The San Francisco call., 1898-02-14
IGENlUS ON THE ALTAR OF MAMM0N
Stanford Was the
 Thomas

@ source of revenue, of my own pie ture, the picture he says 1 painted without any order from him! And on the~Southern Pacif1c's trains, on their advertising folders. they printed, with out my permission, and without paying me for the privilege, copies of the Last Spike picture, which Stanford declared wasn't his property.
 "Oh, we'll" MT. Hills sigh has more of philosophy in 1t now than of dolor. That picture was fated to be un- fortunate. The Italian artist who stole the idea of my picture-they had sent out here from Washington for copy of the Last Spike'-for the cupola at Washington, was disappointed also For some reason, the design wasn't accepted. Isn't it sort of poetic jus tice that Stanford, who longed to be immortalized in the capitol, more than for anything else in this world, should have failed in this, too?
 But it's all past now. And 1t isn't the loss of the money that grieves me so-though at one time, as I've told you, treated so shamefully. It's having the public think that painted that pie ture Of my own accord, and then tried to make Stanford take it by lying about an order from him.
 "Oh, I know!" MT. Hill waved deprecatory, thin white hand In an- sWer to my exclamation. People tell you that it doesn't make any difference what is said about me; that his friends know and will justify him. But, right at the same time, they're saying sagely,
 Where there's so much smoke there must be some fire'
 Mrs. Stanford knows that her hus- band ordered that picture, for she, her sef, when she saw MacCrellish's lCrII
 .1s .Bon.t ul m mt the the+ picture; said: has made my husband suffer so!' If Mrs. Stanford will only do me justice, If she will put me right before the peo- pie, she may have the picture. I'm through with it now, and I'll give it to her."
 I went out to the park when I left MT. Hill to see the painting again. But l can no longer look upon it without, mentally seeing a companion picture of Thomas Hill, with his white hair and his white beard and his invalid face, as he sat telling it's history. I hear that gentle, quiet voice, like the chorus of a Greek play, commenting upon, explain ing the real motives of the lifelike fig ures that crowd the stage; making plain that which was obscure, justify ing that which seemed unwise.
 When you know the history that Is painted in that great canvas out at the Park Museum you'll look at 1t with more interest. You'll try, behind each painted face that is grouped about the central figure, to find it's predecessor, as geologist in laying bare one stra- tum after the other of earth's layers, discovers the secrets of Natures stu dio. But of one thing you may be sure However great may have been the changes to which, in the process of making, this famous picture was sub jected, one face, one figure has stood like a rock, unchangeable. While all about him eddied the shifting pictorial fortunes that rose or fell at the pleas ure or displeasure of the artist patron; while Durant became Strowbridge and MacCrellish was bewitch, into some one else; while the merry 13-14-15 rail- road puzzle was being played down on Townsend street and also on painted canvas, the position of Stanford's fig- ure was never changed; Stanford's face alone shone in the full effulgence of it's well-chosen prominence as steady as unalterable as a fixed star among a lot of whirling meteors.
 But the apothesis of Leland Stanford in the Last Spike" picture is also the artistic martyrdom of Thomas Hill.
 MIRIAM MICHELSON