Year: 1872

There is @ picture for sale in neigh boring city with which there is connected a curious story. On the back is scrawled, CT. A., Obiit 1965." The artist died by his own hand, for a cause of suicide more common than love, or religious mania, or despair; and as poor Tom was well known, and near akin to many of our readers, the history of his picture and himself seems to us worth telling. As for the picture, it is in execution nothing but crude, strong dash or two of color; only bit of sandy beach, dead woman washed ashore, man keeping watch over her, and bird, the solitary living thing in the world, disappearing in the stormy sky, leaving him alone with his dead. But there is the subtle something in it which touches us, as do all great utter ances of truth or human feeling; it is one of the inspired words, painted, or spoken, or written, that are strong as love, or grief, or death, and share their nature.

 There was something about the painter, too, from the time he was boy, that set him apart from other men as one who had message given him to utter. After all, God does give nowadays to certain men special errands to their fellows: and whether it be to make them cry or laugh, to call them to be heroes or saints, to show the stupendous joke of misery or comfort under life, or to explain fishes, or, like Bezaleel, to be "filled with the spirit of God in working with iron and brass, :" they carry about them the signs of their commission as plain as the shining on Mo- ses's face when he came down from the mountains with the tables of stone. Even as boy, Tom knew that he had an errand. It might be but petty thing, picture to paint, or a crayon sketch or two to finish. But it was his work, which no man could do but himself. He caught hints of it ev- erywhere in the glass of water flickering in his hand, or the stone under his feet as much as the song nobly sung or the life of some other man greatly loved. It was clear enough to him but f1ickering light or songs and loves of others would not make it clear to the world. There were times when the desire for its utterance was SO strong upon him that ie he could have accomplished his work he would have been ready, shy, hearty, young fel- low as he was, to cry, "Lord, now let Thy servant depart in peace." He did not fall into the usual mistake of genius az to the ease of delivering his message. He had slip-shod dependence on winged Pegasus to carry him, or draughts from Helicon to give him divine strength. Slow and incessant work, and unflinching integ- rity to his errand, he knew only would carry him safely to his journey's end, and he set out on his career most gal. lantly.

 But Tom was poor, and-Tom married married 6 woman who thoroughly recog- nized him and his errand. They lived in shabby little house in the suburbs oi New York, where their first baby was born; a house where the roof leaked, and where the floors were carpetless. But going there, you found their talk furnished with such high and noble thoughts, their daily lives so rich in love, so gay in jests and fanciss, so sweet and admirable in temper, that the background of want seemed only meant to throw into relief these sunshiny figures. Books, too, mu- sic, nature, and art meant so much more to them then to other men and women they drew such strength and wealth out of even the blades of grass at their gate or the sunlight on their bare floor, that one could not but envy the rich heritage that they would bequeath to their boy. It was about this tune this picture was painted. Men found in it something of message from the gods struggling to be heard they looked curiously at Tom and said, Presently we shall have great man among us." But they did not buy the picture. They did not buy any of Tom's pictures.

 As years went by this fact forced itself closer and closer upon the painter. The more he fixed his eyes upon the stars the more his empty pocket took life and gnaw- ed like . fox at his vitals. He and his wife could have always found food and royal clothing for themselves in their con sciousness of their great work for man. kind, but for their boys they wanted broadcloth, beef, and potatoes to equal those of their neighbours children across the way. One day @ picture auctioneer offered Tom place as "hack." "Give up this Flemish accuracy and this peculiar fancy which struggles through all your work. You can dash me off two or three bold studies a day; something to catch the public eye. Coarse as you please. You need never put your name to them. " The wages offered were competency. It was an everyday transaction; the man had simply to make choice between poverty with his own work and wealth without 1t. To Tom however, it seemed a choice between God and Mammon. It threatened to rench soul and body asun. der. But the children had their hands upon him. Should they not have their share of the worlds comfort, gentility, style2 Tom went into the road where all hacks tramp together their treadmil roundewhich leads nowhere in life or death He had meant to be deaf and blind if any Voice summoned him out of it. But he never heard again the heavenly Gall. His body is alive yet, goes about, with those of his wife and children, well-fed and well-to-do. Their floors are carpeted with cheap Brussels, and in their clothes they follow the fashions scrupulously and promptly. But Tom, finding this old pic ture exposed for sale the other day

 scrawled on it's back, TT. A. Obiit 1s65.' There are so many Toms in studios, 1T newspaper offices, in the pulpit, that wt

 have thought it worth while to tell hi story. We do not know whether he evel

 questions what the loss in his choice hal

 been to himself, his children or the world

 but it may not be too late for some O

 them to pause in theirs, and ask them

 selves, "Was this well doneG"