A Cathedral Singer

ine: standing on a high rock under the Northern sky above the long wa

ny-towered gray-walled Hospital of St. Luke-cathedral of our ruin

of, the studios of the National Academy of Design; and under that low brittle skylight youth toils over the shapes and col

green valley bottom far below. Out here is a rugged slope of rock and verdure and forest growth which brings into the city an ancien

de and smooth. Over this thoroughfare the two opposite-moving streams of the city's traffic and travel rush headlong. Beyond the thoroughfare an embank

strip of nature, and a broad highway along which, with their hearth-fires flickering fitfully

in work. Easels had been drawn into position; a clear light from the blue sky of the last of April fell through the opened roof upon new canvases fastened to the frames. And it poured

three steps and paused as though he meant presently to go out again. After his usual quiet g

eserve, any one of whom could have been used to advantage at this closing stage of the year's course. Then the unexpected happened:

, his respectful words, invested her with mystery, with fascination

felt the common lash of the poor. Plainly here is some one who has stepped down from her place in life, who has descended far below her inclinations, to raise a small sum of money. Why she does so is of course her own sacred and delicate affair. But the spirit in which she does this becomes our affair, because it become

nfident impulses and immature art. But he had not yet fully brought o

be worth? For if you have never before understood the truth, try to realize it now: that you will succeed in painting only through the best that is in you; just as only the best in you will ever carry you triumphantly to the end of any practical human road that is worth the travel; just as you will reach all life's best goals only through your best. And in painting remember that the best is never in the eye, for the eye can only perceive, the eye can only direct; and the best is never in the hand, for the hand can only measure, the hand can only move. In painting

rience of our lifetimes that we meet a man or a woman who literally drives us to the realization of what we really are and can really do when we do our best. What we all most need in our careers is the one who

ecognition of their inmost selves. He went o

re other signs of that past which she cannot hide and which it is our privilege, our duty, the province of our art, to read. They are written on her face, on her hands, on her bearing; they are written all over her-the bruises of life's rudenesses, the lingering shadows of dark days, the unwounded pride once and the wounded pride now, the unconquerable will, a soaring spirit whose wings were meant for the upper air but which are broken and beat the dust. All these are sublime things to paint in any human countenance; they are the footprints of destiny on our faces. The greatest masters of the brush that the world has ever known co

ures never stirred before; from out those depths youthful, tender creati

be awkward, she will be embarrassed, she will be without her full value. But I think from what I discovered while talking with her that she will soon grow oblivious to her surroundings. They will not overwhelm her; she will finally overwhelm

her. By this time she mus

ced at that end of the room; behind these

gnificantly, "that she shall

ise of his feet on the bare hallway was restrained. They listened for the sounds of her footsteps. In the tense silence of the studio a pin-drop might have been noticeable, a breath would

nce than himself; and there walked forward and stopped at a delicate distance from them all a woman,

tice. She merely waited, perfectly composed, to be told what to do. Her thoughts and emotio

inted in austerest fidelity to nature, plainly dressed, her hair parted and brushed severely back. Women, sometimes great women, have in history,

hair, the line of it along the forehead and temples, the curvature of the brows, the chiseling of the proud nostrils and the high bridge of the nose, the molding of the mouth, the modeling of the t

hem together with a mere smile of sympathetic introduction. It was an attempt to break the ice. For them it did break the ice; all responded with a smile for her or with other play of the features that meant gracious recognition. With her the ice remained unbroken; she wit

still unformed. But you may believe that they will put their best into what they are about to undertake; the loyalty of the hand, the respect of the eye, the

he focus of the massed easels: it was the model's rack of p

eyes, though they rested on vacancy, blazed on vacancy and an ugly red rushed over her face which had been whiter than colorless. Then as though she had become disciplined through years of necessity to do t

quarter portrait, stately, richly carved; ab

ad posed herself by grace of bygone luxurious ways. A few changes in the arrangement of the hands he did make. There was required some separation of the fingers; excitement caused her to hold them too closely together. And he drew the entire hands into notice; he specially wished th

eal only by forgetting it and could forget it only by looking ahead into the happiness for which it was endured, slowly there began to shine out upon her face its ruling passion-the acceptance of life and the love of the mother glinting as from a cloud-hidden sun acro

at the whole world knows-the love and self-sacrifice of the mother; perhaps the only element of our better hu

ts of devoted mothers at home; the eyes of a few we