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Discovering Diverse Content Through
Random Scribd Documents
"If you are a farmer, speak of the products of the earth; if you are
a business man, speak of that business which you understand; if
you are an artist, speak of your art. Do not fear the inelegance of
your language; it will always be excellent. Whatever you may say,
you who understand that of which you speak, you can never
express yourself more foolishly than those who make an art of
words. …

"I compare myself, in my literary mishaps, to a man surprised in a

storm. He seeks a refuge to save the brightness of his boots; but
the hour of rendezvous is close at hand, and it still pours. He
makes a dash, keeping close to the houses; the rain redoubles its
fury, and he is glad to find shelter under a porte-cochère. There
he stoops and examines himself; his boots have lost their lustre, his
pantaloons are covered with mud; a porter, companion of his
misfortune, has wiped the load of vegetables he carried, on his
back. The irreproachableness of his attire is gone; he need no
longer protect it; he accepts his fate bravely, and ceases to concern
himself. He starts with a firm, grave step, and, as a first success,
obtains the admiration of others less brave. Encouraged in his new
resolution, he walks on unheeding the water which rises above the
ankle; he comes to a torrent; he throws himself in without
hesitation, and swimming, reaches the other side; another step,
and he pulls the doorbell. The door opens. What a triumph!
Misfortune has crowned him with her poetic charms. He is
surrounded, cared for, and soon finds himself clad in comfortable
clothes, with his feet in the host's slippers; he enlivens the guests
with the recital of his Odyssey.

"This is my portrait, dear reader; all bespattered with ink, I come

to ask you to take me in.

"Let us return now to that which has given me courage to write.

"I received my second lesson from the greatest writer of the age.
Madame George Sand was good enough to give me a seat in her
box, to hear the Champi. You know that in this charming play, a
young lover wants to speak too well to her he loves; he has
prepared his discourse with such care, and has so many fine things
to say, that, when the decisive moment comes, all his ideas get
inextricably mixed; the lover soon perceives that he is talking very
badly and that his defeat is owing to his unlucky head; fortunately
for him, however, his heart is on fire, and will be heard; then he
speaks as he feels, and you know if he speaks well!"

So much for the introduction; now let us turn to the real object of
his book—artistic instruction. I am sure all those who have felt the
difficulties to be undergone by all beginners in art, will feel grateful
to M. Couture for the simple, concise way in which he explains
what the experience of many years has taught him. They will
observe how carefully he avoids any fine phrases which seem to
say much, and which in reality merely serve to bewilder the
student. Listen to what he says of

Elementary Drawing.

"What is to be done in order to draw well?

"Place yourself in front of the object to be represented; have good

tools, which must be kept neat and clean; look at what you see
with much greater attention than at your own reproduction of it;
keep—pardon my arithmetic—three quarters of an eye for the
model, and one quarter for the drawing.

"Commence your drawing from a first distance, compare those

which follow, making them subservient to the first.

"Establish either an imaginary or a real horizontal and perpendicular

line before the objects to be represented; this means is an
excellent guide which should always be adhered to.

"When, by slight indications, you have determined, established your

places, look at nature with your eyes half closed. This manner of
looking simplifies objects; details disappear; you then perceive
nothing but the great divisions of light and shade. Then establish
your masses; when these are correctly placed, open your eyes
completely, and add the details, but with great moderation.

"Establish what I call dominants for your lights and shades. Look at
your model attentively, and ask yourself which is its strongest light,
and place it on your drawing there, where it is in nature; as, by
this means you establish a dominant, you must of course, not
exceed it; all other lights must be subordinate to it. The same thing
must be said, the same calculation must be made, for the shadows;
rub in your strongest vigor, your most intense black; then use it as
a guide, a diapason, in order to find the value of your different
shadows and half-tints."

Nothing can be more to the point, more simple than this, and
surely M. Couture exemplifies what he says in his introduction: that
what is felt strongly, and understood clearly, will be expressed with
equal strength and clearness. He goes on to say with regard to

Elementary Principles Of
Drawing From Nature.

"You will only be able to copy the mobile objects of nature, when
you are very certain of finding your places with rapidity; the means
are always the same, but their application is more difficult.
Therefore constant practice is necessary. A musician would say to
you, Scales, more scales! and I say to you, Draw, draw incessantly!
Draw from morning to night, in order to exercise your eye, and to
acquire a steady hand."
The practical part of his book, M. Couture enlivens and illustrates
by anecdotes taken from his own experience; these are the pictures
by which, principally, he seeks to convey instruction. I will translate
one of them for you:

"A young German entered my atelier to perfect himself, as he

said, in his art; he made, as a beginning, a drawing which showed
much technical ability.

"I complimented him on his cleverness, but at the same time told
him that he had not copied his model faithfully, and that it would
give me great pleasure to see his talent dedicated to the service of
nature.

"'But indeed, sir,' said the young man, 'I assure you that I copied
with the greatest exactitude.'

"'You think so; did you look at your model very attentively?'

"'Yes, sir, I did.'

"'It may be so,' and while talking, I turned his drawing around.
'With whom did you study in Germany?'

"The conversation continued—then looking at the model who was

standing, I said to him:

"'That is a superb model of yours; beautiful form, fine color, is it

not so, what think you?'

"'Yes, sir.'

"'See now, how the light inundates the chest; evidently that is the
most luminous part of the body.'

"'Yes, sir.'

"'Are you certain of it?'

"'Yes, sir.'

"'Then show me.'

"'See,' said he showing me the part where the light struck most
forcibly; 'it is evidently there, that the most brilliant spot is found.'

"'I am willing to believe, and perceive with pleasure, that to a

skilful hand you join a sound judgment. Decidedly you have a
delicate perception of the value of light and shade; you will be able
to render me great services. Let us see now, which is the most
luminous point in your drawing.'

"Not seeing my purpose, he replied with great naivete that it was

found on the knee.

"'It is not possible.'

"'Yes, sir; permit me to observe to you that if one were to compare

that light to the other lights of the drawing, this one would be
found to be decidedly the brightest.'

"'Very well, then; why is your light not placed as it is in nature? You
see very clearly that it is found on the chest, and you put it on the
knee; why not on the heel? And you will tell me that you copy your
model faithfully! You will allow me to tell you that you have paid no
attention to your differences of light. … Very well; one may easily
make mistakes;' and I once more turned his drawing around. 'You
have great painters in Germany. Overbeck, Cornelius, Kaulbach, all
have talent of a high order. … Oh! just see how, at this moment,
the model is well lighted; what brightness; what vigor in the
shadows! See that hair; it is like velvet, and the shadows of the
head, how transparent and strong; it reminds one of Titian; do you
not think so? the crisping hair, matted; the blood rising to the head
and the throat; all this is splendid in color, and is of far greater
importance than all the rest. What think you? Suppose we turn
your drawing to see if you have rendered the effect we have just
been admiring. Let us see! Why, it is singular; you have forgotten
that too!'

"'Yes, sir. I see it now.'

"'You see your head is colorless, and gives the idea, of papier-
mache; you have the same fault in your shadows as in your lights.
… In your work you compared nothing; absorbed by details, you
saw them only; drawing small parts, you forgot the rest, and went
on blindly.'

……

Occupations Of A Young Artist

Outside Of His Art.

"'You know it now; you are to draw morning, noon, and night; you
have to bedaub a great many canvases, to use up a great many
colors, and that for a long time. These exercises, these gymnastics
not being very fatiguing, you can make good use of this period, to
improve your mind with reading good books; the old classics, and
our French classics too, it is well to study. But for you, artist, there
are certain authors which I wish to point out to you, and which you
will find of great use. Homer, Virgil, Shakespeare, Molière,
Cervantes, Rousseau, Bernardin de Sainte Pierre.

"In the first three, you will find grand lessons, useful to your art.
Homer gives us primitive simplicity; Virgil, rhythm; Shakespeare,
passion. Molière, too, will make you understand how you may ally
fine language, beauty of form, to the expression of truth.

"Read a great deal; absorb much; you are young, you will find
digestion easy.

"Keep good company, and frequent especially the society of young

men already advanced in art.
"Above all, beware of wanting to appear more than you really are;
beware especially of using the sentiments of others, instead of your
own; there is ruin; there, is darkness. Dare to be yourself: there is
light. Be truly Christian; soften your heart; above all, be humble; in
the art of painting, humility is your greatest strength.

……

"Being prepared by excellent reading, give your studies a good

direction. Be careful to avoid ugliness.

"You should always carry about with you a small sketch-book, and
dash in, with a few lines, the beauties which impress you; any
striking effects, natural poses, etc. Do not forget to make yourself
ant, bee; work indefatigably, and make for yourself, as soon as
possible, a treasure-house of abundance. Exercise yourself early in
composition, but always with elements gathered from your own
experience.

"Form the habit of absolute truth." ….

Notice how in the foregoing admirable passages, the author

inculcates the spirit of truth, as the fundamental principle of all art.
This has proved the secret of his own success; his honest, child-like
faith in nature, and his simple earnestness in copying it, are
noticeable in all his works. It would be well if our young artists
took this lesson to heart. We have talent in our country, great
talent even; but it has no stamp of individuality; it imitates, it is
half afraid of being original, therefore it stops short of greatness.
This perhaps is the case with other things beside painting, and
plausible excuses are to be found for it; we are a young nation,
composed of heterogeneous elements; this is true, but we shall not
thoroughly command the respect of the nations, and take our
proper place among them, until, as they say of young folks, our
character is more formed. Then we shall see more earnest
truthfulness in everything. Art will take shape and consistency, and
we shall hear people talk of the American school as an established
fact, like those of France, Belgium, England, etc. This exposition
year has naturally been one of comparison. It is a grand thought to
have all the schools brought together, to compete for superiority.
Our place in the huge building is a small one, and though there are
clever pictures in the American art department, yet we shall have
to make immense progress, before we conquer a place by the side
of the French and Belgians. But our time will come, I feel confident.

But I must interrupt my patriotic prophecies, and let you enjoy, as I

did, this anecdote of Béranger. I select it from others, for I thought
it would be interesting, both as giving an insight into the artist's
theory, and as affording a life-like glimpse of a great poet. Couture
relates it à propos to his remarks on portrait-painting; of the
necessity under which the artist labors, of being two men in one; of
amusing, enlivening his sitter, of bringing out his best expression,
so that the light of the inner man may shine through the features;
and at the same time of being the artist, watchful, eager, earnest,
with his mind intent on his work; catching the gleams of
intelligence he evokes, and transfixing them to the canvas.

There are but few who possess this quality.

Béranger.

"I was urged to paint a portrait of Béranger. This I did not care to
do. I had a great admiration for his talent and for his character; I
feared that seeing him, becoming acquainted with his person,
might lower the ideal I had formed of him. …

"At last a charming letter from Madame Sand, which was to serve
as an introduction, decides me; I start, and soon find myself in Rue
d'Enfer.
"I ask the concierge for M. Béranger. 'The right-hand staircase,
there, in the court.' I direct my steps toward said staircase, ascend;
before long I am stopped by a door; I. knock. Shuffling steps are
heard, an old man appears, wrapped in a gray dressing-gown made
of some common stuff.

"'M. Béranger?'

"'I am he.'

"While answering, he held his door tight, leaving but a small

opening.

"'What do you want?'

"It would have been easy to present my letter of introduction; but I

had had the evil thought to keep it. It was a precious autograph,
signed with a very celebrated name. In it, it is true, I was judged in
terms far too flattering, but one willingly abides by such kindly
exagerations. In it too, my favorite poet was spoken of—the
temptation was too strong to be resisted. I began to expiate my
fault; I stammered a few words; I showed the paper and crayon
which I had brought with which to make my drawing, for it was
necessary to add action to words, so hostile was the aspect of the
great man … alas! my defeat was complete, the door was closing.
…

"'No sir,' he said, 'it is disagreeable to me; there are many portraits
of me: among the number some are excellent; make use of these
portraits, and leave me in peace.'

"Once more the door seemed on the point of being shut; all was
lost.

"'Well, M. Béranger, I only get what I deserve, for I have been

guilty of a bad action; I was to have given you a letter; I kept it. I
thought, so great was my vanity, that I could present myself
without its aid, and commit this petty theft. I am punished, and it
is but just.'

"I turned to go, covered with confusion and shame; the door
opens.

"'What is your name?'

"I turned to answer him.

"'My name is Couture.'

"'You are not Couture who painted the Décadence des Romains!'

"'Yes, sir.'

"I felt myself seized by my waistcoat, pulled in violently, then I

heard the terrible door close but this time I was inside, pushed up
against the wall of the entry.

"'You Couture? is it possible? you so young; why, what was I about

to do—I was going to shut the door in your face!'

"'It was already done, M. Béranger.'

"'But don't you know that I adore you? don't you know that it is
one of the dreams of my old age to have my portrait by you? do I
consent to sit? why, I am entirely at your disposition!'

"Then, taking me by the hand, he presented me to his venerable

wife, saying:

"'This is Couture, and I was on the point of sending him about his
business.'

"I was deeply touched by this reception. When we were both

somewhat calmed, I told him that I could make the drawing at his
house, that I had brought all that was necessary, and that I should
be happy to spare him the trouble of coming to me. He would
listen to nothing, put himself entirely at my service, insisted that I
should name my own day and hour; and at the appointed day and
hour, he was at my room.

"It was no small affair, for an old man to come all the way from the
Rue d'Enfer to the Barrière Blanche, where I then resided. He was
very tired, and said to me with a benevolent smile:

"'Dear child, for any other but you. … But come, where shall I place
myself? what if I were to take a little nap?—for I have come a very
long way.'

"I pulled up an arm-chair; he sat down, and soon fell asleep. …

"I walked about my painting-room on tiptoe, for fear of waking

him; then I came near him to examine him as he slept. He had a
vast brain; by its size, by its form, it was easy to guess the
greatness of the mind. The lower part of the face, however,
seemed out of harmony with the upper. …

"My task was becoming difficult; to remain true to simple reality, to

give to the public the image of an intelligence in its decline, was
not what I wished. What should I do? I was making these
reflections when he woke. I looked at him for some time fixedly,
and I saw his eyelids lift themselves one after the other, and then
fall again over his eyes. …

"However, let us not despair; let us try; … this was my method.

"'Monsieur de Béranger, are you acquainted with that new air

composed for your Vieux Caporal?'

"'No,' said he, 'some fellows came to sing it to me; there were
several of them; they said they had brought a piano in a carriage.
As I chose my airs myself, and I doubt whether others can choose
better than I, I do not wish to encourage these encroachments on
my work. Therefore I refused to receive them.'

"'Oh! I know how you refuse like favors! Well, allow me to tell you
that you were in the wrong, for the air composed for the thing
seems to me more dramatic than the one you chose; since
circumstances are favorable to it, and that it need not disturb you,
I will sing you the Vieux Caporal.' And I sang.

"'Yes, you are right, it is very well; sing me the second verse. …
Why, it is charming; sing it all to me; I like to hear you sing.'

"At the end of the song, his face had changed its character; his
eyelids were sustained, and let me see his bright eyes, which
seemed to be the light of that fine mind. I kept him in this
atmosphere which made him young again; I made him live in the
past; I spoke to him of Manuel, his friend. Ah! then, it was a
veritable resurrection. We were then in 1850, but through the
enchantment of memory, he returned to the struggles of the
Restoration of 1820, thirty years' difference; well, I saw them
disappear as by magic. I saw this genius revive! He would get up,
walk about, come back to his seat, speaking of them, of the two
hundred and twenty-one, as though they were still there; the
arrows of Charles X., the aim reached, the plaudits of the crowds—
he seemed to hear it all. Béranger was before me. All I had to do
was to copy. …

"I have not been able to resist the temptation of relating an

anecdote, doubtless too flattering for me; but on reflection, I have
been so tormented by fools, that it is excusable in me to take
comfort in the praises of a great mind."

Now let us turn once more to some of his practical instructions. Of

color he speaks thus:

"It must not be thought that he who reproduces color exactly is a

co
"Like the true draughtsman, the true colorist purifies, embellishes.

"If he is a true artist, he will bring in his coloring all the laws of art:
Discrimination, development, idealization.

"I cannot help thinking of our critics who, in their innocence,

always make sharply defined divisions of colorists and
draughtsmen; being persuaded that a draughtsman cannot be a
colorist, and that a colorist can never be a draughtsman. They
carry this so far that when a picture seems to them detestable in
color, they feel compelled to find great qualities of drawing in it;
but if, on the contrary, a work is presented, with incontestable
beauties of drawing, it is necessary, and you will never be able to
convince them of the contrary, that the picture should be wanting
in color.

"They do not know that all is in all, and that the value of execution
in a picture is in just proportion with its conception.

"With great artists, there is a certain choice, an impulse toward a

particular beauty which captivates them; like real lovers, they
sacrifice every thing to their passion; but, understand it well;
sacrifice is not abandonment.

"With great masters, such as Raphael, Poussin, the absence of

coloring is a voluntary surrender; besides, they have a coloring
peculiar to themselves, and of a superior order. …

"Now, let us turn toward the colorists. Rubens presents himself as

their king; but king though he be, he is not the equal of Raphael,
who is a veritable angel."

In their compositions, Couture would have his disciples follow

nature, and the instincts of their own hearts. He wages war against
what he calls dead art, as seen in the works of certain French
artists who tried to imitate the Greeks exclusively. As he strongly
expresses it, they disinterred a dead body, and galvanized it to give
it the appearance of life. He would have the pleasing scenes of
common life represented and spiritualized; nature, in her dewy,
morning aspect, studied and loved. He says to them: "Be French,
be patriotic, be of your own times; create a strong, healthy,
modern school; do not imitate the Greeks; become their equals." It
must not be thought from this that the antique is not appreciated;
on the contrary, the young artist is urged, after he has become
comparatively skilled in drawing—not before—to study the antique
very seriously, and to take it as the invariable basis of all his works.
But what Couture urges principally is originality and truthfulness.
While pressing the earnest study of nature, he says:

"Love, that is the great secret; love enlightens. We are often

surprised at the tenderness of parents for their children, and at the
qualities which they see in them. We think they are mistaken,
whereas it is we who are mistaken. …

"Read a book with but little attention; look over the first few pages;
skip twenty pages, then forty; hasten to the conclusion at once.
What pleasure will you find in such reading? You would certainly
not have the audacity to judge of that work; you would surely wait
until you were more familiar with it. But now, when, with a good
will, you read page by page, the work captivates you, and you
leave it only when it is finished; then you say this work is
admirable!

"It will be the same with nature, if you read it page by page.

"I do not think I am mistaken when I say that we are on the eve
of seeing French high art spring into life. I see guarantees of it in
the return of our young artists to nature; they are, if I may so
express myself, at the first stage of that road which leads to the
highest beauties."

Somewhere about the middle of his book, our original author stops
for a familiar chat, "between the acts," as he calls it but, after a
few pages, the conversation gets more serious again, and he gives
a critique, or perhaps, more properly speaking, an essay, on various
artists. After wandering in the sixteenth century with Jean Goujon—
through the medium of a marvellously learned coachman—he
comes back to modern times, and speaks of Ingres, Delacroix, and
Decamps. It is not my province to question his opinion of these
artists; my task is to give you a correct idea of his manner of doing
so; therefore, leaving the critic to be criticised by his brother
artists, which is pretty sure to happen, I choose his essay on the
last named, Decamps, for translation. It gives a good idea of his
style, and in it he has put away his severity, and indulges in
genuine admiration, which is certainly pleasanter to listen to.

Decamps.

"Let us now turn toward the light, toward the sunshine; let us
speak of Decamps—that abridgment of all picturesque qualities.

"In the grasp of his genius, he comprises everything; he makes

himself the echo of all.

"His pictures speak to me of Salvator, Teniers, Poussin, Titian,

Rembrandt, Phidias …. they tell the story of our world: infancy, old
age, poverty, sumptuous wealth, war in all its horrors, smiling hills
and dales, shady villas. Here, the intimacy of the home-circle, there
the tempests of the imagination. The Shakespeare of painters, he
translates everything into an adorable language of his own; he
reminds one of the masters, without copying them; he sings of
nature and exalts it; everything with him becomes lovable,
charming, or terrible; a mere nothing, a simple knife on a table,
painted by this marvellous genius, will awaken in one's mind, a
whole poem; less still, a simple line, a dash of his pencil, is
enchanting.
"I had the happiness of seeing this great artist; he was very simple.
Living principally in the country, his dress was that of a somewhat
careless sportsman; he was rather below the medium height; his
head had great delicacy of outline, and was of rather a nervous
character; he was fair; our sous stamped with the effigy of
Napoleon III., when somewhat worn, remind one strikingly of
Decamps. He was usually supposed to be a great sportsman; but I,
who knew him, and observed him with the attention which my
admiration of him inspired, noticed that his hunting was a mere
pretext. I would often see him stop in a plain, lift his gun, take
aim; one expected an explosion; not at all; after a short pause, he
would replace the gun on his shoulder, and go on his way, to
recommence the same game a little later. He nearly always
returned with an empty game-bag to the inn of the 'Great
Conqueror,' in the little village of Verberie; there he would take an
old account-book, which he used as an album, and with whatever
he happened to find, he would retrace the effects which he had
observed during his pauses. I had several of these precious pages
in my possession, but, unfortunately for me, they were stolen.

"I remember also, that when we were conversing, after the evening
repast, he would roll little balls of bread in his fingers, then, with
pieces of matches, which he added to his paste, kneaded in a
peculiar manner, he would fashion charming little figures. I
remember, in particular, a hunter followed by his dog; the man
seemed weighed down by the game he carried; the tired dog
followed his master with drooping ears. It was charming: this
extraordinary artist gave life to everything he touched.

"He was fond of painting in the studios of his brother artists. It was
at the room of a mutual friend that I saw him make the
preparation of his beautiful picture, Cheveaux de Hallage, which is
now at the Louvre. His sketch was reddish, solidly massed in; he
used a great deal of brown, red, and burnt sienna in his
preparations.
"He made a drawing before me, one day. The most adorable ass's
head sprang into life from under his fingers. As soon as one of the
creature's ears was abandoned by the artist, it seemed to quiver
with impatience at having been restrained; all appeared by degrees,
progressively and completely formed. I saw in their order of
succession, a real head, a real neck, a real body covered with its
roughened hair; the good creature seemed to have a name, a real
character; one might have written its history.

"I have been talking of his amusements; but when he attempted

higher productions, when, for example, he created his 'Bataille des
Cimbres'—I speak of the large drawing, that in which an enormous
chariot is dragged by oxen—what energy! what grandeur! Those
men live; one shares their ardor, or their fears; one wants to help,
to push, to save the women and children. See them yonder: they
come, they crush everything that comes in their way. What a
formidable mass! clouds of dust arise from under their horses'
hoofs, and go to join the clouds in the heavens, which are
numerous, and armed for combat, like the soldiers that cover the
earth. And up yonder, do you see? No. Where? There; no, still
higher … that cloud of ravens … they await the end of the day of
slaughter.

"It is no longer a drawing; it is no longer a painting; it is an

animated world which appears as by magic, transformed into
wondrous marble, gilded by the sun of Greece. One looks, admires;
one comes back to it many times, without ever tiring; one leaves so
beautiful a thing with regret, to dream of it at night!

"I should like to be able to talk to you of his Joseph, of Sampson,

of the Café Turc, of the Singes Cuisiniers, of the Supplice des
Crochets, and of all his other wonders; but that would lead me too
far; so, regretfully, I stop.

"Decamps was of an organization rare in the art of painting; he had

the power of giving the qualities of greatness to small pictures. One
might cite the small works of Rubens and Rembrandt, and even of
the great Italian painters; but all these geniuses seemed to grow
less in proportion to the restricted dimensions of their canvases.
But Decamps is as great in his small pictures as in his more
important works.

"I might hesitate to pronounce myself for or against certain artists.

But, as for this one, I maintain that he will always keep a high
place in the art of painting."

……

In the foregoing selections I have endeavored to give some idea of

the author's manner; of his vigor, his clearness, his originality. With
all its irregularity, this book is, I feel sure, destined to take an
important place in art-literature. As a handbook of painting, it is
most useful, and I trust soon to see a clear, truthful translation
make it familiar to our American public. I should like it to be in the
hands of every art-student.

Good advice, critiques on various artists, critiques on the schools,

familiar chit-chat, occasional reveries on nature, full of poetry,
anecdotes—all thrown together with a certain picturesque
confusion, warm from the author's heart and brain: such is this
book. It is a mirror of the man. Couture talks as he writes, and
writes as he talks; if other merits are denied it, it certainly has that
of perfect sincerity, and surely, in these days of artificiality, that is a
great charm; so great a charm indeed, that many beside artists
would find pleasure in reading it. And now, trusting that I have said
enough to arouse some curiosity and interest in this work, I will let
the author say his

Farewell!

"I have animated your courage; your sympathy, I feel, increases my

strength; I have within me what it is well to possess—hope. Shall I
live to see true French art born into this world? … I see it coming.
Ah! how happy you are to be young! "Everything announces it to
me, this art of which I dreamed; the indifference of the public for
that which exists is a good sign; why, indeed, should it, so full of
life, feel an interest in this painting, issued from the grave?

"Look around you, and produce pictures. As for me, I have followed
the order of nature; I have planted in you the good seed of truth; I
doubt not but that it will germinate. By simplifying the means, by
shielding yourself from the embarrassment of complications, you
will do a useful underground burrowing. When the young shoot
springs from the earth, cover it with a protecting mantle; this
shelter, this protection, this tutor, must be your instinct. Grow,
become strong, cover yourself with leaves and fruits, and give
refreshment and shade."
 Magas; or, Long Ago.

A Tale Of The Early Times.

Chapter I.

Yes, long ago, about the year of grace 55, that is, about four years
after the great apostle of the Gentiles had preached at Athens, a
small but evidently a select band of worshippers was pouring forth
from a small temple on the banks of the Illissus, situated but a
short distance from that renowned city. This temple was dedicated
to the sacred nine who preside over art, science, music, poetry, and
dancing. There had been a special festival that day, and numerous
pleasing exhibitions had been brought before the gratified
audience. The mystic dance of the sacred sisterhood had typified
most gracefully the harmony and union that reign among the
muses; and peace presiding, showed that under her mild rule
alone, the harmonies of earth could work their glorious mission to
civilize and cheer the drooping heart of man. No sacrifice of blood
was here admitted, but music, choral song, and recitation; poems,
plays, and oratorical displays; tableaux and dances, symbolized
alike the worship rendered, and the honor due to the chaste and
favored nine. Therefore was it, that the audience was so select.
The populace, which at that time consisted mainly of slaves, were
for the most part too coarse and unrefined to appreciate the higher
branches of the muses' lore, which were to-day brought forward:
the games of the Saturnalia and the mysteries of Cybele were more
in accordance with their taste, and, save the few slaves who
attended on their masters as a matter of state, or for the sake of
fashion, the spectators were of a dignified and refined aspect.

The games or exhibitions were about to close; a solemn dance

accompanied by song had proclaimed the benefits to earth, which
the sacred nine occasioned by their peaceful rule; and the last
strophe ran to the effect:

Here no strifes must warm the veins;

For the muses' sister band
Comes to lighten earthly chains,
Comes to greet you hand in hand:
Science lightens up the land
Where the muses' sceptre rules,
Skilful art instructs the hand,
Strife is banished from their schools.
Chorus: Choral sisters, intertwine,
Sing the praise of muses high;
For the muses are divine;
Swell the anthem to the sky.

The song had ceased when suddenly, as the audience rose,

thinking the performance concluded, a thrilling sweep of a lyre
unseen arrested their steps; and a voice sweeter and clearer than
any heard before sang out these words:
 The muse! a myth! is passed away,
With earthly types of things unseen:
'Twas but a cloud—refracting ray,
Rolling the hidden world between
And man's aspiring panting soul!
Man's soul's divine, and yearns to clasp
(Freed from the yoke of earth's control)
That truth, but which eludes the grasp
While veiled in mythic forms unreal!
Awake! the day-star is arisen!
No more shall error's veil conceal
The lustrous, brilliant, light of heaven,
Now streaming, glory to impart
To vivify each human heart.

The crowd which had suddenly paused, now wondered, and turned
to every side to look for the singer: in vain; the owner of that
splendid voice was not to be seen, any more than the player on the
silver-toned lute.

A strange influence had passed over the throng, unawares: it was

hushed, awed, mesmerized as it were into another state of feeling.
Exultation had passed away; bewilderment, questioning followed.
What did it mean? myth! truth! glory! was it philosophy? was it
poetry? or did an oracle speak? Man's soul divine! that was
Platonism; but Plato's school, at its height some four hundred years
previous, was now at a discount. Many sects discussed and
disputed: but truth? Truth seemed as far off as ever; or rather it
seemed a plaything or a something which men used to sharpen
their wits on, that they might display their argumentative skill, in
the intellectual arena; but for practical conclusions, for a real rule
of life, which might be used as an every-day necessity, pooh! this
was not to be thought of!
The Grecian world, such of it as was free, that is, not actually
enslaved, not actually held as another man's chattel, was
speculative and fond of discussion, but it does not appear that
these discussions did much in forwarding the progress of truth
among the majority of the population; for that majority were
slaves—slaves, held for the most part in bondage of mind as well
as of body. The dignity of manhood among these was unknown;
and the purity, beauty, and loveliness of woman were sacrificed
remorselessly to tyranny of the vilest description. We can but
shudder as we recall doings even in the palmiest days of Grecian
freedom, over which modesty compels the historian to cast a veil;
for Grecian freedom even then meant freedom to the few; the
workers, the toiling multitude were slaves—slaves who, when their
numbers increased so as to alarm their masters, might be sacrificed
en masse, as was too often the case. They were slaves not only in
body, but in intelligence, for it was deemed dangerous to develop
mind. Plato himself had been of this opinion, giving as his reason,
"Lest they should learn to resist."

Philosophy was made for the few, for the free only, because only
the free could carry out in practice the truths of the soul's divinity
which philosophy pointed to.

The words which the poet Lucan puts into the mouth of Caesar,
had long been acted upon even by the "wise and good" of the
pagan world, though they dared not so openly express it.
"Humanum paucis vivit genus." (Lucan. Phar.) "The human race
exists but for the few." The workers, (that is, the slaves,) in other
words, the majority, were utterly incapable of being benefited by
the teachings of the sages of ancient Greece, not only by position,
but in consequence of the dulness of intellect which the long
maintenance of that position had occasioned. Poetry and philosophy
condemned them as beings of an inferior order. Homer says in his
Odys. 17, "that Jupiter has deprived slaves of half their mind;" and
in Plato we find the following: "It is said that in the mind of slaves
there is nothing sound or complete; and that a prudent man ought
not to trust that class of persons." The consequence of this
teaching was, that they were held to be a mean race, little elevated
above the brute, and born for the convenience of their masters,
and subject to their caprices; so the worship of the muses was, to
them, with rare exceptions, a thing out of the question. These rare
exceptions did, however, exist, and produced anomalous positions
not always fruitful in morality.

The congregation of worshippers issuing from the temple of the

muses was then composed almost entirely of the "free," although
some few of the slaves attended their masters for purposes of state
or style. Among the throng were three young nobles thus attended;
and, as they issued from the edifice, they made their way to a
grove in the rear, to which only a privileged few had access, and
stationing their attendants within call, yet at some little distance,
they stretched themselves in the shade, and began to discuss the
adventure. Their names were Magas, Critias, and Pierus.

"The voice was heavenly," said Critias, "and the music faultless; but
who could be the player, who the singer?"

"Nay, surely the divine Euterpe, aided by the equally divine Erato,"
said Pierus; "who but a muse could thus conceal herself?"

"But," interposed Magas, "you forget that the muse would not
prophesy her own overthrow. The words we heard to-day
portended that the worship was to be supplanted by another of a
higher kind; it pronounced the muse 'a myth,' a type of something
unseen, unreal in herself, but pointing to a reality. Now, what can
this be?"

"I know not," said Critias, "unless it is also a revelation to make

known the unknown, as that strange man said who preached here
some four or five years ago; his words made an impression on me
which haunts me still."

"What man? what did he say?" asked Pierus.

"His name was Paul," said Critias. "He was a small man; a Jew of
Tarsus, (think of a Jew pretending to philosophy!) He came here
and preached at first in the streets; then he was brought to the
Areopagus; my father was one of the council, and he took me with
him to hear what the new man would say. The place was thronged,
but most of the fathers took the matter lightly enough. The
impression he made was on the lowly, the slaves. They took his
words to heart and pondered them. I have caught some of them
at times repeating them to each other, as if they were oracles. His
theory seems made for them especially."

"But what good will it do them?" asked Pierus.

"Or him who dares foment sedition among them?" broke in Magas.
"He and others of his ilk had better beware. I remember something
of the circumstance since you mention it, but my father thought it
an attempt to raise an insurrection among the slaves. The preacher
did well to take himself off."

"I do not see any harm he could do," said Critias.

"Harm!" answered Magas. "Harm! Epicurean that you are, will you
never see harm till you hear the house is on fire? I tell you there is
harm; he preaches 'equality' to slaves, and what good can come of
that?"

"What harm, rather? The poor varlets know it for a fact that they
are not the equals of their masters." "They are not equal; no, they
are not equal," said Magas vehemently; "and they must never be
permitted to think they are. Their numbers might give trouble to us
if they imbibed such an idea, while to them it could be of no real
service. They have muscle, but not intellect. Set them free, they
would soon be at loggerheads among themselves."

"Intellectual greatness," said Critias, "is rare even among freemen;

but some slaves have manifested that there is no deficiency in that
respect."
"Some rare exceptions, perhaps, but that proves nothing. Aristotle
says, and truly: 'The woman and the slave are distinguished by
nature herself.'"

"Yes," said Pierus, "I remember the passage. He says, 'If we

compare man to woman, we find that the first is superior, therefore
he commands; the woman is inferior, therefore she obeys. The
same thing ought to take place among all men. Thus it is that
those among them who are as inferior with respect to others as the
body is with respect to the soul, and the animal to man; those
whose powers principally consist in the use of the body, (the only
service that can be obtained from them,) they are naturally slaves.'"

"There can be no doubt about it," said Magas. "The very bodies of
the slaves are different from ours; they are strong, muscular, and
fitted for labor; ours are slimmer, more refined, more sensitive."

"I cannot see how you can build any argument on that," said
Critias; "your grand philosopher, even while he asserts a different
conformation of body to exist between the freeman and the slave,
admits that it sometimes happens that to a freeman is given the
body of a slave, and to a slave the soul of a freeman. I have often
found it so. I know some very despicable citizens; and I have found
some noble sentiments in slaves."

"Sentiments," said Magas; "what business have slaves with

sentiments?"

Critias laughed, and said, "Slaves have sentiment, and memory, and
reflection; by whose permission I do not know; but how are you to
get rid of it? That is the question."

"They must be kept in their place and made to work," said Magas.

"But," said Pierus, "we are losing sight of the question as to what
the last singer intended to convey. Who do you think it was?"
"Some follower of the Jew Paul; I know no other sect who would
dare call the muse a myth."

"I would give something to know what the Jewish fellow did say;
do you remember?" asked Pierus.

"I think I can summon some one who does." And Critias called
aloud to a slave, who drew near.

"Merion, do you remember the Jew preacher?"

"I do, most honored master."

"Do you remember what he said?"

"I have his words by heart, master," replied the slave.

"By heart!" muttered Magas, "by Jove; but, you did worship the
fellow!"

"Well," rejoined Critias, "and what did he say?"

The man addressed was a gray-headed, stolid-looking person; his

intelligence on common matters was not deemed great; he was,
however, esteemed faithful, trustworthy, and affectionate. A sudden
glow lighted up his features, as his master spoke to him, and he
became animated with an expression that puzzled his hearers: he
stood forth, threw out his right arm, and, in the attitude of an
orator impressed with the dignity and importance of the subject,
delivered word for word the speech made by the great apostle of
the Gentiles in the hall of the Areopagus.

"My masters," said the slave, "when the preacher Paul was brought
to the court of the Areopagites, and questioned concerning the new
doctrine he was giving out to men, he stood in the midst of Mars'
Hill and said:
"'Ye men of Athens, I perceive that, in all things, ye are too
superstitious; for as I passed by, and beheld your devotions, I
beheld an altar with this inscription, To the unknown God; whom
therefore ye ignorantly worship, him declare I unto you. God that
made the world and all things therein, seeing he is Lord of heaven
and earth, dwelleth not in temples made with hands; neither is
worshipped with men's hands, as though he needed anything,
seeing he giveth to all life and breath, and all things; and hath
made of ONE BLOOD all nations of men for to dwell on all the face
of the earth; and hath determined the times appointed, and the
bounds of their habitations; that they should seek the Lord, if haply
they might feel after him, and find him; though he be not far from
every one of us. For in him we live, and move, and have our being;
as certain also of your own poets have said, For we are also his
offspring.'"

"Stop," said Magas; "where did you find that written?"

"It was not written, noble sir; it was said," returned the slave.

"Said! five years ago, and you repeat it now, word for word like a
task," said Magas; "did you hear it more than once?"

"Yes, sir; some who can write, took it down, and read it to me
more than once."

"You cannot read?"

"I cannot."

Magas frowned and rose to his feet. "A dangerous doctrine for our
slaves to have by heart," he muttered; then turning to his
companions he said, "Send the varlets home; let us have our talk
to ourselves."

At a sign from the masters, the servitors left the premises, and
Magas resumed: "Do you leave that slave at large, Critias, with
such a doctrine as that in his bosom?"

"And why not?" asked Critias; "poor, harmless old Merion, the
unwearied attendant on my father's infirmities; his place could not
be supplied in our household for his weight in gold."

"You did not weigh that speech then; did not observe its
tendencies?"

"Well, yes, it is pretty poetry enough, rhapsodical enough, but, like

all rhapsody, harmless."

"Harmless! Did you watch the other slaves as the old man lighted
up; as he said: 'All mankind were of one blood, all the offspring
of God,' master as well as slave! I am sure these varlets
understood it so. Such teaching as that must kindle fire in men's
hearts, must engender rebellion. That one slave, as you see, has
got that and more by heart; do you think it has no effect on him?"

"No bad effect, at least; he is a good and faithful servant."

"No bad effect! why, man, do you not see that if our slaves once
believe they are of one blood with their masters, that they are
equally the offspring of God, they will arise and assert their dignity?
Then who will do the work?"

"You are troubling yourself very unnecessarily, my dear Magas;

there is no slave in our household who works so well or so
faithfully as Merion."

"He's but biding his time," said Magas; "take care. The man that,
being unlettered, got that doctrine by heart, did so because he
cherished it, made much of it; he has studied its meaning,
depend upon it; and the meaning to him must be freedom."

"You did not hear him out," said Critias; "he believes in a judgment
after death, which shall right the wrongs of earth; the followers of
this Jew have the oddest ways in the world. You know the Lady
Damaris?"

Magas nodded assent.

"Well," rejoined Critias, "I have heard her assert that 'work' has a
sanctifying tendency, whatever that means; and they say she takes
pains to instruct her slaves in this singular philosophy; she often
works with them, and treats them as if they were poor relations
she was bound to see well provided for. Strange! isn't it?"

"Strange enough," said Magas, "but more dangerous than strange.

The woman must be looked to."

"Nay, leave her to regulate her own household," said Critias,

laughing: "if you want to make war, try your skill with men. There's
Dionysius, who deserted the Areopagus soon after that preacher
was here; he has freed some of his slaves, taught others to read,
and teaches this new philosophy to all."

"The man must be crazed," said Magas; "these strange notions

must end by revolutionizing society if they are allowed to get to a
head. They must be put a stop to. Whom shall we have to work for
us, when the slave thinks himself as good as his master?"

"We will work for ourselves then," said Critias. "And perhaps that
would not be so very hard, after all. In the early days of the
republic, our forefathers tilled their own fields; they were perhaps
as happy as we are now."

"Are you also touched with this mania?" asked Magas, stamping his
foot fiercely. "I say the slaves are ours by right of conquest; and,
for the glory of my ancestral race, I'll keep my feet upon their
necks."

"As the Roman keeps his foot on ours, eh, Magas? Could we rouse
the slaves to noble deeds, through the working of noble thoughts,
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