Year: 1877

The old campo passes the long, languld days of the late summer in dreaming of the time when the pavement rang with the footsteps of student-lads who pressed about the threshold of their master Giorgione, and called upon him to come down and join them in their

 wild sports. ''There will be masques tonight" cry the lawless young painters; 'sand we shall sup afterward

 by moonlight under the shadow of St. Marks" The gods and monsters that the masters hand has frescoed on the pallid plaster grin down an acceptance.

 A figure appears at the balcony-win- dow, and cries out to the young idlers to return to their studies, and abide the night-fall.

 It is tall figure, with beautiful young face, framed by the velvet cap of the painter-guild. As he stands there in the sunlight in his dark-green velvet garment, full of rich shadows, with the concentration of genius upon his face, you would not believe him the trifler,

 the pleasure-seeker, that all Venice halls him. The broad brow, the strong features, the firm chin, tell of quick,

 impatient, creative power. Only the graceful curve of his mouth suggests the hidden flaw within this vessel, in which burns the sacred fire.

 He is colossal in his achievements

 when he has once convinced himself that creation is the worthiest end of life. But there is no ideal so noble, no resolution so bold, that it will not vanish before the touch of soft lips or the glance of tender eyes. Why should he sit and toll over one form of beauty, when all Gods creation lies at his feet, waiting but to be grasped?

 But now and again comes a moment when the thought of the sacred charge committed to him rushes through his heart. Then, with the impulse of his strong soul score of touches from his eager hand creates shape that sets the

 whole town wondering at his power. And then his old demon whispers to him that love and life are better than art, and so for months he gropes on through the darkness that thickens about him toward the light that eludes his grasp. His days are one long strug~ gle between the instincts of life and the

 instincts of art. His youth, his beauty, his passionate nature, are forever at war with the cold, stern asceticism of intel lectual creation. He had Greek nature, this Venetian of the cinQue cento, and his was the pure sensuousness of those perfect organizations that accepted

 beauty as the gift of the gods, and made their lives lyrics. and bathed their

 bodies in sunlight, and summed the darkness of thought and mental shffer- ing.

 And yet wonder if those wise young painters, who shook their heads over

 the noisy riot with which Giorgione

 filled the Venetian streets, never recog-

 nized in his wild merriment the agoni

 of a despairing soul. Did they nev. feel in his gorgeous canvases an under

 tone of pathos? Did no undefined sad

 ness creep over them when they gazed upon his pictures of women, those lovely

 faces with the moulded features and ripe, parted mouths. and tender, rosy brOws shadowed by, rich, bronzed hair, and deep, breeding eyes that give the lie to their flushed, bare limbs? Some dim memory of suffering endured far back in the ages hides under those

 voluptuous curves, some consciousness

 of approaching decay turks beneath the

 fair marble surface, some presentiment of early death fills the deep eyes with awe.

 Such form as those that glow upon his canyases, with the mysterious death- , prophecy written on their brows, used } to stand on the balcony of summer l afternoons and gaze down upon the slumbering campo, with the arms of the

 flowers clutching at her sweeping gar ments of deep-red velvet. There were rubies on her bare, white throat, and , the deep-red carnations of Venice

 burned among the dull gold coils of her hair. She leaned over among the dark

 red damasks that hung from the balcony, , rich mass of color against the tawny , frescoes of the wall, and the sunlight deepened the glow of her hair, and

 made dark furrows in her velvet drapery, and gleamed in the jewels

 about her throat, and transfigured her to the wine-goddess, the bacchante, the color-queen of the Venetian revels.

 The young students, passing across the campo, lowered their voices as they caught sight of the stately form, and said one to another. sIt is Giorgione's

 love!" Did they feel the lurking agony in that smooth, fair face, the forethought of pain and suffering in the beautiful eyes, the tears gathering behind the laughter that made the old campo ring

 with gladness? Yet for her there was naught in life but love, and joy, and pleasure, velvets and jewels, and every

 night fresh revel.-Appleton's Journal. Value of a Trade.

 Many young man has been ruined for life because he never learned how to do anything. "My father" once

 said an intelligent young friend, who

 found it extremely difficult to earn a scanty livelihood by his pen, "did not

 think it worth while for me to learn any trade or business" He had been unexpectedly thrown on his own re- sources, and, although 8 man in stature

 and years, he was & mere infant in his capacity to earn living. They are too many men of his class floating

 around the world-men who have tal- l ents, but do not know how to apply them. Such cases lead us to look upon

 the culpability as very great, of any 7 parents, who bring up son without f having been practically and thoroughly l instructed in some way of earning an

 honest living. Every man should have