Daily Kennebec journal. [microfilm reel] (Augusta, Me.) 1870-1975, 1882-03-28
GaIts an0 Skettbts.
TIE QUAKER ARTIST.
BY D. g. BRINToS

and he held at arms length a small pic
ture in water colOrs, the features of which
were hardly discernible in the gloom of
the winter morning. Friend Joseph had
been at he barn. as was his custom. TO
fodder the cattle and feed the horses be-
fore breakfast. and had discovered this
humble bit Of art in nook in the gran
airy. He did not have to be told that it
was his son Richards work. whose incli-
nation to such ungodly pursuits had been
the distress Of his parents lives.
Full Of suppressed wrath Joseph burst
into the kitchen where the family were
waiting breakfast. and without preface adj
dressed his son with the threat which he
considered the most dreadful he could use
that Of disinheritance. Ii meant some
thing too, for in spite Of his plain sur
roundings. Joseph Harris owned nearly
two hundred acres Of land worth easily
hundred and fifty dollars an acre, and bis
visits to the county town on the first of
April OF each year were not to pay inter
est, but to receive it. A tall, straight fig
nre, he was nearing sixty years Of age.
hut as vigorous as a youth, with quick
motions and sharp black eyes, Indicating
violent nature chained for life by the
strict discipline Of the Society Of Friends
His son Richard, now turned of twenty
two, was of a different mould. short and
stoutly built. His face at first seemed
heavy and vacant. but this was in fact the
abstraction of the dreamer. His soft
brown eyes, and hair clustering in thick
curls over his low but broad forehead.
made amends for his somewhat common
place features.
The moment his father entered the kitch-
en- Richard felt that his secret labor had
been discovered, but his anxiety was more
for it than for himself. He rarely dared
face his fathers anger. for Joseph
Harris, like many of his sex. made up in
severity mt home for the smooth and pas
sionless exterior he maintained abroad
"Will thee give il to me, father?" said
Richard. advancing toward the out
stretched hand which held the sketch,
while the hands owner contemplated it
with unspeakable disgust
Poor little painting 1t was fragment
Of an autumn afternoon, during which
Richard had been husking corn in 1.-THE
hill field" and which had abded in his
memory. clothed with the halo of hum
dred day-dreams. There was corner of
woods. the foliage half green, half sha-
ding into tints of brown and red. 4 rivu-
let leaving piece of meadow still gay
with autumn flowers and green with late
grass, flowed ripping and sparkling out
OF the sunlight into the shade of the diving
leaves. What courage and hope it must
have, Richard followed in thought its
waters as they flowed on to Chester Creek
and then to the state'y Delaware River,
and far out till they met the mighty ocean
which washes the shores of all the world
And rs he mechanically plunged his
husking knife into the shucks and turned
out the golden ears one after the other, he
humbly took this lesson to himself "a was
his wont, and said: II, too. must have
more courage, firmer hope. Why should
not | go forward in my study Of art with
greater faith? ! must, | will" And to
fasten the vow. he h vi painted two studi, Q
OF this little piece OF meadow as Il constant
reminder. snatching the time on First
days and Fifth days. when his father and
mother were at meeting. and he and Nose
Riddle, the colored man. were left to look
ai'er the stock. One copy he had sent on
4 venture to a commission house in New
York the other he had hidden in the barn.
II had acquired kind of sanctitv to him,
and each tree had become symbol OF
some rebuff or danger he was fated to en-
counter in his future life. He had. more
over. described it to Sibbilla Vernon and
had promised this sole contidante of his
aspirations that he would bring it over
sometime and let her see it, But Sibbilla
lived two miles away. and rs her parents
were also strict members of meeting, who |
regarded every work of art as profanity. |
this would have to he managed with due |
caution.
Richards first impulse. therefore. was
to secure the picture. But his father had |
a double cause of displeasure. and his an |
ger was deep. He had agreed to give
Richard fourth share in the profits of
the farm this year, and not only was this |
painting business an ungodly amusement
but also waste of precious time and "A
loss ofmoney. II must be stopped
'I'll put it where it deserves to 90. and |
where thee will follow unless thee turns |
thy steps from the world and its follies. |
But the fire that thou wilt meet will be !
that which is not quenched, and where the
worm dieth not"
With these words. which Friend Harris
spoke slowly and with that slight chanting
intonation which characterizes the utter
ances of the speakers in meeting. the So
lemnity of which was farther increased by
the use Of the formal thou instead of
the usual thee. he stepped TO the kitchen
fireplace. where goodly wood fire was
burning under the crane, and striking the
picture against the corner of the mantel-
piece tore a rugged split through its cen
tire and threw the whole into the flames
In moment it was shriveled cinder.
There are certain natures whose in
herent strength can only be developed by
violent shock. Full of latent power.
their weakness comes from native hu-
mility. They distrust themselves through
= genuine admiration of others Such
was Richard Harris. But the necessary
shock had come. lie gazed moment at
the cinder, his face erimsoned. but the
severe discipline of the Society and the
family exercised the sway that it usually
does even on the very young among
Friends.
Father" he said in low and even
tone. II repeat what lhsve often told thee
have no light that there is evil in paint
ing; but as thee thinks there is. shall bid
thee and mother farewell to-day. and seek
employment elsewhere. shall not ask
thee for any share in thy estate
Taking his hat from the window-sill he
passed out of the kitchen door leaving his
Al - IL