poet is still the interpreter of the gods. "Thou true land-lord! sea-lord! air-lord! Wherever snow falls or water flows or birds fly, wherever day and night meet in twilight, wherever the blue heaven is hung by clouds or sown with stars, wherever are forms with transparent boundaries, wherever are outlets into celestial space, wherever is danger, and awe, and love — there is Beauty, plenteous as rain, shed for thee, and though thou shouldst walk the world over, thou shalt not be able to find a condition inopportune or ignoble."

CHAPTER XII

THE ARTIST TALKS

AST night we sat late over the fire. It had been a blustering day, but at sunset the wind fell and the stars came out in splendid brilliancy. Rosalind had taken up her work, and we were anticipating a long, quiet even

ing, when the door opened and our friend the artist walked abruptly in. Without ceremony, he dropped his hat and coat on a chair, and almost before we realised that he was in the house he was standing before the fire warming his hands and saying that it was an uncommonly sharp night. No more welcome guest ever comes under our roof than the artist. Slender, alert, restless, speaking always the thought that is uppermost in his mind without reference to persons or

places, I do not know a more genuine, keen-sighted and aspiring human soul. I looked at him for a moment almost with curiosity; so rare is the sight of a man working out his life with eager joy and in entire unconsciousness of himself. His fellow-craftsmen are all talking about his extraordinary work, and the world is fast finding him out; but he remains as simplehearted as a child. It is this quality quite as much as the genius for expression which I find in him which assures me that he

has the elements of greatness. When he begins to talk, we are always glad to remain silent; such speech as his is rare. A fresher, clearer, more original talker never comes into the Study; his thought flashes to the very heart of the theme, and we see it instantly in some fresh and striking aspect or relation. He is so far removed from the atmosphere of the materialistic spirit that he is as untouched and untainted by it as if it did not exist. Life grows rich under his speech; becomes splendid with interior truth and beauty; becomes marvellously suggestive and inspiring. The commercial standpoint and standards do not enter into his conception of life and the world; the conventional estimates and judgments do not lay a feather's weight on his alert, aspiring spirit. The other day I met him coming away from a rehearsal at which a famous pianist had so thrilled a great audience that the applause more than once broke in on the music. "That man is an artist," said my friend; "did you notice how the crowd irritated him? He hated us because we made him conscious of our presence."

It happened that yesterday Rosalind and I had been looking at an etching of Méryon's, and we had naturally fallen to talking about the pathos of his life; a man of exquisite genius, every touch of whose hand is now precious, but who lived without recognition and died without hope. And as I had seen recently some account of the enormous aggregate value of Corot's works, I recalled also the long years of indifference and neglect through which the great artist waited and worked before fame entered his atelier. When we were comfortably disposed before the fire, and the talk, breaking free from personal incident, began to flow in its accustomed channels, both Méryon and Corot were mentioned by Rosalind as illustrations of the struggle with the world to which some of the greatest souls are subjected; and she added that it was hard to reconcile one's self to the swift success which often comes to lesser men while their superiors are fighting the battle with want and neglect.

"Don't bother about that," said our friend, starting out of his chair and stand