Juniata sentinel and Republican. [volume] (Mifflintown, Juniata County, Pa.) 1873-1955, 1877-04-11
G1orgfOne.

to sensible young girl.
GforgfOne.
The old campo passes the long, languiC
days of the late summer in dreaming o
the time when the pavement rang witt
the footsteps of student-lads VIII,
pressed about the threshold of theil
master Giorgione, and called upon hin
to come down and join them in theil
wild sports. ''There will be masques
Tonight" cry the lawless young
painters; "and we shall sup afterward
by moonlight under the shadow of st
Marks" The gods and monsters that
the masters hand has frescoed on the
pallid plaster grin down an acceptance
A figure appears at the balcony-win-
dow, and cries out TO the young idlers
to'return to their studies, and abide the
night-faii.
IL is tall figure, with beautiful
young face, framed by the velvet cap OF
the painter-guild. AS he stands there
in the sunlight in his dark-green velvet
garment, full of rich shadows, with the
concentration Of genius upon his face,
you would not believe him the tritier,
the pleasure-seeker, that all Venice
halls him. TIE broad brow, the strong
features, the firm chin, tell of quick,
impatient, creative power. Only the
graceful curve of his mouth suggests
the hidden flaw within this vessel, in
which burns the sacred fire.
He is colossal in his achievements
when he has once convinced himself
that creation is the worthiest end of
life. But there is no ideal so noble, no
resolution so bold, that it will not
vanish before the touch of soft lips or
the glance of tender eyes. Why should
he sit and toll over one form OF beauty,
when all Gods creation lies at his feet,
waiting but to be grasped?
But now and again comes a moment
when the thought of the sacred charge
committed to him rushes through his
heart. Then, with the impulse of his
strong soul score of touches from his
eager hand creates shape that sets the
whole town wondering at his power.
And then his old demon whispers to
him that love and life are better than
art, and SO for months he gropes on
through the darkness that thickens
about him toward the light that eludes
his grasp. His days are one long strug
gle between the instincts Of life and the
instincts of art. His youth, his beauty,
his passionate nature, are forever at war
with the cold, stern asceticism of INTEL
lectual creation. He had Greek nature,
this Venetian OF the cinque eento, and
his was the pure sensuousness of those
perfect organizations that accepted
beauty as the gift of the gods, and made
their lives lyrics. and bathed their
bodies in sunlight, and stunned the
darkness of thought and mental suffer-
ing.
And yet l wonder ii those wise young
painters, who shook their heads over
the noisy riot with which Giorgione
filled the Venetian streets, never recog
nized in his wild merriment the agonies
of despairing soul. Did they never
feel in his gorgeous canvases an under
tone of pathos? Did no Gndefined sad
ness creep over them when they gazed
upon his pictures of " omen, those lovely
faces with the moulded features and
ripe, parted mouths. and tender, rosy
brows shadowed by rich, bronzed hair,
and deep, brooding eyes that give the
lie to their flushed, bare limbs? Some
dim memory of suffering endured far
back in the ages hides under those
curves, some consciousness
of approaching decay Turks beneath the
fair marble surface, some presentiment
of early death fills the deep eyes with
awe.
Such form as those that glow upon
his canyases, with the mysterious DEATH
prophecy written on their brows, used
TO stand on the balcony of summer
afternoons and gaze down upon the
campo, with the arms of the
flowers clutching at her sweeping gar
ments of deep-red velvet. There were
rubies on her bare, white throat, and
the deep-red carnations of Venice
burned among the dull gold coils of her
hair. She leaned over among the dark
red damasks that hung from the balcony,
a rich mass of color against the tawny
frescoes of the wall, and the sunlight
deepened the glow of her hair, and
made dark furqws in her velvet
irapery, and CLEANED in the jewels
about her throat, and transfgured her
to the winSgoddess, the bacehante, the
color-queen of the Venetian revels.
The young students, passing across
the campo, lowered their voices as they
caught sight of the stately form, and
said one to another. SIT is GiorgioRe's
Iove.' Did they feel the lurking agony
in that smooth, fair face, the forethoUght
Of pain and suffering in the beautiful
eyes, the tears gathering behind the
laughter that made the old campo ring
with gladness? Yet for her there was
naught in life but love, and joy, and
pleasure, velvets and jewels, and every
night fresh revel.-Appleton's Journal.
Value Of Trade.
Many young man has been ruined
for life because he never learned how
to do anything. "My father" once
said an intelligent young friend, who
found it extremely difficult to earn a
scanty livelihood by his pen, "did not
think it worth while for me to learn
any trade or business" He had been
thrown on his own re-
sources, and, although man in stature
and years, he was a mere infant in his
to earn a living. They are
too many men of his class floating
around the world-men who have tai
ents, but do not know how to apply
them. Such cases lead us to look upon