Los Angeles daily herald., 1874-03-08

day would stand an equal with the
first masters of the age.
Our old friend followed him to the
window, and throwing glance over
his shoulder into the street, beheld an
old waterman with his cask upon his
back vending water, as was the habit
of the times. AS soon as he saw the
waterman,s face he grasped the artist
| by the arm, exclaming:
"By heaven, there is a subject for
you Send for him: Out with your
brushes and to work Look at that
silver beard and flowing hair in such
rich clusters about his sunburnt face.
Halloo, there!-I say, waterman! Hal
loop While thus shouting at the top
of his voice, the boy who had sat the
day before came running into the
room. Our poet soon as he entered
thrust some copper into his hand, and
dispatched the boy with directions
Immediately to bring him, the water
man, to the studio. This was soon ac-
complished, and SO strong was the in
ducements for our artist to go to work,
that in very few moments more his
crayon was dashing over the canvas in
composition of group of the water
man offering drink to the beggar boy.
Soon the outline was finished, and
the artist had commenced the colorin&b
During the progress of the work the
old soldier sat in the armchair behind
the artist, looking over q manuscript
which he had taken from the pocket of
his camlet cloak, but would now and
then throw a glance at the picture.
Hour after hour passed away, until the
cathedral clock struck the MONDAY
time. So deep was the interest of the
artist that he observed and noticed
nothing else but the work he was at.
He counted neither minutes nor hours.
He heard no striking of the clock; but
however little may be noticed the
flight of time spent in intense applica-
ton to subject, nevertheless the ply
steal and mental organism keeps a
faithful record and marks each second
by o natural consumption of its own
material. AS exhaustion takes place,
SO the human system becomes debili-
tated and restless. Such was now the
condition of the artist. He gave
every indication of it by his frequent
moving backward and forward, by the
frequent mixing of his tints, compar-
ing them with the flesh of his subject,
and then wiping them all from his
palette as if nothing suited him, and
as if it were impossible to accomplish
what he desired. So he continued,
infinitely observed by his friend. At
last he stepped toward his canvas with
the intention of putting on a touch;
but before he could do so the old man
stepped close behind him, and quietly
taking the artist by the arm, he pre-
vented him with the remark:
"StOp What would you do ?u
"Do? ' repeated the artist, his loud,
clear voice reaching among the cob
webs and rotten rafters. "Do? What
l cannot do-paint! Every thing is
distortion to me. There is no blood in
my flesh; no transparency in my
shadows; my efforts are fruitless ~
With considerable passion he then
dashed his palette and brushes upon
the paint table.
"Be quiet, young man, and listen to
me. Your work is right. There is no
fault In the picture; nor do you lack
the talent to make it great result.
1t is your eyes that are to blame by
being Overworked, and these make all
this deception. Rest, my friend your
eyes require rest. Put your work
aside for the day, and tomorrow you
will see your picture as it is-admira-
BILE in color, composition and draw
ing" So saying, the old man resum-
ed his seat.
The truth was too clear for our artist
to doubt it. He could not fail to see
a ho s,,c hof
at this moment shooting through his
congested eyes fixed the seal of con-
viction upon his old friends words,
and quietly placing his mahl across
the pegs in the easel, he turned to his
friend and said:
You have taught me good lesson
"a lesson that has perhaps not only
saved ME my eyes, but held me to Il
profession l love as dearly as my
SOUL"
"Well, say no more. Come ~
shouted the old man, jumping up from
his chair. "Come let us go without,
and refresh ourselves with a quiet
glass, and that social interchange of
thoughts and feelings so necessary to
the health and happiness of men.
wine, lily 10Y wife, say anu we
will talk Of men we love, and women,
too-of poetry of songs and the
drama ~
In few minutes more these two
noble spirits sat opposite to each other
at well-provided table. The wine
was ruby red in their goblets. They
talked of poetry and the drama with
their souls ablaze on the subject. Bu5
alas! how little they dreamed when
parting, that it was for the last time.
Young Diego Velazquez, Spain's best
painter of the period, at parting shook
heartily the hand of the immortal
Migual Cervantes, the author Of "Don
Quixote," who in few weeks after
this pleasant meeting with Velazquez,
died, and his great soul winged its
way to another world of eternal years,
side by side with that other immortal
spirit, Shakespeare, both dying on the
same day. April %, l6l6.-[F From the
Aldine for March.