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THOUGHT all the time of my mother and grandmother deprived of the help of my youth and strong arm. It gave me a pang to think of them left weak and failing at home, when I might have been the staff of their old age; but their hearts were too full of motherly love for them to allow me to give up my profession for their sakes. And then youth has not all the sensitiveness of riper years, and a demon within seemed to push me towards Paris I

was ambitious to see and learn all that a painter ought to know. My Cherbourg masters had not spoilt me in this respect during my apprenticeship. Paris seemed to me the center of knowledge, and a museum of all great works.

I started with my heart very full, and all that I saw on the road and in Paris itself made me still sadder. The wide straight roads, the long lines of trees, the flat plains, the rich grass-pastures filled with cattle, seemed to me more like stage decorations than actual nature. And then Paris-black, muddy, smoky Paris-made the most painful and discouraging impression upon me.

It was on a snowy Saturday evening in January that I arrived there. The light of the street lamps was almost extinguished by the fog. The immense crowd of horses and carriages crossing and pushing each other, the narrow streets, the air and smell of Paris seemed to choke my head and heart, and almost stifled me. I was seized with an uncontrollable fit of sobbing. I tried to get the better of my feelings, but they were too strong for me, and I could only stop my tears by bathing my face with water at a fountain in the street.

The sensation of freshness revived my courage. I stopped before a print-seller's window and looked at his pictures, while I munched my last Gruchy apple. The plates which I saw did not please me: there were groups of half-naked grisettes, women bathing and dressing, such as Devéria and Maurin then drew, and, in my eyes, seemed only fit for milliners' and perfumer's advertisements.

Paris appeared to me dismal and insipid.

I went to an hotel garni, where I spent my first night in one continual nightmare. I saw again my native village, and our house, looking very sad and lonely. I saw my grandmother, mother and sister, sitting there spinning, weeping, and thinking of me, and praying that I might escape from the perdition of Paris. Then the old demon appeared again, and showed me a vision of magnificent pictures so beautiful and dazzling that they seemed to glow with heavenly splendor, and finally melt away in a celestial cloud.

But my awakening was more earthly. My room was a dark and suffocating hole. I got up and rushed out into the air. The light had come back and with it my calmness and force of will.

-Millet's First Visit to Paris.

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LIFE without love in it is like a heap of ashes upon a deserted hearth —with the fire dead, the laughter stilled, and the light extinguished. It is like a winter landscape-with the sun hidden, the flowers frozen, and the wind whispering through the withered leaves s God knows we need all the unselfish love that can come to us. For love is seldom unselfish. There is usually the motive and the price. Do you remember William Morris, and how his life was lived, his fortune spent, his hands busied-in the service of others? He was the father of the settlement movement, of co-operative homes for working people, and of the arts and crafts revival, in our day. He was a "soldier of the common good." After he was gone his life began to grow in radiance and power, like a beacon set high upon a dangerous shore. In the twilight of his days he wrote what I like to think was his creed-and mine: "I'm going your way, so let us go hand in hand. You help me and I'll help you. We shall not be here very long, for soon death, the kind old nurse, will come back and rock us all to sleep. Let us help one another while we may."-Frank P. Tebbetts.

The men who try to do something and fail are infinitely better than those who try to do nothing and succeed.-Lloyd Jones.


voured them all: I studied them, analyzed them, and came back to them continually. The Primitives attracted me by their admirable expression of sweetness, holiness, and fervor s The great Italians fascinated me by their mastery and charm of composition. There were

Bowed by the weight of centuries he leans
Upon his hoe and gazes upon the ground,
The emptiness of ages in his face,
And on his back the burden of the world.
Who made him dead to rapture and despair,
Athing that grieves not and thatnever hopes,
Stolid and stunned, a brother to the ox?
Wholoosened and let down this brutal jaw?
Whose was the hand that slanted back
this brow?

URING the first days after my arrival in Paris my fixed idea was to find out the gallery of Old Masters I started early one morning with this intention, but as I did not dare ask my way, for fear of being laughed at, I wandered at random through the streets, hoping, I suppose, that the Musée would come to meet me! I lost myself several daysrunning in this fruitless search. During my wanderings one day I came across Notre Dame for the first time. It seemed to me less fine than the Cathedral of Coutances. I thought that the Luxembourg was a fine palace, but too regularly beautiful -the work, as it were, of a coquettish and mediocre builder

At length, I hardly know how, I found myself on the Pont Neuf, where a magnificent pile, which from the descriptions which had been given me, supposed must be the Louvre. Without delay I turned

Whose breath blew out the light within this brain?

Is this the thing the Lord God made and gave
To have dominion over sea and land;
To trace the stars and search the heavens
for power;

To feel the passion of Eternity?

Is this the dream He dreamed who shaped the suns

And marked their ways upon the ancient deep?

Down all the stretch of Hell to its last gulf There is no shape more terrible than thisMore tongued with censure of the world's blind greed

moments when the arrows of St. Sebastian seemed to pierce me, as I looked at the martyr of Mantegna.

The masters of that age have an incomparable power. They make you feel in turn the joys and the pains which thrill their souls. But when I saw that drawing of Michelangelo's representing a man in a swoon, I felt that was a different thing. The expression of the relaxed muscles, the planes and the modeling of that form exhausted by physical suffering gave me a whole series of impressions. I felt as if tormented by the same pains. I had compassion upon him. I suffered in his body with his limbs I saw that the man who had done this was able, in a single figure, to represent all the good and evil of humanity. It was Michelangelo! That explains all. I had already seen some bad engravings of his work at Cherbourg; but here I touched the heart and heard the voice of him who has haunted me with such power during my whole life.

More filled with signs and portents for the soul

More fraught with menace to the universe.

What gulfs between him and the seraphim Slave of the wheel of labor, what to him Are Plato and the swing of Pleiades?

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my steps there and climbed the great staircase with a beating heart and the hurried steps of a man who feels that the one great wish of his life is about to be fulfilled

My hopes were not disappointed. I seemed to find myself in a world of friends, in the midst of my own kinsfolk. My dreams were at length realized. For the next month the Old Masters were my only occupation in the daytime. I de

-Millet's First Visit to the Louvre.

Adversity has no friends.-Tacitus.

ILLET at that time wore a curious garb. A brown overcoat, in color like a stone wall, a thick beard and long locks, covered with a woolen cape like that of a coachman, gave him a singular appearances The first time that I saw him he reminded me of the painters of the Middle Ages. His reception was cordial, but almost silent He took me for a philosopher, a philanthropist, or a politiciannone of whom he cared much to see. But I talked of art

freely with me, and his remarks on art were as manly as they were generous and large-hearted so so

What the long reaches of the peaks of song,
The rift of dawn, the reddening of the rose?
Through this dread shape the suffering
ages look:

"Every subject is good," he said. "All we have to do is to render it with force and clearness. In art we should have one leading thought, and see that we express it in eloquent language, also that we keep it alive in ourselves, and impart it to others as clearly as we stamp a medal se Art is not a pleasure-trip; it is a battle, a mill that grinds I am no not pretend to do philosopher. I do away with pain, or

Time's tragedy is in that aching stoop;
Through this dread shape humanity

Plundered, profaned and disinherited,
Cries protest to the Judges of the World,
A protest that is also prophecy.

O masters, lords and rulers in all lands, to him, and seeing Is this the handiwork you give to God,

his Daphnis and Chloe hanging on the wall, I told him what I thought of it se de

He looked hard at me, but still with a kind of shyness, and only said a few words in a reply.

Then I caught sight of a sketch of

a sower.

"That would be a fine thing," I remarked,

"if you had had a country model." Jer "Then do you not belong to Paris?" he asked.

"Yes," I replied,

This monstrous thing distorted and soul-

How will you ever straighten up this shape;
Touch it again with immortality;

Give back the upward looking and the light;
Rebuild in it the music and the dream;
Make right the immemorial infamies,
Perfidious wrongs, immedicable woes?

O masters, lords and rulers in all lands,
How will the Future reckon with this Man?
How answer his brute question in that hour
When whirlwinds of rebellion shake the

How will it be with kingdoms and with

With those who shaped him to the thing he is

to find a formula which will make me a Stoic, and indifferent to evil. Suffering is, perhaps, the one thing that gives an artist power to express himself clearly."

He spoke in this manner for some time and then stopped, as if afraid of his own words But we parted, feeling that we understood each other, and had laid the foundations of a lasting friendship."-"Millet Meets His Future Biographer."-Alfred Sensier.

When this dumb Terror shall reply to God,
After the silence of the centuries?

"The Man With the Hoe," by Edwin Markham

"but I was brought up in the country." ¶ "Ah! that is a different story," he said in his Norman patois; we must have a little talk."

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OSEPHINE was dead. The fall of the Emperor, her hero, her Cid, had bewildered and unnerved her se Frightened at the din of war that shook the whole realm, she had lived in terror at Malmaison. The allied kings paid her every attention, and in showing the King of Prussia over her lovely grounds when she was ill, broken out with an eruption, she had, it is said, brought on a fatal relapse. Murmuring the words "Elba "-"Bonaparte" she died, while her hero was yet in exile.


It is a revelation of his true character that before setting out on his last campaign he should claim one day out of the few fate gave him, and devote it to memories, to regrets, to recollections of the frail, but tender-hearted woman who had warmed to him when all the world was growing cold. He went to Malmaison, almost alone, and, with Hortense, walked over the grounds, seeing the old familiar places, and thinking of the "old familiar faces." lingered in the garden he himself had made, and in which he used to love to work when he was First Consul, surrounded by trees and flowers, and inhaling the breath of nature. He used to say that he could work better there than anywhere else. He wandered through the park, looking out on the trees he had planted in those brilliant days long ago. Every spot had its silent reminder of glories that were gone, of friends he would see no more.

He asked to be told everything about Josephine her last days, her sickness, her dying hours; no details were too trivial to escape him. And as they told the story he would break in with exclamations of interest, of fondness, of sorrow. On this visit to the chateau he wanted to see everything that could remind him of her, and of their old life together -the death-chamber at the last. Here he would have no companion s My daughter, let me go in here alone! and he put Hortense back, entered, and closed the door. He remained a long

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while, and when he came out his eyes showed that he had been weeping.

-Thomas E. Watson.

SOCIETIES exist under three forms

sufficiently distinguishable. 1. Without government, as among our Indians. 2. Under governments wherein the will of every one has a just influence, as is the case in England in a slight degree, and in our states, in a great one. 3. Under governments of force: as is the case in all other monarchies and in most of the other republics. To have an idea of the curse of existence under these last, they must be seen. It is a government of wolves over sheep. It is a problem, not clear in my mind, that the first condition is not the best. But I believe it to be inconsistent with any great degree of population. The second state has a great deal of good in it. The mass of mankind under that enjoys a precious degree of liberty and happiness. It has its evils too: the principal of which is the turbulence to which it is subject. But weigh this against the oppressions of monarchy, and it becomes nothing. I prefer dangerous liberty rather than quiet servitude. Even this evil is productive of goods It prevents the degeneracy of government, and nourishes a general attention to the public affairs. I hold it that a little rebellion now and then is a good thing, and as necessary in the political world as storms in the physical. Unsuccessful rebellions indeed generally establish the encroachments on the rights of the people which have produced them. An observation of this truth should render honest republican governors so mild in their punishment of rebellions, as not to discourage them too much. It is a medicine necessary for the sound health of government.

-Thomas Jefferson.

Economizing for the purpose of being independent is one of the soundest indications of manly character.

Samuel Smiles.

The true work of art is but a shadow of the divine perfection.-Michelangelo.

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ENERAL:-I have placed you at the head of the Army of the Potomac. Of course, I have done this upon what appear to me to be sufficient reasons, and yet I think it best for you to know that there are some things in regard to which I am not quite satisfied with you. I believe you to be a brave and skilful soldier, which of course I like. I also believe you do not mix politics with your profession, in which you are right. You have confidence in yourself, which is a valuable if not an indispensable quality. You are ambitious, which, within reasonable bounds, does good rather than harm; but I think that during General Burnside's command of the army you have taken counsel of your ambition and thwarted him as much as you could, in which you did a great wrong to the country and to a most meritorious and honorable brother officer Ꮽ Ꮽe

I have heard, in such a way as to believe it, of your recently saying that both the army and the government needed a dictator.

Of course it was not for this, but in spite of it, that I have given you the command. Only those generals who gain successes can set up dictators.

What I now ask of you is military success, and I will risk the dictatorship

The government will support you to the utmost of its ability, which is neither more nor less than it has done and will do for all commanders.

I much fear that the spirit which you have aided to infuse into the army, of criticizing their commander and withholding confidence from him, will now turn upon you. I shall assist you as far as I can to put it down.

Neither you nor Napoleon, if he were alive again, could get any good out of an army while such a spirit prevails in it; and now beware of rashness.

Beware of rashness, but with energy and sleepless vigilance go forward and give us victories. Yours very truly, Abraham Lincoln.-(Letter to General J. Hooker, January 26, 1863.)


SERVED with General Washington in the Legislature of Virginia, before the Revolution, and, during it, with Doctor Franklin in Congress s☛ I never heard either of them speak ten minutes at a time, nor to any but the main point, which was to decide the question ☛☛

They laid their shoulders to the great points, knowing that the little ones would follow of themselves. If the present Congress errs in too much talking, how can it be otherwise, in a body to which the people send one hundred and fifty lawyers, whose trade it is to question everything, yield nothing, and talk by the hour? That one hundred and fifty lawyers should do business together ought not to be expected.

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-Thomas Jefferson.

EEP your minds so filled with Truth and Love that sin, disease, and death can not enter them. It is plain that nothing can be added to the mind already full. There is no door through which evil can enter, and no space for evil to fill in a mind filled with goodness. Good thoughts are an impervious armor; clad therewith you are completely shielded from the attacks of error of every sort.

And not only yourselves are safe, but all whom your thoughts rest upon are thereby benefited.

The self-seeking pride of the evil thinker injures him when he would harm others. Goodness involuntarily resists evil. The evil thinker is the proud talker and doer. The right thinker abides under the shadow of the Almighty. His thoughts can only reflect peace, good will towards men, health, and holiness.

-Mary Baker Eddy.

CHILDREN are much nearer the

inner truth of things than we are, for when their instincts are not perverted by the superfine wisdom of their elders, they give themselves up to a full, vigorous activity. Theirs is the kingdom of heaven.-Friedrich Froebel.

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