Then suppose a painter in his studio; he cannot look around him without awakening some memory of the past.

He can associate with those he loves when they are absent, nay, even when they are dead, and they always remain young and beautiful as when he first delineated them." "Take care," cried Ernest, pushing back his seat, "if you go on at that rate you will take fire." "No fear of that, brother, unless you have a star or a comet in your pocket, in which case you are not far enough away yet." These occasional bickerings between Ernest and Jack were always given and taken in good part, and had only the effect of raising a good-humored laugh.
"Let the painter," he continued, "fall in with a spot that pleases him, he can take it with him and have it always before his eyes.

The hand of God or of man may alter the original, the forest may lose its trees, the old castle may be destroyed by fire or time, the green meadow may be converted into a dismal swamp, but to him the landscape always retains its pristine freshness, the same butterfly still flutters about the same bush, the same bee still sucks at the same flower." "Really," said Mrs.Wolston, "it is a pity, after all, that you did not achieve your second verse." "And yet," continued Jack, "that is only a copy.

How much more sublime when we regard the painter as a creator! If there is in the past or present a heroic deed--if there is in the infinity of his life one moment more blessed than another, like Pygmalion he breathes into it the breath of life, and it becomes imperishable.

Who would think a century or two hence of the victories of Fritz, unless the skill of the painter be called in to immortalize them!" "I agree with you in thinking that the arts you name are the source of beautiful and legitimate emotions.