 

Rembrandt was making money. His pupils spread his praise, and so many newones came that he took the old quarters of Swanenburch. 

In Sixteen Hundred Thirty-one, there came to him a young man who was tobuild a deathless name for himself--Gerard Dou. Then to complete thecircle came Joris van Vliet, whose reputation as an engraver must evertake a first rank. Van Vliet engraved many of Rembrandt's pictures, anddid it so faithfully and with such loving care that copies today commandfabulous prices among the collectors. Indeed, we owe to Van Vliet a debtfor preserving many of Rembrandt's pictures, the originals of which havedisappeared. With the help of Van Vliet the Elzevirs accomplished theirwishes, and so made use of the talent of Rembrandt. 

Rembrandt lived among the poor, as a matter of artistic policy, minglingwith them on an absolute equality. He considered their attitudes simpler, more natural, and their conduct less artificial, than the manners ofthose in higher walks. 

About Sixteen Hundred Twenty-nine, there came into his hands a set ofCallot's engravings, and the work produced on his mind a profoundimpression. Callot's specialty was beggardom. He pictured decrepitbeggars, young beggars, handsome girl-beggars, and gallant old beggarswho wore their fluttering rags with easy grace. 

The man who could give the phlegmatic Rembrandt a list to starboard musthave carried considerable ballast. Straightway on making Callot'sacquaintance he went forth with bags of coppers and made the acquaintanceof beggars. He did not have to travel far--"the Greeks were at his door. "The news spread, and each morning, the truthful Orles has told us, "therewere over four hundred beggars blocking the street that led to hisstudy, " all willing to enlist in the cause of art. For six monthsRembrandt painted little beside "the ragged gentry. " But he graduallysettled down on about ten separate and distinct types of abjectpicturesqueness. 

Ten years later, when he pictured the "Healing Christ, " he introduced theLeyden beggars, and these fixed types that he carried hidden in the cellsof his brain he introduced again and again in various pictures. In thisrespect he was like all good illustrators: he had his properties, and bynew combinations made new pictures. Who has not noticed that everypainter carries in his kit his own distinct types--sealed, certified to, and copyrighted by popular favor as his own personal property?

Can you mistake Kemble's "coons, " Denslow's dandies, Remington's horses, Giannini's Indians, or Gibson's "Summer Girl"? These men may not beRembrandts, but when we view the zigzag course art has taken, who dareprophesy that this man's name is writ in water and that man's carved inthe granite of a mountain-side! Contemporary judgments usually have beenwrong. Did the chief citizens of Leyden in the year Sixteen HundredThirty regard Rembrandt's beggars as immortal? Not exactly!

 * * * * *

In Sixteen Hundred Thirty-one, Rembrandt concluded that his reputation inthe art-world of Holland was sufficient for him to go to Amsterdam andboldly pit himself against De Keyser, Hals, Lastman and the rest. He hadput forth his "Lesson in Anatomy, " and the critics and connoisseurs whohad come from the metropolis to see it were lavish in their praise. Laterwe find him painting the subject again with another doctor handling thetweezers and scalpel. 

Rembrandt started for Amsterdam the second time--this time as a teacher, not as a scholar. He rented an old warehouse on the canal for a studio. It was nearly as outlandish a place as his former quarters in the mill atLeyden. But it gave him plenty of room, was secluded, and afforded goodopportunity for experiments in light and shade. 

He seemed to have gotten over his nervousness in working with strangemodels; for new faces now begin to appear. One of these is that of awoman, and it would have been well for his art had he never met her. Wesee her face quite often, and in the "Diana Bathing" we behold heraltogether. 

Rembrandt shows small trace of the classic instinct, for classic art isfounded on poetic imagination. Rembrandt painted what he saw; the Greeksportrayed that which they felt; and when Rembrandt paints a Dutch wenchand calls her "Diana, " he unconsciously illustrates the differencebetween the naked and the nude. Rembrandt painted this same woman, wearing no clothes to speak of, lolling on a couch; and evidentlyconsidering the subject a little risky, thought to give it dignity by aBiblical title: "Potiphar's Wife. " One good look at this picture, and theprecipitate flight of Joseph is fully understood. We feel like followinghis example. 

Rembrandt had simply haunted the dissecting-rooms of the University atLeyden a little too long. 

The study of these viragos scales down our rating of the master. Still, Isuppose every artist has to go through this period--the period when hethinks he is called upon to portray the feminine form divine--it is likethe mumps and the measles. 

After a year of groping for he knew not what, with money gone, and notmuch progress made, Rembrandt took a reef in his pride and settled downto paint portraits, and to do a little good honest teaching. 

Scholars came to him, and commissions for portraits began to arrive. Herenounced the freaks of costume, illumination and attitude, and paintedthe customer in plain, simple Dutch dress. He let "Diana" go, and wentsoberly to work to make his fortune. 

Holland was prosperous. Her ships sailed every sea, and brought richtreasures home. The prosperous can afford to be generous. Philanthropybecame the fad. Charity was in the air, and hospitals, orphanages andhomes for the aged were established. The rich merchants felt it an honorto serve on the board of managers of these institutions. 

In each of the guildhalls were parlors set apart for deliberativegatherings; and it became the fashion to embellish these rooms withportraits of the managers, trustees and donors. 

Rembrandt's portraits were finding their way to the guilds. Theyattracted much attention, and orders came--orders for more work than theartist could do. He doubled his prices in the hope of discouragingapplicants. 

Studio gossip and society chatter seemed to pall on young Rembrandt. Itis said that when a 'bus-driver has a holiday he always goes and rideswith the man who is taking his place; but when Rembrandt had a holiday hewent away from the studio, not towards it. He would walk alone, offacross the meadows, and along the canals, and once we find him trampingthirty miles to visit cousins who were fishermen on the seacoast. Happyfisher-folk!

But Rembrandt took few play-spells; he broke off entirely from his taverncompanions and lived the life of an ascetic and recluse, seeing nosociety except the society that came to his studio. His heart was in hisart, and he was intent on working while it was called the day. 

About this time there came to him Cornelis Sylvius, the eminent preacher, to sit for a picture that was to adorn the Seaman's Orphanage, of whichSylvius was director. 

It took a good many sittings to bring out a Rembrandt portrait. On one ofhis visits the clergyman was accompanied by a young woman--his ward--byname, Saskia van Ulenburgh. 

The girl was bright, animated and intelligent, and as she sat in thecorner the painter sort of divided his attention between her and theclergyman. Then the girl got up, walked about a bit, looking at thestudio properties, and finally stood behind the young painter, watchinghim work. This was one of the things Rembrandt could never, never endure. It paralyzed his hand, and threw all his ideas into a jumble. It was thelaw of his studio that no one should watch him paint--he had secrets oftechnique that had cost him great labor. 

"You do not mind my watching you work?" asked the ingenuous girl. 

"Oh, not in the least!"

"You are quite sure my presence will not make you nervous, then?"

Rembrandt said something to the effect that he rather liked to have someone watch him when he worked; it depended, of course, on who it was--andasked the sitter to elevate his chin a little and not look so cross. 

Next day Saskia came again to watch the transfer of the good uncle'sfeatures to canvas. 

The young artist was first among the portrait-painters of Amsterdam, andhad a long waiting-list on his calendar, but we find he managed to painta portrait of Saskia about that time. We have the picture now and we alsohave four or five other pictures of her that Rembrandt produced thatyear. He painted her as a queen, as a court lady and as a flower-girl. The features may be disguised a little, but it is the same fine, bright, charming, petite young woman. 

Before six months had passed he painted several more portraits of Saskia;and in one of these she has a sprig of rosemary--the emblem ofbetrothal--held against her heart. 

And then we find an entry at the Register's to the effect that they weremarried on June Twenty-fourth, Sixteen Hundred Thirty-four. 

Rembrandt's was a masterly nature: strong, original and unyielding. Butthe young woman had no wish that was not his, and her one desire was tomake her lover happy. She was not a great woman, but she was good, whichis better, and she filled her husband's heart to the brim. Those firstfew years of their married life read like a fairy-tale. 

He bought her jewels, laces, elegant costumes, and began to fill theircharming home with many rare objects of art. All was for Saskia--hislife, his fortune, his work, his all. 

As the years go by we shall see that it would have been better had hesaved his money and builded against the coming of the storm; but eventhough Saskia protested mildly against his extravagance, the masterwould have his way. 

His was a tireless nature: he found his rest in change. He usually hadsome large compositions on hand and turned to this for pastime whenportraits failed. Then Saskia was ever present, and if there was aholiday he painted her as the "Jewish Bride, " "The Gypsy Queen, " or insome other fantastic garb. 

We have seen that in those early years at Leyden he painted himself, butnow it was only Saskia--she was his other self. All those numerouspictures of himself were drawn before he knew Saskia--or after she hadgone. 

Their paradise continued nine years--and then Saskia died. 

Rembrandt was not yet forty when desolation settled down upon him. 

 * * * * *

Saskia was the mother of five children; four of them had died, and thebabe she left, Titus by name, was only eight months old when she passedaway. 

For six months we find that Rembrandt did very little. He was stunned, and his brain and hand refused to co-operate. 

The first commission he undertook was the portrait of the wife of one ofthe rich merchants of the city. When the work was done, the pictureresembled the dead Saskia so much more than it did the sitter that thepatron refused to accept it. The artist saw only Saskia and continued toportray her. 

But work gave him rest, and he began a series of Biblicalstudies--serious, sober scenes fitted to his mood. His hand had not lostits cunning, for there is a sureness and individuality shown in his workduring the next few years that stamps him as the Master. 

But his rivals raised a great clamor against his style. They declaredthat he trampled on all precedent and scorned the laws on which true artis built. However, he had friends, and they, to help him, went forth andsecured the commission--the famous "Night-Watch, " now in the Ryks Museumat Amsterdam. 

The production of this fine picture resulted in a comedy of errors, thatshaded off into a tragedy for poor Rembrandt. The original commission forthis picture came from thirty-seven prominent citizens, who were toshare the expense equally among them. The order was for the portraits ofthe eminent men to appear on one canvas, the subjects to be grouped in anartistic way according to the artist's own conceit. 

Rembrandt studied hard over the matter, as he was not content to executea picture of a mass of men doing nothing but pose. 

It took a year to complete the picture. The canvas shows a band of armedmen, marching forth to the defense of the city in response to a suddennight alarm. Two brave men lead the throng and the others shade off intomere Rembrandt shadows, and you only know there are men there by thenodding plumes, banners and spearheads that glisten in the pale light ofthe torches. 

When the picture was unveiled, the rich donors looked for themselves onthe canvas, and some looked in vain. Only two men were satisfied, andthese were the two who marched in the vanguard. 

"Where am I?" demanded a wealthy shipowner of Rembrandt as the canvas wasscanned in a vain search for his proud features. 

"You see the palace there in the picture, do you not?" asked the artistpetulantly. 

"Yes, I see that, " was the answer. 

"Well, you are behind that palace. "

The company turned on Rembrandt, and forbade the hanging of any more ofhis pictures in the municipal buildings. 

Rembrandt shrugged his shoulders. But as the year passed and ordersdropped away, he found how unwise a thing it is to affront the public. Men who owed him refused to pay, and those whom he owed demanded theirmoney. 

He continued doggedly on his course. 

Some years before he had bought a large house and borrowed money to payfor it, and had further given his note at hand to various merchants anddealers in curios. As long as he was making money no one cared for morethan the interest, but now the principal was demanded. So sure hadRembrandt been of his powers that he did not conceive that his incomecould drop from thirty thousand florins a year to scarcely a fifth ofthat. 

Then his relations with Hendrickje Stoffels had displeased society. Shewas his housekeeper, servant and model--a woman without education orrefinement, we are told. But she was loyal, more than loyal, toRembrandt: she lived but to serve him and sought to protect his interestsin every way. When summoned before the elders of the church to answer forher conduct, she appeared, pleaded guilty and shocked the company bydeclaring, "I would rather go to Hell with Rembrandt Harmens than play aharp in Heaven, surrounded by such as you!"

The remark was bruited throughout the city and did Rembrandt no good. Hisrivals combined to shut his work out of all exhibitions, and several madeit their business to buy up the overdue claims against him. 

Then officers came and took possession of his house, and his splendidcollections of jewels, laces, furniture, curios and pictures were sold atauction. The fine dresses that once belonged to Saskia were seized: theyeven took her wedding-gown: and wanton women bid against the nobility forthe possession of these things. Rembrandt was stripped of his sketches, and these were sold in bundles--the very sweat of his brain for years. Then he was turned into the streets. 

But Hendrickje Stoffels still clung to him, his only friend. Rembrandt'sproud heart was broken. He found companionship at the taverns; and to geta needful loaf of bread for Hendrickje and his boy, made sketches andhawked them from house to house. 

Fashions change and art is often only a whim. People wondered why theyhad ever bought those dark, shadowy things made by that Leyden artist, What's-his-name! One man utilized the frames which contained "Rembrandts"by putting other canvases right over in front of them. 

Rembrandt's son Titus tried his skill at art, but with indifferentsuccess. He died while yet a youth. Then Hendrickje passed away, andRembrandt was alone--a battered derelict on the sea of life. He lost hisidentity under an assumed name, and sketched with chalk on tavern-wallsand pavement for the amusement of the crowd. 

He died in Sixteen Hundred Sixty-nine, and the expense of his burial waspaid by the hands of charity. 

The cost of the funeral was seven dollars and fifty cents. 

In Eighteen Hundred Ninety-seven, there was sold in London a smallportrait by Rembrandt for a sum equal to a trifle more than thirty-onethousand dollars. But even this does not represent the true value of oneof his pictures--for connoisseurs regard a painting by Rembrandt aspriceless. 

There is a law in Holland forbidding any one on serious penalty to removea "Rembrandt" from the country. If any one of the men who combined towork his ruin is mentioned in history, it is only to say, "He lived inthe age of Rembrandt. "

RUBENS

 I was admitted to the Duke of Lerma's presence, and took part in the embassy. The Duke exhibited great satisfaction at the excellence and number of the pictures, which surely have acquired a certain fair appearance of antiquity (by means of my retouching), in spite even of the damage they had undergone. They are held and accepted by the King and Queen as originals, without there being any doubt on their side, or assertion on ours, to make them believe them to be such. 

 --_Letter From Rubens at Madrid, to Chieppo, Secretary of the Duke of Mantua_

[Illustration: RUBENS]

The father of Peter Paul Rubens was a lawyer, a man of varied attainmentsand marked personality. In statecraft he showed much skill, and by hisability in business management served William the Silent, Prince ofOrange, in good stead. 

But Jan Rubens had a bad habit of thinking for himself. The habit grewupon him until the whisper was passed from this one to that, that he wasbecoming decidedly atheistic. 

Spain held a strong hand upon Antwerp, and the policy of Philip theSecond was to crush opposition in the bud. Jan Rubens had criticizedSpanish rule, and given it as his opinion that the Latin race would notalways push its domination upon the people of the North. 

At this time Spain was so strong that she deemed herself omnipotent, andwas looking with lustful eyes towards England. Drake and Frobisher andWalter Raleigh were learning their lessons in seafaring; Elizabeth wasQueen; while up at Warwickshire a barefoot boy named William Shakespearewas playing in the meadows, and romping in the lanes and alleys ofStratford. 

All this was taking place at the time when Jan Rubens was doing a littlethinking on his own account. On reading the history of Europe, Flandersseems to one to have been a battle-ground from the dawn of history up tothe night of June Eighteenth, Eighteen Hundred Fifteen, with a fewincidental skirmishes since, for it is difficult to stop short. And itsurely was meet that Napoleon should have gone up there to receive hisWaterloo, and charge his cavalry into a sunken roadway, making a bridgeacross with a mingled mass of men and horses; upon which site now is ahuge mound thrown up by the English, surmounted by a gigantic bronze lioncast from the captured cannon of the French. 

Napoleon belonged to the Latin race: he pushed his rule north intoFlanders, and there his prowess ended--there at the same place whereSpanish rule had been throttled and turned back upon itself. "Thus far, and no farther. " Jan Rubens was right. But he paid dearly for hisprophecy. 

When William the Silent was away on his many warfaring expeditions, theman who had charge of certain of his affairs was Jan Rubens. Naturallythis brought Rubens into an acquaintanceship with the wife of the silentprince. Rubens was a handsome man, ready in speech, and of the kind thatmakes friends easily. And if the wife of the Prince of Orange liked thevivacious Rubens better than the silent warrior (who won his sobriquet, they do say, through density of emotion and lack of ideas), why, who canblame her!

But Rubens had a wife of his own, to whom he was fondly attached; andthis wife was also the close and trusted friend of the woman whosehusband was off to the wars. And yet when this dense and silent man cameback from one of his expeditions, it was only publicly to affront anddisgrace his wife, and to cast Jan Rubens into a dungeon. No doubt thePrince was jealous of the courtly Rubens--and the Iagos are a numeroustribe. But Othello's limit had been reached. He damned the innocent womanto the lowest pit, and visited his wrath on the man. 

Of course I know full well that all Northern Europe once rang with shrillgossip over the affair, and as usual the woman was declared the guiltyparty. Even yet, when topics for scandal in Belgium run short, this oldtale is revived and gone over--sides being taken. I've gone over it, too, and although I may be in the minority, just as I possibly am as to the"guilt" of Eve, yet I stand firm on the side of the woman. I give thefacts just as they appear, having canvassed the whole subject, possibly alittle more than was good for me. 

Republics may be ungrateful, but the favor of princes is fickle as theEast Wind. 

We make a fine hullabaloo nowadays because France or Russia occasionallytries and sentences a man without giving him an opportunity of defense;but in the Sixteenth Century the donjon-keeps of hundreds of castles inEurope were filled with prisoners whose offense consisted in being fearedor disliked by some whimsical local ruler. 

Jan Rubens was sent on an official errand to Dillenburg, and arrivingthere was seized and thrown into prison, without trial or the privilegeof communicating with his friends. 

Months of agonizing search on the part of his wife failed to find him, and the Prince only broke the silence long enough to usurp a woman'sprivilege by telling a lie, and declaring he did not know where Rubenswas, "but I believe he has committed suicide through remorse. "

The distracted wife made her way alone from prison to prison, andfinally, by bribing an official, found her husband was in an undergroundcell in the fortress at Dillenburg. It was a year before she was allowedto communicate with or see him. But Maria Rubens was a true diplomat. Youmove a man not by going to him direct, but by finding out who it is thathas a rope tied to his foot. She secured the help of the discarded wifeof the Prince, and these two managed to interest a worthy bishop, whobrought his influence to bear on Count John of Nassau. This man hadjurisdiction of the district in which the fortress where Rubens wasconfined was located; and he agreed to release the prisoner on parole oncondition that a deposit of six thousand thalers be left with him, and anagreement signed by the prisoner that he would give himself up whenrequested; and also, further, that he would acknowledge before witnessesthat he was guilty of the charges made against him. 

The latter clause was to justify the Prince of Orange in his actionstoward him. 

Rubens refused to plead guilty, even for the sake of sweet liberty, onaccount of the smirch to the name of the Princess. 

But on the earnest request of both his wife and the "co-respondent, " hefinally accepted the terms in the same manner that Galileo declared theearth stood still. Rubens got his liberty, was loyal to his parole, butJohn of Nassau kept the six thousand thalers for "expenses. "

So much for the honor of princes; but in passing it is worthy of recallthat Jan Rubens pleaded guilty of disloyalty to his wife, on request ofsaid wife, in order that he might enjoy the society of said wife--andcast a cloud on the good name of another woman on said woman's request. 

So here is a plot for a play: a tale of self-sacrifice and loyalty on thepart of two women that puts to shame much small talk we hear from smallmen concerning the fickleness and selfishness of woman's love. "Brief aswoman's love!" said Hamlet--but then, Hamlet was crazy. 

Jan Rubens died in Cologne, March Eighteenth, Fifteen HundredEighty-seven, and lies buried in the Church of Saint Peter. Above thegrave is a slab containing this inscription: "Sacred to the Memory of JanRubens, of Antwerp, who went into voluntary exile and retired with hisfamily to Cologne, where he abode for nineteen years with his wife Maria, who was the mother of his seven children. With this his only wife Mariahe lived happily for twenty-six years without any quarrel. This monumentis erected by said Maria Pypelings Rubens to her sweetest andwell-deserved husband. "

Of course, no one knew then that one of the seven--the youngest son ofJan and Maria--was to win deathless fame, or that might have been carvedon the slab, too, even if something else had to be omitted. 

But Maria need not have added that last clause, stating who it was thatplaced the tablet: as it stands we should all have known that it was shewho dictated the inscription. Epitaphs are proverbially untruthful; hencearose the saying, "He lies like an epitaph. " The woman who can not evolvea good lie in defense of the man she loves is unworthy of the name ofwife. 

The lie is the weapon of defense that kind Providence provides for theprotection of the oppressed. "Women are great liars, " said Mahomet;"Allah in his wisdom made them so. "

Hail, Maria Rubens! turned to dust these three hundred years, what stardo you now inhabit? or does your avatar live somewhere here in thisworld? At the thought of your unselfish loyalty and precious fibbing, anarmy of valiant, ghostly knights will arise from their graves, and rustyswords leap from their scabbards if aught but good be said against thee. 

"Ho, ho! and wasn't your husband really guilty, and didn't you know itall the time?" I'll fling my glove full in the face of any man who dareask you such a question. 

Beloved and loving wife for six-and-twenty years, and mother of seven, looking the world squarely in the eye and telling a large and beautifuluntruth, carving it in marble to protect your husband's name, I kiss myhand to you!

 * * * * *

In the doorpost of a queer little stone house in Cologne is carved aninscription to the effect that Peter Paul Rubens was born there on JuneTwenty-ninth, Fifteen Hundred Seventy-seven. It is probably true that theparents of Rubens lived there, but Peter Paul was born at Siegen, underthe shadow of a prison from which his father was paroled. 

After a few years the discipline relaxed, for there were new prisonerscoming along, and Maria and Jan were given permission to move to Cologne. 

Peter Paul was ten years of age when his father died. The next year thewidow moved with her little brood back to Antwerp, back to the city fromwhich her husband had been exiled just twenty years before. Five yearsprevious the Prince of Orange, who had exiled her husband, was himselfsent on a journey, via the dagger of an assassin. As the chief enemy ofJan Rubens was dead, it was the hope of the widow to recover theirproperty that had been confiscated. 

Maria Rubens was a good Catholic; and she succeeded in making theauthorities believe that her husband had been, too, for the home thatRoyalty had confiscated was returned to her. 

The mother of Peter Paul loved the dim twilight mysteries of the Church, and accepted every dogma and edict as the literal word of God. It iseasier and certainly safer to leave such matters to the specialists. 

She was a born diplomat. She recognized the power of the Church and knewthat to win one must go with the current, not against it. To have doubts, when the Church is willing to bear the whole burden, she thought veryfoolish. Had she been a man she would have been a leader among theJesuits. The folly of opposition had been shown her most vividly in herhusband's career. What could he not have been had he been wise andpatient and ta'en the tide at its flood! And this was the spirit that sheinculcated in the minds of her children. 

Little Peter Paul was a handsome lad--handsome as his father--with big, dark brown eyes and clustering curls. He was bright, intelligent, andblessed with a cheerful, obliging disposition. He came into the world awelcome child, carrying the beauty of the morning in his face, and form, and spirit. 

No wonder is it that the Countess de Lalaing desired the boy for a pageas soon as she saw him. His mother embraced the opportunity to let herfavorite child see court life, and so at the early age of twelve, at aplunge, he began that career in polite diplomacy that was to continue forhalf a century. 

The Countess called herself his "other mother, " and lavished upon him allthe attention that a childless woman had to bestow. The mornings weresacred to his lessons, which were looked after by a Jesuit priest; and inthe afternoon, another priest came to give the ladies lessons in thelanguages, and at these circles young Peter Paul was always present asone of the class. 

Indeed, the earliest accomplishment of Peter Paul was his polyglotability. When he arrived at Antwerp, a mere child, he spoke German, Flemish and French. 

Such a favorite did little Peter Paul become with his "other mother, " andher ladies of the court, that his sure-enough mother grew a bit jealous, and feared they would make a hothouse plant of her boy, and so she tookhim away. 

The question was, for what profession should he be educated? That heshould serve the Church and State was already a settled fact in themother's mind: to get on in the world you must cultivate and wisely servethose who are in power--that is, those who have power to bestow. Priestswere plentiful as blackberries, and politicians were on every corner, andmany of the priests and officeseekers had no special talent to recommendthem. They were simply timeservers. Maria knew this: To get on you musthave several talents, otherwise people will tire of you. 

In Cologne, Maria Rubens had met returned pilgrims from Rome and they hadtold her of that trinity of giants, Michelangelo, Raphael and Leonardo;and how these men had been the peers of prince and pope, because they hadthe ability to execute marvelous works of beauty. 

This extraordinary talent called attention to themselves, so they weresummoned out of the crowd and became the companions and friends of thegreatest names of their time. 

And then, how better can one glorify his Maker than by covering thesacred walls of temples with rich ornament!

The boy entered into the project, and the mother's ambition that heshould retrieve his father's fortune fired his heart. Thus does thefailure in life of a parent often give incentive to the genius of a son. 

Tobias Verhaecht was the man who taught Rubens the elements of drawing, and inculcated in him that love of Nature which was to be his lifelongheritage. The word "landscape" is Flemish, and it was the Dutch whocarried the term and the art into England. Verhaecht was among the veryfirst of landscape-painters. He was a specialist: he could draw trees andclouds, and a winding river, but could not portray faces. And so he usedto call in a worthy portrait-painter, by the name of Franck, to assisthim whenever he had a canvas on the easel that demanded the human form. Then when Franck wanted background and perspective, Verhaecht would goover with a brush and a few pots of paint and help him out. 

At fifteen, the keen, intuitive mind of Rubens had fathomed the talentsof those two worthies, Verhaecht and Franck. His mind was essentiallyfeminine: he absorbed ideas in the mass. Soon he prided himself on beingable to paint alone as good a picture as the two collaborators couldtogether. Yet he was too wise to affront them by the boast. The bent ofhis talent he thought was toward historical painting; and more than this, he knew that only epic art would open the churches for a painter. And sohe next became a pupil under Adam van Noort. This man was a rugged oldcharacter, who worked out things in his own way and pushed the standardof painting full ten points to the front. His work shows a marked advanceover that of his contemporaries and over the race of painters thatpreceded him. Every great artist is the lingering representative of anage that is dead, or else he is the prophet and forerunner of a goldenage to come. 

When I visited the Church of Saint Jaques in Antwerp, where Rubens liesburied, the good old priest who acted as guide called my attention to apicture by Van Noort, showing Peter finding the money in the mouth of thefish. "A close study of that picture will reveal to you the germ of theRubens touch, " said the priest, and he was surely right: its boldness ofdrawing, the strong, bright colors and the dexterity in handling all say, "Rubens. " Rubens builded on the work of Van Noort. 

Twenty years after Rubens had left the studio of Van Noort he paidtribute to his old master by saying, "Had Van Noort visited Italy andcaught the spirit of the classicists, his name would stand first amongFlemish artists. "

Rubens worked four years with Van Noort and then entered the studio ofOtto van Veen. This man was not a better painter than Van Noort, but heoccupied a much higher social position, and Peter Paul was intent onadvancing his skirmish-line. He never lost ground. Van Veen was CourtPainter, and on friendly terms with the Archduke Albert, and Isabella, his wife, daughter of Philip the Second, King of Spain. 

Van Veen took very few pupils--only those who had the ability to aid himin completing his designs. To have worked with this master was anintroduction at once into the charmed circle of royalty. 

Rubens was in no haste to branch out on his own account: he was quitecontent to know that he was gaining ground, making head upon the whole. He won the confidence of Van Veen at once by his skill, his cheerfulpresence, and ability to further the interests of his master and patrons. In Fifteen Hundred Ninety-nine, when Rubens was twenty-two, he wasenrolled as a free master at the Guild of Saint Luke on the nomination ofVan Veen, who also about this time introduced the young artist to Albertand Isabella. 

But the best service that Van Veen did for Rubens was in taking him intohis home and giving him free access to the finest collection of Italianart in the Netherlands. These things filled the heart of Rubens with adesire to visit Italy, and there to dive deeply into the art spirit ofthat land from which all our art has sprung. 

To go abroad then and gain access to the art treasures of the world wasnot a mere matter of asking for a passport, handing out a visiting-card, and paying your way. 

Young men who wished to go abroad to study were required to pass a stiffexamination. If it was believed that they could not represent their owncountry with honor, their passports were withheld. And to travel withouta passport was to run the risk of being arrested as an absconder. 

But Rubens' place in society was already secure. Instead of applying forhis passports personally and undergoing the usual catechization, hisdesires were explained to Van Veen, and all technicalities were waived, as they always are when you strike the right man. Not only were thepassports forthcoming, but Albert and Isabella wrote a personal note toViccuzo Gonzaga, the Duke of Mantua, commending the young painter to theDuke's good offices. 

Van Veen further explained to Rubens that to know the Duke of Mantuamight mean either humiliation or crowning success. To attain the latterthrough the Duke of Mantua, it was necessary to make a good impression onAnnibale Chieppo, the Duke's Minister of State. Chieppo had the keepingof the ducal conscience as well as the key to the strong-box. 

The Duke of Mantua was one of those strange loaded dice that Fateoccasionally flings upon this checkerboard of time: one of thosecharacters whose feverish faculties border on madness, yet who do theworld great good by breaking up its balances, preventing socialankylosis, and eventually forcing upon mankind a new deal. But in thetrain of these vagrant stars famine and pestilence follow. 

The Duke of Mantua was brother in spirit to the man who madeVersailles--and making Versailles undid France. 

Versailles is a dream: no language that the most enthusiastic lovers ofthe beautiful may utter, can exaggerate the wonders of those acres ofpalaces and miles of gardens. The magnificence of the place makes theready writer put up his pencil, and go away whipped, subdued andcrestfallen to think that here are creations that no one pen can evencatalog. Louis the Grand, we are told, had thirty-six thousand men andsix thousand horses at work here at one time. No wonder Madame DeMaintenon was oppressed by the treasures that were beyond the capacity ofman to contemplate; and so off in the woods was built that lover'sretreat, "The Trianon. " And out there today, hidden in the forest, webehold the second Trianon, built by Marie Antoinette, and we also seethose straw-thatched huts where the ladies of her Court played at peasantlife. 

Louis the Fourteenth builded so well that he discouraged his successorfrom doing anything but play keep-house, and so extensively that Francewas rent in twain, and so mightily that even Napoleon Bonaparte wasstaggered at the thought of maintaining Versailles. 

"It's too much for any man to enjoy--I give it up!" said the Little Man, perplexed, and ordered every door locked and every window tightlyshuttered. Then he placed a thousand men to guard the place and wentabout his business. 

But today Versailles belongs to the people of France; more, it belongs tothe people of earth: all is free and you may carry away all the beauty ofthe place that your soul can absorb. 

Now, who shall say that Louis the Fourteenth has not enriched the world?

The Duke of Mantua was sumptuous in his tastes, liberal, chivalrous, voluptuous, extravagant. At the same time he had a cultivated mind, aneye for proportion, and an ear for harmony. He was even pious at times, and like all debauchees had periods of asceticism. He was much given togallantry, and his pension-list of beautiful women was not small. He wasa poet and wrote some very good sonnets; he was a composer who sang, fromhis own compositions, after the wine had gone round; he was an orator whocommitted to memory and made his own the speeches that his secretarywrote. 

He traveled much, and in great state, with a retinue of servants, armedguards, outriders and guides. Wherever he went he summoned the localpoet, or painter, or musician, and made a speech to him, showing that hewas familiar with his work by humming a tune or quoting a stanza. Then heput a chain of gold around the poor embarrassed fellow's neck, and apurse in his hands, and the people cheered. 

When he visited a town, cavalcades met him afar out, and as heapproached, little girls in white and boys dressed in velvet ran beforeand strewed flowers in front of his carriage. 

Oh, the Duke of Mantua was a great man!

In his retinue was a troop of comedians, a court fool, two dwarfs forluck, seven cooks, three alchemists and an astrologer. Like the old womanwho lived in a shoe, he had so many children he didn't know what to do. One of his sons married a princess of the House of Saxony, another sonwas a cardinal, and a daughter married into the House of Lorraine. He hadalliances and close relations with every reigning family of Europe. Thesister of his wife, Marie de Medici, became "King of France, " asTalleyrand avers, and had a mad, glad, sad, bad, jolly time of it. 

Wherever the Duke of Mantua went, there too went Annibale Chieppo, theMinister of State. This man had a calm eye, a quiet pulse, and couldlocate any man or woman in his numerous retinue at any hour of the day ornight. He was a diplomat, a soldier, a financier. 

You could not reach the Duke until you had got past Chieppo. 

And the Duke of Mantua had much commonsense--for in spite of envy andcalumny and threat he never lost faith in Annibale Chieppo. 

No success in life is possible without a capable first mate. Chieppo wasking of first mates. 

He was subtle as Richelieu and as wise as Wolsey. 

When Peter Paul Rubens, aged twenty-three, arrived at Venice, the Duke ofMantua and his train were there. Rubens presented his credentials toChieppo, and the Minister of State read them, looked upon the handsomeperson of the young man, proved for himself he had decided talent as apainter, put him through a civil-service examination--and took him intofavor. Such a young man as this, so bright, so courtly, so talented, mustbe secured. He would give the entire Court a new thrill. 

"Tomorrow, " said the Minister of State, "tomorrow you shall be receivedby the Duke of Mantua and his court!"

 * * * * *

The ducal party remained at Venice for several weeks, and when itreturned to Mantua, Rubens went along quite as a matter of course. Fromletters that he wrote to his brother Philip, as well as from many othersources, we know that the art collection belonging to the Duke of Mantuawas very rich. It included works by the Bellinis, Correggio, Leonardo daVinci, Andrea del Sarto, Tintoretto, Titian, Paoli Veronese, and variousothers whose names have faded away like their colors. 

Rubens had long been accustomed to the ways of polite society. Themagnificence of his manner, and the fine egotism he showed in his work, captivated the Court. The Duke was proud of his ward and paraded himbefore his artistic friends as the coming man, incidentally explainingthat it was the Duke of Mantua who had made him and not he himself. 

It was then the custom of those who owned masterpieces to have copiesmade and present them to various other lovers of the beautiful. If anhonored guest was looking through your gallery, and expressed greatpleasure in a certain canvas, the correct thing was to say, "I'll have mybest painter make a copy of it, and send it to you"--and a memorandum wasmade on an ivory tablet. This gracious custom seems to have come downfrom the time when the owners of precious books constantly employedscribes and expert illuminators in making copies for distribution. Thework done in the scriptoriums of the monasteries, we know, was sent awayas presents, or in exchange for other volumes. 

Rubens set diligently to work copying in the galleries of Mantua; andwhether the Duke was happier because he had discovered Rubens than Rubenswas because he had found the Duke, we do not know. Anyway, all that theyoung painter had hoped and prayed for had been sent him. 

Here was work from the very hands of the masters he had long worshipedfrom afar. His ambition was high and his strong animal spirits andtireless energy were a surprise to the easy-going Italians. The gallerieswere his without let or hindrance, save that he allow the ladies of theCourt to come every afternoon and watch him work. This probably did notdisturb him; but we find the experienced Duke giving the young Flemingsome good advice, thus: "You must admire all these ladies in equalportion. Should you show favoritism for one, the rest will turn upon you;and to marry any one of them would be fatal to your art. "

Rubens wrote the advice home to his mother, and the good mother viseed itand sent it back. 

After six months of diligent work at Mantua we find Rubens starting forRome with letters from the Duke to Cardinal Montalto, highly recommendinghim to the good graces of the Cardinal, and requesting, "that you will begraciously so good as to allow our Fleming to execute and make copiesfor us of such paintings as he may deem worthy. "

Cardinal Montalto was a nephew of Pope Sixtus, and the strongest man, save the Pope, in Rome. He had immense wealth, great learning, and raregood sense in matters of art. He was a close friend of the Duke ofMantua; and to come into personal relations with such a man was a pieceof rare good fortune for any man. The art world of Rome now belonged toRubens--all doors opened at his touch. "Our Fleming" knew the value ofhis privileges. "If I do not succeed, " he writes to his mother, "it willbe because I have not improved my opportunities. " The word fail was notin his lexicon. His industry never relaxed. In Walpole's "Anecdotes ofPainting, " an account is given of a sketchbook compiled by Rubens at thistime. The original was in the possession of Maurice Johnson, of Spalding, England, in Eighteen Hundred Forty-five, at which time it was exhibitedin London and attracted much attention. 

I have seen a copy of the book with its hundred or more sketches of thevery figures that we now see and admire in the Uffizi and Pitti galleriesand in the Vatican. Eight generations of men have come and gone sinceRubens sketched from the Old Masters, but there today stand the chiseledshapes, which were then centuries old, and there today are the "Titians"and the "Raphaellos" just as the exuberant Fleming saw them. Surely thismust show us how short are the days of man! "Open then the door; youknow how little while we have to stay!"

The two figures that seemed to impress Rubens most, as shown in thesketchbook, are the Farnese "Hercules" and Michelangelo's "David. " Heshows the foot of the "Hercules, " and the hand of the "David, " and givesfront, back and side views with comments and criticisms. Then after a fewpages have been covered by other matter he goes back again to the"Hercules"--the subject fascinates him. 

When we view "The Crucifixion, " in the Cathedral at Antwerp, we concludethat he admired the "Hercules" not wisely but too well, for the musclesstand out on all the figures, even of the Savior, in pure Farnese style. Two years after that picture was painted, he did his masterpiece, "TheDescent From the Cross, " and we behold with relief the change that hadcome over the spirit of his dreams. Mere pride in performing a difficultfeat had given place to a higher motive. There is no reason to supposethat the Apostles had trained to perform the twelve labors of Hercules, or that the two Marys were Amazons. But the burly Roman forms went backto Flanders, and for many years staid citizens were slipped into classicattitudes to do duty as Disciples, Elders, Angels--all with swellingbiceps, knotted muscles, and necks like the Emperor Vespasian. 

The Mantuan Envoy at Rome had private orders from Chieppo to see that theFleming was well treated. The Envoy was further requested to report tothe Secretary how the painter spent his time, and also how he wasregarded by Cardinal Montalto. Thus we see the wily Secretary set oneservant watching another, and kept in close touch with all. 

The reports, however, all confirmed the Secretary in his belief that theFleming was a genius, and, moreover, worthy of all the encouragement thatwas bestowed upon him. The Secretary sent funds from time to time to thepainter, with gentle hints that he should pay due attention to hisbehavior, and also to his raiment, for the apparel oft doth proclaim theman. 

The Duke of Mantua seems to have regarded Rubens as his own privateproperty, and Rubens had too much sense to do anything by word or deedthat might displease his patron. 

When he had gotten all that Italy could give, or more properly all hecould absorb, his intent was to follow his heart and go straight back toFlanders. 

Three years had passed since Rubens had arrived in Venice--years ofprofit to both spirit and purse. He had painted pictures that placed himin the rank of acknowledged artists, and the Duke of Mantua had droppedall patronizing airs. With the ducal party Rubens had visited Verona, Florence, Pisa and Padua. His fame was more than local. The painterhinted to Chieppo that he would like to return to Antwerp, but theSecretary objected--he had important work for him. 

 * * * * *

Rubens was from Flanders, and Flanders was a Spanish possession: then theFleming knew the daughter of the King of Spain. No man was so well fittedto go on a delicate diplomatic mission to Spain as the Flemish painter. "You are my heart's jewel, " said the Duke of Mantua to the PrimeMinister, when the Minister suggested it. 

The Duke wished private information as to certain things Spanish, and wasalso preparing the way to ask for sundry favors. The Court at Madrid wasartistic in instinct; so was the Mantuan Court. To recognize the estheticside of your friend's nature, when your friend is secretly not quite surebut that he is more worldly than spiritual, is a stroke of diplomacy. Spain was not really artistic, but there were stirrings being felt, andVelasquez and Murillo were soon to appear. 

The Duke of Mantua wished to present the King of Spain with certainpictures; his mind was filled with a lively sense of anticipation offuture favors to be received--which feeling we are told is gratitude. Theentire ceremony must be carried out appropriately--the poetic unitiesbeing fully preserved. Therefore a skilful painter must be sent with thepictures, in order to see that they were safely transported, properlyunpacked, and rightly hung. 

Instructions were given to Peter Paul Rubens, the artistic ambassador, atgreat length, as to how he should proceed. He was to make himselfagreeable to the King, and to one greater than the King--the man behindthe throne--the Duke of Lerma; and to several fair ladies as well. 

The pictures were copies of the masters--"Titians, " "Raphaellos, ""Tintorettos" and "Leonardos. " They were copied with great fidelity, evento the signature and private marks of the original artist. In fact, sowell was the work done that if the recipient inclined to accept them asoriginals, his mind must not be disabused. Further, the envoy was notsupposed to know whether they were originals or not (even though he hadpainted them), and if worse came to worst he must say, "Well, surely theyare just as good as the originals, if not better. "

Presents were taken for a dozen or more persons. Those who were not sovery artistic were to have gifts of guns, swords and precious stones. Theambassador was to travel in a new carriage, drawn by six horses andfollowed by wagons carrying the art treasures. All this so as to make theright impression and prove to Madrid that Mantua was both rich andgenerous. And as a capsheaf to it all, the painter must choose anopportune moment and present his beautiful carriage and horses to theKing, for the belief was rife that the King of Spain was really morehorsey than artistic. 

The pictures were selected with great care, and the finest horses to befound were secured, regardless of cost. Several weeks were consumed inpreparations, and at last the cavalcade started away, with Rubens in thecarriage and eleven velvet suits in his chest, as he himself has told us. It was a long, hard journey to Madrid. There were encounters withrapacious landlords, and hairbreadth escapes in the imminent deadlycustom-house. But in a month the chromatic diplomat arrived and enteredMadrid at the head of his company, wearing one of the velvet suits, andriding a milk-white charger. 

Rubens followed orders and wrote Signor Chieppo at great length, giving aminute account of every incident and detail of the journey and of hisreception at Madrid. While at the Court he kept a daily record ofhappenings, which was also forwarded to the Secretary. 

These many letters have recently been given to the public. They are inItalian, with a sprinkling here and there of good honest Dutch. All ismost sincere, grave and explicit. Rubens deserved great credit for allthese letters, for surely they were written with sweat and lamp-smoke. The work of the toiler is over all, but we must remember that at thattime he had been studying Italian only about a year. 

The literary style of Rubens was Johnsonese all his life, and he made hismeaning plain only by repetitions and many rhetorical flounderings. Likethe average sixteen-year-old boy who sits himself down and takes his penin hand, all his sprightliness of imagination vanished at sight of anink-bottle. With a brush his feelings were fluid, and in a company gracedwelt upon his lips; but when asked to write it out he gripped the pen asthough it were a crowbar instead of a crow's-quill. 

But Chieppo received his reports; and we know the embassy was asuccess--a great success. The debonair Fleming surprised the King bysaying, "Your Majesty, it is like this"--and then with a few bold strokesdrew a picture. 

He modestly explained that he was not much of a painter--"merely used abrush for his own amusement"--and then made a portrait for the Ministerof State that exaggerated all of that man's good points, and ignored allhis failings. There was a cast in the Minister's eye, but Rubens waivedit. The Minister was delighted, and so was the King. He then made aportrait of the King that was as flattering as portraits should be thatare painted for monarchs. 

Among his other accomplishments the Fleming was a skilful horseman; herode with such grace and dash that the King took him on his drives, Rubens riding by the side of the carriage, gaily conversing as they rode. 

And so with the aid of his many talents he won the confidence of the Kingand Court and was initiated into the inner life of Spanish royalty in away that Iberta, the Mantuan Resident, never had been. The King likedRubens, and so did the Man behind the Throne. 

Mortals do not merely like each other because they like each other; sucha bond is tenuous as a spider's thread. I love you because you love thethings that I love. One woman won my heart by her subtle appreciation of"The Dipsy Chanty. " Men meet on a horse basis, a book basis, a religiousbasis, or some other mutual leaning; sometimes we find them uniting on amutual dislike for something. For instance, I have a friend to whom I ambound by the tie of oneness because we dislike olives, and have a mutualindifference to the pretended claims of the unpronounceable Pole whowrote "Quo Vadis. " The discovery was accidentally made in a hoteldining-room: we clasped hands across the board, and since then have beenas brothers. 

The more points at which you touch humanity the more friends youhave--the greater your influence. Rubens was an artist, a horseman, amusician, a politician and a gourmet. When conceptions in the kitchenwere vague, he would send for the cook and explain to him how to do it. He possessed a most discriminating palate and a fine appreciation ofthings drinkable. These accomplishments secured him a well-defined caseof gout while yet a young man. He taught the Spanish Court how to smoke, having himself been initiated by an Englishman, who was a companion ofSir Walter Raleigh, and showed them how to roll a cigarette while engagedin ardent conversation. And the Spaniards have not yet lost the art, foronce in Cadiz I saw a horse running away, and the driver rolled andlighted a cigarette before trying to stop the mad flight of the franticbrute. 

In the Royal Gallery at Madrid are several large paintings by Rubens thatwere doubtless done at this time. They are religious subjects; but workedin, after the manner of a true diplomat, are various portraits of bravemen and handsome women. To pose a worthy senator as Saint Paul, and adashing lady of the Court as the Holy Virgin, was most gratifying to thephrenological development of approbativeness of the said senator andlady. Then, as the painter had pictured one, he must do as much forothers, so there could be no accusation of favoritism. 

Thus the months passed rapidly. The Duke of Lerma writes to Chieppo, "Wedesire your gracious permission to keep the Fleming another month, asvery special portraits are required from his brush. "

The extra month extended itself to three; and when at last Rubens startedback for Mantua it was after a full year's absence. 

The embassy was a most complete success. The diplomat well masked histrue errand with the artist's garb: and who of all men was ever so wellfitted by Nature to play the part as Rubens?

Yet he came near overdoing the part at least once. It was in this wise:he really was not sure that the honors paid him were on account of hisbeing a painter or a courtier. But like comedians who think their forteis tragedy, so the part of courtier was more pleasing to Rubens thanthat of painter, because it was more difficult. He painted with such easethat he set small store on the talent: it was only a makeshift foradvancement. 

Don John, Duke of Braganza, afterward King of Portugal, was a lover ofart, and desired to make the acquaintance of the painter. So he wrote toRubens at Madrid, inviting him to Villa Vitiosa, his place of residence. 

Rubens knew how the Duke of Mantua did these things--he decided to followsuit. 

With a numerous train, made up from the fringe of the Madrid Court, withhired horsemen going before, and many servants behind, the retinuestarted away. Coming within five miles of the villa of Don John, word wassent that Rubens and his retinue awaited his embassy. 

Now Don John was a sure-enough duke and could muster quite a retinue ofhis own on occasion, yet he had small taste for tinsel parades. Men whohave a real good bank-balance do not have to wear fashionable clothes. Don John was a plain, blunt man who liked books and pictures. He wantedto see the painter, not a courtier: and when he heard of the style inwhich the artist was coming, he just put a boy on a donkey and sent wordout that he was not at home. And further, to show the proud painter hisplace, he sent along a small purse of silver to pay the artist for thetrouble to which he had been. The rebuke was so delicate that it wasaltogether lost on Rubens--he was simply enraged. 

 * * * * *

In all, Rubens spent eight years in the service of the Duke of Mantua. Hehad visited the chief cities of Italy, and was familiar with all the artof the golden ages that had gone before. When he left Italy he had totake advantage of the fact that the Duke was in France, for every timebefore, when he had suggested going, he was questioned thus: "Why, haveyou not all you wish? What more can be done for you? Name your desire andyou shall have it. "

But Rubens wanted home: Antwerp, his mother, brothers, sister, the broadRiver Scheldt, and the good old Flemish tongue. 

Soon after arriving in Antwerp he was named as Court Painter by Albertand Isabella. Thus he was the successor of his old master, Van Veen. 

He was now aged thirty-two, in possession of an income from the State, and a fame and name to be envied. He was rich in money, jewels and arttreasures brought from Italy, for he had the thrifty instincts of a trueDutchman. 

And it was a gala day for all Antwerp when the bells rang and the greatorgan in the Cathedral played the wedding-march when Peter Paul Rubensand Isabella Brandt were married, on the Thirteenth of October, SixteenHundred Nine. Never was there a happier mating. 

That fine picture at Munich of Rubens and his wife tells of the sweetcomradeship that was to be theirs for many years. He opened a school, andpupils flocked to him from all Europe; commissions for work came andorders for altar-pieces from various churches. 

An order was issued by the Archduke that he should not leave Holland, anda copy of the order was sent to the Duke of Mantua, to shut off hisimportunities. 

Among the pupils of Rubens we find the name of Jordaens (whom he hadfirst known in Italy), De Crayer, Anthony Van Dyck, Franz Snyder and manyothers who achieved distinction. Rubens was a positive leader; soanimated was his manner that his ambition was infectious. All his youngmen painted just as he did. His will was theirs. From now on, out of thethousands of pictures signed "P. P. Rubens, " we can not pick out a singlepicture and say, "Rubens did this. " He drew outlines and added thefinishing touches; and surely would not have signed a canvas of which hedid not approve. In his great studio at Antwerp, at various times, fullya hundred men worked to produce the pictures we call "Rubens. "

Those glowing canvases in the "Rubens Gallery" of the Louvre, showing thehistory and apotheosis of Marie de Medici, were painted at Antwerp. Thejoyous, exuberant touch of Rubens is over all, even though the work wasdone by 'prentice hands. 

Peaceful lives make dull biographies, and in prosperity is smallromance. 

We may search long before finding a life so full to overflowing ofmaterial good things as that of Rubens. All he touched turned to gold. From the time he returned to Antwerp in Sixteen Hundred Eight to hisdeath in Sixteen Hundred Forty, his life-journey was one grand triumphalmarch. His many diplomatic missions were simply repetitions of his firstSpanish embassy, with the Don John incident left out, for Don John seemsto have been the only man who was not at home to the gracious Rubens. 

Mr. Ruskin has said: "Rubens was a great painter, but he lacked that lastundefinable something which makes heart speak to heart. You admire, butyou never adore. No real sorrow ever entered his life. "

Perhaps we get a valuable clue in that last line. Great art is born offeeling, and the heart of Rubens was never touched by tragedy, nor therocky fastnesses of his tears broken in upon by grief. In many ways hiswas the spirit of a child: he had troubles, but not sufficient to preventrefreshing sleep, and when he awoke in the morning the trials ofyesterday were gone. 

Even when the helpful, faithful and loving Isabella Brandt was taken awayfrom him by death, there soon came other joys to take the place of thosethat were lost. 

We have full fifty pictures of his second wife: she looks down atus--smiling, buxom, content--from every gallery-wall in Europe. Rubenswas fifty-three and she was sixteen when they were married; and were itnot for a twinge of gout now and then, he would have been as young asshe. 

When Rubens went to England on "an artistic commission, " we see that hecaptured Charles the First just as he captured the court of Spain. Hepainted five portraits of the King that we can trace. The mild-manneredCharles was greatly pleased with the fine portrait of himself bestridingthe prancing cream-colored charger. 

Several notable artists, Sir Joshua Reynolds among them, havecomplimented the picture by taking the horse, background and pose, andplacing another man in the saddle--or more properly, taking off the headof Charles the First and putting on the head of any bold patron who wouldfurnish the price. In looking through the galleries of Europe, keep youreye out for equestrian portraits, and you will be surprised to see onyour tab, when you have made the rounds, how many painters have borrowedthat long-maned, yellow horse that still rears in the National Gallery inLondon, smelling the battle afar off--as Charles himself preferred tosmell it. 

Rubens had a good time in England, although his patience was severelytried by being kept at painting for months, awaiting an opportune time togive King Charles some good advice on matters political. 

English ways were very different from those of the Continent, but Rubenssoon spoke the language with fluency, even if not with precision. 

Rubens spoke seven languages, and to speak seven languages is to speak noone well. On this point we have a little comment from high authority. Said Charles the First, writing to Buckingham, "The Fleming painterprides himself on being able to pass for an Englishman, but his Englishis so larded with French, Dutch and Italian that we think he must havebeen employed on the Tower of Babel. "

While painting the ceiling of the banqueting-room at Whitehall (where aDutchman was later to be crowned King of England), he discussed politicswith the Duke of Buckingham and the King, from the scaffold. Some yearsafter we find Buckingham visiting Rubens at his home in Antwerp, dickering for his fine collection of curios and paintings. 

The Duke afterwards bought the collection and paid Rubens ten thousandpounds in gold for it. 

Every one complimented Rubens on his shrewdness in getting so much moneyfor the wares, and Rubens gave a banquet to his friends in token of thegreat sale to the Britisher. It was a lot of money, to be sure, but theEnglishman realized the worth of the collection better than did Rubens. We have a catalog of the collection. It includes nineteen Titians, thirteen Paul Veroneses, seventeen Tintorettos, three Leonardos, threeRaphaels and thirteen pictures by Rubens himself. 

A single one of the Titians, if sold at auction today, would bring morethan the Duke paid for the entire collection. 

James McNeil Whistler has said, "There may be a doubt about Rubens havingbeen a Great Artist; but he surely was an Industrious Person. "

There is barely enough truth in Mr. Whistler's remark, taken with itsdash of wit, to save it; but Philip Gilbert Hamerton's sober estimate isof more value: "The influence of Rubens for good can not beoverestimated. He gave inspiration to all he met, and his example ofindustry, vivid imagination, good-cheer and good taste have had anincalculable influence on art. We have more canvases from his hand thanfrom the hand of any other master. And these pictures are a quarry towhich every artist of today, consciously or unconsciously, is indebted. "

MEISSONIER

 I never hesitate about scraping out the work of days, and beginning afresh, so as to satisfy myself, and try to do better. Ah! that "better" which one feels in one's soul, and without which no true artist is ever content!

 Others may approve and admire; but that counts for nothing, compared with one's own feeling of what ought to be. 

 --_Meissonier's Conversations_

[Illustration: MEISSONIER]

Life in this world is a collecting, and all the men and women in it arecollectors. 

The question is, What will you collect? Most men are intent on collectingdollars. Their waking-hours are taken up with inventing plans, methods, schemes, whereby they may secure dollars from other men. To gather asmany dollars as possible, and to give out as few, is the desideratum. Butwhen you collect one thing you always incidentally collect others. Thefisherman who casts his net for shad usually secures a few other fish, and once in a while a turtle, which enlarges the mesh to suit, and givessweet liberty to the shad. To focus exclusively on dollars is to securejealousy, fear, vanity, and a vaulting ambition that may claw its waythrough the mesh and let your dollars slip into the yeasty deep. 

Ragged Haggard and his colleague, Cave-of-the-Winds, collect bacteria;while the fashionable young men of the day, with a few exceptions, arecollecting headaches, regrets, weak nerves, tremens, paresis--death. Ofcourse we shall all die (I will admit that), and further, we may be along time dead (I will admit that), and moreover, we may be going throughthe world for the last time--as to that I do not know; but while we arehere it seems the part of reason to devote our energies to collectingthat which brings as much quiet joy to ourselves, and as little annoyanceto others, as possible. 

My heart goes out to the collector. In the soul of the collector of oldbooks, swords, pistols, brocades, prints, clocks and bookplates, there isonly truth. If he gives you his friendship, it is because you love thethings that he loves; he has no selfish wish to use your good name tofurther his own petty plans--he only asks that you shall behold, andbeholding, your eye shall glow, and your heart warm within you. 

Inasmuch as we live in the age of the specialist, one man often collectsbooks on only one subject, Dante for instance; another, nothing butvolumes printed at Venice; another, works concerning the stage; and stillanother devotes all his spare time to securing tobacco-pipes. And I amwell aware that the man who for a quarter of a century industriouslycollects snuffboxes has a supreme contempt for the man who collects bothsnuffboxes and clocks. And in this does the specialist reveal that hisnormal propensity to collect has degenerated. That is to say, it hasrefined itself into an abnormality, and from the innocent desire tocollect, has shifted off into a selfish wish to outrival. 

The man who collects many things, with easy, natural leanings toward, say, spoons, is pure in heart and free from guile; but when his soulcenters on spoons exclusively, he has fallen from his high estate and issimply possessed of a lust for ownership--he wants to own more peculiarspoons than any other man on earth. Such a one stirs up wrath andrivalry, and is the butt and byword of all others who collect spoons. 

Prosperous, practical, busy people sometimes wonder why other folks buildcabinets with glass fronts and strong locks and therein storepostage-stamps, bits of old silks, autographs and books that are veryprecious only when their leaves are uncut; and so I will here endeavor toexplain. At the same time I despair of making my words intelligible toany but those who are collectors, or mayhap to those others who are inthe varioloid stage. 

Then possibly you say I had better not waste good paper and ink byrecording the information, since collectors know already, and those whoare without the pale have neither eyes to see nor hearts to incline. Butthe simple fact is, the proposition that you comprehend on first hearingwas yours already; for how can you recognize a thing as soon as it comesinto view if you have never before seen it? You have thought my thoughtyourself, or else your heart would not beat fast and your lips say, "Yes, yes!" when I voice it. Truth is in the air, and when your head gets upinto the right stratum of atmosphere you breathe it in. You may not knowthat you have breathed it in until I come along and write it out on thisblank sheet, and then you read it and say, "Yes--your hand! that issurely so; I knew it all along!"

And so then if I tell you a thing you already know, I confer on you thegreat blessing of introducing you to yourself and of giving you theconsciousness that you know. 

And to know you know is power. And to feel the sense of power is to feela sense of oneness with the Source of Power. 

Let's see--what was it, then, that we were talking about? Oh, yes!collectors and collecting. 

Men collect things because these things stir imagination and link themwith the people who once possessed and used these things. Thus, throughimagination, is the dead past made again to live and throb and pulse withlife. Man is not the lonely creature that those folks with bad digestionssometimes try to have us believe. 

We are brothers not only to all who live, but to all who have gonebefore. 

And so we collect the trifles that once were valuables for other men, andby the possession of these trifles are we bounden to them. These thingsstimulate imagination, stir the sympathies, and help us forget thecramping bounds of time and space that so often hedge us close around. 

The people near us may be sordid, stupid, mean; or more likely they areweary and worn with the battle for mere food, shelter and raiment; orthey are depressed by that undefined brooding fear which civilizationexacts as payment for benefits forgot--so their better selves aresubdued. 

But through fancy's flight we can pick our companions out of the companyof saints and sinners who have long turned to dust. I have the bookplatesof Holbein and Hogarth, and I have a book once owned by Rembrandt, and soI do not say Holbein and Hogarth and Rembrandt were--I say they are. 

And thus the collector confuses the glorious dead and the living in onefairy company; and although he may detect varying degrees of excellence, for none does he hold contempt, of none is he jealous, none does he envy. From them he asks nothing, upon him they make no demands. In thecollector's cast of mind there is something very childlike and ingenuous. 

My little girl has a small box of bright bits of silk thread that shehoards very closely; then she possesses certain pieces of calico, nails, curtain-rings, buttons, spools and fragments of china--all of which arevery dear to her heart. And why should they not be? For with them shecreates a fairy world, wherein are only joy, and peace, and harmony, andlight--quite an improvement on this! Yes, dearie, quite. 

 * * * * *

Ernest Meissonier, the artist, began collecting very early. He has toldus that he remembers, when five years of age, of going with his mother tomarket and collecting rabbits' ears and feet, which he would take home, and carefully nail up on the wall of the garret. And it may not be amissto explain here that the rabbit's foot as an object of superstitiousveneration has no real place outside of the United States of America, andthis only south of Mason and Dixon's line. 

The Meissonier lad's collection of rabbits' ears increased until he hadnearly colors enough to run the chromatic scale. Then he collectedpigeons' wings in like manner, and if you have ever haunted Frenchmarket-places you know how natural a thing this would be for a child. Theboy's mother took quite an interest in his amusements, and helped him tospread the wings out and arrange the tails fan-shape on the walls. Theyhad long strings of buttons and boxes of spools in partnership; and whenthey would go up the Seine on little excursions on Sunday afternoons, they would bring back rich spoils in the way of swan feathers, butterflies, "snake-feeders" and tiny shells. Then once they found abird's nest, and as the mother bird had deserted it, they carried ithome. That was a red-letter day, for the garret collection had increasedto such an extent that a partition was made across the corner of a roomby hanging up a strip of cloth. And all the things in that cornerbelonged to Ernest--his mother said so. Ernest's mother seems to have hada fine, joyous, childlike nature, so she fully entered into the life ofher boy. He wanted no other companion. In fact, this mother was littlebetter herself than a child in years--she was only sixteen when she borehim. They lived at Lyons then, but three years later moved to Paris. Hertemperament was poetic, religious, and her spirit had in it a touch ofsuperstition--which is the case with all really excellent women. 

But this sweet playtime was not for long--the mother died in EighteenHundred Twenty-five, aged twenty-four years. 

I suppose there is no greater calamity that can befall a child than tolose his mother. Still, Nature is very kind, and for Ernest Meissonierthere always remained firm, clear-cut memories of a slight, fair-hairedwoman, with large, open, gray eyes, who held him in her arms, sang tohim, and rocked him to sleep each night as the darkness gathered. Helived over and over again those few sunshiny excursions up the river; andhe knew all the reeds and flowers and birds she liked best, and theplaces where they had landed from the boat and lunched together wereforever to him sacred spots. 

But the death of his mother put a stop for a time to his collecting. Thesturdy housekeeper who came to take the mother's place, speedily cleared"the truck" out of the corner, and forbade the bringing of any morefeathers and rabbits' feet into her house--well, I guess so! The birds'nests, long grasses, reeds, shells and pigeons' wings were tossedstraightway into the fireplace, and went soaring up the chimney in smoke. 

The destruction of the collection didn't kill the propensity to collect, however, any more than you can change a man's opinions by burning hislibrary. It only dampened the desire for a time. It broke out again aftera few years and continued for considerably more than half a century. There was a house at Poissy "full to the roof-tiles" of books, marbles, bronzes and innumerable curios, gathered from every corner of the earth;and a palace at Paris filled in like manner, for which Ernest Meissonierhad expended more than a million francs. 

In the palace at Paris, when the owner was near his threescore years andten, he took from a locker a morocco case, and opening it, showed hisfriend, Dumas, a long curl of yellow hair; and then he brought out acurious old white-silk dress, and said to the silent Dumas, "This curlwas cut from my mother's head after her death, and this dress was herwedding-gown. "

A few days after this Meissonier wrote these words in his journal: "It isthe Twentieth of February--the morning of my seventieth birthday. What along time to look back upon! This morning, at the hour when my mothergave me birth, I wished my first thoughts to be of her. Dear Mother, howoften have the tears risen to my eyes at the remembrance of you! It wasyour absence--the longing I had for you--that made you so dear to me. Thelove of my heart goes out to you! Do you hear me, Mother, calling andcrying for you? How sweet it must be to have a mother, I say to myself. "

 * * * * *

"I would have every man rich, " said Emerson, "that he might know theworthlessness of riches. "

Every man should have a college education, in order to show him howlittle the thing is really worth. The intellectual kings of the earthhave seldom been college-bred. Napoleon ever regretted the lack ofinstruction in his early years; and in the minds of such men as AbrahamLincoln and Ernest Meissonier there usually lingers the suspicion thatthey have dropped something out of their lives. 

"I'm not a college man--ask Seward, " said Lincoln, when some onequestioned him as to the population of Alaska. The remark was merry jest, of course, but as in all jest there lurks a grain of truth, so did therehere. 

At the height of Meissonier's success, when a canvas from his handcommanded a larger price than the work of any other living artist, heexclaimed, "Oh, if only I had been given the advantages of a collegetraining!"

If he had, it is quite probable that he never would have painted betterthan his teacher. Discipline might have reduced his daring genius toneutral salts, and taken all that fine audacity from his brush. 

He was a natural artist: he saw things clearly and in detail; he had theheart to feel, and he longed for the skill to express that which he sawand felt. And when the desire is strong enough it brings the thing--andthus is prayer answered. 

Meissonier while but a child set to work making pictures--he declared hewould be an artist. And in spite of his father's attempts to shame himout of his whim, and to starve him into a more practical career, hisresolution stuck. 

He worked in a drugstore and drew on the wrapping-paper; then with thisartist a few days, and then with that. He tried illustrating, and finallya bold stand was made and a little community formed that decided onstorming the Salon. 

There is something pathetic in that brotherhood of six young men, bindingthemselves together, swearing they would stand together and aid eachother in producing great art. 

The dead seriousness of the scheme has a peculiar sophomore quality. There were Steinheil, Trimolet, Daumier, Daubigny, Deschaumaes andMeissonier, all aged about twenty, strong, sturdy, sincere and innocentlyignorant--all bound they would be artists. 

Two of these young men were sign-painters, the others did odd jobsillustrating, and filled in the time at anything which chance offered. When one got an invitation out to dinner he would go, and furtively dropbiscuit and slices of meat into his lap, and then slyly transfer them tohis waistcoat-pockets, so as to take them to his less fortunate brethren. 

They haunted the galleries, made themselves familiar with catalogs, criticized without stint, knew all about current prices, and were ableto point out the great artists of Paris when they passed proudly up thestreet. 

They sketched eternally, formed small wax models, and made greatpreparations for masterpieces. 

The reason they did not produce the masterpieces was because they did nothave money to buy brushes, paints and canvas. Neither did they have fundsto purchase food to last until the thing was done; and it is difficult toproduce great art on half-rations. So they formed the brotherhood, andone midnight swore eternal fealty. They were to draw lots: the luckymember was to paint and the other five were to support him for a month. He was to be supplied his painting outfit and to be absolutely free fromall responsibility as to the bread-and-butter question for a whole month. 

Trimolet was the first lucky man. 

He set diligently to work, and dined each evening on a smokingmutton-chop with a bottle of wine, at a respectable restaurant. The fivestood outside and watched him through the window--they dined when andwhere they could. 

His picture grew apace, and in three weeks was completed. It wasentitled, "Sisters of Charity Giving Out Soup to the Poor. " The work wasof a good machine-made quality, not good enough to praise nor bad enoughto condemn: it was like Tomlinson of Berkeley Square. 

On account of the peculiar subject with which it dealt, it found favorwith a worthy priest, who bought it and presented it to a convent. 

This so inflated Trimolet that he suggested it would be a good plan tokeep right on with the arrangement, but the five objected. 

Steinheil was next appointed to feed the vestal fire. His picture wasso-so, but would not sell. 

Daubigny came next, and lived so high that inspiration got clogged, fattydegeneration of the cerebrum set in, and after a week he ceased topaint--doing nothing but dream. 

When the turn of the fourth man came, Meissonier had concluded that therace must be won by one and one, and his belief in individualism wasfurther strengthened by an order for a group of family portraits, with agoodly retainer in advance. 

Straightway he married Steinheil's sister, with whom he had been someweeks in love, and the others feeling aggrieved that an extra mouth tofeed, with danger of more, had been added to the "Commune, " declared thecompact void. 

Trimolet still thought well of the arrangement, though, and agreed, ifMeissonier would support him, to secure fame and fortune for them both. 

Meissonier declined the offer with thanks, and struck boldly out on hisown account. 

The woman who had so recklessly agreed to share his poverty must surelyhave had faith in him--or are very young people who marry incapable ofeither faith or reason? Never mind; she did not hold the impulsive youngman back. 

She couldn't--nothing but death could have stayed such ambition. His willwas unbending and his ambition never tired. 

He was an athlete in strength, and was fully conscious that to be a goodanimal is the first requisite. He swam, rowed, walked, and could tire outany of his colleagues at swordplay or skittles. 

But material things were scarce those first few years of married life, and once when the table had bread, but no meat nor butter, he took theentire proceeds of a picture and purchased a suit of clothing of the timeof Louis the Grand: not to wear, of course--simply to put in the"collection. "

Small wonder is it that, for some months after, when he would walk outalone the fond wife would caution him thus: "Now Ernest, do not gothrough that old-clothes market--you know your weakness. "

"I have no money, so you need not worry, " he would gaily reply. 

Of those times of pinching want he has written, "As to happiness--is itpossible to be wretched at twenty, when one has health, a passion forart, free passes for the Louvre, an eye to see, a heart to feel, andsunshine gratis?"

But poverty did not last long. Pictures such as this young man producedmust attract attention anywhere. 

He belonged to no school, but simply worked away after his own fashion;what he was bound to do was to produce a faithful picture--sure, clear, strong, vivid. He saw things clearly and his sympathies were acute, as isshown in every canvas he produced. 

Meissonier had the true artistic conscience--he was incapable of puttingout an average, unobjectionable picture--it must have positiveexcellence. "There is a difference, " said he, "between a successfuleffort and a work of love. " He painted only in the loving mood. 

No greater blessing than the artistic conscience can come to any workerin art, be he sculptor, writer, singer or painter. Hold fast to it, andit shall be your compass in time when the sun is darkened. To please thepublic is little, but to satisfy your Other Self, that self that leansover your shoulder and watches your every thought and deed, is much. Noartistic success worth having is possible unless you satisfy that OtherSelf. 

But like the moral conscience it can be dallied with until the grievedspirit turns away, and the wretch is left to his fate. 

Meissonier never hesitated to erase a whole picture when it did notsatisfy his inward sense--customers might praise and connoisseurs offerto buy, it made no difference. "I have some one who is more difficult toplease than you, " he would say; "I must satisfy myself. "

The fine intoxication that follows good artistic work is the highest joythat mortals ever know. But once let a creative artist lower hisstandard and give the world the mere product of his brain, with heartleft out, that man will hate himself for a year and a day. He has soldhis soul for a price: joy has flown, and bitterness is his portion. Meissonier never trifled with his compass. To the last he headed for thepolestar. 

 * * * * *

The early domestic affairs of Meissonier can best be guessed from hisoft-repeated assertion that the artist should never marry. "To producegreat work, Art must be your mistress, " he said. "You must be married toyour work. A wife demands unswerving loyalty as her right, and a portionof her husband's time she considers her own. This is proper with everyprofession but that of Art. The artist must not be restrained, nor shouldeven a wife come between him and his Art. The artist must not be judgedby the same standards that are made for other men. Why? Simply becausewhen you begin to tether him you cramp his imagination and paralyze hishand. The priest and artist must not marry, for it is too much to expectany woman to follow them in their flight, and they have no moral right totie themselves to a woman and then ask her to stay behind. "

From this and many similar passages in the "Conversations" it is clearthat Meissonier had no conception of the fact that a woman may possiblykeep step with her mate. He simply never considered such a thing. 

A man's opinions concerning womankind are based upon the knowledge of thewomen he knows best. 

We can not apply Hamerton's remark concerning Turner to Meissonier. Hamerton said that throughout Turner's long life he was lamentablyunfortunate in that he never came under the influence of a strong andgood woman. 

Meissonier associated with good women, but he never knew one with aspread of spiritual wing sufficient to fit her to be his companion. Thereis a minor key of loneliness and heart hunger running through his wholecareer. Possibly, in the wisdom of Providence, this was just what heneeded to urge him on to higher and nobler ends. He never knew peace, andthe rest for which he sighed slipped him at the very last. "I'm tired, sotired, " he sighed again and again in those later years, when he hadreached the highest pinnacle. 

And still he worked--it was his only rest! Meissonier painted very fewpictures of women, and in some miraculous way skipped that stage inesthetic evolution wherein most artists affect the nude. In his wholecareer he never produced a single "Diana, " nor a "Susanna at the Bath. "He had no artistic sympathy with "Leda and the Swan, " and once whenDelaroche chided him for painting no pictures of women, he was soungallant as to say, "My dear fellow, men are much more beautiful thanwomen!"

During the last decade of his life Meissonier painted but one portrait ofa woman, and to America belongs the honor. The sitter was Mrs. J. W. Mackay, of California. 

As all the world knows, Mrs. Mackay refused to accept the canvas. Shedeclared the picture was no likeness, and further, she would not have itfor a gift. 

"So you do not care for the picture?" asked the great artist. 

"Me? Well, I guess not--not that picture!"

"Very well, Madam. I think--I think I'll keep it for myself. I'll placeit on exhibition!" And the great artist looked out of the window in anabsent-minded way, and hummed a tune. 

This put another phase on the matter. Mrs. Mackay winced, and paid theprice, which rumor says was somewhere between ten and twenty-fivethousand dollars. She took the little canvas in her carriage and droveaway with it, and what became of the only portrait of a woman painted byMeissonier during his later years, nobody knew but Mrs. Mackay, and Mrs. Mackay never told. 

Meissonier once explained to a friend that his offense consisted inproducing a faithful likeness of the customer. 

The Mackay incident did not end when the lady paid the coin and acceptedthe goods. Meissonier, by the haughtiness of his manner, his artisticindependence, and most of all, by his unpardonable success, had beensowing dragons' teeth for half a century. And now armed enemies sprangup, and sided with the woman from California. They made it aninternational episode: less excuses have involved nations in war in daysagone. But the enemies of Meissonier did not belong alone to America, although here every arm was braced and every tongue wagged to vindicatethe cause of our countrywoman. 

In Paris the whole art world was divided into those who sided withMeissonier and those who were against him. Cafes echoed with the soundsof wordy warfare; the columns of all magazines and newspapers bulged withheated argument; newsboys cried extras on the street, and bands ofstudents paraded the boulevards singing songs in praise of Mrs. Mackayand in dishonor of Meissonier, "the pretender. " The assertion was madeagain and again that Meissonier had fed sham art upon the public, and bymeans of preposterous prices and noisy puffing had hypnotized a world. They called him the artist of the Infinitely Little, King of Lilliput, and challenged any one to show where he had thrown heart and high emotioninto his work. Studies of coachmen, smokers, readers, soldiers, housemaids, chess-players, cavaliers and serenaders were not enough uponwhich to base an art reputation--the man must show that he had moved mento high endeavor, said the detractors. A fund was started to purchase theMackay portrait, so as to do the very thing that Meissonier hadthreatened to do, but dare not: place the picture on exhibition. To showthe picture, the enemy said, would be to prove the artist's commonplacequality, and not only this, but it would prove the man a rogue. Theydeclared he was incapable of perceiving the good qualities in a sitter, and had consented for a price to portray a person whom he disliked; andas a result, of course, had produced a caricature; and then hadblackmailed his patron into paying an outrageous sum to keep the picturefrom the public. 

The argument sounded plausible. And so the battle raged, just as it hassince in reference to Zola. 

The tide of Meissonier's prosperity began to ebb: prospective buyers keptaway; those who had given commissions canceled them. 

Meissonier's friends saw that something must be done. They inaugurated a"Meissonier Vindication, " by making an exhibition of one hundredfifty-five "Meissoniers"--and the public was invited to come and be thejury. Art-lovers from England went in bodies, and all Paris filed throughthe gallery, as well as a goodly portion of provincial France. By theside of each canvas stood a gendarme to protect it from a possiblefanatic whose artistic hate could not be restrained. 

To a great degree this exhibition brought feeling to a normal condition. Meissonier was still a great artist, yet he was human and his effectswere now believed to be gotten by natural methods. But there was a lullin the mad rush to secure his wares. The Vanderbilts grew lukewarm;titled connoisseurs from England were not so anxious; and Mrs. Mackay satback and smiled through her tears. 

Meissonier had expended over a million francs on his house in theBoulevard Malesherbes in Paris, and nearly as much on the country-seat atPoissy. These places were kingly in their appointments and such as onlythe State should attempt to maintain. For a single man, by the work ofhis right hand, to keep them up was too much to expect. 

Meissonier's success had been too great. As a collector he had overdonethe thing. Only poor men, or those of moderate incomes, should becollectors, for then the joy of sacrifice is theirs. Charles Lamb'scovetous looking on the book when it was red, daily for months, meanwhilehoarding his pay, and at last one Saturday night swooping down andcarrying the volume home to Bridget in triumph, is the true type. 

But money had come to Meissonier by hundreds of thousands of francs, andoften sums were forced upon him as advance payments. He lived royally andnever imagined that his hand and brain could lose their cunning, or thepublic be fickle. 

The fact that a "vindication" had been necessary was galling: the greatman grew irritable and his mood showed itself in his work: his colorsgrew hard and metallic, and there were angles in his lines where thereshould have been joyous curves. 

Debts began to press. He painted less and busied his mind withreminiscence--the solace of old age. 

And then it was that he dictated to his wife the "Conversations. " Thebook reveals the quality of his mind with rare fidelity--and shows thepower of this second wife fully to comprehend him. Thus did she disprovesome of the unkind philosophy given to the world by her liege. But thetalk in the "Conversations" is of an old man in whose heart was a tingeof bitterness. Yet the thought is often lofty and the comment clear andfull of flashing insight. It is the book of Ecclesiastes over again, written in a minor key, with a little harmless gossip added for filling. Meissonier died in Paris on the Twenty-first of January, Eighteen HundredNinety-one, aged seventy-six years. 

 * * * * *

The canvas known as "Eighteen Hundred Seven, " which is regarded asMeissonier's masterpiece, has a permanent home in the Metropolitan Museumof Art in New York. The central figure is Napoleon, at whose shrine thegreat artist loved to linger. The "Eighteen Hundred Seven" occupied theartist's time and talent for fifteen years, and was purchased by A. T. Stewart for sixty thousand dollars. After Mr. Stewart's death his arttreasures were sold at auction, and this canvas was bought by Judge HenryHilton and presented to the city of New York. 

There are in all about seventy-five pictures by Meissonier owned inAmerica. Several of his pieces are in the Vanderbilt collection, othersare owned by collectors in Chicago, Cleveland and Saint Louis. 

There are various glib sayings to the effect that the work of great menis not appreciated until after they are dead. This may be so and it maynot. It depends upon the man and the age. Meissonier enjoyed full half acentury of the highest and most complete success that was ever bestowedupon an artist. 

The strong intellect and marked personality of the man won him friendswherever he chose to make them; and it probably would have been betterfor his art if a degree of public indifference had been his portion inthose earlier years. His success was too great: the calm judgment ofposterity can never quite endorse the plaudits paid the living man. Heis one of the greatest artists the Nineteenth Century has produced, butthat his name can rank among the great artists of all time is not at allprobable. 

William Michael Rossetti has summed the matter up well by saying:"Perfection is so rare in this world that when we find it we must pauseand pay it the tribute of our silent admiration. It is very easy to saythat Meissonier should have put in this and omitted that. Had he painteddifferently he would have been some one else. The work is faultless, andsuch genius as he showed must ever command the homage of those who knowby experience the supreme difficulty of having the hand materialize theconceptions of the mind. And yet Meissonier's conceptions outmatched hisbrush: he was greater than his work. He was a great artist, and betterstill, a great man--proud, frank, fearless and conscientious. "

TITIAN

 Titian by a few strokes of the brush knew how to make the general image and character of whatever object he attempted. His great care was to preserve the masses of light and of shade, and to give by opposition the idea of that solidity which is inseparable from natural objects. He was the greatest of the Venetians, and deserves to rank with Raphael and Michelangelo. 

 --_Sir Joshua Reynolds_

[Illustration: TITIAN]

The march of progress and the rage for improvement make small impressionon Venice. The cabmen have not protested against horsecars as they did inRome, tearing up the tracks, mobbing the drivers, and threatening thepassengers; neither has the cable superseded horses as a motor power, andthe trolley then rendered the cable obsolete. 

In short, there never was a horse in Venice, save those bronze ones overthe entrance to Saint Mark's, and the one Napoleon rode to the top of theCampanile. But there are lions in Venice--stone lions--you see them atevery turn. "Did you ever see a live horse?" asked a ten-year-old boy ofme, in Saint Mark's Square. 

"Yes, " said I; "several times. "

"Are they fierce?" he asked after a thoughtful pause. And then Iexplained that a thousand times as many men are killed by horses everyyear as by lions. 

Four hundred years have made no change in the style of gondolas, oranything else in Venice. The prow of the Venetian gondola made today isof the same height as that prescribed by Tommaso Mocenigo, Doge in theyear Fourteen Hundred. The regulated height of the prow is to insureprotection for the passengers when going under bridges, but its peculiarhalberd shape is a thing not one of the five thousand gondoliers inVenice can explain. If you ask your gondolier he will swear a pious oath, shrug his fine shoulders, and say, "Mon Dieu, Signore! how should Iknow?--it has always been so. " The ignorance and superstition of thepicturesque gondolier, with his fluttering blue hatband and gorgeoussash, are most enchanting. His lack of knowledge is like the ignorance ofchildhood, when life has neither beginning nor end; when ways and meanspresent no vexatious problems; when if food is not to be had for thesimple asking, it can surely be secured by coaxing; when the day is forfrolic and play, and the night for dreams and sleep. 

But although your gondolier may not be able to read or write, he yet hashis preferences in music and art, and possesses definite ideas as to theeternal fitness of things. In Italy, many of the best paintings being inchurches, and all the galleries being free on certain days, the commonpeople absorb a goodly modicum of art education without being aware ofit. I have heard market-women compare the merits of Tintoretto and PaulVeronese, and stupid indeed is the boat "hooker" in Venice who would notknow a "Titian" on sight. 

But the chronology of art is all a jumble to this indolent, careless, happy people. These paintings were in the churches when their fathers andmothers were alive, they are here now, and no church has been built inVenice for three hundred years. 

The history of Venice is nothing to a gondolier. "Why, Signore! howshould I know? Venice always has been, " explained Enrico, when I askedhim how old the city was. 

When I hired Enrico I thought he was a youth. He wore such a dandy suitof pure white, and his hatband so exactly matched his sash, that I feltcertain I was close upon some tender romance, for surely it was somedark-eyed lacemaker who had embroidered this impossible hatband andevolved the improbable sash!

The exercise of rowing a gondola is of the sort that gives a splendidmuscular development. Men who pull oars have round shoulders, but thegondolier does not pull an oar, he pushes it, and as a result has a flatback and brawny chest. Enrico had these, and as he had no nerves to speakof, the passing years had taken small toll. Enrico was sixty. Once he ranalongside another gondola and introduced me to the gondolier, who was hisson. They were both of one age. Then one day I went with Enrico to hishome--two whitewashed rooms away up under the roof of an old palace onthe Rialto--and there met his wife. 

Mona Lisa showed age more than Enrico. She had crouched over a littlewooden frame making one pattern of lace for thirty years, so her form wasbent and her eyesight faulty. Yet she proudly explained that years andyears ago she was a model for a painter, and in the Della Salute I couldsee her picture, posed as Magdalen. She got fourteen cents a day for herwork, and had been at it so long she had no desire to quit. She tookgreat pride in Enrico's white-duck suits and explained to me that shenever let him wear one suit more than two days without its being washedand starched; and she always pipeclayed his shoes and carefully inspectedhim each morning before sending him forth to his day's work. "Men are socareless, you know, " she added by way of apology. 

There was no furniture in the rooms worth mentioning--Italians do notburden themselves with things--but on the wall I caught sight of abright-colored unfinished sketch of the Bridge of Sighs. It was littlemore than an outline, and probably did not represent ten minutes' work, but the lines seemed so firm and sure that I at once asked who did it. 

"An American did it, Signore, an American painter; he comes here everyyear; our son is his gondolier and shows him all the best places topaint, and takes him there when the light is good and keeps the peopleback so the artist can work--you understand? A shower came up just as hisExcellency, the American, began on this, and it got wet and so he gave itto my son and he gave it to me. "

"What is the painter's name?" I asked. Enrico could not remember, butMona Lisa said his name was Signore Hopsmithiziano, or something likethat. 

There were several little plaster images on the walls, and through theopen door that led to the adjoining room I saw a sort of an improvisedshrine, with various little votive offerings grouped about an unframedcanvas. The picture was a crude attempt at copying that grand figure inTitian's "Assumption. "

"And who painted that?" I asked. 

Enrico crossed himself in silence, and Mona Lisa's subdued voiceanswered: "Our other son did that. He was only nineteen. He was amosaicist and was studying to be a painter; he was drowned at the Lido. "

The old woman made the sign of the cross, her lips moved, and a singlebig tear stood on her leathery cheek. I changed the painful subject, andsoon found excuse to slip away. That evening as the darkness gathered andtwinkling lights began to appear like fireflies, up and down the GrandCanal, I sat in a little balcony of my hotel watching the scene. Aserenading party, backing their boats out into the stream, had formed asmall blockade, and in the group of gondolas that awaited the unravelingof the tangle I spied Enrico. He had a single passenger, a lady in theinevitable black mantilla, holding in her hands the inevitable fan. Asecond glance at the lady--and sure enough! it was Mona Lisa. I randownstairs, stepped out across the moored line of gondolas, took up ahook, and reaching over gently pulled Enrico's gondola over so I couldstep aboard. 

Mona Lisa was crooning a plaintive love-song and her gondolier was comingin occasionally with bars of melodious bass. I felt guilty for beingabout to break in upon such a sentimental little scene, and was going toretreat, but Enrico and Mona Lisa spied me and both gave a little cry ofsurprise and delight. 

"Where have you been?" I asked--"you fine old lovers!"

And then they explained that it was a Holy Day and they had been over tothe Church of San Giorgio, and were now on their way to Santa Maria de'Frari. 

"It is a very special mass, by torchlight, and is for the repose of thesoul of Titian, who is buried there. You may never have an opportunity tosee such a sight again--come with us, " and Enrico held out his strongbrown hand. 

I stepped aboard, the boats opened out to the left and to the right, andwe passed with that peculiar rippling sound, across the water thatreflected the lights as of a myriad stars. 

 * * * * *

Titian was born one hundred years before Rubens, and died just six monthsbefore Rubens' birth. 

On the one hundred twenty-second anniversary of the birth of Titian, Rubens knelt at his grave, there in the church of Santa Maria de' Frari, and vowed he would follow in the footsteps of the illustrious master. Andthe next day he wrote to his mother describing the incident. Thousands ofother sentimental and impulsive youth have stood before that little slabof black marble on which is carved the simple legend, "Tiziano Vecellio, "and vowed as Rubens did, but out of the throng not one rendered suchhonor to the master as did the brilliant Fleming. The example of Titianwas a lifelong inspiration to Rubens; and to all his pupils he held upTitian as the painter par excellence. In the Rubens studio Titian was thestandard by which all art was gauged. 

When Rubens returned to Flanders from Italy he carried with himtwenty-one pictures done by the hand of the master. 

Titian was born at the little village of Cadore, a few miles north ofVenice. When ten years of age his father took him down to the city andapprenticed him to a worker in mosaic, the intent of the fond parentprobably being to get the youngster out of the way, more than anythingelse. 

The setting together of the little bits of colored glass, according to apattern supplied, is a task so simple that children can do it about aswell as grown folks. They do the work there today just exactly as theydid four hundred years ago, when little Tiziano Vecellio came down fromCadore and worked, getting his ears pinched when he got sleepy, orcarelessly put in the red glass when he should have used the blue. 

An inscription on a tomb at Beni Hassan, dating from the reign ofOsortasen the First, who lived three thousand years before Christ, represents Theban glassblowers at work. I told Enrico of this one daywhen we were on our way to a glass-factory. 

"That's nothing, " said Enrico; "it was the glassblowers of Venice whotaught them how, " and not a ghost of a smile came across his fine, burnt-umber face. 

There is a story by Pliny about certain Phenician mariners landing on theshores of a small river in Palestine and making a fire to cook theirfood, and afterward discovering that the soda and sand under their potshad fused into glass. No one now seriously considers that the firstdiscovery of glass, and for all I know Enrico may be right in his flatstatement that the first glass was made at Venice, "for Venice alwayswas. "

The art of glassmaking surely goes back to the morning of the world. Theglassblower is a classic, like the sower who goes forth to sow, thepotter at his wheel, and the grinding of grain with mortar and pestle. Thus, too, the art of the mosaicist--who places bright bits of stone andglass in certain positions so as to form a picture--goes back to thedawn. The exquisite work in mosaic at Pompeii is the first thing thatimpresses the visitor to that silent city. Much of the work there wasdone long before the Christian era, and must have then been practisedmany centuries to bring it to such perfection. 

Young Tiziano from Cadore did not like the mere following of a setpattern--he introduced variations of his own, and got his nose tweakedfor trying to improve on a good thing. Altogether he seemed to have had ahard time of it there at Messer Zuccato's mosaic-shop. 

The painter's art, then as now, preceded the art of the mosaicist, forthe picture or design to be made in mosaic is first carefully drawn onpaper, and then colored, and the worker in mosaic is supposed simply tofollow copy. When you visit the glass-factories of Venice today, you seethe painted picture tacked up on the wall before the workmen, who withdeft fingers stick the bits of glass into their beds of putty. Thisscheme of painting a pattern is in order that cheap help can be employed;when it began we do not know, but we do know there was a time when thegreat artist in mosaic had his design in his head, and materialized it byrightly placing the bits of glass with his own hands, experimenting, selecting and rejecting until the thing was right. But this was beforethe time of Titian, for when Titian came down to Venice there werepainters employed in the shop of Sebastian Zuccato who made the designsfor the dunderheads to follow. That is not just the word the paintersused to designate the boys and women who placed the bits of glass inposition, but it meant the same thing. 

The painters thought themselves great folks, and used to make the otherswait on them and run errands, serving them as "fags. "

But the Vecellio boy did not worship at the shrine of the painters whomade the designs. He said he could make as good pictures himself, andstill continued to make changes in the designs when he thought theyshould be made; and once in a dispute between the boy and the maker of adesign, the master took sides with the boy. This inflated the lad withhis own importance so, that shortly after he applied for the position ofthe quarrelsome designer. 

The fine audacity of the youngster so pleased the master that he allowedhim to try his hand with the painters a few hours each day. He wasgetting no wages anyway, only his board, and the kind of board did notcost much, so it did not make much difference. 

In Venice at that time there were two painters by the name ofBellini--Gentile and Giovanni, sons of the painter Jacob Bellini, who hadbrought his boys up in the way they should go. Gian, as the Venetianscalled the younger brother, was the more noted of the two. Occasionallyhe made designs for the mosaicists, and this sometimes brought him tothe shop where young Titian worked. 

The boy got on speaking terms with the great painter, and ran errandsback and forth from his studio. When twelve years of age we find him dulyinstalled as a helper at Gian Bellini's studio, with an easel and box ofpaints all his own. 

 * * * * *

The brightest scholar in the studio of Gian Bellini was a young man bythe name of Giorgio, but they called him Giorgione, which beinginterpreted means George the Great. He was about the age of Titian, andthe two became firm friends. 

Giorgione was nearly twenty when we first hear of him. He was a handsomefellow--tall, slender, with an olive complexion and dreamy brown eyes. There was a becoming flavor of melancholy in his manner, and more thanone gracious dame sought to lure him back to earth, away from hissadness, out of the dream-world in which he lived. 

Giorgione was a musician and a poet. He sang his own pieces, playing theaccompaniment on a harp. Vasari says he sang his songs, playing his ownaccompaniment on a flute, but I think this is a mistake. 

Into all his work Giorgione infused his own soul--and do you know whatthe power to do that is? It is genius. To be able to make a statue islittle, but to breathe into its nostrils the breath of life--ah! that issomething else! The last elusive, undefinable stroke of the brush, thatsomething uniting the spirit of the beholder with the spirit of theartist, so that you feel as he felt when he wrought--that is art. Burne-Jones is the avatar of Giorgione. He subdues you into silence, andyou wait, expecting that one of his tall, soulful dream-women will speak, if you are but worthy--holding your soul in tune. 

Giorgione never wrought so well as Burne-Jones, because he lived in adifferent age--all art is an evolution. Painting is a form of expression, just as language is a form of expression. Every man who writes English isdebtor to Shakespeare. Every man who paints and expresses something ofthat which his soul feels is debtor to Giorgione and Botticelli. But tojudge of the greatness of an artist--mind this--you must compare him withhis contemporaries, not with those who were before or those who cameafter. The old masters are valuable, not necessarily for beauty, butbecause they reveal the evolution of art. 

Between Burne-Jones and Giorgione came Botticelli. Now, Botticellibuilded on Giorgione, while Burne-Jones builded on Botticelli. AubreyBeardsley, dead at the age at which Keats died, builded on both, but heperverted their art and put a leer where Burne-Jones placed faith andabiding trust. Aubrey Beardsley got the cue for his hothouse art from onefigure in Botticelli's "Spring, " I need not state which figure: a glanceat the picture and you behold sulphur fumes about the face of one of thewomen. 

Did Aubrey Beardsley infuse his own spirit into his work? Yes, I think hedid. Mrs. Jameson says, "There are no successful imitations of Giorgione, neither can there be, for the spirit of the man is in every face he drew, and the people who try to draw like him always leave that out. "

There are various pictures in the Louvre, the National Gallery, and thePinacothek at Munich, signed with Giorgione's name, but Mrs. Jamesondeclares they are not his, "because they do not speak to your soul withthat mild, beseeching look of pity, " Possibly we should make allowancefor Mrs. Jameson's warm praise--other women talked like that whenGiorgione was alive. 

Giorgione was one of those bright luminaries that dart across our planeof vision and then go out quickly in hopeless night, leaving only thememory of a blinding light. He died at thirty-three, which Disraelideclares is the age at which the world's saviors have usually died--andhe names the Redeemer first in a list of twenty who passed out at the ageof three-and-thirty. Disraeli does not say that all those in his listwere saviors, for the second name he records is that of Alexander theGreat, the list ending with Shelley. 

Giorgione died of a broken heart. 

The girl he loved eloped with his friend, Morta del Feltri, to whom hehad proudly introduced her a short time before. It is an old story--ithas been played again and again to its Da Rimini finish. The friendintroduces the friend, and the lauded virtues of this friend inflamesimagination, until love strikes a spark; then soon instead of three wefind one--one groping blindly, alone, dazed, stunned, bereft. 

The handsome Giorgione pined away, refusing to be comforted. And soon hisproud, melancholy soul took its flight from an environment with which hewas ever at war, and from a world which he never loved. And Titian wassent for to complete the pictures which he had begun. 

Surely, disembodied spirits have no control over mortals, or the soul ofGiorgione would have come back and smitten the hand of Titian with palsy. 

For a full year before he died Giorgione had not spoken to Titian, although he had seen him daily. 

Giorgione had surpassed all artists in Venice. He had a careless, easy, limpid style. But there was decision and surety in his swinging lines, and best of all, a depth of tenderness and pity in his faces that gave tothe whole a rich, full and melting harmony. 

Giorgione's head touched heaven, and his feet were not always on earth. Titian's feet were always on earth, and his head sometimes touchedheaven. Titian was healthy and in love with this old, happy, cruel, sensuous world. He was willing to take his chances anywhere. He had noquarrel with his environment, for did he not stay here a hundred years(lacking half a year), and then die through accident? Of course he likedit. One woman, for him, could make a paradise in which a thousandnightingales sang. And if one particular woman liked some one elsebetter, he just consoled himself with the thought that "there is just asgood fish, " etc. I will not quote Walt Whitman and say his feet weretenoned and mortised in granite, but they were well planted on thesoil--and sometimes mired in clay. 

Titian admired Giorgione; he admired him so much that he painted exactlylike him--or as nearly as he could. 

Titian was a good-looking young man, but he was not handsome likeGiorgione. Yet Titian did his best; he patronized Giorgione's tailor, imitated his dreamy, far-away look, used a brush with his left hand, andpainted with his thumb. His coloring was the same, and when he got acommission to fresco the ceiling of a church he did it as nearly likeGiorgione frescoes as he could. 

This kind of thing is not necessarily servile imitation--it is onlyadmiration tipped to t' other side. It is found everywhere in aspiringyouth and in every budding artist. 

As in the animal kingdom, genius has its prototype. In the NationalGallery at London you will see in the Turner Room a "Claude Lorraine" anda "Turner" hung side by side, as provided for in Turner's will. You wouldswear, were the pictures not labeled, that one hand did them both. Whenthirty, Turner admired Claude to a slavish degree; but we know there camea time when he bravely set sail on a chartless sea, and left the greatClaude Lorraine far astern. 

Titian loved Giorgione so well that he even imitated his faults. At firstthis high compliment was pleasing to Giorgione; then he becameindifferent, and finally disgusted. The very sight of Titian gave him apain. 

He avoided his society. He ceased to speak to him when they met, andforbade his friends to mention the name "Titian" in his presence. 

It was about this time that Giorgione's ladylove won fame by discardinghim in that foolish, fishwife fashion. He called his attendants andinstructed them thus: "Do not allow that painter from Cadore--never mindhis name--to attend my funeral--you understand?"

Then he turned his face to the wall and died. 

In his studio were various pictures partly completed, for it seems tohave been his habit to get rest by turning from one piece of work toanother. His executors looked at these unfinished canvases in despair. There was only one man in all Venice who could complete them, and thatwas Titian. 

Titian was sent for. 

He came, completed the pictures, signed them with the dead man's name, and gave them to the world. 

"And, " says the veracious Vasari, "they were done just as well, if notbetter than Giorgione himself could have done them, had he been alive!"

It was absurd of Giorgione to die of a broken heart and let Titian comein, making free with everything in his studio, and complete his work. Itwas very absurd. 

Time is the great avenger--let us wait. Morta del Feltri, the perfidiousfriend, grew tired of his mistress: their love was so warm it shortlyburned itself to ashes--ashes of roses. 

Morta deserted the girl, fled from Venice, joined the army, and a javelinplunged through his liver at the battle of Zara ended his career. 

The unhappy young woman, twice a widow, fought off hungry wolves byfinding work in a glass-factory, making mosaics at fourteen cents a day. When she was seventy, Titian, aged seventy-five, painted her picture as abeggar-woman. 

 * * * * *

The quality of sentiment that clings about the life of Giorgione seems toforbid a cool, critical view of his work. Byron indited a fine poem tohim; and poetic criticism seems for him the proper kind. The glamour ofsentiment conceals the real man from our sight. And anyway, it is hardlygood manners to approach a saint closely and examine his halo to seewhether it be genuine or not. Halos are much more beautiful when seenthrough the soft, mellow light of distance. 

Giorgione's work was mostly in fresco, so but little of it has survived. But of his canvases several surely have that tender, beseeching touch ofspirit which stamps the work as great art. 

Whether Mrs. Jameson is right in her assumption that all canvases bearingGiorgione's name are spurious which lack that look of pity, is aquestion. I think that Mrs. Jameson is more kind than critical, althoughmy hope is that Renan is correct in his gratuitous statement, "At theLast Great Day men will be judged by women, and the Almighty will merelyvise the verdict. " If this be true, all who, like Giorgione, have diedfor the love of woman will come off lightly. 

But the fact is, no man is great all the time. Genius is an exceptionalmood even in a genius, and happy is the genius who, like Tennyson, buildsa high wall about his house, so he is seen but seldom, and destroys mostof his commonplace work. 

Ruskin has printed more rubbish than literature--ten times over. I havehis complete works, and am sorry to say that, instead of confining myselfto "Sesame and Lilies, " I have foolishly read all the dreary stuff, including statistics, letters to Hobbs and Nobbs, with hot arguments asto who fished the murex up, and long, scathing tirades against the oldlegal shark who did him out of a hundred pounds. Surely, to be swindledby a lawyer is not so unusual a thing that it is worth recording!

But Ruskin wrote about it, had it put in print, read the proof, andprinted the stuff, so no one, no matter how charitably disposed, canarise and zealously declare that this only is genuine, and that spurious. It's all genuine--rubbish, bosh and all. 

Titian painted some dreary, commonplace pictures, and he also paintedothers that must ever be reckoned as among the examples of sublime artthat have made the world stronger in its day and generation and proud ofwhat has been. 

Titian was essentially a pagan. When he painted Christian subjects heintroduced a goodly flavor of the old Greek love of life. Indeed, thereis a strong doubt whether the real essence of Christianity was ever knownat Venice, except in rare individual cases. 

It was the spirit of the sea-kings, and not the gentle, loving Christ, that inspired her artists and men of learning. 

The sensuous glamour of the Orient steeped the walls of San Marco intheir rainbow tints, and gave that careless, happy habit to all theVenetian folk. In Titian's time, as today, gay gallants knelt in thechurches, and dark, dreamy eyes peeked out from behind mantillas, and thefan spoke a language which all lovers knew. Outside was the strong smellof the sea, and never could a sash be flung open to the azure but therewould come floating in on the breeze the gentle tinkle of a guitar. 

But Titian, too, as well as Giorgione, infused into his work at times thevery breath of life. 

At the Belle d' Arte at Venice is that grand picture, "The Assumption, "which for more than two hundred years was in the Church of Santa Mariade' Frari. When Napoleon appointed a commission to select the paintingsin Venice that were considered best worth preserving and protecting, andtake them to the Belle d' Arte, this picture was included in the list. Itwas then removed from its place, where it had so long hung, above thegrave of the man who executed it. 

I have several large photographs of this picture, showing differentportions of it. One of these pictures reveals simply the form of theVirgin. She rises from the earth, caught up in the clouds, the draperystreaming in soft folds, and on the upturned face is a look of love andtenderness and trust, combined with womanly strength, that hushes us intotears. 

Surely there is an upward law of gravitation as well as a gravitationthat pulls things down. Titian has shown us this. And as he drew over andover again in his pictures the forms and faces of the men and women heknew, so I imagine that this woman was a woman he knew and loved. She isnot a far-off, tenuous creature, born of dreams: she is a woman who haslived, suffered, felt, mayhap erred, and now turns to a Power, notherself, eternal in the heavens. Into this picture the artist infused hisown exalted spirit, for the mood we behold manifest in others is usuallybut the reflection of our own spirit. 

In some far-off eon, ere this earth-journey began, some woman looked atme that way once, just as Titian has this woman look, with the samemelting eyes and half-parted lips, and it made an impression on my soulthat subsequent incarnations have not effaced. 

I bought the photograph in Venice, at Ongania's, and paid three dollarsfor it. Then I framed it in simple, unplaned, unstained cedar, and ithangs over my desk now as I write. 

When I am tired and things go wrong, and the round blocks all seem to begetting into the square holes, and remembrances of the lawyer who cheatedme out of a hundred pounds come stealing like a blight over my spirit, Ilook up at the face of this woman who is not only angelic but human. Ibehold the steady upward flight and the tender look of pity, and my soulreaches out, grasping the hem of the garment of Her who we are told wasthe Mother of God, and with Her I leave the old sordid earth far beneathand go on, and on, and up, and up, and up, until my soaring spiritmingles and communes with the great Infinite. 

ANTHONY VAN DYCK

 His pieces so with live objects strive, That both or pictures seem, or both alive. Nature herself, amaz'd, does doubting stand, Which is her own and which the painter's hand, And does attempt the like with less success, When her own work in twins she would express. His all-resembling pencil did outpass The magic imagery of looking-glass. Nor was his life less perfect than his art. Nor was his hand less erring than his heart. There was no false or fading color there, The figures sweet and well-proportioned were. 

 --_Cowley's "Elegy on Sir Anthony Van Dyck"_

[Illustration: ANTHONY VAN DYCK]

The most common name in Holland is Van Dyck. Its simple inference is thatthe man lives on the dyke, or near it. In the good old days whenvillagers never wandered far from home, the appellation was sufficient, and even now, at this late day, it is not especially inconsistent. 

In Holland you are quite safe in addressing any man you meet as Van Dyck. 

The ancient Brotherhood of Saint Luke, of Antwerp, was always anexclusive affair, but during the years between Fifteen HundredNinety-seven and Sixteen Hundred Twenty-three there were twenty-sevenartists by the name of Van Dyck upon its membership register. Out ofthese two dozen and three names, but one interests us. 

Anthony Van Dyck was the son of a rich merchant. He was born in the yearFifteen Hundred Ninety-nine--just twenty-two years after the birth ofRubens. Before Anthony was ten years old the name and fame of Rubensillumined all Antwerp, and made it a place of pilgrimage for the faithfullovers of art of Northern Europe. 

The success of Rubens fired the ambition of young Van Dyck. His parentsfostered his desires, and after he had served an apprenticeship with theartist Van Balen, a place was secured for him in the Rubens studio. For afull year the ambitious Rubens took small notice of the Van Dyck lad, andpossibly would not have selected him then as a favorite pupil but for anaccident. 

Rubens reduced his work to a system. While in his studio he was theincarnation of fire and energy. But at four o'clock each day he dismissedhis pupils, locked the doors, and mounting his horse, rode off into thecountry, five miles and back. 

One afternoon, when the master had gone for his usual ride, several ofthe pupils returned to the studio, wishing to examine a certain picture, and by hook or by crook gained admittance. On an easel was a partlyfinished canvas, the paint fresh from the hands of the master. The boysexamined the work and then began to scuffle--boys of sixteen or seventeenalways scuffle when left to themselves. They scuffled so successfullythat the easel was upset, and young Van Dyck fell backwards upon the wetcanvas, so that the design was transferred to his trousers. 

The picture was ruined. 

The young men looked upon their work aghast. It meant disgrace for themall. 

In despair Van Dyck righted the easel, seized a brush, and began toreplace the picture ere it could fade from his memory. His partners incrime looked on with special personal interest and encouraged him withwords of lavish praise. He worked to within ten minutes of the time themaster was due; and then all made their escape by the window throughwhich they had entered. 

The next day, when the class assembled, the pupils were ordered to standup in line. Then they were catechized individually as to who had replacedthe master's picture with one of his own. 

All pleaded ignorance until the master reached the blond-haired Van Dyck. The boy made a clean breast of it all, save that he refused to reveal thenames of his accomplices. 

"Then you painted the picture alone?"

"Yes, " came the firm answer that betokened the offender was resolved onstanding the consequences. 

The master relieved the strained tension by a laugh, and declared that hehad only discovered the work was not his own by perceiving that it was alittle better than he could do. Accidents are not always unlucky--thisadvanced young Van Dyck at once to the place of first assistant to PeterPaul Rubens. 

 * * * * *

Commissions were pouring in on Rubens. With him the tide was at flood. Hehad been down to Paris and had returned in high spirits with orders tocomplete that extensive set of pictures for Marie de Medici; he also hadcommissions from various churches; and would-be sitters for portraitswaited in his parlors, quarreling about which should have first place. 

Van Dyck, his trusted first lieutenant, lived in his house. The youngerman had all the dash, energy and ambition of the older one. He caught thespirit of the master, and so great was his skill that he painted in a waythat thoroughly deceived the patrons; they could not tell whether Rubensor Van Dyck had done the work. 

This was very pleasing to Rubens. But when Van Dyck began sending outpictures on his own account, properly signed, and people said they wereequal to those of Rubens, if not better, Rubens shrugged his shoulders. 

There was as little jealousy in the composition of Peter Paul Rubens asin any artistic man we can name; but to declare that he was incapable ofjealousy, as a few of his o'er-zealous defenders did, is to apply thewhitewash. The artistic temperament is essentially feminine, and jealousyis one of its inherent attributes. Of course there are all degrees ofjealousy, but the woman who can sit serenely by and behold her charmsignored for those of another, by one who yesterday sat at her feet makingballad to her eyebrow and sighing like a furnace, does not exist on theplanet called Earth. 

The artist, in any line, craves praise, and demands applause as hislawful right; and the pupil who in excellence approaches him, pays him acompliment that warms the cockles of his heart. But let a pupil onceequal him and the pupil's name is anathema. I can not conceive of any manborn of woman who would not detest another man who looked like him, actedlike him, and did difficult things just as well. Such a one robs us ofour personality, and personality is all there is of us. 

The germ of jealousy in Rubens' nature had never been developed. Hedallied with no "culture-beds, " and the thought that any one could everreally equal him had never entered his mind. His conscious sense of powerkept his head high above the miasma of fear. 

But now a contract for certain portraits that were to come from theRubens studio had been drawn up by the Jesuit Brothers, and in thecontract was inserted a clause to the effect that Van Dyck should work oneach one of the pictures. 

"Pray you, " said Rubens, "to which Van Dyck do you refer? There are manyof the name in Antwerp. "

The jealousy germ had begun to develop. 

And about this time Van Dyck was busying himself as understudy, by makinglove to Rubens' wife. Rubens was a score of years older than his pupil, and Isabella was somewhere between the two--say ten years older than VanDyck, but that is nothing! These first fierce flames that burn in theheart of youth are very apt to be for some fair dame much older thanhimself. No psychologist has ever yet just fathomed the problem, and I amsure it is too deep for me--I give it up. And yet the fact remains, forhow about Doctor Samuel Johnson--and did not our own Robert Louis falldesperately in love with a woman sixteen years his senior? Aye, andmarried her, too, first asking her husband's consent, and furtherancealso being supplied by the ex-husband giving the bride away at the altar. At least, we have been told so. 

Were this sketch a catalog, a dozen notable instances could be given inwhich very young men have been struck hard by women old enough to havenursed them as babes. 

Van Dyck loved Isabella Rubens ardently. He grew restless, feverish, lostappetite and sighed at her with lack-luster eye across the dinner-table. Rubens knew of it all, and smiled a grim, sickly smile. 

"I, too, love every woman who sits to me for a portrait. He'll get overit, " said the master. "It all began when I allowed him to paint herpicture. "

Busy men of forty, with ambitions, are not troubled by Anthony Hope'sinterrogation. They glibly answer, "No, no, love is not all--it's only asmall part of life--simply incidental!"

But Van Dyck continued to sigh, and all of his spare time was taken up inpainting pictures of the matronly Isabella. He managed to work even inspite of loss of appetite; and sitters sometimes called at the studio andasked for "Master Van Dyck, " whereas before there was only one master inthe whole domain. 

Rubens grew aweary. 

He was too generous to think of crushing Van Dyck, and too wise toattempt it. To cast him out and recognize him openly as a rival would beto acknowledge his power. A man with less sense would have kicked thelovesick swain into the street. Rubens was a true diplomat. He decided toget rid of Van Dyck and do it in a way that would cause no scandal, andat the same time be for the good of the young man. 

He took Van Dyck into his private office and counseled with him calmly, explaining to him how hopeless must be his love for Isabella. He furthersucceeded in convincing the youth that a few years in Italy would add thecapsheaf to his talent. Without Italy he could not hope to win all; withItaly all doors would open at his touch. 

Then he led him to his stable and presented him with his bestsaddle-horse, and urged immediate departure for a wider field andpastures new. 

A few days later the handsome Van Dyck--with a goodly purse of gold, passports complete, and saddlebags well filled with various letters ofintroduction to Rubens' Italian friends--followed by a cart filled withhis belongings, started gaily away, bound for the land where art had itsbirth. 

"With Italy--with Italy I can win all!" he kept repeating to himself ashe turned his horse's head to the South. 

 * * * * *

The first day's ride took the artistic traveler to the little village ofSaventhem, five miles from Brussels. Here he turned aside long enough tosay good-by to a fair young lady, Anna Van Ophem by name, whom he had meta few months before at Antwerp. 

He rode across the broad pasture, entered the long lane lined withpoplars, and followed on to the spacious old stone mansion in the groveof trees. 

Anna herself saw him coming and came out to meet him. They had not beenso very well acquainted, but the warmth of a greeting all depends uponwhere it takes place. It was lonely for the beautiful girl there in thecountry: she welcomed the handsome young painter-man as though he were along-lost brother, and proudly introduced him to her parents. 

Instead of a mere call he was urged to put up his horse and remainovernight; and a servant was sent out to find the man who drove the cartwith the painter's belongings, and make him comfortable. 

The painter decided that he would remain overnight and make an earlystart on the morrow. 

And it was so agreed. 

There was music in the evening, and pleasant converse until a late hour, for the guest must sit up and see the moon rise across the meadow--itwould make such a charming subject for a picture!

So they sat up to see the moon rise across the meadow. 

At breakfast the next morning there was a little banter on the subject ofpainting. Could not the distinguished painter remain over one day andgive his hosts a taste of his quality?

"I surely will if the fair Anna will sit for her portrait!" hecourteously replied. 

The fair Anna consented. 

The servant who drove the cart had gotten on good terms with the servantsof the household, and was being initiated into the mysteries of makingDutch cheese. 

Meanwhile the master had improvised a studio and was painting theportrait of the charming Anna. 

After working two whole days he destroyed the canvas because the picturewas not keyed right, and started afresh. The picture was fairish good, but his desire now was to paint the beautiful Anna as the Madonna. 

Van Dyck's affections having been ruthlessly uprooted but a few daysbefore, the tendrils very naturally clung to the first object thatpresented itself--and this of course was the intelligent and patientsitter, aged nineteen last June. 

If Rubens could not paint the picture of a lady without falling in lovewith her, what should be expected of his best pupil, Van Dyck?

Pygmalion loved into life the cold marble which his hand had shaped, andthus did Van Dyck love his pictures into being. All portrait-painters aresociable--they have to be in order to get acquainted with the subject. The best portrait-painter in America talks like a windmill as he works, and tries a whole set round of little jokes, and dry asides and triteaphorisms on the sitter, meanwhile cautiously noting the effect. For ofcourse so long as a sitter is coldly self-conscious, and fully mindfulthat he is "being took, " his countenance is as stiff, awkward, andconstrained as that of a farmer at a dinner-party. 

Hence the task devolves upon the portrait-artist to bring out, by themagic of his presence, the nature of the subject. "In order to paint atruly correct likeness, you must know your sitter thoroughly, " said VanDyck. 

The gracious Rubens prided himself on his ability in this line. He wouldoften spend half an hour busily mending a brush or mixing paints, talkingthe while, but only waiting for the icy mood of the sitter to thaw. Thenhe would arrange the raiment of his patron, sometimes redress the hair, especially of his lady patrons, and once we know he kissed the cheek ofthe Duchess of Mantua, "so as to dispel her distant look. " I know aportrait-artist in Albany who is said to occasionally salute his ladycustomers by the same token, and if they protest he simply explains tothem that it was all in the interest of art--in other words, artifice forart's sake. 

After three days at the charming old country-seat at Saventhem, Van Dyckcalled his servant and told him to take the shoes off of thesaddle-horse, and turn it and the cart-horse loose in the pasture. Hehad decided to remain and paint a picture for the village church. 

And it was so done. 

The pictures that Van Dyck then painted are there now in the same oldivy-grown, moss-covered church at Saventhem. The next time you are inBrussels it will pay you to walk out and see them. 

One of the pictures is called "Saint Martin Dividing His Cloak With TwoBeggars. " The Saint is modestly represented by Van Dyck himself, seatedastride the beautiful horse that Rubens gave him. 

The other picture is "The Holy Family, " in which the fair Anna posed forthe Virgin, and her parents and kinsmen are grouped around her as theMagi and attendants. 

Both pictures reveal the true Van Dyck touch, and are highly prized bythe people of the village and the good priests of the church. Each nighta priest carries in a cot and sleeps in the chancel to see that thesepriceless works of art are protected from harm. When you go there to seethem, give the cowled attendant a franc and he will unfold the tale, notjust as I have written it, but substantially. He will tell you that VanDyck stopped here on his way to Italy and painted these pictures as apious offering to God, and what boots it after all!

More than once have the village peasants collected, armed with scythes, hoes and pitchforks, to protect these sacred pictures from vandalism onthe part of lustful collectors or marauding bands of soldiers. 

In Eighteen Hundred Fourteen, a detachment of French soldiers killed adozen of the villagers, and a priest fell fighting for these treasures onthe sacred threshold, stabbed to his death. Then the vandals tramped overthe dead bodies, entered the church, and cut from its frame Van Dyck's"Holy Family" and carried the picture off to Paris. But after Napoleonhad gotten his Waterloo (only an hour's horseback ride from Saventhem), the picture was restored to the villagers on order of the Convention. 

Rubens waited expectantly, thinking to have news from his brilliant pupilin Italy. He waited a month. Two months passed, and still no word. Afterthree months a citizen reported that the day before he had seen Van Dyck, aided by a young woman, putting up a picture in the village church atSaventhem. 

Rubens saddled his horse and rode down there. He found Van Dyck and hislady-love sitting hand in hand on a mossy bank, in a leafy grove, listening to the song of a titmouse. Rubens did not chide the young man;he merely took him one side and told him that he had stayed long enough, and "beyond the Alps lies Italy. " He also suggested that Anthony Van Dyckcould not afford to follow the example of his illustrious Roman namesakewho went down into Egypt and found things there so softly luxurious thathe forgot home, friends, country--all! To remain at Saventhem would bedeath to his art--he must have before him the example of the masters. 

Van Dyck said he would think about it; and Rubens took a look at his oldsaddle-horse rolling in the pasture or wading knee-deep in clover, androde back home. 

In a few days he sent Chevalier Nanni down to the country-seat atSaventhem, to tell Van Dyck that he was on his way to Italy and that VanDyck had better accompany him. 

Van Dyck concluded to go. He made tearful promises to his beautiful Annathat he would return for her in a year. 

And so the servant, who had become an expert in the making of Dutchcheese, caught the horses out of the pasture, and having rebroken them, the cavalcade started southward in good sooth. 

 * * * * *

It was four years before Van Dyck returned. He visited Milan, Florence, Verona, Mantua, Venice and Rome, and made himself familiar with the worksof the masters. Everywhere he was showered with attention, and the factthat he was the friend and protege of Rubens won him admittance into thepalaces of the nobles. 

The four years in Italy widened his outlook and transformed him from amerely handsome youth into a man of dignity and poise. 

Great was his relief when he returned to Antwerp to hear that the prettyAnna Van Ophem of Saventhem had been married three years before to aworthy wine merchant of Brussels, and was now the proud mother of twohandsome boys. 

Great was the welcome that Van Dyck received at Antwerp; and in it allthe gracious Rubens joined. But there was one face the returned travelermissed: Isabella had died the year before. 

The mere fact that a man has been away for several years studying hisprofession gives him a decided prestige when he returns. Van Dyck, freshfrom Italy, exuberant with life and energy, became at once the vogue. 

He opened a studio, following the same lines that Rubens had, and severalchurches gave him orders for extensive altarpieces. 

Antwerp prided herself on being an artistic center. Buyers from Englandnow and then appeared, and several of Rubens' pictures had been taken toLondon to decorate the houses and halls of royalty. 

Portrait-painting is the first form of art that appeals to a rude anduncultivated people. To reproduce the image of a living man in stone, orto show a likeness of his face in paint, is calculated to give a thrilleven to a savage. There is something mysterious in the art, and thedesire to catch the shadow ere the substance fades is strong in the humanheart. One reason that sacred art was so well encouraged in the MiddleAges was because the faces portrayed were reproductions of living men andwomen. This lent an intense personal interest in the work, and insuredits fostering care. Callous indeed was the noble who would not pay goodcoin to have himself shown as Saint Paul, or his enemy as Judas. In fact, "Judas Receiving the Thirty Pieces of Silver" was a very common subject, and the "Judas" shown was usually some politician who had given offense. 

In Sixteen Hundred Twenty-eight, England had not yet developed anart-school of her own. All her art was an importation, for although somefine pictures had been produced in England, they were all the work offoreigners--men who had been brought over from the Continent. 

Henry the Eighth had offered Raphael a princely sum if he would come toLondon and work for a single year. Raphael, however, could not be sparedfrom Italy to do work for "the barbarians, " and so he sent his pupil, Luca Penni. Bluff old Hans Holbein also abode in England and drew agoodly pension from the State. 

During the reign of Mary and her Spanish husband, Philip, severalpictures by Titian arrived in London, via Madrid. Then, too, there werevarious copies of pictures by Paul Veronese, Murillo and Velasquez thatlong passed for original, because the copyist had faithfully placed thegreat artist's trademark in the proper place. 

Queen Elizabeth held averages good by encouraging neither art normatrimony--whereas her father had set her the example of being a liberalpatron of both. If Elizabeth never discovered Shakespeare, how could shebe expected to know Raphael?

About Sixteen Hundred Twenty, the year the "Mayflower" sailed, PaulVensomer, Cornelis Jannsen and Daniel Mytens went over to England fromthe Netherlands and quickly made fortunes by painting portraits for thenobility. This was the first of that peculiar rage for having a hallfilled with ancestors. The artists just named painted pictures of peoplelong gone hence, simply from verbal descriptions, and warranted thelikeness to give satisfaction. 

Oh, the Dutch are a thrifty folk!

James the First had no special eye for beauty--no more than Elizabethhad--but a few of his nobles were intent on providing posterity withhandsome ancestors, and so the portrait-painter flourished. 

An important move in the cause of literature was made by King James whenhe placed Sir Walter Raleigh in the Tower; for Raleigh's bestcontributions to letters were made during those thirteen years when hewas alone, with the world locked out. And when his mind began to lose itsflash, the King wisely put a quietus on all danger of an impaired outputby cutting off the author's head. 

Still, there was no general public interest in art until the generousCharles appeared upon the scene. Charles was an elegant scholar andprided himself on being able to turn a sonnet or paint a picture; and theonly reason, he explained, why he did not devote all his time toliterature and art was because the State must be preserved. He could hiremen to paint, but where could one be found who could govern?

Charles had purchased several of Rubens' pieces, and these had attractedmuch attention in London. Receptions were given where crowds surged andclamored and fought, just to get a look at the marvelous painting of thewonderful Fleming. Such gorgeous skill in color had never before beenseen in England. 

Charles knighted Rubens and did his best to make him a permanent attacheof his Court; but Rubens had too many interests of a financial andpolitical nature at home to allow himself to be drawn away from hisbeloved Antwerp. 

But now he had a rival--the only real rival he had ever known. Van Dyckwas making head. The rival was younger, handsomer, and had such ablandishing tongue and silken manner that the crowd began to call hisname and declare he was greater than Cæsar. 

Yet Rubens showed not a sign of displeasure on his fine face--he bowedand smiled and agreed with the garrulous critics when they smote thetable and declared that all of Van Dyck's Madonnas really winked. 

He bided his time. 

And it soon came, for the agent of Lord Arundel, that great Mæcenas ofthe polite arts, came over to Flanders to secure treasures, and of coursecalled on Rubens. 

And Rubens talked only of Van Dyck--the marvelous Van Dyck. 

The agent secured several copies of Van Dyck's work, and went back toEngland, telling of all that Rubens had told him, with a littleadditional coloring washed in by his own warm imagination. 

To discover a genius is next to being one yourself. Lord Arundel feltthat all he had heard of Van Dyck must be true, and when he went to theKing and told him of the prodigy he had found, the King's zeal was warmas that of the agent, for does not the "messianic instinct" always live?

This man must be secured at any cost. They had failed to secure Rubens, but the younger man had no family ties, no special property interests, neither was he pledged to his home government as was Rubens. 

Straightway the King of England dispatched a messenger urging Anthony VanDyck to come over to England. The promised rewards and honors were toogreat for the proud and ambitious painter to refuse. He started forEngland. 

 * * * * *

In stature Van Dyck was short, but of a very compact build. He carriedthe crown of his head high, his chin in, and his chest out. His name isanother added to that list of big-little men who had personality plus, and whose presence filled a room. Cæsar, Napoleon, Lord Macaulay, AaronBurr and that other little man with whom Burr's name is inseparablylinked, belong to the same type. These little men with such dynamic forcethat they can do the thinking for a race are those who have swerved theold world out of her ruts--whether for good or ill is not the questionhere. 

When you find one of these big-little men, if he does not stalk throughsociety a conquering Don Juan it is because we still live in an age ofmiracles. 

Women fed on Van Dyck's smile, and pined when he did not deign to noticethem. He was royal in all his tastes--his manner was regal, and so proudwas his step that when he passed forbidden lines, sentinels and servantssaluted and made way, never daring to ask him for card, passport orcountersign. 

He gloried in his power and worked it to its farthest limit. 

Unlike Rembrandt, he never painted beggars; nor did he ever stoop asTitian did when he pictured his old mother as a peasant woman at market, in that gem of the Belle d' Arte at Venice; nor did he ever reveal on hiscanvas wrinkled, weather-worn old sailors, as did Velasquez. 

He pictured only royalty, and managed, in all his portraits, to put alook of leisure and culture and quiet good-breeding into the face, whether it was in the original or not. In fact, he fused into everypicture that he painted a goodly modicum of his own spirit. You canalways tell a Van Dyck portrait; there is in the face a self-sufficiency, a something that speaks of "divine right"--not of arrogance, forarrogance and assumption reveal a truth which man is trying to hide, andthat is that his position is a new acquirement. Van Dyck's people are allto the manner born. 

He was thirty-three years old when he arrived in England. 

King Charles furnished the painter a house at Blackfriars, fronting theThames, to insure a good light, and gave him a summer residence in Kent. All his expenses were paid by the State, and as his tastes were regal thedemands on the public exchequer were not small. His title was, "PrincipalPainter in Ordinary to the King and Queen of England. "

Van Dyck had worked so long with Rubens that he knew how to use 'prenticetalent. He studied by a system and turned off a prodigious number ofcanvases. The expert can at once tell a picture painted by Van Dyckduring his career in England: it lacks the care and finish that was shownin his earlier years. Yet there is a subtle sweep and strength in it allthat reveals the personality of the artist. 

Twenty-two pictures he painted of King Charles that we can trace. Thesewere usually sent away as presents. And it is believed that in the sevenyears Van Dyck lived in England he painted nearly one thousand portraits. 

The courtly manner and chivalrous refinement of the Fleming made him aprime favorite of Charles. He was even more kingly than the King. 

In less than three months after he arrived in England Charles publiclyknighted him, and placed about his neck a chain of gold to which wasattached a locket, set with diamonds, containing a picture of the King. 

A record of Van Dyck's affairs of the heart would fill a book. His oldhabit of falling in love with every lady patron grew upon him. Hisreputation went abroad, and his custom of thawing the social ice bytalking soft nonsense to the lady on the sitter's throne, while itrepelled some allured others. 

At last Charles grew nettled and said that to paint Lady Digby as "TheVirgin" might be all right, and even to turn around and picture her as"Susanna at the Bath" was not necessarily out of place, but to showMargaret Lemon, Anne Carlisle and Catherine Wotton as "The Three Graces"was surely bad taste. And furthermore, when these same women were shownas "Psyche, " "Diana" and the "Madonna"--just as it happened--it wasreally too much!

In fact, the painter must get married; and the King and Queen selectedfor him a wife in the person of a Scottish beauty, Maria Ruthven. 

Had this proposition come a few years before, the proud painter wouldhave flouted it. But things were changed. Twinges of gout and sharptouches of sciatica backed up the King's argument that to reform were thepart of wisdom. Van Dyck's manly shape was tending to embonpoint: he hadevolved a double chin, the hair on his head was rather seldom, and hecould no longer run upstairs three steps at a time. Yes, he would getmarried, live the life of a staid, respectable citizen, and paint onlyreligious subjects. Society was nothing to him--he would give it upentirely. 

And so Sir Anthony Van Dyck was married to Maria Ruthven, at Saint Paul'sCathedral, and the King gave the bride away, ceremonially and in fact. 

Sir Anthony's gout grew worse, and after some months the rheumatism tookan inflammatory turn. Other complications entered, which we would nowcall Bright's Disease--that peculiar complaint of which poor men stand inlittle danger. 

The King offered the Royal Physician a bonus of five hundred pounds if hewould cure Van Dyck: but if he had threatened to kill the doctor if thepatient died, just as did the Greek friends of Byron, when the poet wasill at Rome, it would have made no difference. 

A year after his marriage, and on the day that Maria Ruthven gave birthto a child, Anthony Van Dyck died, aged forty years. Rubens had died buta few months before. 

The fair Scottish wife did not care to retain her illustrious name at theexpense of loneliness, and so shortly married again. Whom she marriedmatters little, since it would require a search-warrant to unearth eventhe man's name, so dead is he. But inasmuch as the brilliant HelenaFourment, second wife of Rubens, whose picture was so often painted byher artist-husband, married again, why shouldn't Madame Van Dyck followthe example?

It is barely possible that Charles Lamb was right when he declared thatno woman married to a genius ever believed her husband to be one. We knowthat the wife of Edmund Spenser became the Faerie Queene of another soonafter his demise, and whenever Spenser was praised in her presence sheput on a look that plainly said, "I could a tale unfold. "

My own opinion is that a genius makes a very bad husband. And further, Ihave no faith in that specious plea, "A woman who marries a second timeconfers upon her first husband the highest compliment, for her actionimplies that she was so happy in her first love that she is more thanwilling to try it again. "

I think the reverse is more apt to be the truth, and that the woman whohas been sorely disappointed in her first marriage is anxious to try thegreat experiment over again, in order if possible to secure that blisswhich every daughter of Eve feels is her rightful due. 

Maria Ruthven lived to rear a goodly brood of children, and Samuel Pepysrecords that she used to send a sort o' creepy feeling down the backs ofcallers by innocently introducing her children thus: "This is my eldestdaughter, whose father was Sir Anthony Van Dyck, of whom you havedoubtless heard; and these others are my children by my present husband, Sergeant Nobody. " Van Dyck's remains are buried in Saint Paul'sCathedral. A very fine monument, near the grave of Turner, marks thespot; but his best monument is in the examples of his work that are to befound in every great art-gallery of the world. 

FORTUNY

 I think I knew Fortuny as well as any one did. He was surcharged with energy, animation and good-cheer; and the sunshine he worked into every canvas he attempted, was only a reflection of the sparkling, gem-like radiance of his own nature. He absorbed from earth, air, sky, the waters and men, and transmuted all dross into gold. To him all things were good. 

 --_Letter From Regnault_

[Illustration: FORTUNY]

Now, once upon a day there was a swart, stubby boy by the name of MarianoFortuny. He was ten years old, going on 'leven, and lived with hisgrandfather away up and up four flights of rickety stairs in an old houseat the village of Reus, in Spain. Mariano's father had died some yearsbefore--died mysteriously in a drunken fight at a fair, where he ran aPunch and Judy show. Some said the Devil had come and carried him off, just as he nightly did Mr. Punch. 

Frowsy, little, shock-headed Mariano didn't feel so awfully bad when hisfather died, because his father used to make him turn the hand-organ allday, and half the night, and take up the collections; and the fond parentused to cuff him when there were less than ten coppers in the tambourine. They traveled around from place to place, with a big yellow dog and alittle blue wagon that contained the show. They hitched their wagon to adog. At night they would sleep in some shed back of a tavern, or under atable at a market, and Mariano would pillow his head on the yellow dogand curl up in a ball trying to keep warm. 

When the father died, a tall man, who carried a sword and wore spurs, andhad two rows of brass buttons down the front of his coat, took the dogand the wagon and the Punch and Judy show and sold 'em all--so as to getmoney to pay the funeral expenses of the dead man. 

The tall man with the sword might have sold little Mariano, too, orthrown him in with the lot for good measure, but nobody seemed to wantthe boy--they all had more boys than they really needed already. 

A fat market-woman gave the lad a cake, and another one gave him twooranges, and still another market-woman, fatter than the rest, blew hernose violently on her check apron and said it was too bad a boy like thatdidn't have a mother. 

Mariano never had a mother--at least none that he knew of, and it reallyseemed as if it didn't make much difference, but now he began to cry, and, since the fat woman had suggested it, really wished he had a mother, after all. 

There was an old priest standing by in the group. Mariano had not noticedhim. But when the priest said, "But God is both our father and ourmother, so no harm can come to us!" Mariano looked up in his face andfelt better. 

The priest's name was Father Gonzales; Mariano knew, because this is whatthe market-woman called him. The fat market-woman talked with the priest, and the priest talked with the man with the dangling sword, and thenFather Gonzales took the boy by the hand and led him away, and Marianotrotted along by his side, quite content, save for a stifled wish thatthe big yellow dog might go too. And it is a gross error to suppose thata yellow dog is necessarily nothing but a canine whose capillary coveringis highly charged with ocherish pigment. 

Where they were going made no difference. "God is our father and ourmother"--Father Gonzales said so--and, faith! he ought to know. 

And by and by they came to the tall old tenement-house, and climbed upthe stairs to where Mariano's old "grandfather" lived. Perhaps he wasn'tMariano's sure-enough grandfather, but he was just as good as if he hadbeen. 

 * * * * *

But now it was an awfully long time ago since little Mariano and FatherGonzales had first climbed the stairs to where Grandfather Fortuny lived. The old grandfather and Mariano worked very hard, but they were quitecontent and happy. They had enough to eat, and each had a straw bed andwarm blankets to cover him at night, and when the weather was very coldthey made a fire of charcoal in a brazier and sat before it withspread-out hands, very thankful that God had given them such a good homeand so many comforts. 

The grandfather made images out of white plaster, flowers sometimes, andcurious emblems that people bought for votive offerings. Little Mariano'sshare in the work was to color the figures with blue and red paint, andgive a lifelike tint to the fruit and bouquets that the grandfather castfrom the white plaster. 

Father Gonzales was their best customer, and used often to come up andwatch Mariano paint an image of the Virgin, just as he ordered it. Mariano was very proud to receive Father Gonzales' approval; and when theimage was complete he would sometimes get a copper extra for deliveringthe work to some stricken person that the priest wished especially toremember. For one of Father Gonzales' peculiarities was that although hebought lots of things he always gave them away. 

Mariano used often to carry letters and packages for Father Gonzales. 

One day the good priest came up the stairs quite out of breath. Hecarried a letter in his hand. 

"Here, Mariano, my boy, you can run, while my poor old legs are full ofrheumatism. Here, take this letter down to the Diligence Office and tellthem to send it tonight, sure. It is for the Bishop at Barcelona and itmust be in his hands before tomorrow. Run now, for the last post closesvery soon. "

Mariano took the letter, dived hatless out of the door and, sitting onthe first stair, shot to the bottom like the slide to doom. 

Grandfather Fortuny and the gentle old priest leaned out over the stonewindow-sill and laughed to see the boy scurry down the street. 

Then the priest went his way. 

Grandfather Fortuny waited, looking out of the window, for the boy tocome back. The boy did not come. 

He waited. 

Lights began to flicker in the windows across the way. 

A big red star came up in the West. The wind blew fresh and cool. 

The old man shut down the sash, and looked at the untasted supper ofbrown bread and goat's milk and fresh fruit. 

He took his hat from the peg and his cane from the corner and hobbleddown the stairs. He went to the Diligence Office. No one there rememberedseeing the boy--how can busy officials be expected to remembereverything?

Grandfather Fortuny made his way to the house of Father Gonzales. Thepriest had been called away to attend a man sick unto death--he would notbe back for an hour. 

The old man waited--waited one hour--two. 

Father Gonzales came, and listened calmly to the troubled tale of the oldman. Then together they made their way over to the tall tenement and upthe creaky stairway. 

There was the flicker of a candle to be seen under the door. 

They entered, and there at the table sat Mariano munching silently on hismidnight supper. 

"Where have you been?" was the surprised question of both old men, speaking as one person. 

"Me? I've been to Barcelona to give the letter to the Bishop--the lastdiligence had gone, " said the boy with his mouth full of bread. 

"To Barcelona--ten miles, and back?"

"Me? Yes. "

"Did you walk?"

"No, I ran. "

Father Gonzales looked at Grandfather Fortuny, and Grandfather Fortunylooked at Father Gonzales; then they both burst out laughing. Marianoplaced an extra plate on the table, and the three drew up chairs. 

 * * * * *

Business was looking up with Grandfather Fortuny and Mariano. All theimages they made were quickly taken. People said they liked the way thecheeks and noses of the Apostles were colored; and when Father Gonzalesbrought in a sailor who had been shipwrecked, and the sailorman left tenpesetas for a plaster-of-Paris ship to be placed as a votive offering inthe Chapel of Saint Dominic, their cup was full. 

Mariano made the ship himself, and painted it, adding the yellow pennantof Spain to the mainmast. 

This piece of work caused a quarrel between Grandfather Fortuny andFather Gonzales. The priest declared that a boy like that shouldn't wastehis youth in the shabby, tumble-down village of Reus--he should go toBarcelona and receive instruction in art. 

The grandfather cried and protested that the boy was all he had to lovein the wide world; he himself was growing feeble, and without the lad'shelp at the business nothing could be done--starvation would be the end. 

Besides, it would take much money to send Mariano to the Academy--itwould take all their savings, and more! Do not inflate the child withfoolish notions of making a fortune and winning fame! The world is cruel, men are unkind, and the strife of trying to win leads only todisappointment and vain regret at the last. Did not the artist Salviocommit suicide? Mariano had now a trade--who in Reus could make an imageof the Virgin and color it in green, red and yellow so it would sell onsight for two pesetas?

Father Gonzales smiled and said something about images at two pesetaseach as compared with the work of Murillo and Velasquez. He laughed atthe old man's fears of starvation, and defied him to name a single casewhere any one had ever starved. And as for expenses, why, he had thoughtit all out: he would pay Mariano's expenses himself!

"Should we two old men, about ready to die, stand in the way of thesuccess of that boy?" exclaimed the priest. "Why, he will be an artistyet, do you hear?--an artist!"

They compromised on the Grammar-School, with three lessons a week by adrawing-master. 

Grandfather Fortuny did not starve. Mariano was a regular steam-enginefor work. He made more images evenings, and better ones, than they hadever made before during the day. 

Finally Father Gonzales' wishes prevailed and Mariano was sent to theAcademy at Barcelona. Out of his own scanty income the old priest setaside a sum equal to eight dollars a month for Mariano; and when thegrandfather's sight grew too feeble for him to work at his trade he movedover to the rectory. 

For a year, Father Gonzales sent the eight dollars on the first of eachmonth. And then there came to him a brusk notification from ClaudioLorenzale, the Director of the Academy, to the effect that certain sumshad been provided by the City of Barcelona to pay the expenses of four ofthe most worthy pupils at the Academy, and Mariano Fortuny had been votedas one who should receive the benefit of the endowment. 

Father Gonzales read the notice to Grandfather Fortuny, and then theysent out for a fowl, and a bottle and a loaf of bread two feet long; andtogether the two old men made merry. 

The grandfather had now fully come to the belief that the lad would someday be a great artist. 

We do not know much concerning the details of Mariano's life atBarcelona, save from scraps of information he now and then gave out tohis friends Regnault and Lorenzo Valles, and which they in turn havegiven to us. 

Yet we know he won the love of his teachers, and that Federico Madrazopicked out his work and especially recommended it. 

Madrazo, I believe, is living now--at least he was a few years ago. Hewas born and bred an artist. His father, Joseph, had been a pupil underDavid, and was an artist of more than national renown. He served theCourt at Madrid in various diplomatic relations, and won wealth and anoble name. 

Federico Madrazo used to spend a portion of his time at the Academy ofBarcelona as instructor and adviser to the Director. I do not know hisofficial position, if he had one, but I know he afterward became theDirector of the Museum of Art at Madrid. 

Madrazo had two sons, who are now celebrated in the art world. One ofthem, Raimonde Madrazo, is well known in Paris, and, in Eighteen HundredNinety-three, had several pictures on exhibition at the ChicagoExposition; while another son, Rivera, is a noted sculptor and a painterof no small repute. 

And so it was that Mariano Fortuny at Barcelona attracted the attentionof Federico Madrazo, the artist patrician. 

I can not find that Mariano's work at this time had any very specialmerit. It merely showed the patient, painstaking, conscientious workman. But the bright, strong, eager young man was the sort that every teachermust love. He knew what he was at school for, and did his best. 

Madrazo said, "He's a manly fellow, and if he does not succeed he is nowdoing more--he deserves success. " So Mariano Fortuny and the greatMadrazo, pupil and teacher, became firm friends. 

And we know that, in Eighteen Hundred Fifty-seven, Mariano was voted the"Prize of Rome. " Each year this prize was awarded to the scholar who onvote of the teachers and scholars was deemed most deserving. It meant twoyears of study at Rome with five hundred dollars a year for expenses. Andthe only obligation was that the pupil should each year send home twopaintings: one an original and the other a copy of some old masterpiece. 

The sum of two hundred fifty dollars was advanced to Mariano at once. Hestraightway sent one-half of the amount down to his grandfather, withparticulars of the good news. 

"What did I tell you?" said the grandfather. "It was I who first taughthim to use a brush. I used to caution him about running his reds into hisgreens, and told him to do as I said and he would be a great artist yet. "

Father Gonzales and Grandfather Fortuny went out and bought two fowls, three bottles, and a loaf of bread a yard long. 

Mariano made all preparations to start for Rome. But the night before thejourney was to begin, conscription officers came to his lodging and toldhim to consider himself under arrest--he must serve the State as asoldier. 

It seems that the laws of Spain are such that any citizen can be calledon to carry arms at any moment; and there are officials who do little butlie in wait for those who can pay, but have no time to fight. Theseofficials are more intent on bleeding their countrymen than the enemy. 

Mariano applied to his friend Madrazo for advice as to what to do, andMadrazo simply cut the Gordian knot by paying out of his own purse threehundred dollars to secure the release of the young artist. 

And so Mariano started gaily away, carrying with him the heart's love oftwo old men, and the admiring affection of a whole school. 

The grandfather died three months afterward--went babbling down into theValley, making prophecies to the last to the effect that Mariano Fortunywould yet win deathless fame. 

And Father Gonzales lived to see these prophecies fulfilled. 

 * * * * *

Then, at twenty-two, Fortuny was ordered by the city of Barcelona toaccompany General Prim on his Algerian expedition, it was a milepost onhis highway of success. 

Nominally he was secretary to the General. Who it was secured hisappointment he never knew; but we have reason to suppose it was FedericoMadrazo. 

Fortuny's two years in Rome had just expired; his Barcelona friends knewthat the time had been well spent, and the opportunities improved, and afurther transplantation they believed would result in an increasedblossoming. 

"Enter into life! Enter into life!" was the call of a prophet long ago. In barbaric Africa, Fortuny entered into life with the same fine, free, eager, receptive spirit that he had elsewhere shown. General Prim, soldier and scholar, saw that his secretary was capable of doingsomething more than keeping accounts, and so a substitute was hired andFortuny was sent here and there as messenger, but in reality, so that hecould see as many sides of old Moorish life as possible. 

Staid old General Prim loved the young man just as Madrazo had. Fortunywas not much of a soldier, for war did not interest him, save from itspicturesque side. "War is transient, but Beauty is eternal, " he oncesaid. 

Even the fact that the Spanish Army was now on the soil of her ancientenemy, the Moor, did not stir his patriotism. 

He sketched with feverish industry, fearing the war would end too soon, and he would have to go back with empty sketchbooks. The long stretchesof white sands, the glaring sunshine, the paradox of riotous riches andragged poverty, the veiled women, blinking camels, long rifles with buttsinlaid with silver, swords whose hilts are set with precious stones, grayArab horses with tails sweeping the ground, and everywhere the flutter ofrags--these things bore in on his artist-nature and filled his heart. 

He hastily painted in a few of his sketches and sent them as presents tohis friends in Barcelona. 

The very haste of the work, the meager outline and simple colors--glaringwhites and limpid blues, with here and there a dash of red to indicate ascarf or sash--astonished his old teachers. Here were pictures painted inan hour that outmatched any of the carefully worked out, methodicalattempts of the Academy! It was all life, life, life--palpitating life. 

The sketches were shown, the men in power interviewed, and the city ofBarcelona ordered Fortuny to paint one large picture to be eventuallyplaced in the Parliament House to commemorate the victory of GeneralPrim. 

As an earnest of good faith a remittance of five hundred dollarsaccompanied the order. 

The war was short. At the battle of Wad Ras the enemy was routed after apitched fight where marked dash and spirit were shown on both sides. 

And so this was to be the scene of Fortuny's great painting. Hundreds ofsketches were made, including portraits of General Prim and variousofficers. Fortuny set about the work as a duty to his patrons who had sogenerously paved the way for all the good fortune that was his. Thepainting was to be a world-beater; and Fortuny, young, strong, ambitious--knowing no such word as fail--went at the task. 

Fortuny had associated with many artists at Rome and he had heard of thatwonderful performance of Horace Vernet's, the "Taking of the Smalah ofAbd-el-Kader. " This picture of Vernet's, up to that time, was the largestpicture ever held in a single frame. It is seventy-one feet long andsixteen feet high. To describe that picture of Vernet's with its thousandfigures, charging cavalry, flashing sabers, dust-clouds, fleeing cattle, stampeding buffalos, riderless horses, overturned tents, andfear-stricken, beautiful women would require a book. 

In passing, it is well to say that this picture of Vernet's is the parentof all the panorama pictures that have added to the ready cash of certainenterprising citizens of Chicago, and that Vernet is the father of themodern "military school. "

If you have seen Vernet's painting you can never forget it, and if therewere nothing else to see at Versailles but this one picture you would berepaid, and amply repaid, for going out from Paris to view it. 

Before beginning his great canvas Fortuny was advised to go to Versaillesand see the Vernet masterpiece. 

He went and spent three days studying it in detail. 

He turned away discouraged. To know too much of what other men have saidis death to a writer; for an artist to be too familiar with the best inart is to have inspiration ooze out at every pore. 

Fortuny took a week to think it over. He was not discouraged--not he--buthe decided to postpone work on the masterpiece and busy himself for awhile with simpler themes. He remained at Paris and made his thumb-nailsketches: a Moor in spotless white robe with red cap, leaning against awall; a camel-driver at rest; a solitary horseman with long spear, atrellis with climbing vines, and a veiled beauty looking out from behind, etc. 

And in all these pictures is dazzling sunshine and living life. The joyof them, the ease, the grace, the beauty, are matchless. 

Goupil and Company, the art-dealers, contracted to take all the work hecould turn out. And Fortuny did not make the mistake of doing too much. He possessed the artistic conscience, and nothing left his studio thatdid not satisfy his heart and head. 

Trips had been taken to Florence, Venice and the beloved Morocco, and thepoise and grace and limpid beauty of Fortuny's pictures seemed toincrease. 

Three years had passed, and now came a letter from the authorities atBarcelona asking for their great battle picture, and a remittance wassent "to meet expenses. "

Fortuny promised, and made an effort at the work. 

Another year went by and another letter of importunity came. Barcelonadid not comprehend how her gifted son was now being counted among thevery ablest artists in Paris--that world center of art. Artists shouldstruggle for recognition, be rebuffed, live on a crust in dingy garrets, cultivate a gaunt and haggard look, and wear suits shiny at the elbows!

How could the old professors down at Barcelona understand that this mereyouth was pressed with commissions from rich Americans, and in receipt ofa princely income?

Fortuny returned all the money that Barcelona had sent him, regarding itall as a mere loan, and promised to complete the battle picture wheneverhe could bring his mind to bear upon it so that the work would satisfyhimself. 

The next year he visited Spain and was received at Madrid and Barcelonaas a prince. Decorations and ceremonials greeted him at Madrid; and atBarcelona there were arches of triumph built over the streets, and ahundred students drew his carriage from the steamboat-landing up to theold Academy where he used to draw angles and curves from a copy all daylong. 

And it was not so many moons after this little visit to Barcelona thatwedding-bells were sent a-swing, and Mariano Fortuny was married toCecilia, daughter of Federico Madrazo. 

Their honeymoon of a year was spent at the Alhambra Palace amid thescenes made famous by our own Washington Irving. And it was from Granadathat he sent a picture to America to be sold for the benefit of thesufferers in the Chicago fire. 

But there were no idle days. The artist worked with diligence, dippingdeep into the old Moorish life, and catching the queer angles of oldruins and more queer humanity upon his palette. His noble wife proved hismate in very deed, and much of his best work is traceable to her lovingcriticism and inspiration. 

Paris, Granada and Rome were their home, each in turn. The prices Fortunyrealized were even greater than Meissonier commanded. Some of his bestpieces are owned in America, through the efforts of W. H. Stewart ofPhiladelphia. At the A. T. Stewart sale, in New York, the "Fortunys"brought higher prices than anything else in the collection, save, Ibelieve, the "1807" of Meissonier. In fact, there are more "Fortunys"owned in New York than there are in either Barcelona or Madrid. 

Indeed, there is a marked similarity between the style of Fortuny andthat of Meissonier. When some busybody informed Meissonier that Fortunywas imitating him, Meissonier replied, "To have such a genius as MarianoFortuny imitate me would be the greatest happiness of my whole career. "

Fortuny's life is mirrored in his name: his whole career was onetriumphant march to fortune, fame, love and honor. 

He avoided society, as he was jealous of the fleeting hours, and hisclose friends were few; but those who knew him loved him to a point justthis side of idolatry. 

Fortuny died at Rome on November Twenty-second, Eighteen HundredSeventy-two, of brain rupture--an instant and painless death. In hisshort life of thirty-six years he accomplished remarkable results, butall this splendid work he regarded as merely in the line of preparationfor a greater work yet to come. 

For some weeks before he died he had been troubled with a slight fever, contracted, he thought, from painting in a damp church; but the day ofhis death he took up his brush again and, as he worked, gaily talked withhis wife of their plans for the future. 

It is very pleasant to recall, however, that before death claimed him, Fortuny had completed the great picture of "The Battle of Wad Ras. " Thecanvas is now hanging on the wall of the Parliament House at Barcelona, and the picture is justly the pride of the city that showed itself such awise and loving mother to the motherless boy, Mariano Fortuny. 

 * * * * *

Italy and Spain are sisters, and not merely first cousins, as Mr. Whistler once remarked. Their history to a great degree iscontemporaneous. They have seen dynasties arise, grow old, and die; andschools of art, once the pride of the people, sink into blankforgetfulness: for schools, like dynasties and men, live their day and gotottering to their rest. 

Italy, as the elder sister, has set the fashion for the younger. Themanners, habits and customs of the people have been the same. 

To a great extent all art is controlled by fad and fashion; and all thefashions in the polite arts easily drifted from Italy into Spain. Theworks of Titian carried to Madrid produced a swarm of imitators, some ofwhom, like Velasquez, Zurbaran, Ribera and Murillo, having spun theircocoons, passed through the chrysalis stage, developed wings, and soaredto high heaven. But the generations of imitators who followed these haveusually done little better than gape. 

And although Spain has been a kind mother to art for four hundred years, yet the modern school of Spanish art shows no "apostolic succession" fromthe past. It is a thing separate and alone: gorgeous, dazzling, strong, and rarely beautiful. Totally unlike the art of the old masters, it takesits scenes from Nature and actual living life--depending not on myth, legend or fable. It discards pure imagination, and by holding a mirror upto Nature has done the world the untold blessing of introducing it toitself. 

The average man sees things in the mass, and therefore sees nothing;everything, to his vision, is run together in hopeless jumble: all isdiscord, confusion--inextricable confusion worse confounded. 

But the artist who is also a scientist (whether he knows it or not)discovers that in the seeming confusion, order, method and law yet reignsupreme. And to prove his point he lifts from the tangle of things onesimple, single scene and shows this, and this alone, in all its full androunded completeness--beautiful as a snow-crystal on the slide of amicroscope. 

All art consists in this: to show the harmony of a part. And having seenthe harmony of a part we pass on to a point where we can guess theharmony of the whole. Whether you be painter, sculptor, musician orwriter, all your endeavors are toward lifting from the mass of things ascene, a form, a harmony, a truth, and, relieving it from all thatdistracts, catch it in immortal amber. 

The writer merely unearths truth: truth has always existed: he lifts itout of the mass, and holding it up where others can see it, thediscerning cry, "Yes, yes--we recognize it!" The musician takes the soundhe needs from the winds blowing through the forest branches, constructs aharp strung with Apollo's golden hair, and behold, we have a symphony!The wrongs of a race in bondage never touched the hearts of men until awoman lifted out a single, solitary black man and showed us the stripesupon the quivering back of Uncle Tom. One human being nailed to a crossreveals the concentrated woes of earth; and as we gaze upon the picture, into our hard hearts there comes creeping a desire to lessen the sorrowsof the world by an increased love; and a gentleness and sympathy are ourssuch as we have never before known. 

Fortuny is king of the modern school of Spanish painters. His genius madean epoch, and worked a revolution in the art of his country--and, somehave said, in the art of the time. 

As a nation it may be that Spain is crumbling into dust, but her rottingruins will yet fertilize many a bank of violets. Certain it is that nomodern art surpasses the art of Spain; and for once Italy must go toSpain for her pattern. 

ARY SCHEFFER

 The artistic tastes of the Princess, the lofty range of her understanding, her liberality, and the sterling benevolence of her mind all combined to engender a coldness and lack of sympathy between herself and the persons composing the Court. 

 In the heart of the Princess dwelt a deep religious faith, such as becomes a noble, womanly heart. Nevertheless, her ardent mind sought to penetrate every mystery, so she was often accused of being a doubter--when the reverse was really true. 

 --_Ary Scheffer to His Brother Arnola_

[Illustration: ARY SCHEFFER]

The artistic evolution of Ary Scheffer was brought about mainly throughthe influence of three women. In the love of these women he was bathed, nourished and refreshed; their approbation gave direction to his efforts;for them he lived and worked; while a fourth woman, by her inability tocomprehend the necessities of such a genius, clipped his wings, so thathe fell to earth and his feet mired in the clay. 

The first factor in the evolution of Scheffer, in point of both time andimportance, was his mother. She was the flint upon which he tried hissteel: his teacher, adviser, critic, friend. She was a singularly strongand capable woman, seemingly slight and fragile, but with a deal ofwhipcord, sinewy strength in both her physical and mental fiber. 

No one can study the lives of eminent artists without being impressedwith the fact that the artist is essentially the child of his mother. Thesympathy demanded to hold a clear, mental conception--the imaginationthat sees the whole, even when the first straight line is made--is thegift of mother to son. She gives him of her spirit, and he is heir to herlove of color, her desire for harmony and her hunger for sympathy. These, plus his masculine strength, may allow him to accomplish that which wasto her only a dream. 

If a mother is satisfied with her surroundings, happy in her environment, and therefore without "a noble discontent, " her children will probably bequite willing to have a good time on the "unearned increment" that istheir material portion. Her virtue and passive excellence die with her, and she leaves a brood of mediocrities. 

Were this miraculous scheme of adjustment lacking in the Eternal Plan, wealth, achievement and talent could be passed along in a direct line andthe good things of earth be corraled by a single family. 

But Nature knows no law of entail; she does, however, have her Law ofCompensation, and this is the law which holds in order the balance ofthings. If a man accumulates a vast fortune, he probably also breedsspendthrifts who speedily distribute his riches; if he has great talent, the talent dies with him, for he only inspires those who are not of hisblood; and if a woman is deprived of the environment for which her soulyearns, quite often her children adjust the average by working out ananswer to her prayer. 

When twenty-eight years of age we find Madame Scheffer a widow, withthree sons: by name, Ariel, Henri and Arnold. 

Madame Scheffer had a little money--not much, but enough to afford her asmall, living income. 

She might have married again, or she could have kept her little "dot"intact and added interest to principal by going and living with kinsmenwho were quite willing to care for her and adopt her children. 

But no; she decided to leave the sleepy little Dutch village where theylived in Holland, and go down to Paris. 

And so she thrust her frail bark boldly out upon the tide, hoping andexpecting that somewhere and sometime the Friendly Islands would bereached. She would spend her last sou in educating her boys, and sheknew, she said, that when that was gone, God would give them the powerand inclination to care for her and provide for themselves. In short, shetumbled her whole basket of bread upon the waters, fully confident thatit would come back buttered. Her object in moving to Paris was that herboys could acquire French, the language of learning, and also that theymight be taught art. 

And so they moved to the great, strange world of Paris--Paris the gay, Paris the magnificent, Paris that laughs and leers and sees men and womengo down to death, and still laughs on. 

They lived, away up and up in a tenement-house, in two little rooms. There was no servant, and the boys took hold cheerfully to do thehousekeeping, for the mother wasn't so very strong. 

The first thing was to acquire the French language, and if you live inParis the task is easy. You just have to--that's all. 

Madame Scheffer was an artist of some little local repute in the villagewhere they had lived, and she taught her boys the rudiments of drawing. 

Ariel was always called Ary. When he grew to manhood he adopted this petname his mother had playfully given him. He used to call her "LittleMother. " Shortly after reaching Paris, Ary was placed in the studio of M. Guerin. Arnold showed a liking for the Oriental languages, and wastherefore allowed to follow the bent of his mind. Henry waxed fat on thecrumbs of learning that Ary brought home. 

And so they lived and worked and studied; very happy, with only now andthen twinges of fear for the future, for it would look a little black attimes, do all they could to laugh away the clouds. It was a littledemocracy of four, with high hopes and lofty ideals. Mutual tasks andmutual hardships bound them together in a love that was as strong as itwas tender and sweet. 

Two years of Paris life had gone by, and the little fund that had notbeen augmented by a single franc in way of income had dwindled sadly. 

In six months it was gone. 

They were penniless. 

The mother sold her wedding-ring and the brooch her husband had given herbefore they were married. 

Then the furniture went to the pawnbroker's, piece by piece. 

One day Ary came bounding up the stairs, three steps at a time. He burstinto the room and tossed into his mother's lap fifty francs. 

When he got his breath he explained that he had sold his first picture. 

Ary, the elder boy, was eighteen; Henri, the younger, was thirteen. "Itwas just like a play, you see, " said Ary Scheffer, long years afterward. "When things get desperate enough they have to mend--they must. Thepictures I painted were pretty bad, but I really believe they were equalto many that commanded large prices, and I succeeded in bringing a fewbuyers around to my views. Genius may starve in a garret, if alone; butthe genius that would let its best friends starve, too, being too modestto press its claims, is a little lacking somewhere. "

Young Scheffer worked away at any subject he thought would sell. Hepainted just as his teacher, Guerin, told him, and Guerin painted justlike his idol, David, or as nearly as he could. 

Art had gotten into a fixed groove; laws had been laid down as to whatwas classic and what not. Conservatism was at the helm. 

Art, literature, philosophy, science, even religion, have their periodsof infancy, youth, manhood and decay. And there comes a time to everyschool, and every sect, when it ceases to progress. When it says, "Therenow, this is perfection, and he who seeks to improve on it is anathema, "it is dead, and should be buried. But schools and sects and creeds diehard. Creeds never can be changed: they simply become obsolete and areforgotten; they turn to dust and are blown away on the free winds ofheaven. 

The art of the great David had passed into the hands of imitators. It hadbecome a thing of metes and bounds and measurements and geometrictheorems. Its colors were made by mixing this with that according tocertain fixed formulas. 

About this time a young playwright by the name of Victor Hugo was makingmuch din, and the classics as a consequence were making mighty dole andendeavoring to hiss him down. The Censor had forbidden a certain drama ofHugo's to be played until it had been cut and trimmed and filed andpolished, and made just like all other plays. 

Victor Hugo was the acknowledged leader of the spirit of protest; inlyric music Rossini led; and Delacroix raised the standard of revolt inpainting. With this new school, which called itself "Romanticism, " MadameScheffer and her sons sincerely sympathized. The term "Romanticism" ofitself means little, or nothing, or everything, but the thing itself isthe eternal plea for the right of the individual--a cry for the privilegeto live your own life and express the truth as you feel it, all in yourown way. It is a revolution that has come a thousand times, and must andwill come again and again. When custom gets greater than man it must bebroken. The ankylosis of artistic smugness is no new thing. In heart andtaste and ambition Ary and the Little Mother were one. Madame Schefferrejoiced in the revolt she saw in the air against the old and outgrown. She was a Republican in all her opinions and ideals; and these feelingsshe shared with her boys. They discussed politics and art and religionover the teacups; and this brave and gentle woman kept intellectual pacewith her sons, who in merry frolic often carried her about in their arms. Only yesterday, it seemed to her, she had carried them, and felt upon herface the soft caress of baby hands. And now one of these sons stood afoot higher than she. 

Ary Scheffer was tall, slender, with a thoughtful, handsome face. Thehabit of close study, and the early realization of responsibilities hadhastened his maturity. Necessity had sharpened his business sense andgiven a practical side to his nature, so he deferred enough to the oldworld to secure from it the living that is every man's due. 

His pictures sold--sold for all they were worth. The prices were notlarge, but there was enough money so that the gaunt wolf that oncescratched and sniffed at the door was no longer to be seen nor heard. 

They had all they needed. The Little Mother was the banker, and we maysafely guess that nothing was wasted. 

Pupils now came to Ary Scheffer--dull fellows from the schools, whowished to be coached. Sitters in search of good portraits, cheap forcash, occasionally climbed the stairway. The Little Mother dusted aboutand fixed up the studio so as to make it look prosperous. 

One fine lady came in a carriage to sit for her portrait. She gave herwraps into the keeping of the Little Mother at the door, with anadmonitory, "Take care of these, mind you, or I'll report you to yourmaster. "

The Little Mother bowed low and promised. 

That night when she told at the supper-table how the fine lady hadmistaken her for a servant, Henri said, "Well, just charge the fine ladyfifty francs extra in the bill for that. "

But Ary would not consent to let the blunder go so cheaply. When the finelady came for her next sitting, the Little Mother was called and advisedwith at length as to pose and color-scheme. 

Neither was the advising sham, for Ary deferred to his mother's judgmentin many ways, and no important step was taken without her approval. Theywere more like lovers than mother and son. His treatment of her was morethan affectionate--it was courteous and deferential, after the manner ofmen who had ancestors who were knights of the olden time. 

The desire to sit on a divan and be waited upon is the distinguishingfeature of the heartless mistress of fortune. Like the jeweled necklaceand bands of gold at wrist and waist, which symbol a time when slaverywas rife and these gauds had a practical meaning, so does the woman whoin bringing men to her feet by beck and nod tell of animality too coarsefor speech. 

But the woman with the great, tender and loving heart gives her all andasks no idolatrous homage. Her delight is in serving, and willingly andmore than willingly, for without thought she breaks the vase of preciousointment and wipes the feet of the beloved with the hairs of her head. 

Madame Scheffer sought in all ways to serve her sons, and so we findthere was always a gentle rivalry between Ary and his mother as to whocould love most. 

She kept his studio in order, cleaned his brushes and prepared thecanvas. In the middle of the forenoon she would enter his workroom withtea and toast or other little delicacies that he liked, and putting thetray down, would kiss the forehead of the busy worker and gently tiptoeout. 

When the day's work was done she intelligently criticized and encouraged;and often she would copy the picture herself and show how it could bechanged for the better here or there. 

And all this fine, frank, loving companionship so filled Ary's heart thathe put far behind him all thought of a love for another with its closertie. He lived and worked for the Little Mother. They were very happy, forthey were succeeding. They had met the great, cruel world, the world ofParis that romps and dances and laughs, and sees struggling and sad-eyedwomen and men go down to their death, and still laughs on; they had metthe world in fair fight and they had won. 

The Little Mother had given all for Ary; on his genius and ability shehad staked her fortune and her life. 

And now, although he was not twenty-one, she saw all that she had givenin perfect faith, coming back with interest ten times compounded. 

The art world of Paris had both recognized and acknowledged the genius ofher boy--with that she was content. 

 * * * * *

In the year Eighteen Hundred Eighteen, we find General Lafayette writingto Lady Morgan in reference to a proposed visit to the Chateau de laGrange. He says: "I do not think you will find it dull here. Among othersof our household is a talented young painter by the name of Scheffer. "

Later, Lady Morgan writes to friends in England from La Grange, "AryScheffer, a talented artist, is a member of our company here at thechateau. He is quite young, but is already a person of note. He is makinga portrait of the General, and giving lessons to the young ladies indrawing, and I, too, am availing myself of his tutorship. "

Through his strong Republican tendencies Scheffer had very naturallydrifted into the company of those who knew Lafayette. The artist knew thehistory of the great man and was familiar with his American career. Scheffer was interested in America, for the radicals with whom heassociated were well aware that there might come a time when they wouldhave to seek hastily some hospitable clime where to think was not acrime. And indeed, it is but natural that those with a penchant forheresy should locate a friendly shore, just as professional criminalsstudy the extradition laws. 

Lafayette, Franklin and Washington had long been to Scheffer a trinity offamiliar names, and when an opportunity came to be introduced to thegreat Franco-American patriot he gladly took advantage of it. 

Lafayette was sixty-one; Scheffer was twenty-three, but there at oncesprang up a warm friendship between them. Not long after their firstmeeting Scheffer was invited to come to La Grange and make it his home aslong as he cared to. 

The Little Mother urged the acceptance of such an invitation. Toassociate for a time with the aristocratic world would give the young manan insight into society and broaden his horizon. 

In the family of Lafayette, Scheffer mingled on an equality with theguests. His conversation was earnest, serious and elevated; and hismanner so gracious and courtly that he won the respect of all he met. Lady Morgan intimates that his simplicity of manner tempted the youngladies who were members of his class in drawing to cut various innocentcapers in his presence, and indulge in sly jokes which never would havebeen perpetrated had the tutor been more of a man of the world. 

It has happened more than once that men of the highest spirituality havehad small respect for religion, as it is popularly manifested. Themachinery of religion and religion itself are things that are oftenwidely separated; and Ary Scheffer was too high-minded and noble toworship the letter and relinquish the spirit that maketh alive. He was ofthat type that often goes through the world scourged by a yearning forpeace, and like the dove sent out from the Ark finding no place to rest. All about he beheld greed, selfishness, hypocrisy and pretense. He longedfor simplicity and absolute honesty, and was met by craft and diplomacy. He asked for religion, and was given a creed. 

And so into the hearts of such as he there comes creeping a spirit ofrevolt. Instead of accepting this topsy-turvy old world and making thebest of it, their eyes are fixed upon an ideal that Heaven alone canrealize. 

The home of Lafayette was the rendezvous of the discontented. Art, literature, politics and religion were all represented in the parlors ofLa Grange. Where Franklin had discoursed Poor Richard philosophy, therenow gathered each Sunday night a company in which "the greatest of theAmericans" would have delighted. For this company, no question was toosacred for frank and free discussion. 

It was at the home of Lafayette that Scheffer met Augustin Thierry, andbetween these two there grew a friendship that only death was to divide. 

But there was one other person Scheffer met at La Grange who was toexercise a profound influence on his life: this was the Duchess ofOrleans. The quiet manliness of the young artist impressed the futureQueen of France, and he was invited to Neuilly to copy certain portraits. 

In the year Eighteen Hundred Twenty-six, we find Scheffer regularlyestablished in the household of the Duke and Duchess of Orleans, withcommissions to paint portraits of all the members of the family, andincidentally to give lessons in drawing and mathematics to the PrincessMarie. 

The Princess had been a sore trial to her parents, in that she had failedto fit into the conventional ways of polite society. Once she had shockedall Neuilly by donning man's attire and riding horseback astride. Aworthy priest who had been her tutor had found her tongue too sharp forhis comfort, and had resigned his post in dismay. The Princess arguedreligion with the Bishop and discussed politics with visitors in such aradical way that her father often turned pale. For the diversions ofsociety she had a profound contempt that did not fail to manifest itselfin sharp sallies against the smug hypocrisy of the times. She had readwidely, knew history, was familiar with the poets, and had dived into theclassics to a degree equaled by few women in France. So keen was her witthat, when pompous dignitaries dined at Neuilly, her father and motherperspired freely, not knowing what was coming next. In her character weretraits that surely did not belie her Louis Quatorze ancestry. 

And yet this father and mother had a certain secret pride in theaccomplishments of their daughter. Parents always do. Her independencesort of kept them vibrating between ecstasies of joy and chills of fear. 

The Princess was plain in feature but finely formed, and had attractedthe favorable attention of various worthy young men, but no man had everdared to make love to her except by post or proxy. Several lovers hadpressed their claims, making appeal through her father; but the Duke ofOrleans, strong as he was, never had cared to intimate to his daughter asuggestion as to whom she should wed. Love to her was a high and holysacrament, and a marriage of convenience or diplomacy was to the mind ofthe Princess immoral and abhorrent. 

The father knew her views and respected them. 

But happiness is not a matter of intellect. And in spite of herbrilliant, daring mind the Princess of Orleans was fretting her soul outagainst the bars of environment: she lacked employment; she longed to do, to act, to be. 

She had ambitions in the line of art, and believed she had talent thatwas worth cultivating. 

And so it was that Ary Scheffer, the acknowledged man of talent, wasinvited to Neuilly. 

He came. 

He was twenty-nine years of age; the Princess was twenty-five. 

The ennui of unused powers and corroding heart-hunger had made thePrincess old before her time. Scheffer's fight with adversity had longbefore robbed him of his youth. 

These two eyed each other curiously. 

The gentle, mild-voiced artist knew his place and did not presume onterms of equality with the Princess who traced a direct pedigree to Louisthe Great. He thought to wait and allow her gradually to show herquality. 

She tried her caustic wit upon him, and he looked at her out of mild blueeyes and made no reply. He had no intention of competing with her on herown preserve; and he had a pride in his profession that equaled her prideof birth. 

He looked at her--just looked at her in silence. And this spoilt child, before whom all others quailed, turned scarlet, stammered and madeapology. 

In good sooth, she had played tierce and thrust with every man she hadmet, and had come off without a scar; but here was a man of pride andpoise, and yet far beneath her in a social way, and he had rebuked herhaughty spirit by a simple look. 

A London lawyer has recently put in a defense for wife-beating, on thegrounds that there are women who should be chastised for their own good. I do not go quite this far, but from the time Scheffer rebuked thePrincess of Orleans by refusing to reply to her saucy tongue there was aperfect understanding between them. The young woman listened respectfullyif he spoke, and when he painted followed his work with eager eyes. 

At last she had met one who was not intent on truckling for place andpelf. His ideals were as high and excellent as her own--his mind moresincere. Life was more to him than to her, because he was working hisenergies up into art, and she was only allowing her powers to rust. 

She followed him dumbly, devotedly. 

He wished to treat her as an honored pupil and with the deference thatwas her due, but she insisted that they should study and work as equals. 

Instead of giving the young woman lessons to learn, they studiedtogether. Her task as pupil was to read to him two hours daily as heworked, and things she did not fully understand he explained. 

The Princess made small progress as a painter, probably because herteacher was so much beyond her that she was discouraged at thought ofequaling him; and feeling that in so many other ways they were equals, she lost heart in trying to follow him in this. 

At length, weary of attempts at indifferent drawing, the Princess beggedher tutor to suggest some occupation for her where they could startafresh and work out problems together. Scheffer suggested modeling inclay, and the subject was taken up with avidity. 

The Princess developed a regular passion for the work, and group aftergroup was done. Among other figures she attempted was an equestrianstatue of Joan of Arc. 

This work was cast in bronze and now occupies an honored place atVersailles. 

So thoroughly did the young woman enter into the spirit of sculpture thatshe soon surpassed Scheffer in this particular line; but to him she gaveall credit. 

Her success was a delight to her parents, who saw with relief that thecarping spirit of cynicism was gone from her mind, and instead had come akindly graciousness that won all hearts. 

In the ability to think and act with independence there was somethingdecidedly masculine in the spirit of the Princess Marie; and, as I haveshown, Scheffer possessed a sympathy and gentleness that was essentiallyfeminine (which is quite a different thing from being effeminate). Thesetwo souls complemented each other, and their thoughts being fixed onsimilar ideals, how can we wonder that a very firm affection blossomedinto being?

But the secret of their love has never been written, and base would bethe pen that would attempt to picture it in detail. 

Take off thy shoes, for the place whereon thou standest is holy ground. 

The Duke and Duchess admired Scheffer, but never quite forgot that he wasin their employ, and all their attempts to treat him as an equal revealedthe effort. It was as though they had said: "You are lowly bred, and workwith your hands, and receive a weekly wage, but these things are nothingto us. We will not think less of you, for see, do we not invite you toour board?"

The aristocracy of birth is very seldom willing to acknowledge thearistocracy of brain. And the man of brains, if lowly born, has amild indifference, at least, for all the gilt and gaud of royalty. ThePrince of Wales does not recognize the nobility of Israel Zangwill; andIsrael Zangwill asks in bored indifference, "Who--who is this man youcall H. R. H. ?"

But love is greater than man-made titles, and when was there ever adifference in station able to separate hearts that throbbed only for eachother?

Possibly even the stern old Duke might have relented and given hisblessing were it not that events of mighty importance came seethingacross the face of France, and duties to his country outweighed theduties to his daughter. 

On the Thirtieth day of July, Eighteen Hundred Thirty, Ary Scheffer wasat the house of his mother in Paris. A hurried knock came at the door, and Ary answered it in person. There on the threshold stood M. Thiers. 

"Oh, Scheffer! it is you, how fortunate! you are a member of thehousehold of Orleans, and I have a most important message for the Duke. You must go with me and deliver it to him. "

"I see, " said Scheffer; "the Convention has named the Duke as King ofFrance, and we are to notify him. "

"Exactly so, " said Thiers. 

Horses were at the door: they mounted and rode away. The streets werebarricaded, so carriages were out of the question, but Scheffer andThiers leaped the barricades, and after several minor mishaps foundthemselves safely out of Paris. 

The call was not entirely unexpected on the part of the Duke. Schefferaddressed him as "Le Roi, " and this told all. 

The Duke hesitated, but finally decided to accept the mission, fraughtwith such mighty import. He started in disguise for Paris that night onfoot. 

At the back entrance of the Palais Royal stood Ary Scheffer, and sawLouis Philippe mingle with the crowd, unrecognized--then pass into thepalace--this palace that was his birthplace. 

The next day Louis appeared with Lafayette on a balcony of the Hotel deVille, and these two embraced each other in sight of the multitude. 

It is not for me to write a history of those troublous times, but sufficeit to say that the "Citizen King" ruled France probably as well as anyother man could have done. His task was a most difficult one, for he hadto be both king and citizen--to please Royalist and Populist alike. 

This sudden turn of the political kaleidoscope was a pivotal point in thelife of Ary Scheffer. So long as the Duke of Orleans was a simple countrygentleman, Scheffer was the intimate friend of the family, but how couldthe King of France admit into his family circle a mere low-born painter?Certainly not they who are descended from kings!

Orders were issued by the government to Scheffer to paint certainpictures, and vouchers reached him from official sources, but he wasmade to understand that friendship with the household of a king was notfor him. Possibly he had been too much mixed up with the people in apolitical way! The favor of the populace is a thing monarchs jealouslynote, as mariners on a lee shore watch the wind. 

The father of Louis Philippe was descended from a brother of Louis theGreat, while on his mother's side he was a direct descendant of the greatmonarch and Madame de Montespan. Such an inbred claim to royalty wassomething of which to boast, but at the same time Louis Philippe waspainfully sensitive as to the blot on the 'scutcheon. 

The Princess Marie knew the slender tenure by which her father held hisplace, and although her heart was wrung by the separation from her lover, she was loyal to duty as she saw it, and made no sign that mightembarrass the Citizen King. 

Arnold and Henri Scheffer were each married, and working out careers. Aryand his mother lived together, loving and devoted. And into the keepingof this mother had come a grandchild--a beautiful girl-baby. They calledher name Cornelie. About the mother of Cornelie the grandmother was notcurious. It was enough to know that the child was the child of her son, and upon the babe she lavished all the loving tenderness of her great, welling, mother heart. She had no words but those of gentleness and lovefor the son that had brought this charge to her. And did she guess thatthis child would be the sustaining prop for her son when she, herself, was gone?

All this time the poor Princess Marie was practically a prisoner in thegreat palace, wearing out her heart, a slave to what she considered duty. She grew ill, and all efforts of her physicians to arouse her from hermelancholy were in vain. 

Her death was a severe shock to poor Scheffer. For some months friendsfeared for his sanity, for he would only busy his brush with scenes fromFaust, or religious subjects that bordered on morbidity. Again and againhe painted "Marguerite in Prison, " "Marguerite Waiting, " "Marguerite inParadise" and "Mignon. " Into all of his work he infused that depth oftenderness which has given the critics their cue for accusing him of"sentimentality gone mad. " And in fact no one can look upon any of theworks of Scheffer, done after Eighteen Hundred Thirty, without beingprofoundly impressed with the brooding sadness that covers all as with agarment. 

From the time he met the Princess of Orleans there came a decidedevolution in his art; but it was not until she had passed away that onecould pick out an unsigned canvas and say positively, "This isScheffer's!"

In all his work you see that look of soul, and in his best you behold ause of the blue background that rivals the blue of heaven. No otherpainter that I can recall has gotten such effects from colors so simple. 

But Scheffer's life was not all sadness. For even when the Little Motherhad passed away, Ary Scheffer wrote calmly to his friend August Thierry:"I yet have my daughter Cornelie, and were it not for her I fear my workwould be a thing of the past; but with her I still feel that God exists. My life is filled with love and light. "

 * * * * *

It was a curious circumstance that Ary Scheffer, who conducted theCitizen King to Paris, was to lead him away. 

Scheffer was a Captain in the National Guard, and when the stormy timesof Eighteen Hundred Forty-eight came, he put away his brushes, locked hisstudio, and joined his regiment. 

Louis Philippe had begun as a "citizen"--one of the people--and followingthe usual course had developed into a monarch with a monarch'sindifference to the good of the individual. 

The people clamored for a republic, and agitation soon developed intorevolution. On the morning of the Twenty-fourth of February, EighteenHundred Forty-eight, Scheffer met the son of Lafayette, who was also anofficer in the National Guard. 

"How curious, " said Lafayette, "that we should be protecting a King forwhom we have so little respect!"

"Still, we will do our duty, " answered Scheffer. 

They made their way to the Tuileries, and posted themselves on theterrace beneath the windows of the King's private apartments. As they saton the steps in the wan light of breaking day. Scheffer heard some onesoftly calling his name. He listened and the call was repeated. 

"Who wants me?" answered Scheffer. 

"'Tis I, the Queen!" came the answer. 

Scheffer looked up and at the lattice of the window saw the white face ofthe woman he had known so well and intimately for a full score of years. 

The terror of the occasion did away with all courtly etiquette. 

"Who is with you?" asked the Queen. 

"Only Lafayette, " was the answer. 

"Come in at once, both of you. The King has abdicated and you mustconduct us to a place of safety. "

Scheffer and his companion ran up the steps, the Queen unbolted the doorwith her own hands, and they entered. Inside the hallway they found LouisPhilippe dressed as for a journey, with no sign of kingly trappings. Withthem were their sons and several grandchildren. 

They filed out of the palace, through the garden, and into the Place dela Concorde--that spot of ghastly memories. 

The King looked about nervously. Some of the mob recognized him. 

Scheffer concluded that a bold way was the best, and stepping ahead ofLouis Philippe, called in a voice of authority, "Make way--make way forthe King!"

The crowd parted dumb with incredulity at the strange sight. 

By the fountain in the square stood a public carriage, and into thisshabby vehicle of the night the royal passengers were packed. 

Dumas, who had followed the procession, mounted the box. 

Scheffer gave a quick whispered order to the driver, closed the door witha slam, lifted his hat, and the vehicle rumbled away towards the Quai. 

When Scheffer got back to the Tuileries the mob had broken in the irongates at the front of the gardens, and was surging through the palace inwild disorder. 

Scheffer hastened home to tell Cornelie the news of the night. 

 * * * * *

When the Little Mother died, a daughter of Henri Scheffer came to jointhe household of Ary Scheffer. The name of this niece was also Cornelie. 

The fact of there being two young women in the house by one name has ledto confusion among the biographers. And thus it happens that at leastfour encyclopedias record that Ernest Renan married the daughter of AryScheffer. Renan married the niece, and the fact that they named theirfirst child Ary helped, possibly, to confirm the error of thebiographers. 

Scheffer's life was devoted to providing for and educating these youngwomen. He himself gave them lessons in the languages, in music, paintingand sculpture. The daughter was a handsome girl; and in point ofintellect kept her artist-father very busy to keep one lesson in advance. Together they painted and modeled in clay, and the happiness that came toScheffer as he saw her powers unfold was the sweetest experience he hadever known. 

The coldness between himself and the King had increased. But LouisPhilippe did not forget him, for commissions came, one after another, forwork to cover the walls of the palace at Versailles. With the Queen hisrelations were friendly--even intimate. Several times she came to hishouse. Her interest in Cornelie was tender and strong, and when Schefferpainted a "Mignon" and took Cornelie for a model, the Queen insisted onhaving the picture and paying her own price--a figure quite beyond whatthe artist asked. 

This picture, which represents so vividly the profound pathos and depthof soul which Ary Scheffer could put upon a canvas, can now be seen inthe Louvre. But the best collection of Scheffer's portraits andhistorical pictures is at Versailles. 

In the gentle companionship of his beloved daughter, Scheffer found themeed of joy that was his due. With her he lived over the days that hadgone forever, and those other days that might have been. 

And when the inevitable came and this daughter loved a worthy andsuitable young man, Scheffer bowed his head, and fighting hard to keepback the tears gave the pair his blessing. 

The marriage of Doctor Marjolin and Cornelie Scheffer was a happy mating;and both honored the gifted father and ministered to him in every kindlyway. 

But so susceptible was Scheffer's nature that when his daughter had givenher whole heart to another, the fine edge of his art was dulled andblunted. He painted through habit, and the work had merit, but only atrare intervals was there in it that undefinable something which all canrecognize, but none analyze, that stamps the product as great art. 

 * * * * *

When, in the year Eighteen Hundred Fifty, Scheffer married, it was thedeath of his art. 

The artist does business on a very small margin of inspiration. Do youunderstand me? The man of genius is not a genius all the time. Usually heis only a very ordinary individual. There may be days or weeks that arefallow, and sometimes even years that are years of famine. He can notconquer the mood of depression that is holding him to earth. 

But some day the clouds suddenly clear away, the sun bursts out, and thesoul of the man is alive with divine fervor. Sublime thoughts crowd uponhim, great waves of emotion sweep over his soul, and as Webster said ofhis Hayne speech, "The air was full of reasons, and all I had to do wasto reach up and seize them. "

All great music and all deathless poems are written in a fever ofecstasy; all paintings that move men to tears are painted in tears. 

But it is easy to break in upon the sublime mood and drag the genius backto earth. Certain country cousins who occasionally visited the family ofRalph Waldo Emerson cut all mental work off short; the philosopher laiddown his pen when the cousins came a-cousining and literally took to thewoods. An uncongenial caller would instantly unhorse Carlyle, andTennyson had a hatred of all lion-hunters--not merely because they werelion-hunters, but because they broke in upon his paradise and snapped thethread of inspiration. 

Mrs. Grote tells us that Scheffer's wife was intelligent and devoted--infact, she was too devoted. She would bring her sewing and watch theartist at his work. If the great man grew oblivious of her presence shegently chided him for it; she was jealous of his brothers, jealous of hisdaughter, even jealous of his art. She insisted not only that he shouldlove her, but demanded that he should love nothing else. And yet all thetime she was putting forth violent efforts to make him happy. As a resultshe put him in a mood where he loved nothing and nobody. She clipped hiswings, and instead of a soaring genius we find a whimsical, commonplaceman with occupation gone. 

Wives demand the society of their husbands as their lawful right, and Isuppose it is expecting too much to suppose that any woman, short of asaint, could fit into the bachelor ways of a dreamer of dreams, agedfifty-five. 

Before he met the widow of General Beaudrand, Scheffer was happy, with asweet, sad happiness in the memories of the love of his youth--the lovethat was lost, and being lost still lived and filled his heart. 

But the society of the widow was agreeable, her conversation vivacious. He decided that this being so it might be better still to have her by himall the time. And this was what the lady desired, for it was she who didthe courting. 

Oliver Wendell Holmes once said, "Because I like an occasional pinch ofsalt is no reason why you should immerse me in brine, " but Ary Scheffer, the mild, gentle and guileless, did not reason quite so far. 

The vivacious Sophie took him captive, and he was shorn of his strength. And no doubt the ex-widow was as much disappointed as he; there reallywas no good reason why he should not paint better than ever, when here hewouldn't work at all! Lawks-a-daisy!

His spirit beat itself out against the bars, health declined, andalthough he occasionally made groggy efforts to shake himself back intoform, his heart was not in his work. 

Seven years went dragging by, and one morning there came word from Londonthat the Duchess of Orleans, the mother of the beloved Marie, was dying. Scheffer was ill, but he braced himself for the effort, and hastilystarted away alone, leaving a note for Cornelie. 

He arrived in England in time to attend the funeral of his lifelongfriend, and then he himself was seized with a deadly illness. 

His daughter was sent for, and when she came the sick man's longingdesire was to get back to France. If he was to die, he wanted to die athome. "To die at home at last, " is the prayer of every wanderer. AryScheffer's prayer was answered. He expired in the arms of his beloveddaughter on June Fifteenth, Eighteen Hundred Fifty-eight, agedsixty-three years. 

FRANCOIS MILLET

 When I meet a laborer on the edge of a field, I stop and look at the man: born amid the grain where he will be reaped, and turning up with his plow the ground of his tomb, mixing his burning sweat with the icy rain of Autumn. The furrow he has just turned is a monument that will outlive him. I have seen the pyramids of Egypt, and the forgotten furrows of our heather: both alike bear witness to the work of man and the shortness of his days. 

 --_Chateaubriand_

[Illustration: FRANCOIS MILLET]

Jean Francois Millet is to art what Wagner is to music, or what Whitmanis to poetry. These men, one a Frenchman, another a German, the third anAmerican, taught the same gospel at the same time, using differentlanguages, and each quite unaware of the existence of the others. Theywere all revolutionaries; and success came so tardily to them thatflattery did not taint their native genius. 

"Great men never come singly, " says Emerson. 

Richard Wagner was born in the year Eighteen Hundred Thirteen, Millet inEighteen Hundred Fourteen, and Whitman in Eighteen Hundred Nineteen. "Tannhauser" was first produced in Eighteen Hundred Forty-five; the"Sower" was exhibited in Eighteen Hundred Fifty; and in Eighteen HundredFifty-five "Leaves of Grass" appeared. 

The reception accorded to each masterpiece was about the same; and allwould have fallen flat had it not been for the gibes and jeers andlaughter which the work called forth. 

Wagner was arrested for being an alleged rioter; Whitman was ejected fromhis clerkship and his book looked after by the Attorney-General ofMassachusetts; Millet was hooted by his fellow-students and dubbed theWild-Man-of-the-Woods. 

In a letter to Pelloquet, Millet says, "The creations that I depict musthave the air of being native to their situation, so that no one lookingon them shall imagine they are anything else than what they are. "

In his first preface to "Leaves of Grass, " Whitman writes: "The art ofarts, the glory of expression and the sunshine of the light of letters issimplicity. * * * To speak in literature with the perfect rectitude andinsouciance of the movement of animals and the unimpeachableness of thesentiment of trees in the woods and grass by the roadside, is the flawlesstriumph of art. "

Wagner wrote in an Essay on Art:

"The Greek, proceeding from the bosom of Nature, attained to Art when hehad made himself independent of the immediate influences of Nature. 

"We, violently debarred from Nature, and proceeding from the dull groundof a Heaven-rid and juristic civilization, first reach Art when wecompletely turn our backs on such a civilization, and once more castourselves, with conscious bent, into the arms of Nature. "

Men high in power, deceived by the "lack of form, " the innocent naiveteas of childhood, the simple homeliness of expression, the absence ofeffort, declared again and again that Millet's work was not art, norWagner's "recurring theme" true music, nor Whitman's rhymeless linespoetry. The critics refused to recognize that which was not labored:where no violence of direction was shown they saw no art. To follow closeto Nature is to be considered rude by some--it indicates a lack of"culture. "

Millet, Wagner and Whitman lived in the open air; with towns and citiesthey had small sympathy; they felt themselves no better and no wiser thancommon folks; they associated with working men and toiling women; theyhad no definite ideas as to who were "bad" and who "good. "

They are frank, primitive, simple. They are masculine--and in theiractions you never get a trace of coyness, hesitancy, affectation ortrifling coquetry. They have nothing to conceal: they look at you out offrank, open eyes. They know the pains of earth too well to dance nimblythrough life and laugh the hours away. They are sober, serious, earnest, but not grim. Their faces are bronzed by sun and wind; their hands arenot concealed by gloves; their shirts are open to the breast, as thoughthey wanted room to breathe deeply and full; the boots they wear arecoarse and thick-soled, as if the wearer had come from afar and yet hadmany long miles to go. But the two things that impress you most are: theyare in no haste; and they are unafraid. 

All can approach such men as these. Possibly the smug and self-satisfieddo not care to; but men in distress--those who are worn, or old, ormisunderstood--children, outcasts, those far from home and who long toget back, silently slip weak hands in theirs and ask, "May we go yourway?"

Can you read "Captain, My Captain, " or listen to the "Pilgrims' Chorus, "or look upon "The Man With the Hoe" without tears?

And so we will continue our little journey. 

 * * * * *

Charles Warren Stoddard relates that in one of the far-off islands of theSouth Sea, he found savages so untouched by civilization that they didnot know enough to tell a lie. It was somewhat such a savage as this withwhom we have to deal. 

He was nineteen years old, six feet high, weighed one hundred sixtypounds, and as he had never shaved, had a downy beard all over his face. His great shock of brown hair tumbled to his shoulders. His face wasbronzed, his hands big and bony, and his dark gray eyes looked out oftheir calm depths straight into yours--eyes that did not blink, eyes oflove and patience, eyes like the eyes of an animal that does not knowenough to fear. 

He was the son of a peasant, and the descendant of a long line ofpeasants, who lived on the coast of Normandy--plain, toiling peasantswhose lives were deeply rooted into the rocky soil that gave them scantysustenance. If they ever journeyed it was as sailors--going out with thetide--and if they did not come back it was only because those who go downto the sea in ships sometimes never do. 

And now this first-born of the peasant flock was going to leave hisnative village of Gruchy. 

He was clad in a new suit of clothes, spun, woven, cut and sewed by thehands of his grandmother. 

He was going away, and his belongings were all packed in a sailor'scanvas bag; but he was not going to sea. 

Great had been the preparations for this journey. 

The family was very poor: the father a day-laborer and farmer; the motherworked in the fields, and as the children grew up they too worked in thefields; and after a high tide the whole family hurried to the seashore togather up the "varech, " and carry it home for fertilizer, so that therocky hillside might next Summer laugh a harvest. 

And while the father and the mother toiled in the fields, or gathered thevarech, or fished for shrimps, the old grandmother looked after thechildren at home. The grandmother in such homes is the real mother of theflock: the mother who bore the children has no time to manifestmother-love; it is the grandmother who nurses the stone-bruises, picksout the slivers, kisses away the sorrows, gladdens young hearts by hersimple stories, and rocks in her strong, old arms the babe, as she croonsand quavers a song of love and duty. 

And so the old grandmother had seen "her baby" grow to a man, and withher own hands she had made his clothes, and all the savings of her yearshad been sewed into a belt and given to the boy. 

And now he was going away. 

He was going away--going because she and she alone had urged it. She hadargued and pleaded, and when she won the village priest over to her side, and Father Lebrisseau in his turn had won several influential men--why, it must be!

The boy could draw: he could draw so well that he some day would be agreat artist--Langlois, the drawing-master at Cherbourg, ten miles away, said so. 

What if they were only poor peasants and there never had been a painterin the family! There would be now. So the priest had contributed from hisown purse; and the Councilmen of Cherbourg had promised to help; and thegrandmother had some silver of her own. 

Jean Francois Millet was going to Paris to study to be an artist. 

Tears rained down the wrinkled, leathery cheeks of the old grandmother;the mother stood by dazed and dumb, nursing a six-months-old babe;children of various ages hung to the skirts of mother and grandmother, tearful and mystified; the father leaned on the gate, smoking a pipe, displaying a stolidity he did not feel. 

The diligence swung around the corner and came rattling down the single, stony, narrow street of the little village. The driver hardly deigned tostop for such common folks as these; but the grandmother waved her apron, and then, as if jealous of a service some one else might render, sheseized one end of the canvas bag and helped the brown young man pass itup to the top of the diligence. Jean Francois climbed up after, carryinga little prayer-book that had been thrust into his hands--a final partinggift of the grandmother. 

The driver cracked his whip and away they went. 

As the diligence passed the rectory, Father Lebrisseau came out and heldup a crucifix; the young man took off his cap and bowed his head. 

The group of watchers moved out into the roadway. They strained theireyes in the direction of the receding vehicle. 

 * * * * *

After a three days' ride, Jean Francois was in Paris. The early winternight was settling down, and the air was full of fog and sleet. 

The young man was sore from the long jolting. His bones ached, and thedamp and cold had hunted out every part of his sturdy frame. 

The crowds that surged through the street hurrying for home and firesideafter the day's work were impatient. 

"Don't block the way, Johnny Crapaud!" called a girl with a shawl overher head; and with the combined shove and push of those behind, thesabot-shod young man was shouldered into the street. 

There he stood dazed and bereft, with the sailor's bag on his back. 

"Where do you wish to go?" asked a gendarme, not unkindly. 

"Back to Gruchy, " came the answer. 

And the young man went into the diligence office and asked when the nextstage started. 

It did not go until the following morning. He would have to staysomewhere all night. 

The policeman outside the door directed him to a modest tavern. 

Next morning things looked a little better. The sun had come out and theair was crisp. The crowds in the street did not look quite so cold andmean. 

After hunger had been satisfied, "Johnny Crapaud" concluded to stay longenough to catch a glimpse of the Louvre, that marvel of marvels! TheLouvre had been glowingly described to him by his old drawing-master atCherbourg. Visions of the Louvre had been in his mind for weeks andmonths, and now his hopes were soon to be realized. In an hour perhaps hewould stand and look upon a canvas painted by Rubens, the immortalRubens!

His enthusiasm grew warm. 

The girl who had served him with coffee stood near and was looking at himwith a sort of silent admiration, such as she might bestow upon a curiousanimal. 

He looked up; their eyes met. 

"Is it true--is it true that there are pictures by Rubens in the Louvre?"asked the young man. 

The oddity of the question from such a being and the queer Normandyaccent amused the girl, and she burst out laughing. She did not answerthe question, but going over to a man seated at another table whisperedto him. Then they both looked at the queer youth and laughed. 

The young countryman did not know what they were laughing at--probablythey did not, either--but he flushed scarlet, and soon made his way outinto the street, his luggage on his back. He wanted to go to the Louvre, but dare not ask the way--he did not care to be laughed at. 

And so he wandered forth. 

The shops were very marvelous, and now and again he lingered long beforesome window where colored prints and paintings were displayed. Hewondered if the places were artists' studios; and at one place as helooked at a series of sketches the thought came to him that he himselfcould do better. 

This gave him courage, and stepping inside the door he set down his bagand told the astonished shopkeeper that the pictures in the window werevery bad--he could paint better ones--would the proprietor not hire himto paint pictures? He would work cheap, and labor faithfully. 

He was hastily hustled out into the street--to harbor lunatics wasdangerous. 

So he trudged on--looking for the Louvre. 

Night came and the search was without reward. 

Seeing a sign of "Apartments for single gentlemen, " he applied and wasshown a modest room that seemed within his means. The landlady was verykind; in fact, she knew people at Gruchy and had often been toCherbourg--her uncle lived there. 

Jean Francois felt relieved to find that even in busy, bustling, frivolous Paris there were friendly people; and when the kind ladysuggested that pickpockets in the streets were numerous, and that he hadbetter give his money over to her for safekeeping, he handed out hisstore of three hundred francs without question. 

He never saw his money again. 

The next day he still sought the Louvre--not caring to reveal hisignorance by asking the way. 

It was several days before Fate led him along the Seine and he foundhimself on the Pont Neuf. The palace stretching out before him had afamiliar look. He stopped and stared. There were the palaces wherehistory had been made. He knew the Tuileries and he knew the Louvre--hehad seen pictures of both. 

He walked out across the Place de la Concorde, and seeing others enter, made his way through the gates of the sacred precinct. 

He was in the Palace of the Louvre; he had found the way, unaided andalone. 

His deep religious nature was moved, and taking off his cap he crossedhimself in a silent prayer of gratitude. 

What his sensations were he partially pictured to his friend Sensierthirty years after: "It seemed as though I had at last attained, achieved. My feelings were too great for words, and I closed my eyes, lest I be dazzled by the sight and then dare not open them lest I shouldfind it all a dream. And if I ever reach Paradise I know my joy will beno greater than it was that first morning when I realized that I stoodwithin the Louvre Palace. "

For a week Millet visited the Louvre every day. 

When the doors were unlocked each morning he was waiting on the steps;and he did not leave in the afternoon until the attendant warned him itwas time to go. 

He lingered long before the "Raffaellos" and stood in the "RubensGallery" dumb with wonder and admiration. 

There were various people copying pictures here and there. He watchedthem furtively, and after seeing one young man working at an easel in acertain place for a week, he approached and talked with him. 

Jean Francois told his history and the young man listened patiently. Headvised that it would be foolish to go back to Gruchy at once. The youthshould go to some master and show what he could do--remain and study fora little while at least; in fact, he himself would take him to Delaroche. Things looked brighter; and arrangements were made to meet on the morrowand go interview the master. 

Delaroche was found and proved kindly. He examined the two sketches thatJean Francois submitted, asked a few questions, and graciously led thenew applicant into the atelier, where a score of young men weresketching, and set him to work. 

The letter written by Jean to the good old grandmother that night hintedat great plans for the future, and told of love, and of hope that wasdauntless. 

 * * * * *

Twelve years were spent by Jean Francois in Paris--years of bitingpoverty and grim endurance: the sport and prey of Fate: the butt andbyword of the fashionable, artistic world. 

Jean Francois did not belong in Paris: how can robins build nests inomnibuses?

He was at war with his environment; and the stern Puritan bias of hisnature refused to conform to the free and easy ways of the gaymetropolis. He sighed for a sight of the sea, and longed for the fieldsand homely companionship that Normandy held in store. 

So we find him renouncing Paris life and going back to his own. 

The grandmother greeted him as one who had won, but his father andmother, and he, himself, called it failure. 

He started to work in the fields and fell fainting to the earth. 

"He has been starved, " said the village doctor. But when hunger had beenappeased and strength came back, ambition, too, returned. 

He would be an artist yet. 

A commission for a group of family portraits came from a rich family atCherbourg. Gladly he hastened thence to do the work. 

While in Cherbourg he found lodgings in the household of a widow who hada daughter. The widow courted the fine young painter-man--courted him forthe daughter. The daughter married him. A strong, simple man, unversedin the sophistry of society, loves the first woman he meets, provided, ofcourse, she shows toward him a bit of soft, feminine sympathy. Thisaccounts for the ease with which very young men so often fall in lovewith middle-aged women. The woman does the courting; the man idealizes, and endows the woman with all the virtues his imagination can conjureforth. Love is a matter of propinquity. 

The wife of Jean Francois was neutral salts. She desired, no doubt, to dowhat was right and best, but she had no insight into her husband's needs, and was incapable of guessing his latent genius. 

As for the new wife's mother and kinsmen, they regarded Jean Francois assimply lazy, and thought to crowd him into useful industry. He couldpaint houses or wagons, and, then, didn't the shipyard folks employpainters?

Well, I guess so. 

Jean Francois still dreamed of art. 

He longed to express himself--to picture on canvas the emotions thatsurged through his soul. 

Disillusionment had come, and he now saw that his wife was his mate onlybecause the Church and State said so. But his sense of duty was firm, andthe thought of leaving her behind never came to him. 

The portraits were painted--the money in his pocket; and to escape theimportunities and jeers of his wife's relatives he decided to try Parisonce more. 

The wife was willing. Paris was the gateway to pleasure and ambition. 

But the gaiety of Paris was not for her. On a scanty allowance of breadone can not be so very gay--and often there was no fuel. 

Jean Francois copied pictures in the Louvre and hawked them among thedealers, selling for anything that was offered. 

Delaroche sent for him. "Why do you no longer come to my atelier?" saidthe master. 

"I have no money to pay tuition, " was the answer. 

"Never mind; I'll be honored to have you work here. "

So Jean Francois worked with the students of Delaroche; and a fewrespected his work and tried to help market his wares. But connoisseursshook their heads, and dealers smiled at "the eccentricities of genius, "and bought only conventional copies of masterpieces or studies of thenude. 

Meantime the way did not open, and Paris was far from being the place thewife supposed. She would have gone back to Cherbourg, but there was nomoney to send her, and pride prevented her from writing the truth to herfriends at home. She prayed for death, and death came. The students atDelaroche's contributed to meet the expenses of her funeral. JeanFrancois still struggled on. 

Delaroche and others declared his work was great, but how could they makepeople buy it?

A time of peculiar pinching hardship came, and Jean Francois again badeParis adieu and made his way back to Gruchy. There he could work in thefields, gather varech on the seashore, and possibly paint portraits nowand then--just for amusement. 

And thus he would live out the measure of his days. 

The visit of Jean Francois to his boyhood's home proved a repetition ofthe first. 

Another woman married him. 

Catherine Lemaire was not a brilliant woman, but she had a profoundbelief in her husband's genius. 

Possibly she did not understand him when he talked his best, but she madea brave show of listening, and did not cross him with any littlewhimsical philosophies of her own. 

She was sturdy and strong of heart; privation was nothing to her; shecould endure all that Jean Francois could, and count it a joy to be withhim. 

She was the consoler, not he; and when the mocking indifference of theworld passed the work of Jean Francois by, she said, "Who cares, so longas we know 't is good?" and measured the stocking on her nose and mademerry music with the flying needles. 

Soon the truth forced itself on Jean Francois and Catherine that no manis thought much of by his kinsmen and boyhood acquaintances. No one atGruchy believed in the genius of Jean Francois--no one but the oldgrandmother, who daily hobbled to mass and prayed the Blessed Virgin notto forget her boy. Jean Francois and his wife studied the matter out andtalked it over at length, and they decided that to stay in Gruchy wouldbe to forfeit all hope of winning fame and fortune. 

Gruchy held nothing for them; possibly Paris did. 

And anyway, to go down in a struggle for better things was not soignominious an end as to allow one's powers to rust out, held back onlythrough fear of failure. 

They started for Paris. 

Yes, Paris remembered Jean Francois. How could Paris forget him--he wasso preposterous and his work so impossible!

It was still a struggle for bread. 

Marriages and births have a fixed relation to the price of corn, thesociologists say. Perhaps they are right; but not in this case. 

The babies came along with the years, and all brought love with them. 

The devotion of Jean Francois to his wife and children had a deep, sober, religious quality, such as we associate with Abraham and Jacob and theother patriarchs of old. 

The heart of Millet was often wrung by the thought of the privation andhardships his wife and children had to undergo. He blamed himself fortheir lack of creature comforts, and the salt tears rained down his beardwhen he had to go home and report that he had tramped the streets all daywith a picture under his arm, looking for a buyer, but no buyer could befound. 

But all this time the old grandmother up in Normandy waited and watchedfor news from her boy. 

Now and again during the years she saw his name mentioned in connectionwith the Salon; and once she heard a medal had been granted him, and atanother time an "Honorable Mention. "

Her heart throbbed in pride and she wrote congratulations, and thankedthe good God for answering her prayers. Little did she know of the timeswhen bread was cut in tiny bits and parceled out to each hungry mouth, orthe days when there was no fuel and the children kept to their beds toprevent freezing. 

But the few friends of Jean Francois who had forced the "HonorableMention" and secured the medal, now got something more tangible; theyinduced the Government Director of Fine Arts to order from Jean FrancoisMillet a picture for which the artist was to receive two thousand francs;two hundred francs were paid on account and the balance was to be paid ondelivery of the picture. 

Jean Francois hurried home with the order in his trembling fingers. Catherine read the order with misty eyes. She was not unduly elated--sheknew that success must come some time. And husband and wife then andthere decided that when the eighteen hundred francs were paid over tothem they would move out of Paris. 

They would make a home in the country. People do without things in thecountry, but they do not starve. You can raise vegetables, and eventhough the garden be small and the folks poor, God is good and thesunshine and showers come and things grow. And for fuel one can gatherfagots if they are near a wood. 

They would go to Barbizon--Barbizon, that tiny village on the edge of theForest of Fontainebleau. Several artists who had been there in the Summersketching had told them of it. The city was gradually smothering JeanFrancois. He prayed for a sight of the great open stretches of pasture, and green woods and winding river. 

And now it was all so near. 

He set to work feverishly to paint the great picture that was to bringdeliverance. 

At last the picture was done and sent to the Director's. 

Days of anxious waiting followed. 

The picture was accepted and paid for. 

Jean Francois and Catherine cried and laughed for joy, as they tumbledtheir belongings into bags and bundles. The grocer who had trusted themtook some of their furniture for pay, and a baker and a shoemakercompromised by accepting a picture apiece. They were going toBarbizon--going to the country--going to freedom! And so the father andthe mother and the queer-looking, yellow children were perched on the topof the diligence with their bundles, bound for Barbizon. They looked intoeach other's faces and their joy was too great for speech. 

 * * * * *

Living at the village of Barbizon, or near it, were Theodore Rousseau, Hughes Martin, Louis LeRoy and Clerge. 

These men were artists, and their peasant neighbors recognized them asseparate and apart from themselves. They were Summer boarders. But Milletwas a peasant in thought and feeling and sympathy, and mingled with thepeople on an absolute equality. He was peasant--and more than peasant;for the majesty of the woods, the broken rocks, the sublime stretches ofmeadow-lands with their sights, odors and colors intoxicated him withtheir beauty. He felt as if he had never before looked upon God'sbeautiful world. 

And yet Paris was only a day's journey away! There he could find a marketfor his work. To be near a great city is a satisfaction to everyintellectual worker, but, if he is wise, his visits to the city are farapart. All he needs is the thought that he can go if he chooses. 

Millet was thirty-four years of age when he reached Barbizon. There hewas to remain for the remaining twenty-seven years of his life--to livein the one house--years of toil, and not lacking in poverty, pain andanxiety, but years of freedom, for he worked as he wished and called noman master. 

It is quite the custom to paint the life of Millet at Barbizon as one ofmisery and black unrest; but those who do this are the people who readpain into his pictures: they do not comprehend the simplicity andsublimity and quiet joy that were possible in this man's nature, and inthe nature of the people he pictured. 

From the time he reached Barbizon there came into his work a largeness, amajesty and an elevation that is unique in the history of art. Millet'sheart went out to humanity--the humanity that springs from the soil, lives out its day, and returns to earth. His pictures form an epic ofcountry life, as he tells of its pains, its anxieties, itsprivations--yes, of its peace and abiding faith, and the joy and healthand strength that comes to those who live near to Nature's heart. 

Walt Whitman catalogues the workers and toilers, and lists theiroccupations in pages that will live; Millet shows us wood-gatherers, charcoal-burners, shepherds, gleaners, washerwomen, diggers, quarrymen, road laborers, men at the plow, and women at the loom. Then he shows thenoon-hour, the moments of devotion, the joys of motherhood, the silentpride of the father, the love of brother and sister and of husband andwife. And again in the dusk of a winter night we see black-lined againstthe sky the bent figure of an old woman, bearing her burden of fagots;and again we are shown the plain, homely interior of a cottage where thefamily watches by the bedside of a dying child. 

And always the picture is not quite complete--the faces are neverdistinct--no expression of feature is there, but the soul worked up intothe canvas conveys its silent message to all those who have eyes to seeand hearts to feel. 

Only a love and sympathy as wide as the world could have produced the"Gleaners, " the "Sower" and the "Angelus. "

Millet was what he was on account of what he had endured. All art is atlast autobiography. 

The laborer's cottage that he took at Barbizon had but three small, lowrooms. These served as studio, kitchen and bedchamber. When the familyhad increased to eleven, other rooms were added, and the studio wastransferred to the barn, there at the end of the garden. 

Millet had two occupations, and two recreations, he once said. In themornings he worked in his garden, digging, sowing, planting, reaping. Inthe afternoons he painted--painted until the sun got too low to affordthe necessary light; then he went for his daily solitary walk through thewoods and fields, coming back at dark. After supper he helped his wifewith the housework, put the children to bed, and then sat and read untilthe clock struck midnight. 

This was his simple life. Very slowly, recognition came that way. Theodore Rousseau, himself a great artist, and a man too great forjealousy, spread his fame, and the faithful Sensier in Paris lost noopportunity to aid his friend by the use of a commercial shrewdness inwhich Millet was woefully lacking. 

Then came Corot, Daubigny, Diaz and others of giant stature, to Barbizon, and when they went back to Paris they told of Millet and his work. Andthen we find Meissonier, the proud, knocking at the gate of Le GrandRustique. 

It is pleasant to recall that Americans were among the first to recognizethe value of Millet's art. His "Sower" is the chief gem of the Vanderbiltcollection; and the "Angelus" has been thought much more of in Francesince America so unreservedly set her seal upon it. 

Millet died in Eighteen Hundred Seventy-five. 

It was only during the last ten years of his life that he feltfinancially free, and even then he was far from passing rich. After hisdeath his fame increased, and pictures he had sold for twenty dollars, soon changed hands for as many hundred. 

Englishmen say that America grew Millet-mad, and it may be true that ouradmiration tipped a bit to t' other side; yet the fabulous prices werenot always paid by Americans--the rich men of earth vied with each otherfor the possession of a "Millet. "

The "Gleaners" was bought by the French Government for three hundredthousand francs, and is now in the Louvre "in perpetuity. " This sum paidfor this one picture represents a larger amount of money than passedthrough the hands of Millet during his entire life; and yet it is notone-half what another "Millet" brought. The "Angelus" was sold for thesum of eight hundred thousand francs--a larger amount than was everbefore paid for a single canvas. 

It is idle to say that no picture is worth such a sum. Anything is worthwhat some one else will pay for it. 

The number of "Millets, " it may be explained, is limited, and with men inAmerica who have incomes of ten million dollars or more a year, no saneman dare prophesy what price the "Sower" may yet command. 

Millet himself, were he here, would be aghast at the prices paid for hiswork, and he would turn, too, with disfavor from the lavish adulationbestowed upon his name. 

This homely, simple artist was a profound thinker; a sympathetic dreamer;a noble-hearted, generous man; so truthful and lovable that his virtueshave been counted a weakness; and so they are--for the planet Earth. 

JOSHUA REYNOLDS

 To make it people's interest to advance you, by showing that their business will be better done by you than by any other person, is the only solid foundation of success; the rest is accident. 

 --_Reynolds to His Nephew_

[Illustration: JOSHUA REYNOLDS]

On the curious little river Plym, five miles from Plymouth, is the hamletof Plympton. It is getting on towards two hundred years since JoshuaReynolds was born there. The place has not changed so very much with thecenturies: there still stand the quaint stone houses, built on archesover the sidewalk, and there, too, is the old Norman church with its highmullioned windows. Chester shows the best example of that very earlyarchitecture, and Plympton is Chester done in pigmy. 

The birthplace of Reynolds is one of these houses in the "Row"; agreengrocer now has the lower floor of the house for his shop, while hisnumerous family live upstairs. 

The Reverend Samuel Reynolds also had a numerous family--there beingeleven children--so the present occupation is a realistic restoration ofa previous condition. 

The grocer has a leaning toward art, for his walls are well papered withchromos and posters; and as he sold a cabbage to a good housewife henipped off a leaf for a pen of rabbits that stood in the doorway, andtalked to me glibly of Reynolds and Gainsborough. The grocer considersGainsborough the greater artist, and surely his fame is wide, like untothe hat--hated by theater-goers--that his name has rendered deathless, and which certain unkind ones declare has given him immortality. Joshuawas the seventh child in the brood of five boys and six girls. The fondparents set him apart for the Church, and to that end he was placed inthe Plympton Grammar-School, and made to "do" fifty lines of Ovid a day. 

The old belief that to translate Latin with facility was the true test ofgenius has fallen somewhat into desuetude, yet there are a few who stillhold to the idea that to reason, imagine and invent are not the tests ofa man's powers; he must conjugate, decline and derive. But Grant Allen, possessor of three college degrees, avers that a man may not even be ableto read and write, and yet have a very firm mental grasp on the eternalverities. 

Anyway, Joshua Reynolds did not like Latin. He hated the set task offifty lines, and hated the system that imposed a fine of twenty lines fora failure to fulfil the first. 

The fines piled up until young Joshua, aged twelve, goin' on thirteen, went into such hopeless bankruptcy that he could not pay tuppence on thepound. 

We have a sheet of this Latin done at that time, in a cramped, schoolboyhand, starting very bold and plain, and running off into a tired blot andscrawl. On the bottom of the page is a picture, and under this is a linewritten by the father: "This is drawn by Joshua in school out of pureidleness. " The Reverend Samuel had no idea that his own name would livein history simply because he was the father of this idle boy. 

Still, the clergyman showed that he was a man of good sense, for heacceded to the lad's request to let the Latin slide. This conclusion nodoubt was the easier arrived at after the master of the school hadexplained that the proper education of such a youth was quite hopeless. 

All the Reynolds children drew pictures and most of them drew better thanJoshua. But Joshua did not get along well at school, and so he felt thenecessity of doing something. 

It is a great blessing to be born into a family where strict economy oftime and money is necessary. The idea that nothing shall be wasted, andthat each child must carve out for himself a career, is a thrice-blessedheritage. 

Rich parents are an awful handicap to youth, and few indeed there be whohave the strength to stand prosperity; especially is this true whenprosperity is not achieved, but thrust upon them. 

Joshua got hold of a copy of Richardson's "Theory of Painting, " and foundtherein that the author prophesied the rise of a great school of Englishpainters. 

Joshua thought about it, talked with his brothers and sisters about it, and surprised his mother by asking her if she knew that there was soonto be a distinct school of British Art. 

About this time there came to the village a strolling artist by the nameof Warmell. This man opened up a studio on the porch of the tavern andoffered to make your picture while you wait. He did a thriving businessin silhouettes, and patrons who were in a hurry could have their profilescut out of black paper with shears and pasted on a white background in ajiffy--price, sixpence. 

Joshua struck up quite a friendship with this man and was taught all thetricks of the trade--even to the warning that in drawing the portrait ofa homely man it is not good policy to make a really homely picture. 

The best-paying pewholder in the Reverend Samuel Reynolds' church was aMr. Craunch, whose picture had been made by the joint efforts of thestrolling artist Warmell and young Reynolds. 'T was a very beautifulpicture, although it is not on record that Mr. Craunch was a handsomeman. 

Warmell refused to take pay for Craunch's picture, claiming that he feltit was pay enough to have the honor of such a great man sitting to him. This remark proved to Craunch that Warmell was a discerning person andthey were very soon on intimate terms of friendship. Mr. Craunch gave Mr. Warmell orders to paint pictures of the Craunch family. One day Warmellcalled the great man's attention to the fact that young Reynolds, hisvolunteer assistant, had ambitions in an art way that could not begratified unless some great and good man stepped in and played the partof a Mæcenas. 

In fact, Joshua wanted to go to London and study with Hudson, theson-in-law and pupil of Richardson, the eminent author who wrote the"Theory of Painting. " Warmell felt sure that after a few months, with hishelp, young Reynolds could get the technique and the color-scheme, and a'that, and the firm of Warmell and Reynolds could open a studio inPlymouth or Portsmouth and secure many good orders. 

Craunch listened with patience and advised with the boy's parents. 

The next week he took the lad up to London and entered him as a pupilwith the great Hudson, who could not paint much of a picture himself, butfor a consideration was willing to show others how. 

Rumor has it that Warmell got a certain sum in English gold for allpupils he sent to Hudson's studio, but I take no stock in suchinsinuations. 

Warmell here disappears from mortal view, like one of those stagetrapdoor vanishings of Mephisto--only Mephisto usually comes back, butWarmell never did. 

Reynolds was very happy at Hudson's studio. He was only seventeen yearsold when he arrived there, fresh from the country. London was a marvel ofdelight to Joshua; the shops, theaters, galleries and exhibitions were anever-ending source of joy. He worked with diligence, and probably gotmore for his money than any one of Hudson's fifty pupils. Hudson waswell-to-do, dignified and kind. His place was full of casts and classicfragments, and when he had set his pupils to copying these he consideredhis day's work done. 

Joshua wrote glowing letters home, telling of all he did. "While I am atwork I am the happiest creature alive, " he said. Hudson set Joshua tocopying Guercino's works, and kept the lad at it so steadily that he wasreally never able to draw from Nature correctly thereafter. 

After a year, Craunch came up from the country to see how his ward wasgetting along. Joshua showed him the lions of the city; and painted hispicture, making so fine a portrait that when Mr. Craunch got back home hethrew away the one made by Warmell. 

Once at an exhibition Joshua met Alexander Pope, whom he had seen severaltimes at Hudson's studio. Pope remembered him and shook hands. Joshua wasso inflated by the honor that he hastened home to write a letter to hismother and tell her all about it. 

According to the terms of agreement with Hudson, Joshua was bound to stayfour years; but now two years had passed, and one fine day in suddenwrath Hudson told him to pack up his kit and go. 

The trouble was that Joshua could paint better than Hudson--every pupilin the school knew it. When the scholars wanted advice they went toReynolds, and some of them, being sons of rich men, paid Reynolds forhelping them. 

Then Reynolds had painted a few portraits on his own account and had keptthe money, as he had a perfect right to do. Hudson said he hadn't, for hewas bound as an apprentice to him. 

"But only during working-hours, " replied young Reynolds. We can hardlyblame Hudson for sending him away--no master wants a pupil around whosees all over, above and beyond him, and who can do better work than he. It's confusing, and tends to rob the master of the deification that ishis due. 

Reynolds had remained long enough--it was time for him to go. 

He went back to Devonshire, and Craunch, the biggest man in Plympton, took him over to Lord Edgecumbe, the biggest man in Plymouth. 

Craunch carried along the portrait of himself that Joshua had made, andasked milord if he didn't want one just like it. Edgecumbe said he surelydid, and asked Joshua if he painted the picture all alone by himself. 

Joshua smiled. 

Lord Edgecumbe had a beautiful house, and to have a good picture ofhimself, and a few choice old ancestors on the walls, he thought would bevery fine. 

Joshua took up his abode in the Edgecumbe mansion, the better to do hiswork. 

He was a handsome youth, nearly twenty years old, with bright, beamingeyes, a slight but compact form, and brown curls that came to hisshoulders. His London life had given him a confidence in himself, and inhis manner there was a grace and poise flavored with a becomingdiffidence. 

A man who can do things well should assume a modesty, even if he has itnot. If you can write well, do not talk--leave that to the man who can donothing else. If you can paint, let your work speak for you. 

Joshua Reynolds was young, but he was an artist in diplomacy. His talent, his modesty, his youth, his beauty, won the hearts of the entireEdgecumbe household. 

He painted portraits of all the family; and of course all the visitorswere called upon to admire, not only the pictures, but the painter aswell. 

A studio was opened in one of Lord Edgecumbe's buildings at Plymouth, andhe painted portraits of all the great folks thereabout. 

On Christmas-Day, Seventeen Hundred Forty-six, the Reverend SamuelReynolds died, but before his death he fully realized that one of hischildren was well on the way to fame and fortune. 

The care of the broken family now devolved on Joshua, but his income wasseveral times as much as his father had ever earned, and hisresponsibilities were carried lightly. 

While at the house of Lord Edgecumbe, Reynolds had met young CommodoreKeppel. In Seventeen Hundred Forty-nine, Keppel was placed in command ofthe Mediterranean fleet, with orders to clear the seas of the Barbarypirates. Keppel invited Reynolds to join him on board the "Centurion" ashis guest. 

Gladly he accepted, and they sailed away for the Orient with a cabinstocked with good things, and enough brushes, paints, canvases and easelsto last several painters a lifetime. 

 * * * * *

It was three years before Reynolds came back to Plymouth. He had visitedLisbon, Cadiz, Gibraltar, Port Mahon and Minorca. At the two last-namedplaces there were British garrisons, and Reynolds set to work makingportraits of the officers. For this he was so well paid that he decidedto visit Italy instead of voyaging farther with his friend Keppel. 

He then journeyed on to Naples, Rome, Venice, Pisa and Florence, stoppingin each city for several months, immersing himself in the art atmosphereof the place. Returning to Rome, he remained there two years, studyingand copying the works of Raphael, Angelo, Titian and other masters. 

Occasionally, he sold his copies of masterpieces, and by practisingstrict economy managed to live in a fair degree of comfort. 

Rome is the hottest place in Summer and the coldest in Winter of which Iknow. The average Italian house has a damp and chill in Winter whichclutches the tourist and makes him long for home and native land. Imaginea New England farmhouse in March with only a small dish-pan of coals towarm it, and you have Rome in Winter. 

Rome, with its fever in Summer and rheumatism and pneumonia in Winter, has sent many an artist to limbus. Joshua Reynolds escaped the damp ofthe Vatican with nothing worse than a deafness that caused him to carryan ear-trumpet for the rest of his life. 

But now he was back at Plymouth. Lord Edgcumbe looked over the work hehad brought and called into the ear-trumpet that a man who could paintlike that was a fool to remain in a country town: he should go to Londonand vanquish all such alleged artists as Hudson. 

Keppel had gotten back to England, and he and Edgcumbe had arranged thatReynolds should pitch his tent in the heart of artistic London. So ahandsome suite of apartments was secured in Saint Martin's Lane. 

The first work undertaken seems to have been that full-length portrait ofCommodore Keppel. The picture shows the Commodore standing on a rockyshore, issuing orders to unseen hosts. There is an energy, dash andheroism pictured in the work that at once caught the eye of the public. 

"Have you seen Keppel's portrait?" asked Edgcumbe of every one he met. 

Invitations were sent out to call at Joshua Reynold's studio and see"Keppel. " There were a good many pictures displayed there, but "Keppel"was placed in a small room, set apart, rightly focused, properly draped, and lighted only by candles, that stood in silver candle-sticks, andwhich were solemnly snuffed by a detailed marine, six foot three, in ared coat, with a formidable hanger at his side. Only a few persons wereadmitted at a time and on entering the room all you saw was the valiantform of the doughty Commodore, the sea-mist in his face and the wildwinds blowing his locks. The big marine on guard in the shadow added thelast realistic touch, and the gentlemen visitors removed their hats andthe ladies talked in whispers--they all expected Keppel to speak, andthey wished to hear what he would say. 

It is a great thing to paint a beautiful picture, but 't is a moredifficult feat to hypnotize the public into accepting the fact. 

The live Keppel was pointed out on the street as the man who had had hispicture taken. 

Now, people do not have portraits painted simply because they wantportraits painted: they want these portraits shown and admired. 

To have Reynolds paint your portrait might prove a repetition of theKeppel--who knows!

Sitters came and a secretary in livery took their names and madeappointments, as is done today in the office of a prosperous dentist. 

Joshua Reynolds was young and strong, and he worked while it was calledthe day. He worked from sunrise until sunset. 

That first year in London he produced one hundred twenty portraits, besides painting various other pictures. This he could not have donewithout the assistance of a most loyal helper. 

This helper was Giuseppe Marchi. 

There are a half-dozen biographies of Reynolds, and from Boswell, Walpole and Burney, Gossips-in-Ordinary, we have vivid glimpses into hislife and habits. Then we have his own journal, and hundreds of letters;but nowhere do we get a frank statement of the assistance rendered him byGiuseppe Marchi. 

When Reynolds was in Rome, aged twenty-one, he fell in with atatterdemalion, who proffered his service as guide. Rome is full of suchspecimens, and the type is one that has not changed in five hundredyears. 

Reynolds tossed the lad a copper, and the ragged one showed his finewhite teeth in a gladsome grin and proffered information. He clung to thevisitor all that afternoon, and the next morning when Reynolds startedout with his sketching-outfit, the youngster was sitting on his doorstep. So they fared forth, Giuseppe carrying the kit. 

Reynolds knew but little Italian--the boy taught him more. The boy knewevery corner of Rome, and was deep in the history of the EternalCity--all he knew was Rome. 

Joshua taught the youngster to sketch, and after the first few days therein Rome. Joshua rigged Giuseppe up an easel, and where went Joshua therealso went Giuseppe. 

Joshua got a bit ashamed of his partner's attire and bought him betterraiment. 

When Reynolds left Rome on his homeward march, there, too, tagged thefaithful Giuseppe. 

After several months they reached Lyons, and Joshua counted his money. There was only enough to pay his fare by the diligence to Paris, with afew francs over for food. He told Giuseppe that he could not take himfarther, and emptying his pockets of all his coppers, and giving him hisbest silk handkerchief and a sketching-outfit, they cried down eachother's backs, kissed each other on both cheeks in the Italian fashion, and parted. 

It took eight days to reach Paris by the diligence, and Joshua only gotthrough by stopping one day and bartering a picture for sundry loaves ofnecessary bread. 

But he had friends in Paris, influential friends. And when he reached thehome of these influential friends, there on the curbstone sat Giuseppe, awaiting his coming, with the silk handkerchief knotted loosely about hisneck!

Giuseppe had thrown away the painting-kit and walked the three hundredmiles in eight days, begging or stealing by the way the food he needed. 

When Joshua Reynolds opened his studio in Saint Martin's Lane, hisfaithful helper was Giuseppe Marchi. Giuseppe painted just as Joshua did, and just as well. 

When sitters came, Giuseppe was only a valet: he cleaned the brushes, polished the knives, ran for water and hovered near to do his master'sbidding. He was the only person allowed in the model-room, and all thetime he was there his keen eyes made a correct and proper estimate of thesitter. Listening to no conversation, seeing nothing, he yet heardeverything and nothing escaped his glance. 

When the sitting, which occupied an hour, was over, Giuseppe took thepicture into another room, and filled in the background and drapery justas he knew it should be. 

"Marchi does not sign and date the portraits, but he does all the rest, "said Garrick. And "Little Burney, " treading on thinner ice, onceremarked, "If Sir Joshua ever embraces a fair sitter and imprints uponher forehead a chaste kiss, I am sure that Giuseppe Marchi will nevertell. "

It is too late to accuse Sir Joshua Reynolds of ingratitude towardsGiuseppe; he was grateful, and once referred to Marchi as "an angel sentfrom God to help me do my work. " But he paid Marchi valet's wages andtreated him like a servant. Possibly this was the part of expedience, forhad Marchi ever gotten it into his head that he could paint as well asSir Joshua he would have been worthless as a helper. 

For forty years they were never separated. 

Cotton disposes of Giuseppe Marchi by saying, "He was a clever colorist, but incapable of doing independent work. " Cotton might, however, havetold the whole simple truth, and that was that Marchi was hands, feet, eyes and ears for his master--certain it is that without his help SirJoshua could never have attained the fame and fortune he did. 

 * * * * *

In selecting his time for a career, Joshua Reynolds showed good judgment. He went into public favor on a high tide. England was prosperous, andthere was in the air a taste for the polite arts. Literature was becominga fad. 

Within a short time there had appeared Gray's "Elegy, " Smollett's"Peregrine Pickle, " Fielding's "Amelia" and Richardson's "ClarissaHarlowe. " Here was menu to fit most palates, and the bill-of-fare wasduly discussed in all social gatherings of the upper circles. Theafflicted ones fed on Gray; the repentant quoted Richardson; whileSmollett and Fielding were read aloud in parlor gatherings where fairladies threatened to leave the room--but didn't. Out at Strawberry Hill, his country home, Horace Walpole was running that little printing-shop, making books that are now priceless, and writing long, gossipy lettersthat body forth the spirit of the time, its form and pressure. TheDilettante Society, composed of young noblemen devoted to high art andgood-fellowship, was discussing a scheme for a National Academy. Garrickwas at the height of his fame; Hogarth was doing for art what Smollettdid for literature; while two young Irishmen, Burke and Goldsmith, weregetting ready to make English letters illustrious; Hudson was paintingportraits with a stencil; Gainsborough was immortalizing a hat; DoctorJohnson was waiting in the entry of Lord Chesterfield's mansion with theprospectus of a dictionary; and pretty Kitty Fisher had kicked the hatoff the head of the Prince of Wales on a wager. 

And so into this atmosphere of seething life came Joshua Reynolds, thehandsome, gracious, silent, diplomatic Reynolds. Fresh from Italy and thefar-off islands of the Southern seas where Ulysses sailed, he came--hisname and fame heralded as the Raphael of England. 

To have your portrait painted by Reynolds was considered a proper"entree" into the "bon ton. " To attempt to give the names of royalty whosat to him would be to present a transcript of Burke's Peerage. 

Unlike Van Dyck, at whose shrine Reynolds worshiped, Reynolds was coldlydiplomatic in his relations with his sitters. He talked but little, because he could not hear, and to hold an ear-trumpet and paint with bothhands is rather difficult. On the moment when the sitting was over, thepatron was bowed out. The good ladies who lay in wait with love's lariatnever found an opportunity to make the throw. 

Reynolds' specialty was women and children. No man has ever pictured thembetter, and with him all women were kind. Not only were they good, butgood-looking; and when arms lacked contour, or busts departed from theideal, Kitty Fisher or Nelly O'Brien came at the call of Marchi and lenttheir charms to complete the canvas. 

Reynolds gradually raised his prices until he received fifteen guineasfor a head, one hundred for a half-length, and one hundred and fifty fora full-length. And so rapidly did he work that often a picture wascompleted in four hours. 

Usually, success is a zigzag journey, but it was not so with Reynolds. From Seventeen Hundred Fifty-seven to Seventeen Hundred Eighty-eight, hisincome was never less than thirty thousand dollars a year, and hispopularity knew no eclipse. 

About the time the American Stamp Act was being pushed throughParliament, Reynolds' studio was the neutral stamping-ground for bothparties. 

Copley, the Boston artist, gave Reynolds a bias in favor of truth; andwhen Townshend, the man who introduced the Stamp Act in Parliament, satto Sir Joshua, the artist and sitter forgot their business and wrangledover politics. Soon afterward Sir Joshua made a bet with Townshend, athousand pounds against five, that George Washington would never enterReynolds' studio. This was in response to the boast that Washington wouldsoon be brought to England a captive, and Townshend would conduct him toReynolds to have his picture taken. 

The bet made a sensation and Reynolds offered to repeat it to all comers;and a score or more of sincere men paid over five pounds into the handsof Sir Joshua, and took his note for one thousand pounds, payable whenWashington landed in England a prisoner. 

Old Ursa Major had small patience with Reynolds' political prophecies;he called America a land of pirates and half-breed cutthroats, and wouldhave bet Sir Joshua to a standstill--only he had conscientious scruplesabout betting, and besides, hadn't any money. 

Goldsmith and Burke, of course, sided with Reynolds in his Americansympathies, and Garrick referred to them as "My friends, the three IrishGentlemen. "

A frequent visitor at the studio at this time was Angelica Kauffman, whodeserves a volume instead of a mere mention. She came up fromSwitzerland, unknown, and made her way to the highest artistic circles inLondon. She had wit and beauty, and painted so well that Reynoldsadmitted she taught him a few tricks in the use of color. She producedseveral portraits of Reynolds, and Reynolds painted several of her; andthe daughter of Thackeray wrote a novel which turns on the assumptionthat they were lovers. 

There certainly was a fine comradeship existing between them; but whetherReynolds was ever capable of an all-absorbing passion there is muchdoubt. He was married to his work. 

Reynolds had many intimate friends among women: Peg Woffington, Mrs. Clive, Mrs. Thrale, Hannah More, Fanny Burney and others. With them allthere went the same high, chivalrous and generous disinterestedness. Hewas a friend to each in very fact. 

When the Royal Academy was formed in Seventeen Hundred Sixty-eight, Reynolds was made its president, and this office he held until the closeof his life. He was not one of the chief promoters of the Academy at thebeginning, and the presidency was half forced upon him. He might havedeclined the honor then had the King not made him a knight, and showedthat it was his wish that Reynolds should accept. Sir Joshua, however, had more ballast in his character than any other painter of his time, andit was plain that without his name at the head the Academy would be athing for smiles and quiet jokes. 

The thirty-four charter members included the names of two Americans, Copley and West, and of one woman, Angelica Kauffman. 

And it is here worthy of note that although the Methodist Church stillrefuses to allow women to sit as delegates in its General Conference, yet, in Seventeen Hundred Sixty-eight, no dissent was made when JoshuaReynolds suggested the name of a woman as a member of the Royal Academy. 

Sir Joshua did not forget his friends at the time honors were given out, for he secured the King's permission to add several honorary members tothe Academy--men who couldn't paint, but who still expressed themselveswell in other ways. 

Doctor Johnson was made Professor of Ancient Literature; OliverGoldsmith, Professor of Ancient History; and Richard Dalton, Librarian. 

In this case the office did not seek the man: the man was duly measured, and the office manufactured to fit him. 

When Sir Joshua died, in February, Seventeen Hundred Ninety-two, it wasthe close of a success so uninterrupted that it seems unequaled in thehistory of art. He left a fortune equal to considerably more than half amillion dollars; he had contributed valuable matter to the cause ofliterature; he had been the earnest friend of all workers in the cause ofletters, music and art; and had also been the intimate adviser andconfidant of royalty. He was generous and affectionate, wise and sincere;a cheerful and tireless worker--one in whom the elements were so wellmixed that all the world might say, This was a man!

LANDSEER

 The man behind his work was seen through it--sensitive, variously gifted, manly, genial, tender-hearted, simple and unaffected; a lover of animals, children and humanity; and if any one wishes to see at a glance nearly all we have written, let him look at Landseer's portrait, painted by himself, with a canine connoisseur on either side. 

 --_Monkhouse_

[Illustration: LANDSEER]

Happy lives make dull biographies. Young women with ambitions should bevery cautious lest mayhap they be caught in the soft, silken mesh of ahappy marriage, and go down to oblivion, dead to the world. 

"Miss Pott--the beautiful Miss Pott, " they called her. The biographersdidn't take time to give her first name, nor recount her pedigree, sorapt were they with her personality. They only say, "She was tall, willowy and lissome; and Sir Joshua Reynolds painted her picture as apeasant beauty, bearing on her well-poised head a sheaf of corn. "

It was at the house of Macklin, the rich publisher, that John Landseer, the engraver, met Miss Pott. She was artistic in all her instincts; andas she knew the work of the brilliant engraver and named his best pieceswithout hesitation he grew interested. Men grow interested when you knowand appreciate their work; sometimes they grow more interested, at whichtime they are also interesting. 

And so it came about that they were married, the beautiful Miss Pott andJohn Landseer, and it can also be truthfully added that they were happyever afterward. 

But that was the last of Miss Pott. Her husband was so strong, soself-centered, so capable, that he protected her from every fierce wind, and gratified her every wish. She believed in him thoroughly andconformed her life to his. Her personality was lost in him. Thebiographer scarcely refers to her, save when he is obliged to, indirectly, to record that she became the mother of three fine girls, andthe same number of boys, equally fine, by name, Thomas, Charles andEdwin. 

Thomas and Charles grew to be strong, learned and useful men, soaccomplished in literature and art that their names would shine bright onhistory's page, were they not thrown into the shadow by the youngestbrother. 

Before Edwin Landseer was twenty years of age he was known throughout theUnited Kingdom as "Landseer. " John Landseer was known as "the father ofLandseer, " and the others were "the brothers of Landseer. "

And when once in Piccadilly, the beautiful Miss Pott (that was) waspointed out as "the mother of Landseer, " the words warmed the heart ofthe good woman like wine. To be the wife of a great man, and the motherof a greater was career enough--she was very happy. 

Queen Anne Street, near Cavendish Square, is a shabby district, with longlines of plain brick houses built for revenue only. 

But Queen Anne Street is immortal to all lovers of art because it was thehome of Turner; and within its dark, dull and narrow confines werepainted the most dazzlingly beautiful canvases that the world has everseen. And yet again the street has another claim on our gratefulremembrance, for at Number Eighty-three was born, on March Seventh, Eighteen Hundred Two, Edwin Landseer. 

The father of Landseer was an enthusiastic lover of art. He had sprungfrom a long line of artistic workers in precious metals; and to use apencil with skill he regarded as the chief end of man. 

Long before his children knew their letters, they were taught to makepictures. Indeed, all children can make pictures before they can write. For a play-spell, each day John Landseer and his boys tramped acrossHampstead Heath to where there were donkeys, sheep, goats and cowsgrazing; then all four would sit down on the grass before some chosensubject and sketch the patient model. 

Edwin Landseer's first loving recollections of his father went back tothese little excursions across the Heath. And for each boy to take backto his mother and sisters a picture of something they had seen was agreat joy. 

"Well, boys, what shall we draw today?" the father would ask atbreakfast-time. 

And then they would all vote on it, and arguments in favor of goat ordonkey were eloquently and skilfully set forth. 

I said that a very young child could draw pictures: standing by my chairas I write this line is a chubby little girl, just four years old, in acheck dress, with two funny little braids down her back. She is beggingme for this pencil that she may "make a pussy-cat for Mamma to put in aframe. "

What boots it that the little girl's "pussy-cat" has five or six legs andthree tails--these are all inferior details. 

The evolution of the individual mirrors the evolution of the race, andlong before races began to write or reason they made pictures. 

Art education had better begin young, for then it is a sort of play; andgood artistic work, Robert Louis Stevenson once said, is only usefulplay. 

Probably Edwin Landseer's education began a hundred years before he wasborn; but his technical instruction in art began when he was three yearsold, when his father would take him out on the Heath and placing him onthe grass, put pencil and paper in his hand and let him make a picture ofa goat nibbling the grass. 

Then the boy noted for himself that a goat had a short tail, a cow aswitch-tail, and horses had no horns, and that a ram's horns were unlikethose of a goat. 

He had begun to differentiate and compare--and not yet four years old!

When five years of age he could sketch a sleeping dog as it lay on thefloor better than could Thomas, his brother, who was seven years older. 

We know the deep personal interest that John Landseer felt in the boy, for he preserved his work, and today in the South Kensington Museum wecan see a series of sketches made by Edwin Landseer, running from hisfifth year to manhood. 

Thus do we trace the unfolding of his genius. 

That young Landseer's drawing was a sort of play there is no doubt. People who set very young children at tasks of grubbing out cold factsfrom books come plainly within the province of the Society for thePrevention of Cruelty to Animals, and should be looked after, but to dothings with one's hands for fun is only a giving direction to the naturalenergies. 

Before Edwin Landseer was eight years of age his father had taught himthe process of etching, and we see that even then the lad had a vividinsight into the character of animals. He drew pictures of pointers, mastiffs, spaniels and bulldogs, and gave to each the right expression. 

The Landseers owned several dogs, and what they did not own theyborrowed; and once we know that Charles and Thomas "borrowed" a mastiffwithout the owner's consent. 

All children go through the scissors age, when they cut out of magazines, newspapers or books all the pictures they can find, so as to add to the"collection. " Often these youthful collectors have specialties: one willcollect pictures of animals, another of machinery, and still another ofhouses. But usually it is animals that attract. 

Scissors were forbidden in the Landseer household, and if the boys wantedpictures they had to make them. 

And they made them. 

They drew horses, sheep, donkeys, cattle, dogs; and when their fathertook them to the Zoological Garden it was only that they might bring backtrophies in the way of lions and tigers. 

Then we find that there was once a curiosity exhibited in Fleet Street inthe way of a lion-cub that had been caught in Africa and mothered by aNewfoundland dog. The old mother-dog thought just as much of the orphanthat was placed among her brood as of her sure-enough children. The ownerhad never allowed the two animals to be separated, and when the lion hadgrown to be twice the size of his foster-mother there still existedbetween the two a fine affection. 

The stepmother exercised a stepmother's rights, and occasionallychastised, for his own good, her overgrown charge, and the big brutewould whimper and whine like a lubberly boy. 

This curious pair of animals made a great impression on the Landseers. The father and three boys sketched them in various attitudes, andengravings of Edwin's sketch are still to be had. 

And so wherever in London animals were to be found, there, too, were theLandseers with pencils and brushes, and pads and palettes. 

In the back yard of the house where the Landseers lived were sundry pensof pet rabbits; in the attic were pigeons, and dogs of various breeds layon the doorstep sleeping in the sun, or barked at you out of the windows. 

It is reported that John Landseer once contemplated a change ofresidence; he selected the house he wanted, bargained with the landlord, agreed as to terms and handed out his card preparatory to signing alease. 

The real-estate agent looked at the name, stuttered, stammered, andfinally said: "You must excuse me, Sir, but they say as how you are adealer in dogs, and your boys are dog-catchers! You'll excuse me--but--Ijust now 'appened to think the 'ouse is already took!"

 * * * * *

The Landseers moved from Queen Anne Street to Foley Street, nearBurlington House. This was a neighborhood of artists, and for neighborsthey had West, Mulready, Northcote, Constable, Flaxman and our ownpicturesque Allston, of Cambridge, Massachusetts. 

The Elgin Marbles were then kept at Burlington House, and these were agreat source of inspiration to the Landseer boys. It gave them a truetaste of the Grecian, and knowing a little about Greece, they wanted toknow more. Greece became the theme--they talked it at breakfast, dinnerand supper. The father and mother told them all they knew, and guessed ata few things more, and to keep at least one lesson ahead of the childrenthe parents "crammed for examination. "

Edwin sketched that world-famous horse's head from the Parthenon, and thefigures of horses and animals in bas-relief that formed the frieze; andthe boys figured out in their minds why horses and men were all the sameheight. 

Gradually it dawned upon the father and the brothers that Edwin was theirmaster so far as drawing was concerned. They could sketch a Newfoundlanddog that would pass for anybody's Newfoundland, but Edwin's was a certainidentical dog, and none other. 

Edwin Landseer really discovered the dog. 

He discovered that dogs of one breed may be very different in temper anddisposition; and going further he found that dogs have character andpersonality. He struck an untouched lode and worked it out to his owndelight and the delight of great numbers of others. 

His pictures were not mystical, profound or problematic--simply dogs, butdogs with feelings, affections, jealousies, prejudices. In short, heshowed that dogs, after all, are very much like folks; and from this, people with a turn for psychology reasoned that the source of life in thedog was the same as the source of life in man. 

Plain people who owned a dog beloved by the whole household, as householddogs always are, became interested in Landseer's dogs. They could not buya painting by Landseer, but they could spare a few shillings for anengraving. 

And so John Landseer began to reproduce the pictures of Edwin's dogs. 

The demand grew, and Thomas now ceased to sketch and devoted all his timeto etching and engraving his brother's work. 

Every one knew of Landseer, even people who cared nothing for art: theywanted a picture of one of his dogs to hang over the chimney, because thedog looked like one they used to own. 

Then rich people came and wanted Edwin to paint a portrait of their dog, and a studio was opened where the principal sitters were dogs. From aposition where close economy must be practised, the Landseers foundthemselves with more money than they knew what to do with. 

Edwin was barely twenty, but had exhibited at several Royal AcademyExhibitions and his name was on every tongue. He gave no attention tomarketing his wares--his father and brothers did all that--he simplysketched and had a good time. He was healthy, strong, active, and couldwalk thirty miles a day; but now that riches had come that way he boughta horse and rode. 

Then other horses were presented to him, and he began to picture horses, too. That he knew horses and loved them is evidenced in many a picture. In every village or crossroads town of America can be found copies of his"Shoeing, " where stands the sleek bay mare, the sober, serious donkey, and the big dog. 

No painter who ever lived is so universally known as Landseer, and thisis because his father and brothers made it their life-business toreproduce his work by engraving. 

Occasionally, rich ladies would want their own portraits painted with afavorite dog at their feet, or men wanted themselves portrayed onhorseback, and so Landseer found himself with more orders than he couldwell care for. People put their names, or the name of their dog, on hiswaiting-list, and some of the dogs died of old age before the name wasreached. 

"I hear, " said a lady to Sydney Smith at a dinner party--"I hear you areto have your portrait painted by Landseer. "

"Is thy servant a dog that he should do this thing?" answered the wit. The story went the rounds, and Mulready once congratulated the clergymanon the repartee. 

"I never made the reply, " said Sydney Smith; "but I wish I had. "

Sydney Smith was once visiting the Landseer studio, and his eye chancedto light on the picture of a very peculiar-looking dog. 

"Yes, it's a queer picture of a queer dog. The drawing is bad enough, andnever pleased me!" And Landseer picked up the picture and gave it a tossout of the window. "You may have it if you care to go get it, " hecarelessly remarked to the visitor. Smith made haste to run downstairsand out of the house to secure his prize. He found it lodged in thebranches of a tree. 

In telling the tale years afterward, Smith remarked that, whereas manymen had climbed trees to evade dogs, yet he alone of all men had onceclimbed a tree to secure one. 

Sir Walter Scott saw Landseer's picture of "The Cat's Paw, " and was socharmed with it that he hunted out the young artist, and soon afterinvited him to Abbotsford. 

Leslie, the American artist, was at that time at Scott's home paintingthe novelist's portrait. This portrait, by the way, became the propertyof the Ticknor family of Boston, and was exhibited a few years ago at theBoston Museum of Fine Arts. 

Landseer, Leslie and Scott made a choice trio of congenial spirits. Theywere all "outdoor men, " strong, sturdy, good-natured, and fond of boyishromp and frolic. Many were the long tramps they took across mountain, heath and heather. They visited the Highland district together, fished inLoch Lomond, paddled the entire length of Loch Katrine, and hunted deeron the preserve of Lord Gwydr. 

On one hunting excursion, Landseer was stationed on a runway, gun inhand, with a gillie in attendance. The dogs started a fine buck, whichran close to them, but instead of leveling his gun, Landseer shoved theweapon into the hands of the astonished gillie with the hurried whisperedrequest, "Here, you, hold this for me!" and seizing his pencil, made ahasty sketch of the gallant buck ere the vision could fade from memory. 

In fact, both Landseer and Leslie proved poor sportsmen--they had noheart for killing things. 

A beautiful live deer was a deal more pleasing to Landseer than a deadone; and he might truthfully have expressed the thought of his mind bysaying, "A bird in the bush is worth two on a woman's bonnet. " And indeedhe did anticipate Thoreau by saying, "To shoot a bird is to lose it. "

The idea of following deer with dogs and guns, simply for the sport ofkilling them, was repugnant to the soul of this sensitive, tender-heartedman. 

In the faces of his deer he put a look of mingled grandeur and pain--ahalf-pathos, as if foreshadowing their fate. 

In picturing the dogs and donkeys, he was full of jest and merriment; butthe kings of moor and forest called forth deeper and sadder sentiments. 

That wild animals instinctively flee in frenzied alarm at man's approachis comment enough on our treatment of them. 

The deer, so gentle and so graceful, so innocent and so beautiful, arenever followed by man except as a destroyer; and the idea of looking downa rifle-barrel into the wide-open, soulful eyes of a deer made Landseersick at heart. 

 * * * * *

To Landseer must be given the honor of first opening a friendlycommunication between the present royal family and the artistic andliterary world. 

Wild-eyed poets and rusty-looking, impecunious painters were firmlywarned away from Balmoral. The thought that all poets and painters wereanarchistic and dangerous--certainly disagreeable--was firmly fixed inthe heart of the young Queen and her attendants. 

The barrier had first been raised to Landseer. He was requested to visitthe palace and paint a picture of one of the Queen's deerhounds. It wasfound that the man was not hirsute, untamed or eccentric. He was agentleman in manner and education--quite self-contained and manly. 

He was introduced to the Queen; they shook hands and talked about dogsand horses and things, just like old acquaintances. They loved the samethings, and so were friends at once. It was not long before Landseer'snear neighbors at Saint John's Wood were stricken speechless at thespectacle of Queen Victoria on horseback waiting at the door ofLandseer's house, while the artist ran in to change his coat. When hecame out he mounted one of the groom's horses for a gallop across thepark with the Queen of England, on whose possessions the sun never sets. 

These rides with royalty were, however, largely a matter of professionalstudy; for he not only painted a picture of the Queen on horseback, butof Albert as well. And at Windsor there can now be seen many pictures ofdogs and horses painted by Landseer, with nobility incidentallyintroduced, or vice versa, if you prefer. 

It was in Eighteen Hundred Thirty-five that Landseer began to paint thepets of the royal family, and the friendly intimacy then begun continuedup to the time of his death in Eighteen Hundred Seventy-three. 

In the National Academy are sixty-seven canvases by Landseer; and for theQueen, personally, he completed over one hundred pictures, for which hereceived a sum equal to a quarter of a million dollars. 

Landseer's career was one of continuous prosperity. In his life there wasneither tragedy nor disappointment. His horses and dogs filled hisbachelor heart, and when Tray, Blanche and Sweetheart bayed and barkedhim a welcome to that home in Saint John's Wood where he lived for justfifty years, he was supremely content. 

His fortune of three hundred thousand pounds was distributed at hisdeath, as he requested, among various servants, friends and needykinsmen. 

Landseer had no enemies, and no detractors worth mentioning. That hisgreat popularity was owing to his deference to the spirit of the age goeswithout saying. He never affronted popular prejudices, and was ever alertto reflect the taste of his patrons. The influence of passing events wasstrong upon him: the subtlety of Turner, the spiritual vision of FraAngelico, the sublime quality of soul (that scorned present reward anddedicated its work to time) of Michelangelo were all far from him. 

That he at times attempted to be humorous by dressing dogs in coats andtrousers with pipe in mouth is to be regretted. A dog so clothed is notfunny--the artist is. 

The point has also been made that in Landseer's work there was noprogression--no evolution. His pictures of mountain scenery done inScotland before he was thirty mark high tide. To him never again came thesame sweep of joyous spirit or surge of feeling. 

Bank-accounts, safety and satisfaction are not the things that stir theemotions and sound the soul-depths. Landseer never knew the blessing of anoble discontent. But he contributed to the quiet joy of a million homes;and it is not for us to say, "It is beautiful; but is it art?" Neitherneed we ask whether the name of Landseer will endure with those ofRaphael and Leonardo. Edwin Landseer did a great work, and the world isbetter for his having lived; for his message was one of gentleness, kindness and beauty. 

GUSTAVE DORE

 Lacroix told Dore one day, early in his life in Paris, that he should illustrate a new edition of his works in four volumes, and he sent them to him. In a week Lacroix said to Dore, who had called, "Well, have you begun to read my story?" "Oh! I mastered that in no time; the blocks are all ready"; and while Lacroix looked on stupefied, the boy dived into his pockets and piled many of them on the table, saying, "The others are in a basket at the door; there are three hundred in all!"

 --_Blanche Roosevelt_

[Illustration: GUSTAVE DORE]

It was at the Cafe de l'Horloge in Paris. Mr. Whistler sat leaning on hiscane, looking off into space, dreamily and wearily. 

He roused enough to answer the question: "Dore--Gustave Dore--an artist?Why, the name sounds familiar! Oh, yes, an illustrator. Ah, now Iunderstand; but there is a difference between an artist and anillustrator, you know, my boy. Dore--yes, I knew him--he had bats in hisbelfry!"

And Mr. Whistler dismissed the subject by calling for a match, and thensmoked his cigarette in grim silence, blowing the smoke through his nose. 

Not liking a man, it is easy to shelve him with a joke, or to waive hiswork with a shrug and toss of the head, but not always will the ghostdown at our bidding. 

In the realm of art nothing is more strange than this: genius does notrecognize genius. Still, the word is much abused, and the man who is agenius to some is never so to others. In defining a genius it is easiestto work by the rule of elimination and show what he is not. 

For instance, neither Reynolds, Landseer nor Meissonier was a genius. These men were strong, sane, well poised--filled with energy and life. They were receptive and quick to grasp a suggestion or hint that could beturned to their advantage--to further the immediate plans they had inhand. They had ambition and the ability to concentrate on a thing and doit. Just what they focused their attention upon was largely a matter ofaccident. They had in them the capacity for success--they could havesucceeded at anything they undertook, and they were too sensible toundertake a thing at which they could not succeed. They always saw lightthrough at the other end. 

"I have success tied to the leg of my easel by a blue ribbon, " saidMeissonier. 

They succeeded by mathematical calculation, and the fame, name and goldthey won was through a conscious laying hold upon the laws that bringthese things to pass. 

They chose to paint pictures, and the entire energy of their natures wasconcentrated upon this one thing. Practising the art, day after day, month after month, year after year, they acquired a wonderful facility. They knew the history of art--its failures, pitfalls and successes. Theyknew the human heart--they knew what the people wanted and what theydidn't. They set themselves to supply a demand. And all this keenness, combined with good taste and tireless energy, would have brought a likesuccess in any one of a dozen different professions. 

And these are the men who give plausibility to that stern half-truth: aman can succeed in anything he undertakes--it is all a matter of will. 

But you can not count Gustave Dore in any such category. He stands alone:he had no predecessors, and he left no successors. We say that the artisthas his prototype; but every rule has its exception--even this one. 

Gustave Dore drew pictures because he could do nothing else. He never hada lesson in his life, never drew from a model, could not sketch fromNature; accepted no one's advice; never retouched or considered his workafter it was done; never cudgeled his brains for a subject; could read abook by turning the leaves; grasped all knowledge; knew all languages;found an immediate market for his wares and often earned a thousanddollars before breakfast; lived fifty years and produced over one hundredthousand sketches--an average of six a day; made two million dollars bythe labor of his own hands; was knighted, flattered, proclaimed, adored, lauded, scorned, scoffed, hooted, maligned, and died broken-hearted. 

Surely you can not dispose of a man like this with a "bon mot"!

Comets may be good or ill, but wise men nevertheless make note of them, and the fact that they once flashed their blinding light upon us mustlive in the history of things that were. 

 * * * * *

An Alsatian by birth, and a Parisian by environment, Dore is spoken of asof the French School, but if ever an artist belonged to no "school" itwas Gustave Dore. 

His early years were spent in Strassburg, within the shadow of thecathedral. His father was a civil engineer--methodical, calculating, prosperous. The lad was the second of three sons: strong, bright, intelligent boys. 

In his travels up and down the Rhine the father often took little Gustavewith him, and the lad came to know each wild crag, and crowning fortress, and bend in the river where strong men with spears and bows and arrowsused to lie in wait. In imagination Gustave repeopled the ruins andfilled the weird forests with curious, haunting shapes. The Rhine reekswith history that merges off into misty song and fable; and this folkloreof the storied river filled the day-dreams and night-dreams of thiscurious boy. 

But all children have a vivid imagination, and the chief problem ofmodern education is how to conserve and direct it. As yet no scheme orplan or method has been devised that shows results, and the men ofimagination seem to be those who have succeeded in spite of school. InGustave Dore we have the curious spectacle of Nature keeping bright andfresh in the man all those strange conceptions of the child, andmultiplying them by a man's strength. 

The wild imaginings of Gustave only served his father and mother withfood for laughter; and his erratic absurdities in making picturessupplied the neighbors' fun. 

But actions that are funny in a child become disturbing in a man; he'scute when little, but "sassy" when older. 

Gustave, however, did not put away childish things. When he had reachedthe age of indiscretion--was fourteen, and had a frog in his throat, andwas conscious of being barefoot--he still imagined things and madepictures of them. His father was distressed, and sought by bribes to gethim to quit scrawling with pencil and turn his attention to logarithmsand other useful things; but with only partial success. 

When fifteen he accompanied his father and older brother to Paris, wherethe older boy was to be installed in the Ecole Polytechnique. It was thehope of the father that, once in Paris, Gustave would consent to remainwith his brother, and thus, by a change of base, a reform in his tasteswould come about and he would leave the Rhine with its foolish old-womantales and cease the detestable habit of picturing them. 

It was the first time Gustave had ever been to Paris--the first time hehad ever visited a large city. He was fascinated, captivated, enthralled. Paris was fairyland and paradise. He announced to his father and brotherthat he would not return to Alsace, neither would he go to thePolytechnique. They told him he must do either one or the other; and asthe father was going back home in two days, Gustave could have justforty-eight hours in which to decide his destiny. 

Passing by the office of the "Journal pour Rire, " the father and songaping in all the windows like true rustics, they saw announced anillustrated edition of "The Labors of Hercules. " Some of theillustrations were shown in the window with the hope of tempting possiblebuyers. Gustave looked upon these illustrations with critical eye, andhis face flushed scarlet--but he said nothing. 

He knew the book; aye, every tale in it, with all its possiblevariations, had long been to him a bit of true history. To him Herculeslived yesterday, and, confusing hearsay with memory, he was almost readyto swear that he was present and used a shovel when the strong mancleaned the Augean stables. 

The next morning, when his father and brother were ready to go to visitthe Polytechnique, Gustave pleaded illness and was allowed to lie abed. But no sooner was he alone than he seized pencil and paper and began tomake pictures illustrating "The Labors of Hercules. "

In two hours he had half a dozen pictures done, and fearing the return ofhis father he hurried with his pictures to Monsieur Philipon, director ofthe "Journal pour Rire. " He shouldered past the attendants, pushed hisway into the office of the great man, and spreading his pictures out onthe desk cried, "Look here, sir! that is the way 'The Labors ofHercules' should be illustrated!"

It was the action of one absorbed and lost in an idea. Had he takenthought he would have hesitated, been abashed, self-conscious--andprobably been repulsed by the flunkies--before seeing Monsieur Philipon. It was all the sublime effrontery and conceit--or naturalness, if youplease--of a country bumpkin who did not know his place. 

Philipon glanced at the pictures and then looked at the boy. Then helooked at the pictures. He called to another man in an adjoining room andthey both looked at the pictures. Then they consulted in an undertone. Itwas suggested that the boy draw another illustration right there andthen. They wished to make sure that he himself did the work, and theywanted to see how long it took. 

Gustave sat down and drew another picture. 

Philipon refused to let the lad leave the office, and dispatched amessenger for his father. When the father arrived, a contract was drawnup and signed, whereby it was provided that the "infant" should remainwith Philipon for three years, on a yearly salary of five thousandfrancs, with the proviso that the lad should attend the school, LyceeCharlemagne, for four hours every day. 

Thus, while yet a child, without discipline or the friendly instructionthat wisdom might have lent, he was launched on the tossing tide ofcommercial life. 

His "Hercules" was immediately published and made a most decided hit--apalpable hit. Paris wanted more, and Philipon wished to supply thedemand. The new artist's pictures in the "Journal pour Rire" boomed thecirculation, and more illustrations were in demand. Philipon suggestedthat the four hours a day at school was unnecessary--Gustave knew morealready than the teachers. 

Gustave agreed with him, and his pay was doubled. More work rushed in, and Gustave illustrated serial after serial with ease and surety, givingto every picture a wildness and weirdness and awful comicality. The workwas unlike anything ever before seen in Paris: every one was saying, "What next!" and to add to the interest, Philipon, from time to time, wrote articles for various publications concerning "the childillustrator" and "the artistic prodigy of the 'Journal pour Rire. '"

With such an entree into life, how was it possible that he should everbecome a master? His advantages were his disadvantages, and all hisfaults sprang naturally as a result of his marvelous genius. He was thevictim of facility. 

Everything in this world happens because something else has happenedbefore. Had the thing that happened first been different, the thing thatfollowed would not be what it is. 

Had Gustave Dore entered the art world of Paris in the conventional way, the master might have toned down his exuberance, taught him reserve, andgradually led him along until his tastes were formed and characterdeveloped. And then, when he had found his gait and come to know hisstrength, the name of Paul Gustave Dore might have stood out alone as abright star in the firmament--the one truly great modern. 

Or, on the other hand, would the ossified discipline and set rules of aschool have shamed him into smirking mediocrity and reduced his nativegenius to neutral salts?

Who will be presumptuous enough to say what would have occurred had notthis happened and that first taken place?

 * * * * *

Before Gustave Dore had been in Paris a year his father died. Shortlyafter, the Strassburg home was broken up, and Madame Dore followed herson to Paris. Gustave's tireless pencil was bringing him a better incomethan his father had ever made; and the mother and three sons lived incomfort. 

The mother admonished Gustave to apply himself to pure art, and not beinfluenced by Philipon and the others who were making fortunes by hisgenius. And this advice he intended to follow--not yet, but very soon. There were "Rabelais" and Balzac's "Contes Drolatiques" to illustrate. These done, he would then enter the atelier of one of the masters andtake his time in doing the highest work. 

But before the books were done, others came, with retainers in advance. Then a larger work was begun, to illustrate the Crimean War, in fivehundred battle-scenes. 

And so he worked--worked like a steam-engine--worked without ceasing. Heillustrated Shakespeare's "Tempest" as only Dore could; then cameColeridge, Moore, Hood, Milton, Dante, Hugo, Gautier, and great planswere being laid to illustrate the Bible. 

The years were slipping past. His brothers had found snug places in thearmy, and he and his mother lived together in affluence. Between themthere was an affection that was very loverlike. They were comrades ineverything--all his hopes, plans and ambitions were rehearsed to her. Thelove that he might have bestowed on a wife was reserved for his mother, and, fortunately, she had a mind strong enough to comprehend him. 

In the corner of the large, sunny apartment that was set apart for hismother's room, he partitioned off a little room for himself, where heslept on an iron cot. He wished to be near her, so that each night hecould tell her of what he had done during the day, and each morningrehearse his plans for the coming hours. By telling her, things shapedthemselves, and as he described the pictures he would draw, others cameto him. 

The confessional seems a crying need of every human heart--we wish totell some one. And without this confessional, where one soul can outpourto another that fully sympathizes and understands, marriage is a hollow, whited mockery, full of dead men's bones. 

There is a desire of the heart that makes us long to impart our joy toanother. Corot once caught the sunset on his canvas as the great orbsank, a golden ball, behind the hills of Barbizon. He wished to show thepicture to some one--to tell some one, and looking around saw only acottage on the edge of the wood a quarter of a mile away, and thither heran, crying to the astonished farmer, "I've got it! I've got it!"

When Dore did a particularly good piece of work, in the firstintoxication of joy he would run home, kiss his mother on both cheeks, and picking her up in his strong arms run with her about the rooms. 

At other times he would play leap-frog over the chairs, vault over thepiano, and jump across the table. And this wild joy that comes after workwell done he knew for many years. In the evening, after a particularlygood day, he would play the violin and sing entire scenes from someopera, his mother turning the leaves. 

As to his skill as a musician, is this testimonial on the back of a finephotograph I once had the pleasure of handling: "As a souvenir of tenderfriendship, presented to Gustave Dore, who joins with his genius as apainter the talents of a distinguished violinist and charming tenor. --G. Rossini. "

The illustrations for Dante's "Inferno" were done in Dore's twenty-secondyear, and for this work he was decorated with the Cross of the Legion ofHonor. He never did better work, and at this time his hand and brainseemed at their best. 

Every great writer and every great artist makes vigorous use of hischildhood impressions. Childhood does not know it is storing up for thedays to come, but its memories sink deep into the soul, and when calledupon to express, the man reaches out and prints from the plates that arebitten deep; and these are the pictures of his early youth--or else theytell of a time when he loved a woman. 

The first named are the more reliable, for sex and love have been madeforbidden subjects, until self-consciousness, affectation and untruthcreep easily into their accounting. All literature and all art aresecondary sex manifestations, just as surely as the song of birds or thecolor and perfume of flowers are sex qualities. And so it happens thatall art and all literature is a confession; and it occurs, too, thatchildhood does not stand out sharp and clear on memory's chart until itis past and adolescence lies between. Then maturity gives back to the manthe childhood that is gone forever. 

Many of the world's best specimens of literature are built on theimpressions of childhood. Shakespeare, Victor Hugo, and I'll name youanother--James Whitcomb Riley--have written immortal books with theautobiography of childhood for both warp and woof. 

Gustave Dore's best work is a reproduction of his childhood's thoughts, feelings and experiences--all well colored with the stuff that dreams aremade of. 

The background of every good Dore picture is a deep wood or mountain-passor dark ravine. The wild, romantic passes of the Vosges, and the sullencrags, topped with dark mazes of wilderness, were ever in his mind, justas he saw them yesterday when he clutched his father's hand and held hisbreath to hear the singing of the wood-nymphs 'mong the branches. 

His tracery of bark and branch, and drooping bough held down with weightof dew, are startlingly true. The great roots of giant trees, denuded bystorm and flood, lie exposed to view; and deep vistas are given ofshadowy glade and swift-running mountain torrent. All is somber, terrible, and tells of forces that tossed these mountain-tops like bowls, and of a Power immense, immeasurable, incomprehensible, eternal in theheavens. 

Dore's first exhibition in the Salon was made when he was eighteen, and afew years later, when he was presented with the Cross of the Legion ofHonor, the decoration made his work exempt from jury examination. And soevery year he sent some large painting to the Salon. 

His work was the wonder of Paris, and on every hand his illustrationswere in demand, but his canvases were too large in size and too terriblein subject to fit private residences. 

Patrons were cautious. 

To own a "Dore" was proof of a high appreciation of art, or else a lackof it--buyers did not know which. 

They were afraid of being laughed at. 

His competitors began to hoot and jeer. Not being able to make picturesthat would compete with his, they wrote him down in the magazines. 

His name became a jest. 

Various of his illustrations for the Bible were enlarged into immensecanvases, some of which were twenty feet long and twelve feet high. Allwho looked upon these pictures were amazed by the fecundity in inventionand the skill shown in drawing; but the most telling criticism againstthem was their defect in coloring. Dore could draw, but could not color, and the report was abroad that he was color-blind. 

The only buyers for his pictures came from England and America. Parisloved art for art's sake, and the Bible was not popular enough to makeits illustration worth while. "What is this book you are working on?"asked a caller. 

It was different in London, where Spurgeon preached every Sunday to threethousand people. The "Dores" taken to London attracted muchattention--"mostly from the size of the canvases, " Parisians said. Butthe particular subject was the real attraction. Instead of reading theirdaily "chapter, " hard-working, tired people went to see a Dore Biblepicture where it was exposed in some vacant storeroom and tuppenceentrance-fee charged. 

It occurred to certain capitalists that if people would go to see oneDore, why would not a Dore gallery pay?

A company was formed, agents were sent to Paris and negotiations begun. Finally, on payment of three hundred thousand dollars, forty largecanvases were secured, with a promise of more to come. 

Dore took the money, and, the agents being gone, ran home to tell hismother. She was at dinner with a little company of invited guests. Gustave vaulted over the piano, played leap-frog among the chairs, andturning a handspring across the table, incidentally sent his heels intoa thousand-dollar chandelier that came toppling down, smashing every dishupon the table, and frightening the guests into hysterics. 

"It's nothing, " said Madame Dore; "it's nothing--Gustave has merely donea good day's work!"

The "Dore Gallery" in London proved a great success. Spurgeon advised hisflock to see it, that they might the better comprehend Bible history; theReverend Doctor Parker spoke of the painter as "one inspired by God";Sunday-schools made excursions thither; men in hobnailed shoes kneltbefore the pictures, believing they were in the presence of a vision. 

And all these things were duly advertised, just as we have been told ofthe old soldier who visited the Gettysburg Cyclorama at Chicago andlooking upon the picture, he suddenly cried to his companion, "Down, Bill, down! by t' Lord, there's a feller sightin' his gun on us!"

Barnum offered the owners twice what they paid for the "Dore Gallery, "with intent to move the pictures to America, but they were too wise toaccept. 

Twenty-eight of the canvases were eventually sold, however, for a sumgreater than was paid for the lot, yet enough remained to make a mostrepresentative display; and no American in London misses seeing the DoreGallery, any more than we omit Madame Tussaud's Wax-Works. 

In Eighteen Hundred Seventy-three, Dore visited England and was welcomedas a conquering hero. The Prince of Wales and the nobility generally paidhim every honor. He was presented to the Queen, and Victoria thanked himfor the great work he had done, and asked him to inscribe for her a copyof the "Dore Bible. "

More than this, the Queen directed that several Dore pictures bepurchased and placed in Windsor Castle. 

Of course, all Paris knew of Dore's success in England. Paris laughed. "What did I tell you?" said Berand. And Paris reasoned that what Englandand America gushed over must necessarily be very bad. The directors ofthe Salon made excuses for not hanging his pictures. 

Dore had become rich, but his own Paris--the Paris that had been afoster-mother to him--refused to accredit him the honor which he felt washis due. 

In Eighteen Hundred Seventy-eight, smarting under the continued gibes andgeers of artistic France, he modeled a statue which he entitled "Glory. "It represents a woman holding fast in affectionate embrace a beautifulyouth, whose name we are informed is Genius. The woman has in one hand alaurel-wreath; hidden in the leaves of this wreath is a dagger with whichshe is about to deal the victim a fatal blow. 

Dore grew dispirited, and in vain did his mother and near friends seek torally him out of the despondency that was settling down upon him. Theysaid, "You are only a little over forty, and many a good man has neverbeen recognized at all until after that--see Millet!"

But he shook his head. 

When his mother died, in Eighteen Hundred Eighty-one, it seemed to snaphis last earthly tie. Of course he exaggerated the indifference there wastowards him; he had many friends who loved him as a man and respected himas an artist. 

But after the death of his mother he had nothing to live for, andthinking thus, he soon followed her. He died in Eighteen HundredEighty-three, aged fifty years. 

 * * * * *

SO HERE ENDETH "LITTLE JOURNEYS TO THE HOMES OF EMINENT PAINTERS, " BEINGVOLUME FOUR OF THE SERIES, AS WRITTEN BY ELBERT HUBBARD: EDITED ANDARRANGED BY FRED BANN; BORDERS AND INITIALS BY ROYCROFT ARTISTS, ANDPRODUCED BY THE ROYCROFTERS, AT THEIR SHOPS, WHICH ARE IN EAST AURORA, ERIE COUNTY, NEW YORK, MCMXXII

[Transcriber's Note:

Inconsistencies in the original (e. G. , Arnola/Arnold; Edgcumbe/Edgecumbe;geers/jeers) have been retained in this etext. ]