The Portland daily press. [volume] (Portland, Me.) 1862-1921, 1882-02-10

1The Queen.l
[The Queen.l
A Barbarian and Two Asthetes.

A Barbarian and Two Asthetes.
There are always people who 60 back on the
trodden path, and who set themselves to repro
duce the spirit OF the past under tho fashions of
the present. Hence Rosa Matilda and the
Della Cruscaps have reappeared in the modern
earnest school, with that worship OF lank limbs,
lean forms, haggard faces of unutterable woe,
and general affectation which distinguish it.
Sometimes the outside barbariaAs make queer
mistakes with these aesthetics; flor unless We
have the key to the enigma OF their appearance
and manners, their ways and words are apt TO
be unintelligible. One day one of these robust
barbarians paid visit to house where the
girls ego in" for different schools-one more
unnatural than the other, and all ludicrous in
their assumption of supreme earnestness. The
mother was not at home, and only the girls re-
manned to receive. One was Art, the other
Poetry; and both might have been nice enough
il they had allowed nature only so much as
square inch whereon to stand. Art, the elder,
was the first to welcome the robust barbarian.
When the visitor entered she was standing
leaning against the back of high chair in the
attitude of the Polyhymnia, but she slowly
raised herself from her pose and brought her
faculties to bear on her duties. Her lips apart,
her head depressed, her eyes opened to their
widest under her brows, and thrown up with
the intensest tragedy of expression which long
study before the glass could give them, she
glided forward and family breathed the con-
yentional formula. Poetry, absorbed, was dis
coursing on high matters to youth in the
Iva 1,xo rla ~ +bo liner
which she had fixed her eyes. The robust bsr-
barisn was a little alarmed. This tragic look,
this desperate melancholy of face, combined
with the absence Of the mother, made her think
that something was amiss GOOD gracious!
has anything happened?"- Nothing, y said the
sef-conscious model for the tragic muse, in the
most languid voice and with the most madden
ing drawl. "Why do you ask?"-"I thought
you looked scared-unhappy," said the robust
barbarian. Art smiled in sad, sweet, melan-
oholy way. us anyone happy?" she asked
with tender reproach. els not all Beauty sor-
row. all refinement pathos, all art sadness?
Only Teniers' Doors are happy!"
81 do not think so" said the robust barbar-
IAN turning to Poetry, who by this time had
become aware of her presence. Poetry was in
every way unlike her sister. Art had devised
an elaborate costume for herself, which she
fondly hoped made her look like picture;
also she had practised certain gestures, poses,
steps, which the painters of her schools use Tor
the Elaines and Beatrices, the Ladies and
the Ophelias of their pictures. Poetry, on the
contrary, was all free and unstudied. She was
the wild sweet bird in the swaying branches of
forest tree, singing her native wood notes
wild in the delirious solitude of nature-she
was Inspiration, Rapture, Spirit. Her dress
was careless, not to say shabby and untidy; her
hair was ill-arranged, not to say unkempt, I'M
h~r,o nod and dic0rdQrlU. hnr r0lQ Ua ahCnrp-
ton in her own sweet thoughts, not, as with
Art offering picture, but suggesting idylls
and epics To her fell the care of the tea-table,
will you have cup of tea?' she asked, with
that far-away look in her eyes, expressive of
anything rather than the administration OF
coarse creature comforts. The robust barbar-
ian assented. A cup of warm tea on cold
winters afternoon was pleasant prospect.
Poetry led the way to the table. Looking back
over her shoulder as she went, and speaking to
the youth in the corner she said: "The divine
cthosl' As she spoke radiant smile came
over her face-a smile that had been hired to
express spiritual illumination and the con-
seriousness of priestesshood. "Do you take
sugar." she asked sweetly, in preparation for
her hospitality. The robust barbarian answer
ed: mo; no sugar, thank you" Poetry held
the teapot in her hand, poised in midair-the
tea unpoured. 1.-THE grand sublimity of Dante
matched with the sloyely tenderness of Pet
rarca,' she said again, over her shoulder to the
youth in the corner "Do you take sugar2"
she then asked the robust barbarian, kindly.
mo; no sugar, thank you," this latter answer
ed. Poetry poured out the tea. During the
process she said, with great sweetness and
touching hospitality: 81 may give you sugar?"
mo; no sugar, thank you, " was the reply. The
tea poured out, Poetry took up the milk jug.
"The many-sidedness of SHAKESPEARE and the
perfect form of Goethe" she said again over
her shoulder to the youth in the corner. To
the robust barbarian: 'Sugar?" NO. said the
robust barbarian. quickly. Poetry poured ont
the milk. Still holding the cup she looked
back to the youth in the corner. "And add to
this transcendent whole the stately march of
Spenser," she said, "This is what the true poet
should be-and this Is what you will some day
be-" On which she hastily shoveled in two
cup to the robust bargarian, with charming
smile. "You take sugar, think?" she said,
veay sweetly. 81 hope have made it sweet
enough"