Little Falls transcript., 1879-09-04

AcC I'LL tl1C UCllb VI plty tOu
A requiem for the poor ones soul;
And maybe God, e'er just and right
Will bless and make her future bright.
UNKNOWN ARTISTS.
The Romances of Men Who Missed Their
Calling.
+ This is story which passed current
among the Partisan rapins almost thirty
years ago. heard it in Couture's atelier
in 1849, long before anyone took hold of
the facts and wove them into romance
"Once there was poor painter, (there
is nothing about poverty) but this paint
er was much worse of than poor in pock-
ct, for he was abject in art. He might
have made a passable house painter, a
fair kalsolniner, bnt nothing more. Such
miserable pictures as he produced of good
pictures were caricatures of design and
color. ;Of course, he starved. The man
had vices without end; he was given to
drink, was envious, quarrelsome and
cheeky. 1t happened that in some haunt
OF low pleasure he met beautiful girl.
By one Of those strange freaks of chance,
she had the face of an angel and the heart
Of ATTEND: The painter fell madly in
loyc with her. But he had not money
enough to cater to her caprices Even
had his pockets been we'll lined, he was
SO ugly and dirty that she repelled his
advances with scorn. The man raved
over the perfection of her profile, the
clear outline of her face. The pouting
lips, the delicate curl of her nostril, the
arch of her brow, the folded convolutions
of her car, the rounded proportion OF her
neck, even the way the hair waved on the
temples and then swept down on her dim
pied shoulders, were craven in his men,
ory. He became quite crazed with love.
He would have her picture, at least
some Semblance of the woman to console
him. He daubed canvas after canvas,
then tore them to pieces in disgust At
last the scales dropped from his eyes,
when, for the first time, he felt sure that
he had mistaken his vocation. French
like, there came upfin his mind ideas of
suicide. Still, the face of that frail bit of
womanhood haunted him. His last sou
had been expended in canvas and colors.
The walls Of his moldy garret he scraped
and scratched until he whitcned them,
and with bits of charcoal he tried to out
line the face. For days he toiled and
starved, One morning, wandering list
lessly through the suburbs of Paris, he
watched the digging Of cellar. A thick
clay was being pitched into carts; it was
an unctuous blue mud. An idea seized
him. He took off his necktic-he had no
handkerchief and stuffed 1t full Of this
clay; he even filled his pockets to bulgirg
with it; and, faint and weary, reeled home
to his garret with his load. On ricket-
..ty wash stand he threw his heap of soft
clay, and stepping his tattered rag of
shirt in water, he threw it over the shape
less mass of dirt. There were some bits
Of lathing protruding, like ribs on skel-
eten, from the gaunt walls. Frenzied
with fever, with, autched fingers and
bleeding nails he tore the bits of wood
and splintered them into fragments.
Rudely fashiened some tools, and CON-
menced the task of modelling the mud.
The outlines of a head came out. All day
he labored, until the form of the
woman he loved was indis-
tinctly visible. Itwas sundown when he
gave over, and then, exhausted, he threw
himself at the foot Of the bust, and burned
with hot fever through wild dreams
during the long night. At dawn, though
fasting, weak and trembling, he centin-
ued his task. MOI task it was not; it
was delight, pleasure; the work was
SO easy. There was nothing to do over.
It was not an improvision. He was not
giving biss Of himself away. His own
miraculous case in catching every detail,
the unerring certainty of his hand, would
have, perhaps, had he been: perfectly
sane,, appalled, him. Every delicate
lineamept was there The nostrils had
their quiver,9 the hair absolutely eurled,
the pulsations of the bosom we're visible,
almost the breathing was audible, in that
lump of dirt. The consciousness, the
certainty, came to- him that it was work
of art. He. had found his calling. He
would be the great sculptor of Pals.
Fortune, fame, honor would be his. But
he must show his work. He rushed into the
streets, and by5chance met sordid wretch
"a picture vampire-for whom he had
toiled and starved. He clutched him by
the sleeve and dragged him tc his garret
and showed the bust. There stood the
work-his creation. 1T was as beautiful,
as august, as proud in bearing, as a Venus
of Milo. =. :
''.Is that your work.:
est is :':~
""Then you Ire the great coming artist
Of Paris, and will be the fashion 1t is
simply divine. In painting you were
worse than cook whose art consists in
arraying cut carrots around.a bit Of boiled
beef; in modelling you arc Thorwaldsen,
Canova, ,Pradier ;whomesoever you please.
See here, my boy, it is pity you did not
use the right kind Of clay, for just as
soon as she dries, she will crumble. You
can't, you know, always keep a moist
cloth over the bust. for, in time, it defaces
the purity of the. outlines. She is pref
ty enough to have special damp cham
ber built to keep her in. Now, see you
here those old crusts you used to toast,
those egg gg-and-spinach-t things, those foli-
age on tree all made up with number SIS,
were, you must acknowledge waste of
the raw material ;as fires screens the green
est provincial. buyer got sick Of them,
but here, 'cre non,' you have struck your
California. It is Pactolus for you and
Eor mo om tho Co1umh,1z of v.,ur no.u