Staunton spectator. [volume] (Staunton, Va.) 1849-1896, 1889-09-25

ity upon the canvas. The long, summer
day drew to its close, the artists lace
grew whittier and whittier, the sweat OF ex-
haustion stood thick upon his brow. Then,
as twilight crept into the room, and It's
dusky shadows hid the long days strange
work, his hand fell heavily to his SIDE;
with sigh of complete exhaustion he sank
down upon the soft rug at the foot OF the
easel and fell into profound slumoer. For
hours he slept, darkness fell, then the
moon rose higher and higher until its light
poured through the open window upon the
picture on the easel. And as it stood
there, bathed in silvery light, the artist
awoke, and, with great start, looked upon
it. Had he gone mad, or was he dreaming,
for surely his brain never conceived nor his
hand executed that picture. A face intin-
itely, pathetically beautiful, with great
mournful, patient eyes, in which lay
world of sadness, of mute reproach:. Inc
soft bronze-tinted hair was pushed pacK
from the brows and about them was press,
ed crown of sharp thorns, while the DlooG
trickled slowly oyer the marble pailor Oh
cheek and brow. The artist rose Slowly,
with fascinated gaze still bent upon the
picture. The beautiful, pathetic eyes
seemed to be looking their sad reproacn
right into his soul, and his heart began TO
beat with strange pain. Again he was
little child, sitting at the feet OF that SWEEP,
dead mother, listening to the sad story OF
how Jesus suffered and died. All, but ne
was only a credulous child then and now,
he is a man able to reason and 70 THINK,
and how beautiful and how sad that lace
how patient, how reproachful the mourn
full ewes. And those sharp and cruel
thorns, what pitiless hand pressed them
into the delicate flesh? Sin had fashioned
them and unbelief pressed them there
Bah, what thoughts were those? Had this
face, which had grown so strangely under
his hand, made weak fool of hlmP he
will blot it and his weakness out forever
| He caught up brush and raised his hand
| to dash it across the face but it fell heavily
to his side. No, no, he could not while
those eyes looked up into his. Alb, beantl-
full sad eyes, dark with the shadow OF the
cross beneath the crown Of cruel thorns,
YOU have melted the ice about one heart
With great sob down on his knees the
artist sank, and the tears fell heavily on his
hands as he raised them clasped to the
pictured face. "Jesus,' he murmured,
'sThou hast conquered, forgive, have
mercy" There the words died On bis
lips, he sank back and lay still and motion
less beneath the pictured head.
And thus tney 1ounu nln III 1no lnolnihs
and thought at first he slept, for there was
a strange peace upon the face and faint
smile upon the lips. But, when they tried
to rouse him, they found that he was dead.
There hangs in certain great church,
picture whose fame has spread all over the
world. A thorn-crowned head of Jesus
Christ painted as no hand ever has, or ever
will again paint it. From the shadow OF
the altar, the beautiful sad eyes look down
upon kneeling thousands The name OF
him who painted it will live forever, and
| though long years have passed since they
found him dead beneath the picture, totter-
| ing old men and women still tell why tits
called "The Last Painting"