The Jackson standard. [volume] (Jackson C.H., Ohio) 1847-1888, 1882-10-12

paradise! A perfect Eden without a
serpent in it in the shape of tourist
or cad. An artists paradise that, |
believe, hardly any one knows of. 1t
is called Penruth; it's little fishing
village in Cornwall, as | need not say.
Such models, splendid set Of people
such rocks-such sea! l don't care
twopence about food and drink. l
can't say they are Elysian, but it
doesn't matter. | get some fish now
and then and beastly bread; but | live
on the beauty Of nature. Come and
do likewise"
In this rapturous strain Vincent
Randall wrote to his artist friends
scattered about the world this glori-
Gus summer which can be remembered
in search Of the picturesque. Vim
cent had found it to his hearts con-
tent, and was reveling in his un-
touched paradise Of sea, sky, and rock.
And it even had the last thing need
full, it had its Eve. But before the
heroine Of his idyll appears let me in
troduce you to Vincent Randall, artist,
as he chose to describe himself,
though as yet his income derived from
art was nothing, plus a considerable
balance the wrong way in studio and
other expenses; nevertheless you
could not enrage him more than by
calling him "ameteur." ''If | have
the misfortune to be we'll off, it isn't
my fault he would say with pathos
Don't degrade NE by calling me an
amateur unless you want me to cut to
pieces every canvas I have covered"
He worked hard and painted well,
but he had not the divine touch. At
times despair seized him Of ever get
ting beyond the pretty" and he
would burn his best efforts in the
madness of the moment Of self-dis-
gust. He hated the praises of the
Philistines; but now and then his
sensitive and womanishly tender ma
ture shrank from the criticism Of the
friends who loved him, but saw
through the mere talent Of his paint
ing, which never could rise above
talent. 1t was relief sometimes to
be sitting quite alone at the feet of
mother nature as she brooded grand
and calm over the Cornish solitudes
of wildly colored glorious masses of
majestic rock. It calmed and soothed
the nervous, impressionable man,
whose life was spent in fruitless chase
after impossible ideals ideal beauty
such as his mental eyes had never
seen, colored with the light that never
was on sea or sky; ideal love such as
he had never, might never attain to;
ideal honesty Of purpose, purity OF
motive, heroism of sacrifice. And
with it all he had moods of Gghtness,
humor, reckless bOphomie, which COW
cred all the contradictions and the
unsatisfed longing Of the mans soul
as the sparklesalay on the surface Of
the dark and restless waters.
Vincent sat amongst the rocks
painting, or trying to paint, but
mood of disgust at his work had seized
him, and he was more inclined to
shake his fist at his canvas than to
paint upon it.
"What fool one is to attempt any
thing!'' he said to himself; why not
give it all up and simply take it in
like that bird up therein sure he
enjoys it all more than | do." He got
up and stretched himself. He was
neither tall nor handsome; there was
nothing heroic in his appearance; he
was thin and meagre, his hair was be-
ginning to be more gray than brown,
but he looked every inch gentleman
and good fellow As he stretched
his arms and stamped the pins and
needles out Of his feet, he suddenly
saw girl sitting opposite him ON a
rock, looking fixedly out to sea. VIM
cent perceived that she was unaware
Of his presence. He kept perfectly
still and watched her; it seemed to
him he had never seen a beautiful
woman in his life before; all his old
fancies faded, she was alone in her
beauty before his eyes, as for the rest
they were merely pretty. And Vim
cent despised prettiest. She was only
a peasant girl; her white cotton bon
net lay on the rock beside her, she had
a common stuff dress on, but she was
simply and perfectly beautiful, the
eye of picture such as it is given to
few to take into their souls. Around
her was the setting Of the cliffs and
rocks; the pools of clear water at her
feet, refecting a clearer heaven of
cloudless blue; beyond and away the
sea, silvered with afternoon light, the
glamor of high summer, the SILENCE
which had its own music. She was
tall, taller than Vincent himself; her
hair was burned into kind of brown
gold, her eyes were deep and large
probably that brown which is called
black; her features had that perfec-
ton which makes one almost forget
to notice in what it consists, With
her beauty there was that strange and
indiscribable pathos which inters entc
ones heart one knows not how OF
why.
MY last IDEAL Vincent thought tc
himself, with touch of self-scorn
IF she came nearer to me | should
find her like the rest of them-an-
other illusion gone" Yet he drank
it in. and the sweet idea sank into hi:
foolish heart. As he watched her
her face contracted with an expression
of acute pain; she uttered a short
sharp sound, neither words nor cry
and stretched out her clasped hand:
towards the sea. Then she stood OF
her feet, hastily gathered up what she
had dropped, turned and hurried away
with tie step Of one who neither
thinks nor cares OF where she goes
In another moment Vincent's eye
had lost their vision.
He attempted no more painting; h
collected his paraphernalia and wen
: back to his home-for the time bein!
in tho varv primitive little inn th