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The San Francisco call. [volume] (San Francisco [Calif.]) 1895-1913, May 31, 1896, Image 27

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Out of the
London Art Galleries.
LONDON, Enq., May 12.— London is the
city of contrasts. Nowhere is the modern
and the old, the somber and the brilliant,
the hideous and the beautiful so sharply
or so abruptly interchanged. To come
from one of the outlying suburbs into the
heart of the town is to run up and down
the whole 6cale of human development.
Could anything be more dreary, more
sordid than the streets of so many of the
smaller districts, the tali, narrow^ smoke
begrimed house fronts, only to be distin
guished by the number and the variety of
the dressmaking and boar/ding-house "ad
vertisements. The streets are deserted as
those of a village and as silent— now and
then the übiquitous organ-grinder reso
lutely turns out his haunting memories
of Italian opera or the music-hall— a
Bounding and grotesque echo of other joys
and other possibilities. And this within
half an hour of the Marble Arch
or Hyde Park corner. On one
side the imposing dignity and
reserve of Park Lane and Mayfair; the
windows at this season crowded with
blossoms; carriages with monumental
footmen waiting at the doors; the street
a living stream, the horseß plunging
heavily between strings of hansoms and
cabs and carts and drays; riders on horse
back, and the bicycle here and the bicycle
there and the bicycle everywhere. Where
the crowd parts the people pass into
Hyae Park, where the flower-beds glow
among the shadowy trees like the ward
robe of a queen spread out for the world
to gaze upon— crocus beds, gold and red; I
hyacinths and tulips cf every size 'and
every degree of gorgeousness. They blaze
like the shop-windows in Bond or Regent
streets, where the bright, round guinea
rules and the shilling is forgot.
It costs but 1 shilling, however, to enter
the galleries — galleries upon galleries,
which it is the solemn duty of every Eng
lishman or matron, youth or maiden to
visit. The academy, the new gallery, the
English Art Club, the Grafton, the Water
Colorists and a dozen others, all within a
radius of a few miles, in Regent street or i
Piccadilly or Pali Mall. Always a new one
to be founded as a public educator, and
always more pictures to be painted and
lost sight of. And every picture exhibi
tion is crowded with eager people, culti
vating arduously their interest in art.
In America the exhibition is a matter
of moment on opening day, then nothing
could be more undisturbedly peaceful than
the big rooms full of paintings; the artist
himself is but a poor creature to be en
couraged, to be patronized, to be protected.
In the popular mind he ia along-haired
individual, with a velveteen coat, an ex
pression of genius concealed about his
person, and eccentric ideas about the sup
port the world owes him.
Here in England — or in London rather —
he is an exotic, to be kept in a hothouse
atmosphere of respect and adulation; to
be assiduously cultivated and cared for
and exhibited like his own works, and his
correctness of shirt front and collar and
polished boot is a model for the vulgar and
ignorant.
In the new gallery we have the choice of I
schools, with again the same questions of j
modern and old, hung apparently so as
to bring the contrast into the most vivid
relief. A very entertaining relief for the
humor-loving, but a keen anguish to the
soul of the dilettante with a respect for
his own sensations of delight.
The gallery in itseli is a joy, and should
touch to an ecstacy of emulation any |
One Ride lira ■
A Horseless Carriage.
The era of the horseless carriage is com- i
ing as sure as the era of eood country
roads. The champions of the horse may
poohpooh the idea and assert that pleasure-
Joying man will never surrender the steed
of flesh and blond to a mere piece of twen
tieth century mechanism; they may claim
that there is a luck of enjoyment, and ab
sence of thrill of the delightful sort, and
no end of danger in riding on a machine
run by electricity and gasoline, but they
can only rank as Bpeciai pleaders on one
side of the controversy.
The steam car was once just as much of
a curiosity, and was viewed with eyes as
skeptical as the horseless carnage is to
day. Not a hundred years has gone by
fir.cc steam was first harnessed to the pad
die-wheels of boats and the flywheels of
trains, and yet steam is beiner replaced
here and tbere by electricity and doubting
Thomases are soon made firm believers in
the beneficial results of new discoveries.
It is hardly a dozen years ago since people
declared that the electric streetcar would
never be a success. Now it is in universal
use.
Men in general didn't think that Edi
son's electric light would set the world of
night afire; but it did, and it was not very
long in doing it. A short time ago the
telephone was a curious thing. Now
everybody uses the telephone. And it
will be the same old story with the horse
less carriage. The Bubject of good roads
is being agitated from one end of the State
to the other. Down in Los Angeles
County it is proposed to make the roads
question a lecal campaign issue, and other
counties may follow the example. With
the dawning of the day of good roads in
the West will come the rising of the sun
of the horseless carriage. Manufacturers
•will cut down the prices as the demand
grows, and ultimately we shall be able to
buy an electric-motor buegy for about the
cost of an ordinary roadhorse.
"But how does it feel to ride in one of
those electric carriages?" somebody is
bound to ask. "Does tne thing shake you
up and deafen you with noises that keep
your nerves on edge? Is it hard to steer?
Don't you have serious trouble turning
corners? Aren't you constantly in fear of
colliding with some vehicle or other, or of
petting upset by running into a chuck
hole?"
All such questions may be speedily an
swered by the experience of a Call man
who yesterday made a special trip in a
horseless carriage for the very purpose of
describing all the relative sensations. He
was accompanied by J. M. Ouph of the
California Gas Engine Company, who is
planning to build a number of horseless
carriages. The vehicle in which the trip
was made is the one belonging to Charley
Fair, being the first of its kind west of the
Rockies. The route taken was through
the principal streets of Alameda and over
country roads in the vicinity of Oakland.
Comfortably sealed in the attractive look
ing carriage, a button under the seat is
pressed, an electric spark ignites the gaso
line, and the engine operates with a noise
almost like that made by a railway loco
motive in starting, but more subdued, of
course, and with the exception of the buz
zing sound of the electricity" The brake
right-minded millionaire of California, if
he be not lost to all sense of public duty.
Three rooms, with admirable lighting,
around a central court, in which a foun
tain splashes, in which there are restful
chairs and divans, in which the sculptures
and miniatures are seen against a charm
ing background of cool green palms and
waving ferns. An upper gallery runs all
around the central court and here are the
smaller landscapes and figures in oil or
water color or pastel.
Commencing in the south room we are
carried to Windsor, to Norfolk, to Algierß
with bewildering rapidity. We see 3trange
females from old legends, emaciated an
gels, personages from Greek and Northern
myths, symbolic representations of death
and time and judgment, modern ladies in
or out of modern clothes, and painted gen- !
tlemen in or out of robes of office. We
have sunset evenings and moonlit even
ings and mild nights and summer even
ings and showery evenings, days in mild
and wild weather, but in all this choice
and various collection there are but few
pictures worthy of their carefully selected
titles.
Graham Robertson, whose claims upon
fame have been hitherto largely repre
sented by a portrait of himself, painted
last year by John Sargent, has bloomed
out from a pictnre-lover to a picture
painter. He is young, he is rich, he has
a beautiful studio — built from his own de
signs, looking out upon Holland Park.
His pictures, in spite of all this against
him, are very promising. He has taken
Burne Jones and Dicksee as his tutelary
saints — only he has departed from the
ascetic grace of the former and has en
dowed his Queen of Samotbrace with an
ample charm. »
I am the Queen of Samothrace,
God making roses made my face.
And it is a goodly face to look upon,
sufficiently well drawn and very well
colored, with that clear and unshadowed
flat modeling so much affected by modern
men.
A very poetic canvas is that called "The
Page," by Mrs. Marianne Stokes. It is an
illustration of Heine's most touching little
song:
Bs war em alter Konig,
6ein Hera war schwer.
Beln Haapt war gran;
Der anne, alte Konig,
Der nahrn einejunge Fran.
The poor little Queen, moving dreamily
through a charmingly suggested landscape,
is a slim figure with a face modeled as the
early Florentine painters loved to do. She
has a little thin white cap drawn over her
fine hair that has a faint glint of gold, and
her long, green robe seems all too heavy
for such a slender creature. The page
holds the gold-embroidered silken train,
with his young, delicate face uplifted un
der a cloud of blond hair, yearning toward
the pale Queen. Mrs. Stokes has made
effective use of actual gold and silver in
the decorations of the dress. The fig
ure of the page is a little overbalanced by
his great sleeves, on which the mixture of
paint and silver gives an actual feeling of
a rich silver-threaded material.
Mrs. H. M. Stanley (Dorothy Tennant)
has two pictures not remarkable in any
way.
"His First Offense" is a rather well
drawn figure of a boy, in which the
face and ragged clothes are all done with j
rather too much of pathetic appeal ; the;
other canvas is a nude, conspicuous only
by the name of Stanley.
A really beautiful portrait is that of Lady
is then thrown off, and away starts the
carriage at any rate of speed desired.
When well under way the bolM is hardly
noticeable. It is remarkable with what
smoothness the carriage travels. It speeds
along at the rate of fifteen to twenty miles
an hour, and no vehicle ever turned sharp
corners more prettily than does this horse
less carriage.
Just ahead of us is a country woman
driving a horse which shows ajgns of fear.
The woman is curious, and is paying more
attention to the object of her wonderment
than to the animal she is driving. The*
horseless carriage turns properly to the
right. The woman somewhat nervously
jerks the wrong line, and the horse moves
toward the side on which the machine of
mystery is speeding. But there is no col
lision. The horseless carriage is guided to
the opposite side of the street in a
twinkling; and, had it been necessary, the
bra.ke could have been applied and the
wheels brought to an aimost immediate
standstill. Horses haven't got used to the
horseless carriage yet, and they shy as it
passes Almost invariably.
Tied to a stake along the roadside In the
country back of the encinal was a horse
which sprang up and sniffed as his
modern enemy appeared, and as the thing
of unseen power rolled by the horse
jumped with such force as to break his
rope, and then fled away supposedly filled
with all the terror that pursued Tarn
o' Saanter's Meg. No wonder the horse
gets maddened at this new invention. It
appears that it was not enough to crowd
him out of many of his old-accustomed
places with the bike and the tandem; but
the genius of man must even take the
shafts out of the carriages, and then whirl
over the land without the aid of any horse
at all.
A farmer and his wife drive up to a fence
on the roadside to let the machine go by.
They are both staring at it with eyes that
tell a tale of astonishment. Their mouths
are wide open. One might imagine that
farmer turning to his spouse and declar
ing, as the strange conveyance disap
peared in tne distance, "That's the darned
est concern I ever set eyes on, Jerushy. I'd
jest hke to got a squint at the ineides of it.
By gum, they're getting things down tine
as silk nowadays. Next thing some city
cuss'll come to visit our Sally in a flying
machine. Th*se are mighty fa9t days.
Things that were impossible when we was
young is jest child's-play now. I'm be
ginning to believe almost anything I hear.
Gosh ! how that infernal wagon does get
over the ground ! Jerushy, if we had one
of them businesses we'd stock it with grub
and go deuce knows where with it, jest to
show off. It's great!"
Twenty miles an hour on a good, smooth
road is a very rapid rate of speed. A
norse may make a spurt for a moment that
will pat the horseless carriage in the rear;
but the monster of electric power is tire
less, and the horse soon succumbs to ex
haustion. With the electric carriage you
may ride all day and all night, and it is
destined to be a most valuable thing in an
emergency that requires quick travel over
a long distance and where trains are not
available.
Hiding along the beautiful wide avenues
THE SAN FRANCISCO CALL, SUNDAY, MAY 31, 1896.
Mappin by J. J. Shannon. Shannon and
Sargent are the portrait painters of Lon
don. Shannon paints more frequently
the dukes and duchesses. Sargent while
A RIDE IN CHARLEY FAIR'S HORSELESS CARRIAGE.
of Alameda, the children are attracted by
the horseless carriage. They run alongside
of it, and a couple of barefoot boys strive
to keep up with the big vehicle for a few
yards. Some of the boys make bold to
hang on behind, but the strong odor of
gasoline cures them of such a notion. The
little fellows laugh and shout as the odd
contrivance rushes away from them. Near
tbe beach a halt is made and an immense
crowd gathers in short order. Tbe ques
tions with reference to the various parts of
the horseless carriage come pouring in
from all directions. One almost regrets
that he hasn't a bushel or two of pamph
lets explanatory of everything for free dis
tribution among the crowd. We toot a
warning signal and escape from the
thoroughly interested but too inquisitive
throng.
Along the beach the horseless carriage
is a drawing card. The rosy-cheeked,
ruby-lipped, blue-eyed and golden-haired
summer girl is there, and she waves her
dainty lace parasol at the vehicle, whose
occupants are getting, the full benefit of
the fresh breezes on the wing as it were.
The summer-girl would like nothing bet
ter than such a ride on a warm Junetime
day. The bathers in the water turn and
gaze at the horseless carriage. It is such
a curious affair to them that most of them
laugh outright at first and then sober down
to serious consideration. Undoubtedly, if
all the comments that are made in regard
to that carriage could be gathered and
printed, they would make an amusing
column. • •' ' . •
From the houses on the way people,
young and old, run out and look after the
horseless carriage. The occupants feel
that they are envied the luxury of suck •
not above painting the aristocracy prefers '
the singers, the writers, tbe actors and
actresses, tbe remarkable people of tbe -
century. No two men could see a model i
ride. It is a luxury, too. The traveling is
so smooth, the carriage is so comfortable,
the speed so brisk, the task of guiding so
simple and easy, that a ride in a horseless
carriace of the type owned by Charley
Fair is delightful. There is practically no
danger at all, and, despite the fact that
this carriage has been operated on crowded
streets, it has never been mixed up in any
kind of an accident. An afternoon's ride
in a horseless carriage makes a person feel
a longing to be the possessor of one. But
as soon as the counties of California get
together on the all-important subject of
good roads, and as soon as our highways
are as well graded and paved as they
should be, just so soon shall we behold a
multitude of horselelss carriages in the
West. Then the stab e-keeoers will invest
In them and the bicycle will have a stron'r
holiday rival in these pleasant vehicles, of
which at present there is only a sample or
forerunner in the Golden State.
RUNNING TO SEED
" 'Lizabeth," said Farmer Cornroe of "Var
mount," laying aside his weekly paper, "is
there any more flyleaves in the Bible?"
"Yes."
"An' is all that pokeberry ink gone?"
"Not quite."
"Got 'er goose quill 'bont the house?"
"I think so; what are you goin' ter do?"
"Goin' to write to New York for a peck o*
that'new kind o' Mardi Gras seed that the pa
pers ia talkln' so much ertxrat; want ter try it
in the lower bottom field for early pasture."
THE OLDEST INHASITANT
"Is thU hot enough for you?" asked Satan.
'•Purty warm," admitted the newly arrived
oldest inhabitant, '-but I remember som« fifty
years ago, when it was so durn hot that-— 1 '
The attendant imps, at signal, seized him
with greater difference — their point of
view is as far apart as that of Franz Hals
and Van Dyck.
Shannon has proceeded along the beaten
and shoved him down seven stories nearer the
bottom which isn't there.— lndianapolis Jour
nal.
NOW LET HER GO
Steadily the water gained on the pumps. It
was now six feet deep in the hold. The ship
was sinking.
Preparations were made to abandon the
doomed vessel and take to the boats.
With a linn hand the captain wrote a brief
account of the disaster, giving his reckoning
of the latitude ami longitude and the direction
in which he expected to navigate the boats.
Then he called for a bottle.
It was brought.
He removed the cork, rolled up the man
uscript, and was about to insert it when one of
tbe passengers, a tall Missouri colonel, hastily
■poke up.
"Captain," he said, pale, but with the ring
of iron resolution in his voice, "I see they's a
few draps left in that flask. Hand it here and
I'll empty it. • • • Thanks. Now let 'er
go."
HIS FATHER`S FAULT
Willie (studying his lessons}— Bay, pa, where
does the Hudson rise?
Pa (hesitatingly)— l don't know exactly.
Willie— You don't! Just think of it—to-mor
row the teacher'll scold me like biases on
account of your ignorance.— Truth.
SO SHE COULD FLY
"Grandma, when I am an angel will I have
wings?""
"I hope so, dear. Why do you as*?"
"'Cause I think I'd rather have a bicycle."—
Life.
IS THIS TRUE?
Little boy— The preacher says lucre is no
marrying in heaven.
Little girl— Of course not. There wouldn't
be enough men to go 'round.— La Crosse
Argus.
Some ©f the
English Color Masters.
track, soberly, conscientiously, with a |
delicate and very often a delicious sense of
character and color. " There is not a care
less touch in his reserved and dignified
portraits. How beautifully the old hands
of Lady Mappin are suggested under her
old-fashioned mits; the fur coat hanging
over tbe edge of the chair is a picture in
itself. If the head separates from the fig
ure and occupies a different position in
regard to the background it is because he
has lingered too long upon it, sacrificed
too much to it— this fine, grave, old face,
with a touch of weariness upon the heavy
. lidded eyes and a touch of the appeal of
mournful experience upon the soft, old
| moutn.
With Mr. Sargent the technique is the
first thing to be considered by the student,
the last apparently to occupy the painter
: himself. He is a pitiless reader of charac- j
j ter — the momentary confession of a quick
gesture, a furtive look, a significant smile
he seizes upon, and holds for all time as
the smile, the look, the characteristic ges
ture. It is aimost demoralizing to come
suddenly in the north room upon nis por
trait of Countess Plary Aldingen. If "the
lady herself were to walk into the gallery,
full of self-constituted critics in tailor
made gowns and "smart" hats, in her
white satin gown, with her bare neck and
•arms, the effect could hardly be more
startling. The lady has risen abruptly
from a sofa of rose satin, the folds of her
dress still clinging to it, her fan is
crushed in one hand, the other is almost
to be extended in a greeting — a
marvelous, thin hand, as characteristic as
the head. She is tall, slender to thinness ;
her uplifted head is thin, too, and as
frankly ugly as it is alive with animation,
amusement and intelligence. Her eyes
are bright and hard, her lips open in a
curious, slightly scornful smile. The new
comer may certainly expect a not entirely !
amiable witticism. Llewellyn's large por
trait of Mrs. Cosmo Beran, which balances
the Sargent on either side of a large,
decorative picture, suffers all things by the J
j contrast. The woman is a lay figure, the !
j painting is of the watery sweet order, the j
pose is absolutely conventional — a woman i
in white satin also, holding back a por
tiere. Between these two portraits is a
whirl of color, "The Garden of Dances,"
by Herbert Olivier. In the confusion of !
figures the one of Folly, throwing back a
head like a Greek faun, is delightfully gay
and graceful.
The large allegorical and the illustrative
picture, once sacred to the academy, has
evidently taken root in the new gallery
and blooms profusely as any weed — and
always with an explanatory line of prose
or poetry.
So there is "Tbe Theft of the Princess'
Swan Skin" by Colliers Smithers.
I (The land east of the sun and west of the moon.)
Burne Jones' dream of Launcelot at the
Chapel of the San Grael.
(Right so he heard a voice, etc.)
"The Game of Life and Death" is by
Philip Burne Jones, son of the great Sir
Edward, and he has taken a number of
lines:
Her lips were red, her looks were fre«—
The Dlchtmare Life in Death was she.
And the painter has not limited his rep
resentation of a "Nightmare Life in
Death"' to this picture. The landscape
men are not remarkable this year, with
the exception of George Wetherbee,
whose beautiful rich and delicate imagina
tion makes a poem of every blade of grass.
At Burlington House it is almost impossi
. ■'.: The ' Mai- Who
He was a doctor who knew a vast deal
about his profession, because he was
always studying, but at Cucugnano, where
be had been established for two years, no
one bad any faith in him- The reason was
not far to find. Meeting him always with
a book in his hand, the people of Cucug
nano said :
"This doctor knows absolutely nothing;
he reads, and reads without stopping. If
he has to study so much he must be badly
in need of learning, and if he has no learn
ing he is an ignorant fellow." And so it
came about that they had no faith in him.
A doctor without patients is like a lamp
without oil. All the same, he had to find
some way of eking out an existence, for
during his two years at Cucugnano the poor
wretch had not made enough to pay for
the water he drank. Things could not go
on in this way any longer. He had to
think of some way of ending it.
One day the news was spread through
Cucugnano that the doctor's science was
so great and potent and sublime that he
could not only cure a sick person, which
was quite an ordinary thing to do, but
that he could also bring to life the dead,
which was a miracle. Yes, he could bring
to life a man who had been buried, make
him rise out of the earth in open daylight
in the middle of the cemetery, coram
popolo.
There were very few people who lent any
credence to this report. The incredulous
said: "We must put him to the proof, see
him at work ; by their works ye shall know
them. But it is possible that he may suc
ceed, he has read so much, and they are
making new discoveries every day."
At last it was agreed that tbe next Sun
day, just as noon had struck, the doctor
in the middle of the cemetery of Cucag
nano, should raise a dead man — two, three,
some people said as many as nine or ten.
Thus it came to pass that the next Sunday
at noon tbe cemetery was as crowded as
the church on Easter day. As the second
stroke of the hour sounded the doctor ar
rived, faithful to bis promise, and he had
to use his elbows to force a passage through
the crowd. The people saluted him,
mocked at him and laughed in his face.
"Friends." said he, "I have promised to
raise up a dead man, and I will keep my
word. Keep Silence and listen, It will
cost me nothing to give you back Giaconio
or Giovanni, Nannina or Betta, Amedeo
or Simon. Would you like me to raise
Simon — ah, what was his name — Simon
Capannaro — he died of pleurisy hardly a
year ago?"
"Excuse me, doctor," said Catherine,
the widow of poor Simon. "He was a
good man and mado me very happy. I
almost cried my eyes out for him; but
you won't raise him no, because, you see,
toward tbe end of the mouth, to please
my relations, I am going to marry Pas
qualone, and the banns have already been
published."
"You did well to tell me, Catherine,"
said the doctor. "Then we will bring
back Nina Carota, who was buried last
Candlemass."
"For pity's sake, doctor!" cried Gia
como Carota. "Nina was my wife. We
lived together ten years — ten years of pur
gatory, as all Cucugnano knows. Let us
ble to see the pictures. On the 4th of May
was the official opening and the crowds
move in masses through the ereat door
ways. On Monday evening the great din
ner at Greenwich for the new and old
members of the academy was held, a din
ner saddened by the recent death of the
president, Sir Frederick Leighton. The
last canvas to be completed by the former
president of the society is exhibited for
the first time. The "Clytie" is drawn
with the ease and dignity of the master —
the classic period dies hard, but at least it
has always had one recommendation to
the sincere lovers of art— its careful draw
ing and the lacK of any of that delightful
license that makes impressionism, so
called, an excuse for so much bad painting
and drawing.
In the academy the moderns have an
ample field for all forma of eccentricity ;
the ancients for all forms of classicism;
and if we must have bad let us have the
bad art that is frankly bad, not a mysteri
ous darkness on a salad of every color in
the rainbow.
Bituminous art has also developed in
proportions which are becoming really
alarming. I have seen, or rather I have
endeavored to distinguish, asphalt lovers
embracing under a cart-grease wall. These
phantasmagorias in the "note noire" will
very shortly, unless something is done,
suppress the solar system. White upon
white is extremely hard to paint, but
black upon black— nothing is easier.
These are fantastic ideas, devoid of sin
cerity ; where there is no sincerity there is
no painting. Modern art is unquestion
ably menaced by serious dangers. Im
pressionists have been told that they were
feeling their way. It must be admitted
that they have not yet foaud it. In fact,
if the plunging of figures in a fog more
or less dense is true .-irt then the art of
Rubens, of Rembrandt, of Theodore
Rousseau, of Corot, is false art.
As a whole the exhibition at the acad
emy is a shade better than it has been for
some years. The academy picture, the
classic and time-worn allegory, the por
trait against a stormy and impossible
background, ail these are still the charac
teristic wall decorations, but George Weth
erbee has four or five delicate landscapes,
Alfred Parsons two or three ratner too
sweet but beautifully painted, Walter Os
borne three or four exquisite portraits,
one of a woman in gray against gray, with
a violet sash and violet eyes.
Sarpent has four portraits. One of Jos
eph Chamberlain, the Home Secretary, is
only to be seen under the elbows or be
tween the heads of tbe people who sur
round it; one of Mrs. Lan Hamilton,
which is unusually charitably handled —
the woman is sweet and has a winning
and unaffected smile.' The slender figure
is hidden under folds of chiffon so lightly
painted it seems impossible to believe the
same hand can have managed the broad
sweep of the satin folds. The other
portraits are not distinguished.
Frederic Yates, a one-time San Fran
ciscan, has two portraits, of which one —
the Daughter of Sir Joseph Spearman,
Bart.— is by far the more charming. Mr.
Yates has a very happy touch in painting
children. Nothing could be more delicate
than the childish gown, the big white col
lar, the flowers in the little hands, all in a
luminous shadow.
The portrait of Frederic Harrison, by
W. W. Vuless, is a powerful piece of paint
ing, interesting from every standpoint,
that of the painter and that of the student
of character. Van Dyck Beown.
remain as we are, both for the peace o!«
her soul and for that of mine. I could
say a good deal more, but — "
"Very well, I see that it would be a
martyrdom for you to have two wives.
But whom shall I raise up then, good peo
ple, for I have eot to give you back some
or . Ah! there's old man Pietro."
"Pietro di Massovecchio V" said Felice
Buonpugno.
"The same."
"Poor old father. Heaven will reward
you, doctor. He was certainly a good
man, but don't bring him back because it
would throw our affairs into such a tangle
that we should all fall to quarreling, and
that would breafc his heart for he always
liked to see us at peace. After a long law
suit we have divided up his property;
there are six of us, and though we are not
exactly in want, none of us are too well
off."
"Then you don't want him?"'
"Excuse me. You see, doctor, if you
brought him back we should all have to
give him a pension, and the crops have
been so bad this year you know that the
vines will bring in next to nothing and
the olives are mildewed."
"We will let old man Pietro sleep. But
whom do you want?"
"Ghita, wake my Ghita," exclaimed an
elderly woman, weeping lilce a Maddalena.
"No, doctor, don't bring her back,"
cried a young girl. "She did well to die.
She left me tbe dress she was to have
worn at her wedding, and the man who
loved her has fled with another."
"Poor, poor Ghita! I am beginning to
get tired. To put an end to this I will
wake up Gringaletto, who was choked
eating larks not a month aa;o."
"I won't have it, I won't," cried Louise
Gringaletto. raising her arms. "For ten
years I have supported him and he never
earned a cent. Npw I am beginning to
pay up our debts, and it would not be just,
doctor."
"How many excuses! Do you see that
little cross of wood there? It is the grave
of a poor baby, scarcely ten months old.
It would perhaps be a sin to raise it, but
if you say the word — "
"Doctor," said a poor woman, weeping,
"the little one is ours, alas! and I am the
grandmother. My daughter buried it, and
if you had seen how beautiful it was! But
heaven takes with one hand and gives
with the other. Now my daughter has
another. We could not take care of them
both, and we are not rich enough to put
one out to nurse."
Then the doctor exclaimed: "Enough
for to-day. Since you do not want m« to
work the miracle I will do It another time :
but I beg you to agree beforehand on the
person that you wish me to bring back."
And he went off.
From that memorable Sunday the doc
tor has wrought miracles at Cucugnano.
It is true that he has not raised the dead,
but he has saved the lives of the sick.
Tt»e people have faith in him : "Because,"
they say, "if he did not keep his promise
in the cemetery it was not his fault; to
tell the truth the fault was ours, Jor we
wished our dead to remain underground."
[Translated for The Call from the prove ncal
ol J. Boumwiille by mable Evelyn Lisikbj
27

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