Puslapio vaizdai

secure the living bait from being drawn out of the trap by the | bearing the highest value. These organs are appropriated to tiger's claws, it is protected by an inner cage, to which the animal cannot gain access without dropping the door against his egress. This plan, however, is not very generally followed, as it possesses hardly sufficient elements of success.

the medical art, and after being chopped into little dicelike cubes, are prepared after some Esculapian and mysterious fashion, and thenceforward hold rank as remedies of the first order. Another, though less gallant, mode of killing tigers is by sect ting certain enormous nets, supported on stakes, so as to form an inclosure, into which the animal is partly eaticed and partly

A more productive plan-productive, because the reward for killing a tiger, together with the sum for which the skin, claws and teeth sell, is sufficient to keep a native for nearly a twelve-driven. month-is, by digging a hole in the ground near a tiger's haunt, putting a goat in the hole, and tethering it to a stake which is firmly driven into the centre of the little pit. A stone is then tied in one of the goat's ears, which cruel contrivance causes the poor animal to cry piteously, and so to call the attention of the tiger. On hearing the goat cry, the tiger comes stealthily to the spot, and tries to hook up the goat with his paw. Not succeeding, on account of the depth of the pit, he walks round and round, trying every now and then to secure the terrified goat, and thus exposing himself fairly to the hunters, who quietly perched on a neighboring tree, and taking a deliberate aim with their heavy firelocks, lay him dead on the spot of his intended depredation.

A somewhat similar but more venturous mode of proceeding is that which is adopted by Shikarries, as these native hunters are called.

When a tiger has carried off a bullock or some such valuable animal, the shikarrie proceed to the spot, and after waiting sufficient time for the robber to gorge himself and become drowsy, he sets off in search of the murdered bullock; a dangerous task, but one which is much lightened by the indications afforded by vultures, jackals and other carrion-loving creatures, which never fail to assemble round a dead animal, of whatever race it may be.

Having found the half-eaten carcase and ascertained that the tiger is fast asleep, the hunter calls together as many assistants as possible, and with their aid rapidly builds a bamboo scaffold some twenty feet high and four feet wide, which is planted close to the spot where the dead and mangled bullock lies. On the summit of the scaffold the shikarrie mounts; his gun and ammunition are handed up to him by his companions, his sharp “tulwar,” or sword, is hung ready to his grasp, and after offering their best wishes for success, the assistants take their leave, each putting in a claim for some part of the spoils. The claws are the most coveted portion of the animal, for the natives construct from two of these weapons a charm, which, on the homœopathic principle, is supposed to render the wearer invulnerable to attacks from similar weapons.

After a while, the tiger wakes from the drowsy lethargy which was caused by repletion, and after shaking himself and uttering a few yawns, which draw the attention of the watchful hunter, proceeds to his temporary station for the purpose of making another meal on the remains of the slaughtered animal. The shikarrie takes advantage of the opportunity, and resting his gun on the platform, takes a deliberate aim and lodges a bullet-often an iron one-in the body of the tiger. Generally the aim is so true that the tiger falls dead, but it sometimes happens that the wound, although a mortal one, is not instantaneously fatal, and the animal springs furiously upon the foe who dealt the blow. The tiger is no climber, but rage will often supply temporary ability; and so fiercely does the animal launch itself against the scaffolding, that if made of a softer material, permitting the hold of the tiger's claws, the creature might reach the hunter; or that if not firmly planted, the whole edifice would be brought to the ground. But the smooth, hard surface of the bamboo affords little hold for the sharp talons; and, even if the animal should succeed in approaching the platform where the hunter sits, a blow from the razor-edged tulwar strikes off a paw and the tiger falls helplessly to earth, only to meet its fate by a second bullet from the deadly firelock.

Attracted by the report of the hunter's gun, the neighbors flock to the spot, each man armed according to his ability; and if the beast is killed outright, join in a chorus of laudation towards the successful hunter, and of anger towards his victim, which may now be insulted with perfect impunity. Besides the ordinary trophies, which consist of the skin, claws, teeth and the ordinary reminiscences of success, other portions of the tiger are eagerly sought by the natives, the tongue and liver

The height of the stakes to which the nets are suspended is about thirteen feet; so that, allowing for the droop at the upper portion of the toils, the nets are about eleven feet in height at their lowest point. It is, however, rather a stupid, and withal hazardous, mode of tiger hunting, and is not very often employed. It requires the aid of a very large body of men, and besides there is always a risk of inclosing some large animal, such as the buffalo or elephant, which rushes madly forward, and with the irresistible impetus of its huge body bears to the ground nets, stakes and sentinels, leaving a wide path free for the remainder of the inclosed game to follow.

In order to induce the tiger to leave its lair and to enter the toils, all possible means are used. Fires are lighted, burning torches are waved, guns are fired, drums are beaten, and, lastly, fireworks are largely employed. The most effective kind of firework is one which is made on the rocket principle, the tube which holds the fiery composition being of iron, and the "tail," or shaft, of bamboo. The rocket is held in the hand like a spear, and the fuse lighted. When it begins to fling out its burning contents, and to pull against the hand of the thrower, it is launched by hand, as if it were a spear, in the direction of the concealed quarry. An extremely powerful impulse is given by the burning composition, and the missile rushes furiously onward, scattering on every side its burden of fiery sparkles, hissing and roaring with a terrible sound, and striking right and left with its long wooden tail.

No tiger can endure this fiery dragon which comes on with such fury, and accordingly the terrified animal dashes out of cover, and makes for the nearest place of concealment. But so artfully managed is the whole business that his only path of escape takes him among the nets, and, once there, his doom is certain. He cannot leap over the toils, because they are too high, nor break them down, because they are so arranged that they would only fall on him, and inclose him in their treacherous folds. Should he endeavor to climb over the rope fence, he exposes himself as a target for bullets and arrows innumerable; and, if he yields the point, and tries to conceal himself as best he may, he only delays his fate for a time, falling a victim to the watchful enemies who start him from his last fortress, and, from the safe eminence of an elephant's back, or the branches of a tree, pour their leaden hail on the devoted victim.

This mode of hunting, as well as the more legitimate custom of following the tiger into the jungle, while mounted on elephants, requires the aid of many men, elephants and horses, and cannot be undertaken every day.

There is, however, another method of killing this terrible beast, which, when employed by hunters who understand each other's plans, and can place the fullest reliance on their mutual courage and tact, is more destructive to the fierce quarry than even the netting system, with its mob of beasts and men.

Two, or at the most three, hunters set out on their campaign, accompanied by their chosen "beaters" and other servants, and start with the determination of bearding the tiger in his den, unaided by horse or elephant. It is a bold plan, yet, like many bold plans, succeeds through its very audacity.

The object of the beaters is by no means to give assistance when a tiger is started, because they always run away as soon as the brute shows itself; but to make so astounding a noise that the tiger cannot remain in the vicinity. When they reach a likely, or as it is termed, a tigerish" spot, they shout, they yell, they fire pistols, they rattle stones in metal pans, they beat drums, they ring bells, they blow horns, and, by their united endeavors, produce such horrible discord, that not even a tiger dare face such a mass of men and noise. This precaution is absolutely necessary, for the tiger loves to hide itself in as close a covert as it can find, and, unless driven from its place of refuge by such frightful sounds as have been mentioned, would lie closely crouched upon the ground, and either

permit the hunters to pass by, or leap on them with a sudden | tion, to keep watch over the country, and detect the tiger if it spring, and so obtain a preliminary revenge of its own death.

attempt to steal quietly away.



There is a certain bushy shrub, called the korinda, which is specially affected by the tigers on account of the admirable cover which its branches afford. does not grow to any great height, but its branches are thickly leaved, and droop over in such a manner that they form a dark arch of foliage, under which the animal may creep, and so lie hidden from prying eyes, and guarded from the unwelcome light and heat of the noonday sun. So fond are the tigers of this mode of concealment that the hunters always direct their steps to the korinda bush, knowing well that if a tiger should be in the neighborhood, it would be tolerably certain to be lying under the sombre shade of the korinda branches.

As it is necessary that pedestrian hunters should cn a pinch be able to conceal themselves from the sharp eyes of the tiger, the color of their dress is a matter of some importance. Experience shows that there is no tint so admirably suited for the purpose as that warm reddish-brown which is assumed by dried leaves. Clothed in this dress, the hunter can so easily amalgamate his person with the surrounding objects, that not even the tiger's eyes can distinguish his form. A hunter has actually thus lain on a piece of rock while a tiger prowled along within fifteen feet of the unsuspected foe, and passed on without detecting his presence. Even when a tiger does see a human being thus attired, it becomes suspicious, and, not knowing what to make of the strange object, moves slowly away from the cause of alarm. This costume is especially useful among rocky ground, with which it assimilates most perfectly.

If a tiger be fairly traced to its ordinary lair, the sportsmen prefer to lie in wait at some convenient point, and either to await the voluntary egress of the quarry, or to send in the beaters, and cause the animal to be driven out in the proper direction. When this mode is adopted, it is found best to have, besides those which are held in hand, a whole battery of guns, eight or ten in number, which are laid on the ground, ready loaded and cocked, their muzzles all pointing towards the spot where the tiger is expected to make its appearance. The object of this expedient is twofold; firstly, to make sure of the animal in case the first shots fail to tell mortally; and, secondly, to be in readiness should a second or even a third tiger be driven from the bush. It is so usual an occurrence for two tigers to make their sudden appearance where only one was expected to lie, that the precaution is an absolutely necessary one.

Contrary to the habits of most animals, which take the utmost care of their young, and in their defence will expose themselves to the direst peril, the mother tiger is in the habit of making her young family her pioneers, and, when she suspects anything wrong, of sending them forward to clear the way. Knowing this curious propensity; the experienced hunter will not fire upon a cub that shows itself, for the mother will, in most cases, be waiting to see the result of her child's venture. Therefore, they permit the cub or cubs to pass with impunity, and reserve their ammunition for the benefit of the mother as she follows her offspring.


Should the tiger not fall to the shot, but bound away, the hunters know whether the wound is a mortal one by inspecting the marks made in the ground by the feet of the retreating animal. It is a curious fact, that however hard a tiger may be hit, yet, if the wound be not a rapidly mortal one, the claws are kept retracted, and the footprints show no mark of the talons. But should the injury be one which will shortly cause death, the tiger flings out its limbs A few bold and active beaters are sent for ward as scouts, | with the paws spread to their utmost, and at every leap tears whose business is to climb trees, and, from that elevated posi- up the ground with the protruded talons.

A tiger has many weak points where a bullet does its work with great rapidity. The brain and heart are of course instantaneously mortal spots, and the lungs come next in order. The liver is a very dangerous organ to touch, and a tiger, when there struck, rarely lives for more than fifteen or twenty minutes..



This once magnificent Abbey was founded by Stephen of England in 1127, eight years before he became king of England. Its style is a mixture of Norman and Gothic. It is situated near Furness, a manorial liberty of England, in the county of Lancaster. A modern poet thus records the feelings of every reflective mind on beholding one of those giant evidences of feudal and eccle

Perhaps of all animals the tiger is one of the easiest to kill, although the wound may not be an instantaneous cause of death. Whether the cause may lie in the habits or diet of the creature is not certain; but true it is, that a wound inflicted on a tiger very soon assumes an angry appearance, becomes taint-siastical power: ed, and affords a resting-place for the pestilent blow-flies, which take such a hold of the poor beast, that even a slightly wounded tiger has been known to die, not from the immediate effects of the injury, but from the devouring maggots which swarmed in and about the wound.

In tracking the wounded tiger, the blood-spots that are flung from the agitated animal are of vast service. They are easily distinguishable, .even though they dry instantaneously on touching the ground. As it dries, each blood-patch is surrounded by innumerable tiny ants, which seem to crowd to the spot as if they had been created for that sole purpose, and from their numbers make the gory traces more apparent. But these bloody tracks are by no means a necessary consequence of wounding a tiger, which very often receives a deadly hurt, and yet spills no single drop of blood.

The cause of this strange fact is the loose manner in which the skin lies over the body. It may therefore happen that, when the tiger is in energetic movement, a portion of the skin which, when the animal is at rest, would be over the shoulderblades, is shifted to quite another spot. If at that moment a bullet passes into the body of the creature, and checks its active movement, the skin slips back again to its usual position, so that the hole in the skin and that in the body no longer coincide; thus preventing the external outflow of blood.

When the tiger is killed, it is necessary to guard it in some way from the direct beams of the sun, or even from actual contact with objects which have been heated by its burning rays. Should the creature fall on a tolerably cool spot, all that is nenessary is to cover it with bushy branches, grass and other foliage; but if the locality should be a hot one, as is generally the case, further precautions must be taken, by dragging the dead animal under the shelter of some shady tree or bushes. The reason for this cautious proceeding is, that the tiger's flesh rapidly yields to putrefaction, and thus loosens the hair from the skin. So, however fatigued the hunter may be after he has succeeded in killing his prey, he dares not give way to repose until he has taken all the necessary precautions. Even ten or fifteen minutes under a hot sun is sufficient to bring off the hair in large patches, leaving the hide in a state perfectly unfit for use. Should the animal lie on a hot rock, the result will

be the same.

After taking the skin from the dead tiger, which in itself is no easy task, the next business is to preserve it in such a manner that it will dry uniformly without contracting into unsightly folds, without putrefaction, and without suffering from the teeth of the swarming ants and other insects, which are the plague of all taxidermists in hot countries.

For the latter object sundry preparations are used, arsenical soap being that which is most generally known. It is, however, an exceedingly dangerous substance, requiring very great care in manipulation. A more harmless preparation is composed of a very strong solution of salt, alum and powdered "cutch," in which the hide is steeped before being dried. In order to insure regularity of drying, the skin is laid on the ground with the fur downward, and fastened to the earth by a great number of wooden pegs, which are driven through its edges, fringing its entire outline, inclusive of the head and limbs.

The hot sunbeams soon draw away the moisture, and in a few hours the skin is dried, and may be packed for carriage. The size and value of the skins vary exceedingly, the latter according to the current prices of the day, and the former according to the age and growth of the animal. As a general rule, the finest skins are eleven feet six inches in length.


I stood at midnight by a haunted stream,
Beside whose bank an ancient abbey, bare,
Stripped of its glories, like a leafless tree,
Slept in gray ruin through grim centuries,
In vast primeval silence, deep as Death,
Save when the bats flapt through the roofless aisles,
Or owls made ghastly hootings to the ghosts
Which glided thro' its gloom; or when the wind,
Roaming for ever with a hungry soul,
Sighed 'mong the spectral cloisters;

On this night

There was no breath 'neath heaven! all was still
And motionless, except the glittering stars
Which marched their silent rounds.


As one who broods
Over the buried Past, and brings the shapes
To Fancy's mystic vision from the grave
Once more before him, till the air is thronged
With sacred forms of those long laid at rest;
So, as I sat beneath the mouldering arch,

I saw the cowled monks with measured tread
Pace to their vespers-saw their grim array,
Standing in order 'neath the fretted roof-
Whose height was lost in darkness-heard them chaunt
Their miserere, while the vaulted dead
Seemed to give forth an echo, like a dirge
Charged with the sorrow of another world-
The swinging censer seemed again to breathe
Its solemn perfume, full of prayer and praise;
And then, amid this atmosphere of awe,
The passionate sob of some great crime well'd up
From the dark depths of a sin-burdened heart,
Which told a world of guilt.


Oh, ruined shrine !
Structured by hands long crumbled into dust,
Knelt at by thousands who like us have loved,
Laughed, sinned and wept, and then laid down and died.
What a mute sermon comes from thy decay!
More terrible in its silence now, than when
The rich robed priest thundered the wrath of God,
Till the mailed warrior shook with mortal dread,
And the despairing died.


What joy to look

From this to Nature-from the marvellous wreck
Of man's supernal skill, to where God's hand
Has written Life and Glory in the stars.
The pride of human might is but a dream!
The sculptor's triumph, chiselled though in stone,
Crumbles in sure decay-the picture wanes,
Till the last shred on which its image lived
Goes into dust with its dead artist's hand!
Bat Nature triumphs over Time and Death,
And flaunts her youth in every leaf and flower-
In every wave, and in the moaning wind.
The violets' blue 's as deep as when the eyes
Of Eve first saw it, and the stars as bright
As when they flashed upon her new-born sight,
In all their glory on her bridal night.

THE BACHELORS.-In a late work on suicide it is said that marriage is, to a certain extent, a prevention of suicide. It has been satisfactorily established that, among men, twothirds of those who destroy themselves are bachelors!


THIS eminent traitor, who has performed the Belial to Mr. Jefferson Davis's Lucifer in the great rebellion, is the son of Governor John Floyd, of Virginia, who distinguished himself in 1837 by his sympathy with nullification-a treason even then developed by the subject of our present sketch, who volunteered to resist the march of Federal troops sent by President Jackson to coerce the rebellious South Carolinians. The position of his father gave to young Floyd an excellent education, of which he availed himself more than young and wealthy Virginians generally do. In his twenty-fourth year he went to Arkansas and established himself as a planter. Recalled to his native State by the dangerous illness of his father, he left his brother, Dr. Floyd, to manage his plantation, and resolved to remain a dweller in the Old Dominion. It was about this time that he commenced the "study and practice" of politics, and on one occasion opposed the Hon. C. W. Rives, in a political debate with so much eloquence and effect, that his antagonist pronounced him one of the most promising young Virginians of the day. In 1844 Floyd supported Polk and the annexation of Texas. In 1848 he was chosen Governor, almost an hereditary distinction in his family, since it had been previously held by his grandfather and father. In 1850 he distinguished himself by the vehemence with which he opposed the celebrated Compromise Bill, and established the character of being an ultra States Rights man.

Having established his reputation as a thorough-going Democrat, and being distinguished for the amenity of his manner and ready knowledge, he was chosen by Mr. Buchanan as his Secretary of War, in which position he has damned himself to everlasting infamy as the foulest traitor that ever betrayed a sacred trust. But for his devilish ingenuity, the rebellion, had it even burst forth into a flame, must have been extinguished in a few weeks, perhaps days, but having depleted the National strongholds of their arms, by surreptitiously depositing them in the very spots where they could be rendered most available to the rebels, he at once improvised an army for the Southern Confederacy by destroying that of the nation, while our navy was either despatched to the uttermost ends of the earth, or else placed in such a position that it was burnt by an equivocal patriot to prevent it falling into the hards of the enemy. In person, Mr. Floyd is of medium height and well-formed, an intelligent face-clean shaven-with bright, lustrous, dark eyes; complexion swarthy. His conversation is very intelligent, and his manners are courteous and dignified. He belongs to a very influential family, being related to the Buchanans. Fremonts, Bentons and Breckinridges by intermarriage.

He is about fifty-three years old. At the breaking out of the rebellion he sunk into inaction, but in June last he assumed a command, and took the field in Western Virginia. He has been eminently unfortunate, having twice lost his camp equipage, and is now, after retreating before the victorious arms of General Rozencrans, obliged to retire into winter quarters, baffled and beaten in all his designs. He has been twice married.

are comparatively useless when the huge modern guns are turned against them.

When our troops took possession of Savannah river, they found, on the Atlantic end of Tybee Island, one of these towers with three stories; it was unoccupied and in a dilapidated condition; the walls were of concrete, and varied from nine to eleven feet in thickness. It was taken possession of by our troops, and is used to warehouse stores in. It is said to have been built by the Spaniards before General Oglethorpe's time, which will make it about one hundred and fifty years old. These Martello towers were once important fortifications; but the late improvements in artillery have rendered all fortifications merely things of time. The strongest fortress, like the most virtuous woman, has its price. Gibraltar fell by a daring coup de main, and the Malakoff before a persistent attack.


PEOPLE who go out of the beaten road, wandering away to right or left, up any of the pleasant by-paths, are sure to be looked upon as lost by those relations and friends who, stiff-necked, can see no thoroughfare save that where the crowd jostles and the best rises. Probably friends and relations are in the right. A good man, as a good dog, should follow at the heels of something that precedes it. That is the height of its best breeding. It is only your cur who leaps the hedges and takes to the lanes. Nevertheless, for curs, there are loadstone mountains at the end of these lanes, which they cannot resist. The well-conditioned dogs do not feel the power of the magnet; the attraction for them is to the heels of the well-conditioned dogs preceding. The well-conditioned are the wisest.

I have gained little money and little fame by taking to the by-path. My uncle was senior partner in a large linen-drapery establishment. The linen-drapery business was the line of life cleared before me. Whether from the designs of the prints in stock ( I think not, however; there was little in them to seduce in those days), or whether from the elegant attitudes of the young men in attendance behind the counters (I think not; I think disgust of them, above all, drove me into the by-path), I, early in life, became passionately fond of drawing. This taste was encouraged in me while a boy. My cleverness in that way was paraded, and the taste fostered. When I produced a portrait of my little sister, true and yet untrue true in giving an abstraction of her, untrue in that every detail of the face this, my uncle gave me half-a-crown. I have this early sketch was wrong; for I did not know how to draw-when I produced by me still (as I have the finished painting, the story of which I tell here), and I wonder that the obtuse men who praised it could see in it any faintest likeness to the original. It represented the notion of my sister which I had in my own mind—a possibility such as she might have been, but certainly was not. My sister ran away with a becurled counter jumper. sketch which I retain, ill-drawn as it is-well, it could not have done that.


When I grew beyond the boy, and was just beginning to feel the weight and dignity of the talent entrusted to me, then I was told that I must put away this childish thing, and take to the linen drapery manner of life. I feel again, as I recall that

ANCIENT MARTELLO TOWER ON TYBEE ISLAND, S. C. time, an ache of the cruel pain that I felt then. I have been

A MARTELLO tower is a small round fortification of masonwork, usually two stories high. The first story being used for stores, the second for troops, and the roof having parapets which shelter one or more guns, which form a barbette on the top. These are generally pivot guns.

The English navy once met with one of these fortifications in Martello Bay, Corsica Island, which proved to be a very hard customer to reduce, and from this such towers took their name. From their experience of this little fortification, the English came to have a great liking for Martello towers, and when they fancied that Napoleon had some thoughts of visiting the "favored isle" they planted the coast with these posts of reception, thinking that if each one of them should give him as much trouble as the one which they found at Corsica did them, he would probably have a good time in coming to see them. These towers are intended for coast and river fortification, but

stricken by no such sore wound in all my life since; the grief and the shame, and the uncertainty as to whether the talent which had come to be my sole aim might not be, after all, the mere childish pastime which they called it!

However, I need not dilate on this early struggle. Through strenuous opposition I became an artist; I took to the lane. Stones were thrown after me according to the desert of a cur. Still I met with friends. A local artist saw my sketches and took me by the hand; then I got to London and found the kindest of friends in a great painter there. I became a student in the Academy; I went to Italy for three-quarters of a year; finally I set up as an artist in a tiny studio, in a quiet street not far from Rathbone Place, where the color-sellers dwell. It is of an incident of my early days there that I now write.

Having taken to that by-path of the artist-profession, I was acknowledged by my friends and belabored with their advice. The only part of the artist-profession which paid was portraiture.


It was not so lucrative a trade as linen-drapery, but still portrait-painting might be made to pay. To this I must apply myself; all else was child's-play. Everything is child's-play which does not bring in so much money for so much work done.

I kicked against the notion of portrait-painting. Had I not my grand ideas to work out? The transformation of Medusa, the golden hair changing into serpents, the divine beauty into fatal horror? Isabella, from "Measure for Measure," in the fury of her chaste rage? Vulcan, the strong, stricken with the weakness of a helpless jealousy? Virginia with the first blush called up by lewd eyes on her child-face? Peter weeping bitterly? The Christ in his garden agony? I kicked against the notion of portrait-painting.

While I yet resisted my fate, my first commission for a portrait came to me. The sketch of my Medusa was on the easel. I had been at work at it that morning, and had hit upon the indefinable expression of face of which I had dreamed for so long. The face changed as you looked at it; it was all beauty ; it was all a chaos; it was all horror; the golden hair glistened into snakes; the warm loving light of the eyes died in the cold magical fascination; the sweet lips stiffened into fear, into pain, into death, into a devilish resuscitation. I was in the hour of my triumph gulping down tears for I did shed tears, as I think impressionable people mostly do in such moments.


of it? Can you give it rein and at the same time keep it well in hand?"

I stammered and blundered in answer. I felt a very secondary person in my own studio. Brought down suddenly from my empyrean, my abstract Medusa faced and outfaced by this exquisite vision of life, I was bewildered and confused. This woman, with her perfection of nature, made me feel no longer a genius, but a slave.

"You paint portraits?" she asked again, still pacing up and down.

"No," I said; "I am not a portrait-painter. My aims in art are higher and better."

She gave a swift glance round the room. On the walls, on easels, on chairs, leaning against the wainscot or tumbling from portfolios, were my sketches.

A motion of her hand asked me "What are these ?" "Not a single portrait," I answered.

"All portraits," she exclaimed with an emphasis of the foot; 64 every one."

She pointed to a Virginia; to a Miranda, dreaming of Ferdinand; to a Marguerite, devil-tempted in the church; to an Angelo, his cold blood hissing into burning lust; to a Leontes, stung by jealousy; to an Edipus, looking his last upon the light of day.

As I explained, she said of each one, "A portrait."

I should never have

Just at this time a carriage drove up to the door of the house I had never before observed a peculiarity-I suppose an imwhere I lodged; I had heard it rumbling up the quiet street. perfection-of my artist-talent. All of these sketches consisted The cessation of sound startled me from my reverie, and brought to an end my hurried pacings to and fro. A lady was descend- of one figure only. I had not the power then, I have not the ing from the carriage as I looked out. I had no suspicion that thought of painting the lewd eyes of Appius in the same picpower now, of painting a dramatic scene. she came to visit me. I had not yet entered upon portrait-ture with the blush on Virginia's face. Appius might have been painting, and my studio was visited by few people save brother artists.

The small maid-of-all-work flung open my door, forgetting to knock in her trepidation.

"Please, sir, a lady wants to see you."

a separate study; but the two passions, even though they thus came together as immediate cause and effect, I could not have painted upon the same canvas. I honestly confess that I approve of my own practice. An ordinary picture is to me but a collection of incongruous figures. The passion of one creature

The lady had been left upon the stairs, but before I had time is enough to fill the whole soul of an artist while he bodies it to answer, she had entered.


"Good-morning, Mr. Mazarine," she said. "I wish to speak to you professionally."

The door was closed, and the servant had gone. in clearing a chair for the lady to sit down.

I was busy

I would rather walk up and down," she said; "I can speak

more easily so. You paint portraits!''

Here she stopped suddenly opposite my easel, and I remained silent, while for a full minute she stood gazing on my


"What a ghastly face!" she cried. "What is the subject?" Then, without waiting for an answer, she went on; "You have imagination, I see. I don't care for the subject of the picture. You never saw that face, never could have seen it; and yet it is true, I recognize a truth in it. I interpret it according to my own fancy; so would every one else. It has a thousand meanings; but the secret of it is just this, that there is a real touch of humanity in it."


The lady spoke in a rambling manner as she walked restlessly to and fro. Her accent was slightly foreign, though she spoke very quickly as people seldom speak a language not their own. Her thoughts seemed preoccupied. She appeared as if she were accustomed to talk fluently while thinking of other things. She gesticulated with her hands, and her features had a wonderful mobility, while her eyes remained dreamy and She was tall and slim, and straight as an arrow; elastic and full of exquisite life to her finger-tips. The blood came and went in her face; her footfall had changeful intonations like a voice; her black hair stirred and waved as she moved; her beautiful hands (she carried her gloves in, not on them) -thin, fine, long-were more expressive in their undulations and expansions and contractions than most people's faces. I never saw any person to whom the body was so little an encumbrance. It seemed merely the expression of the life-principle. She gave one an idea of nudity-I mean that she did not strike one with that intolerable obtrusion of being dressed and hidden and fettered and tortured, by which one is instantly stricken on sight of all other persons. Dress, whether of solid flesh or cumbrous drapery, fell away from her and left her disfogged!

forth. Having perfected the one figure, when he passes on to others the tone of his mind has changed-he paints in a different key. Even the sight of a complete figure, the knowledge that face is separated from face by only the space of a few inches, that drapery crosses and contrasts with drapery--this knowledge would utterly prevent me from concentrating my

powers on the new passion and the new figure. The crimson of Virginia's face would tame down the bestial fire in the eyes of Appius.

In the concentration of thought entirely on one passion and one face, each picture of mine was, in a sense, a portrait. As the lady said, pointing to one after another, "A portrait-a portrait," this peculiarity struck me forcibly for the first time. "I want you to paint a portrait for me," she went on, as she resumed her pacings to and fro.

I was silent. The temptation was great. To have painted this glorious woman would have created a new era in my art-life.

"You must devote yourself to your work," she continued. "You shall name your own price-a hundred guineas-five hundred guineas-what you like. But until the portrait is complete, you must put your hand to nothing else."

"I do not want money for such work," I answered; and I spoke from the heart, and not impudently; as an artist, not as a young man. "I would give you money to let me paint you, if I had money."

"My poor boy!" she said, with a beautiful compassion for my enthusiasm. "It is not my own face that I want painted. It is the face of a dead man."

In my surprise I was silent for a time. Then I said, earnestly, "I will do what you tell me; I would do anything for you."

"A dead man-a dead man-a dead man," she repeated to herself as she went to and fro.

"I am to paint," I asked, hesitatingly-" I am to paint from the-the corpse?"

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"You have imagination," she said; "have you the mastery sketch, or-"

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