∞ √≠ − × *ų.
（i）;
§§īG
§§#
* * . .§§
%%;
*
ſºſ
#:;
¿¿.*;
§§$ſ;
š
RD
BA
HuB
*:::::::: *.
º:
&#.
*
.##:
A.'s. "
***)




to t H E H o M sis. o
&minent artist
S E R I E S OF M C
a LEONARDO 8 corregg
4 THorwalDSEN 10 PAU
; GAinsborough is cell.
6 velasquez a whistler
One bookſet a month will be issued as
, ning January 1st.
. . . . de luxe in form and workmanship. The type will be a
new font of antique blackface; the initials designed
the original drawing made at our Shop in each on
Japan Vellum. The booklets will be stitched by hand
The price—25 cents each, or $3.00 for the year,
Address THE ROYCROFTERS aſ
Shop, which is at East Aurora, . ... • ‘’s
Entered at the Postoffice at East Aurora, New York, for transmission
as second-class mail matter, copyright, 1901, by Elbert. Hubbard
*



























d 7-
Ad A
* H 35"
\ , \ 0
^ve. A

And with all this vast creative activity, he recognized only
one self-imposed limitation,--beauty. Hence, though his span
of life was short, his work is imperishable. He steadily pro-
gressed: but he was ever true, beautiful, and pure, and freer
than any other master from superficiality and mannerism. He
produced a vast number of pictures, elevating to men of
every race and of every age, and before whose immortal
beauty artists of every school unite in common homage.
WILHELM LUBKE.
R A P H. A. E. L.
R A PHA. E. L. I
HE term “Pre-Raphaelite” traces a royal
lineage to William Morris. Just what the
word really meant, William Morris was
not sure, yet he once expressed the hope
that he would some day know, as a
thousand industrious writers were labor-
ing to make the matter plain.
Seven men helped William Morris to
launch the phrase by forming themselves
into an organization which they were
pleased to call the “Pre-Raphaelite
Brotherhood.”
The word “brotherhood” has a lure and
a promise for every lonely and tired son
of earth. And Burne-Jones pleaded for
the prefix because it was like holy writ:
it gave everybody an opportunity to read
anything into it that he desired.
Of this I am very sure, in the Pre-
Raphaelite Brotherhood there was no
lack of appreciation for Raphael. In fact,
there is proof positive that Burne-Jones
and Madox Brown studied him with
profit, and loved him so wisely and well
that they laid impression paper on his
poses. This would have been good and
sufficient reason for hating the man; and
possibly this accounts for their luminous
flashes of silence concerning him.

2 R A PH AEL,
The Pre-Raphaelite Brotherhood, like all liberal organ-
izations, was quite inclined to be illiberal. And the
prejudice of this clanship, avowedly founded without
prejudice, lay in the assumption that life and art suf-
fered a degeneration from the rise of Raphael. In art,
as in literature, there is overmuch tilting with names,
so the Pre-Raphaelites enlisted under the banner of
Botticelli sº sº."
Raphael marks an epoch. He did what no man before
him had ever done, and by the sublimity of his genius
he placed the world forever under obligations to him.
In fact, the art of the Pre-Raphaelites was built on
Raphael, with an attempt to revive the atmosphere
and environment that belonged to another. Raphael
mirrored the soul of things—he used the human form
and the whole natural world as symbols of spirit. And
this is exactly what Burne-Jones did, and the rest of
the Brotherhood tried to do. The thought of Raphael
& Burne-Jones often seems identical ; in temperament,
disposition and aspiration they were one. That poetic
and fervid statement of Mrs. Jameson, that Burne-
Jones is the avatar of Raphael, contains the germ of
truth. The dream-women of Burne-Jones have the
same haunting and subtle spiritual wistfulness that is
to be seen in the Madonnas of Raphael. Each of these
men loved a woman—and each pictured her again and
again. Whether this woman had an existence outside
the figment of the brain, matters not—both painted
her as they saw her—tender, gentle and trustful.
R A P. H. A. E. L. 3
When jealous and o'er zealous competitors made the
charge against Raphael that he was lax in his religious
duties, Pope Leo X. waived the matter by saying,
“Well, well, well l—he is an artistic Christian l’’ As
much as to say, he works his religion up into art, and
therefore we grant him absolution for failure to attend
mass: he paints and you pray—it is really all the same
thing. Good work and religion are one.
The busy and captious critics went away, but came
back next day with the startling information that
Raphael’s pictures were more pagan than Christian.
Pope Leo heard the charge, and then with Lincoln-like
wit said that Raphael was doing this on his order, as
the desire of the Mother Church was to annex the pagan
art-world, in order to Christianize it.
sºr The charges of paganism and infidelity are classic
accusations. The gentle Burne-Jones was stoutly de-
nounced by his enemies as a pagan Greek. I think he
rather gloried in the contumely, but fifty years earlier
he might have been visited by a lettre de cachet instead
of a knighthood; for we cannot forget how, in 1815, Par-
liament refused to pay for the Elgin Marbles because,
as Lord Falmouth put it, “These relics will tend to
prostitute England to the depth of unbelief that engulfed
pagan Greece.” The attitude of Parliament on the
question of paganism finds voice occasionally even yet
by Protestant England making darkness dense with the
asseveration that Catholics idolatrously worship the
pictures and statues in their churches.
4 R A PH AE L
The Romans tumbled the Athenian marbles from their
pedestals on the assumption that the statues repre-
sented gods that were idolatrously worshiped by the
Greeks. And they continued their work of destruction
until a certain Roman general (who surely was from
County Cork) stopped the vandalism by issuing an
order, coupled with the dire threat that any soldier
who stole or destroyed a statue should replace it by
another equally good.
Lord Elgin bankrupted himself in order to supply the
British Museum its crowning glory, and for this he
achieved the honor of getting himself poetically damned
by Lord Byron. Monarchies, like republics, are ungrate-
ful. Lord Elgin defended himself vigorously against the
charge of paganism, just as Raphael had done three
hundred years before. But Burne-Jones was silent in
the presence of his accusers, for the world of buyers
besieged his doors with bank notes in hand, demand-
ing pictures. And now today we find Alma-Tadema
openly and avowedly pagan, and with a grace and
loveliness that compel the glad acclaim of every lover
of beautiful things.
We are making head. We have ceased to believe that
paganism was “bad.” All the men and women who
have ever lived and loved and hoped and died, were
God’s children, and we are no more. With the nations
dead and turned to dust, we reach out through the
darkness of forgotten days and touch friendly hands.
Some of these people that existed two, three or four
R A P H. A. E. L. 5
thousand years ago, did things so marvelously grand
and great that in presence of the broken fragments of
their work we stand silent, o'er-awed and abashed sº
We realize, too, that long before the nations lived that
have left a meagre & scattered history hewn in stone,
lived still other men, possibly greater far than we ; and
no sign or signal comes to us from these whose his-
tory, like ours, is writ in water.
Yet we are one with them all. The same Power that
brought them upon this stage of Time, brought us. As
we were called into existence without our consent, so
are we being sent out of it, day by day, against our will.
The destiny of all who live or have lived, is one; and no
taunt of “paganism,” “heathenism,” or “infidelity”
escapes our lips. With love & sympathy we salute the
eternity that lies behind, realizing that we ourselves are
the oldest people that have tasted existence--the newest
nation lingers away back there behind Egypt & Assy-
ria, back of the Mayas, lost in continents sunken in
shoreless seas that hold their secrets inviolate ºf Yes,
we are brothers to all that have trod the earth; broth-
ers, & heirs to dust & shade—mayhap to immortality

6 R A PH A E L
N the story of “John Ball,” Wil-
liam Morris pictured what to him
was the Ideal Life. And Morris
was certainly right in this: The
Ideal Life is only the normal or
natural life as we shall some day
know it. The scene of Morris’s
story was essentially a Pre-Raph-
aelite one. It was the great virtue
(or limitation) of William Morris that the Dark Ages
were to him a time of special light and illumination.
Life then was simple. Men worked for the love of it,
and if they wanted things, they made them. “Every
trade exclusively followed means a deformity,” says
Ruskin. Division of labor had not yet come, and men
were skilled in many ways. There was neither poverty
nor riches, and the idea of brotherhood was firmly fixed
in the minds of men. The feverish desire for place, pelf
and power was not upon them. The rise of the barons
and an entailed aristocracy was yet to come.
sº Governments grant men immunity from danger on
payment of a tax. Thus men cease protecting them-
selves, and so in the course of time lose the ability to
protect themselves, because the faculty of courage has
atrophied through disuse. Brooding apprehension and
crouching fear are the properties of civilized men—
men who are protected by the state. The joy of revel-
ing in life is not possible in cities. Bolts and bars, locks.
and keys, soldiers and police, and a hundred other

RAPH A E L 7
symbols of distrust, suspicion and hate, are on every
hand, reminding us that man is the enemy of man, and
must be protected from his brothers. Protection and
slavery are near of kin.
Before Raphael, art was not a profession—the man did
things to the glory of God. When he painted a picture
of the Holy Family, his wife served as his model, and
he grouped his children in their proper order, & made
the picture to hang on a certain spot on the walls of
his village church. No payment was expected nor fee
demanded—it was a love offering. It was not until
ecclesiastics grew ambitious & asked for more pictures
that bargains were struck. Did ever a painter of that
far-off day marry a maid, & in time were they blessed
with a babe, then straightway the painter worked his
joy up into art by painting the Mother and Child, and
presenting the picture as a thank offering to God. The
immaculate conception of love and the miracle of birth
are recurring themes in the symphony of life. Love,
religion and art have ever walked and ever will walk
hand in hand. Art is the expression of man’s joy in his
work; and art is the beautiful way of doing things sºr
Do you remember the woman mentioned by Theodore
Parker who swept the room to the glory of God? Pope
Julius was right—work is religion when you put soul
into your task.
Giotto painted the “Mother & Child,” and the mother
was his wife, and the child theirs. Another child came
to them, and Giotto painted another picture, calling
8 R A PH AEL
the older boy St. John, and the wee baby Jesus. The
years went by, and we find still another picture of the
Holy Family by this same artist, in which five child-
ren are shown, while back in the shadow is the artist
himself, posed as Joseph. And with a beautiful con-
tempt for anachronism, the elder children are called
Isaiah, Ezekiel & Elijah. This fusing of work, domestic-
ity, love & religion gives us a glimpse into the only para-

R A PHA. E. L. 9
|HE swift passing years have lightly
touched the little city of Urbino,
in Umbria. The place is sleepy and
quiet, and you seek the shade of
friendly awnings to shield you from
the fierce glare of the sun. Stand-
ing there you hear the bells chime
the hours, just as they have done
for four hundred years; and you
watch the flocks of wheeling pigeons, the same pigeons
that Vasari saw when he came here in 1541, for the
birds never grow old. Vasari tells of the pigeons, the
old cathedral—old even then—the flower girls and fruit
sellers, the passing black-robed priests, the occasional
soldier, and the cobbler who sits on the curb stone,
and offers to mend your shoes while you wait.
The world is debtor to Vasari. He was not much of a
painter and he failed at architecture, but he made up
for lack of skill by telling all about what others were
doing; and if his facts ever faltered, his imagination
bridged the break. He is as interesting as Plutarch, as
gossipy as Pepys, and as luring as Boswell.
A slim slip of a girl selling thyme and mignonette out
of a reed basket, offered to show Vasari the birthplace
of Raphael; and a brown-cheeked, bare-foot boy sell-
ing roses on which the dew yet lingered, volunteered
a like service for me, three hundred years later.
The house is one of a long row of low stone structures,
with the red tile roof, everywhere to be seen. Above

IO R A PHA. E. L.
the door is a bronze tablet which informs the traveler
that Raphael Sanzio was born here April 6th, 1483.
Herman Grimm takes three chapters to prove that
Raphael was not born in this house, and that nothing
is so unreliable as a bronze tablet, excepting figures.
Grimm is a painstaking biographer, but he fails to dis-
tinguish between fact and truth. Of this we are sure,
Giovanni di Sanzio, the father of Raphael, lived in this
house. There are church records to show that here
other children of Giovanni were born, and this very
naturally led to the assumption that Raphael was born
here, also sºr ºf
Just one thing of touching interest is to be seen in
this house, and that is a picture painted on the wall, of
a Mother and Child. For many years this picture was
said to be the work of Raphael; but there is now very
good reason to believe it was the work of Raphael’s
father, and that the figures represent the baby Raphael
and his mother. The picture is faded and dim, like the
history of this sainted woman, who gave to earth one
of the gentlest, greatest and best men that ever lived.
sºr Mystery enshrouds the early days of Raphael. There
is no record of his birth. His father we know was a
man of decided power, and might even rank as a great
artist, had he not been so unfortunate as to have had a
son who outclassed him. But now Giovanni Sanzio's
only claim to fame rests on his being the father of his
son. Of the boy’s mother we have only obstructed
glances and glimpses through half flung lattices in the
R A PH A E L. I It
gloaming. Raphael was her only child. She was scarce
twenty when she bore him. In a sonnet written to her,
on the back of a painting, Raphael’s father speaks of
her wondrous eyes, slender neck, and the form too
frail for earth’s rough buffets. Mention is also made of
“this child born in purest love, and sent by God to
comfort and caress.”
The mother grew a-weary and passed away when her
boy was scarce eight years old, but his memories of
her were deeply etched. She told him of Cimabue,
Giotto, Ghirlandajo, Leonardo and Perugino, and
especially of the two last, who were living & working
only a few miles away. It was this spiritual and loving
mother who infused into his soul the desire to do and
to become. That hunger for harmony which marked
his life was the heritage of mother to child.
When an artist paints a portrait, he paints two—him-
self and the sitter. Raphael gave himself; and as his
father more than once said, the boy was the image of
his mother—we have her picture, too. Father and son
painted the same woman. Their hearts went out to her
with a sort of idolatrous love. The sonnets indited to
her by her husband were written after her death, and
after his second marriage. Do men love dead women
better than they do the living P Perhaps. And then a
certain writer has said, “To have known a great and
exalted love, and have it flee from your grasp, and flee
as a shadow before it is sullied by selfishness or mis-
understanding, is the highest good. The memory of such
R A P HAE L
annot die from out the heart. It affords a ballast
a love c
, & tho' it gives an
of life
, it imparts an unspeakable peace.”
rdid impulses
st all the so
nutterable sadness
'gain
Ul

§ºſº
º
§
ſº
N
&
º
Sºğ
\º
R A PHA. E. L. I3
APHAEL’S father followed the
boy's mother when the lad was
eleven years old. We know the
tender, poetic love this father had
for the child, and we realize some-
what of the mystical mingling in
the man’s heart of the love for the
woman dead and her child alive.
* Reverencing the mother’s wish
that the boy should be an artist, Giovanni Sanzio, proud
of his delicate and spiritual beauty, took the lad to
visit all the other artists in the vicinity. They also
visited the ducal palace, built by Federigo II., and
lingered there for hours, viewing the paintings, statu-
ary, carvings, tapestries and panelings.
This palace still stands, and is yet one of the most
noble in Italy, vieing in picturesqueness with those
marble piles that line the Grand Canal at Venice. We
know that Giovanni Sanzio contributed by his advice
and skill to the wealth of beauty in the palace, and we
know that he was always a welcome visitor there.
From his boyhood Raphael was familiar with these
artistic splendors, and how much this early environ-
ment contributed to his correct taste and habit of
subdued elegance, no man can say. When Giovanni
Sanzio realized that death was at his door, he gave
Raphael into the keeping of the priest Bartolomeo and
the boy’s step-mother. The typical step-mother lives,
moves and has her being in neurotic novels written by

I4 R A PHA. E. L.
very young ladies & Instances can be cited of great
men who were loved and nurtured and ministered to
by their step-mothers. I think well of womankind. The
woman who abuses a waif that fate has sent into her
care would mistreat her own children, and is a living
libel on her sex.
Let Lincoln and Raphael stand as types of men who
were loved with infinite tenderness by step-mothers.
And then we must not forget Leonardo da Vinci, who
never knew a mother, and had no business to have a
father, but who held averages good with four suc-
cessive step-mothers, all of whom loved him with a
tender, jealous and proud devotion.
Bartolomeo, following the wish of the father, con-
tinued to give the boy lessons in drawing and sketch-
ing. This Bartolomeo must not be confused with the
Bartolomeo, friend of Savonarola, who was to largely
influence Raphael later on. It was Bartolomeo, the
priest, that took Raphael to Perugino, who lived in
Perugia. Perugino, although he was a comparatively
young man, was bigger than the town in which he
lived. His own name got blown away by a high wind,
and he was plain Perugino—as if there were only one
man in Perugia, and he were that one. “Here is a boy
I have brought you as a pupil,” said the priest to
Perugino. And Perugino glancing up from his easel,
answered, “I thought it was a girl l’’
The priest continued: “Here is a boy I have brought
you for a pupil, and your chief claim to fame may yet
R A PHA. E. L. I5
be that he worked here with you in your studio.”
Perugino parried the thrust with a smile. He looked
at the boy and was impressed with his beauty. Peru-
gino afterwards acknowledged that the only reason he
took him was because he thought he would work in
well as a model.
Perugino was the greatest master of technique of his
time. He had life, and life in abundance. He reveled in
his work, and his enthusiasm ran over, inundating all
those who were near. Courage is a matter of the red
corpuscle. It is oxygen that makes every attack, & with-
out oxygen in his blood to back him, a man attacks
nothing, not even a pie, much less a blank canvas.
Perugino was a success; he had orders ahead; he
matched his talent against titles; power flowed his
way. Raphael's serious, sober manner and spiritual
beauty appealed to him. They became as father and
son. The methodical business plan which is a prime aid
to inspiration; the habit of laying out work and com-
pleting it; the high estimate of self; the supreme ani-
mation and belief in the divinity within,_all these
Raphael caught from Perugino. Both men were ego-
ists, as all men are who do things. They had heard the
voice—they had had a “call.” The talent is the call, &
if a man fails to do his work in a masterly way, make
sure he has mistaken a lazy wish for a divine passion.
There is a difference between loving the muse and
lusting after her.
Perugino had been called, and before Raphael had
I6 R A PH AEL
worked with him a year, he was sure he had been
called, too. The days in Perugia for Raphael were full
of quiet joy and growing power. He was in the actual
living world of men, and things, and useful work.
Afternoons, when the sun’s shadows began to lengthen
towards the west, Perugino would often call to his
helpers, especially Raphael and Pinturicchio, another
fine spirit, and off they would go for a tramp, each
with a stout staff and the inevitable portfolio. Out along
the narrow streets of the town, across the Roman
arched bridge, by the market place to the terraced hill-
side that overlooked the Umbrian plain, they went;
Perugino stout, strong, smooth-faced, with dark swar-
thy features; Pinturicchio with downy beard, merry
eyes and tall, able form; and lingering behind, came
Raphael. His small black cap fitted closely on his long
bronze-gold hair; his slight, slender & graceful figure
barely suggested its silken strength held in fine reserve
—and all the time the great brown eyes that looked as
if they had seen celestial things, scanned the sky, saw
the tall cedars of Lebanon, the flocks on the slopes
across the valley, the scattered stone cottages, the
fleecy clouds that faintly flecked the deep blue of the
sky, the distant spire of a church. All these treasures
of the Umbrian landscape were his. Well might he
have anticipated four hundred years before he was
born, that greatest of American writers, and said, “I
own the landscape l’’
In frescos signed by Perugino in the year 1492—a date
R A PH A E L 17
we cannot forget—we see a certain style. In the same
design duplicated in 1498, we behold a new and subtle
touch—it is the stroke and line of Raphael.
The “Resurrection” by Perugino, in the Vatican, and
the Diotalevi Madonna signed by the same artist in
the Berlin Museum, show the unmistakable touch of
Raphael. The youth was barely seventeen, but he was
putting himself into Perugino's work—and Perugino
was glad ºf
Raphael’s first independent work was probably done
when he was nineteen, and was for the Citta di Cas-
tello. These frescos are signed “Raphael Urbinas,
1502.” Other lesser pictures and panels thus signed are
found dated 1504. They are all the designs of Perugino,
but worked out with the painstaking care always shown
by very young artists; yet there is a subtle, spiritual
style that marks unmistakably Raphael’s Perugino
Period sº sº."
“The Espousal,” done in 1504, now in the Brera at
Milan, is the first really important work of Raphael.
Next to this is the Connestabile Madonna, which was
painted at Perugia and remained there until 1871, when
it was sold by a degenerate descendant of the original
owner to the Emperor of Russia for sixty-five thousand
dollars. Since then a law has been passed forbidding
any one on serious penalty to remove a “Raphael ” from
Italy. Were it not for this law, that threat of a Chicago
syndicate to buy the Pitti Gallery & move its contents
to the “lake front,” might have been carried out.
I8 R A PHA. E. L.
HE Second Period of Raphael's
life opens with his visit to Florence
in 1504. He was twenty-one years
of age, handsome, proud, reserved.
Stories of his power had preceded
him, and the fact that for six years
he had worked with Perugino and
been his confidant & friend, made
his welcome sure.
Leonardo and Michael Angelo were at the height of
their fame, and no doubt they stimulated the ambition
of Raphael more than he ever admitted. He considered
Leonardo the more finished artist of the two. Michael
Angelo's heroic strength and sweep of power failed to
win him. The frescos of Masaccio in the Carmine
Church of Florence he considered better than any per-
formance of Michael Angelo: and as a Roland to this
Oliver, we have a legend to the effect that Raphael once
called upon Michael Angelo and the Master sent down
word from the scaffold, where he was at work, that he
was too busy to see visitors, and anyway, he had all
the apprentices that he could look afterl
How much this little incident biased Raphael's opinion
concerning Michael Angelo's art we cannot say: pos-
sibly Raphael could not have told, either. But such
things count, I am told, for even Dr. Johnson thought
better of Reynolds's work after they had dined to-
gether ºf sºr
It seems that Fra Bartolomeo was one of the first and

R A PHA. E. L. I9
best friends Raphael had at Florence. The monk’s
gentle spirit and modest views of men and things won
the young Umbrian; and between these two there
sprang up a friendship so firm and true that death
alone could sever it.
The deep religious devotion of Bartolomeo set the key
for the first work done by Raphael at Florence. Most
of the time the young man and the monk lived and
worked in the same studio. It was a wonderfully prolific
period for Raphael; from 1504 and 1508 he pushed for-
ward with a zest and earnestness he never again quite
equalled. Most of his beautiful Madonnas belong to
this period, and in them all are a dignity, grace and
grandeur that lift them out of ecclesiastic art, and
place them in the category of living portraits.
Before this, Raphael belonged to the Umbrian School,
but now his work must be classed, if classed at all, as
Florentine. The handling is freer, the nude is more in
evidence, and correct anatomy shows that the artist is
working from life.
Bartolomeo used to speak of Raphael affectionately as
“my son,” and called the attention of Bramante, the
architect, to his work. The beauty of his Madonnas was
being discussed in every studio, & when the “Ansidei”
was exhibited in the Church of Santa Croce, such a
crowd flocked to see the picture that services had to be
dismissed. This rush continued until a thrifty priest
bethought -him to stand at the main entrance with a
contribution box and stout stick, and allow no one to
2O R A PHAE L.
enter who did not contribute good silver for “the
worthy poor.” ºr Bartolomeo acknowledged that his
“pupil’’ was beyond him; Masaccio invited him to add
a finishing touch to his frescos so that he might say,
“Raphael approves”; Leonardo, the courtly, had smiled
a gracious recognition, and Michael Angelo had sneezed
at mention of his name ºf Bramante, back at Rome,
after a visit to Florence, told Pope Julius II., “There
is a young Umbrian at Florence we must send for.”

§ºś
* ºr
@@
SºS)
R A PH AE L 2I
REAT things were happening at
Rome about this time: all roads
led thitherward. Pope Julius had
just laid the corner stone of St.
Peter’s, and full of ambition was
carrying out the dictum of Pope
Nicholas V., that “the Church
should array herself in all the
beauteous spoils of the world, in
order to win the minds of men.”
The Renaissance was fairly begun, fostered and sus-
tained by the Church alone. The Quattrocento–that
time of homely peace and the simple quiet of John Ball
and his fellows—lay behind ºf Raphael had begun his
Roman Period, which was to round out his working
life of barely eighteen years, ere the rest of the Pan-
theon was to be his sy" Before this his time had been
his own, but now the Church was his mistress. But it
was a great honor that had come to him, greater far than
had ever been bestowed on any living artist. Barely
twenty-five years of age, the Pope treated him as an
equal, and worked him like a pack-horse. “He has the
face of an angel,” cried Julius, “and the soul of a god l’’
—when someone suggested his youth.
Pope Leo X., of the Medici family, succeeded Julius. He
sent Michael Angelo to Florence to employ his talents
upon the Medicean church of San Lorenzo. He dis-
missed Perugino, Pinturicchio & Piero Della Francesca,
although Raphael in tears pleaded for them all. Their

22 R A PHA. E. L.
frescos were destroyed & Raphael was told to go ahead
& make the Vatican what it should be ºf His first large
work was to decorate the Hall of the Signatures (Stanza
della Segnatura), where we today see the “Dispute.”
Near at hand is the famous “School of Athens.” In
this picture his own famous portrait is to be seen with
that of Perugino. The first place is given to Perugino,
and the faces affectionately side by side are posed in a
way that has given a cue to ten thousand photographers.
sºr The attitude is especially valuable, as a bit of his-
tory showing Raphael's sterling attachment to his old
teacher. The Vatican is filled with the work of Raphael,
and aside from the galleries to which the general public
is admitted, studies and frescos are to be seen in many
rooms that are closed unless, say, Archbishop Ireland
be with you, when all doors fly open at your touch sy"
The seven Raphael tapestries are shown at the Vatican
an hour each day; the rest of the time the room is
closed to protect them from the light. However, the
original cartoons at South Kensington reveal the sweep
and scope of Raphael's genius better than the tapes-
tries themselves.
Work, unceasing work, filled his days. The ingenuity
and industry of the man were marvelous. Upwards of
eighty portraits were painted during the Roman Period,
besides designs innumerable for engravings, and even
for silver and iron ornaments required by the Church.
Pupils helped him much, of course, and among these
must be mentioned Giulio Romano and Gianfrancesco
R A PHA. E. L. 23
Penni. These young men lived with Raphael in his
splendid house that stood half way between St. Peter's
and the Castle Angelo. Fire swept the space a hundred
years later, and the magnificence it once knew has
never been replaced. Today, hovels built from stone
quarried from the ruins, mark the spot. But as one
follows this white, dusty road, it is well to remember
that the feet of Raphael, passing and repassing, have
made it more than any other one street of Rome,
sacred soil ºf sº
We have seen that Bramante brought Raphael to Rome,
and Pope Leo X. remembered this when the first
architect of St. Peter’s passed away. Raphael was
appointed his successor. The honor was merited, but
the place should have gone to one not already over-
worked sºr ºf
In 1515 Raphael was made Director of Excavations,
another office for which his aesthetic and delicate nature
was not fitted. In sympathy, of course, his heart went
out to the antique workers of the ancient world, on
whose ruins the Eternal City is built; but the drudgery
of overseeing and superintendence belonged to another
type of man.
The stress of the times had told on Raphael; he was
thirty-five, rich beyond all Umbrian dreams of avarice,
on an equality with the greatest and noblest men of
his time, honored above all living artists; but life began
to pall. He had won all—and thereby had learned the
worthlessness of what the world has to offer. Rest, and
24 R A PH AEL,
dreams of love and a quiet country home came to him.
He was betrothed to Maria di Bibbiena, a niece of
Cardinal Bibbiena. The day of the wedding had been
set, and the Pope was to perform the ceremony.
sºr But the Pope regarded Raphael as a servant of the
Church—he had work for him to do—and moreover he
had fixed ideas concerning the glamour of sentiment-
alism, so he requested that the wedding be postponed
for a space.
A request from the Pope was an order, and so the
country house was packed away with other dreams,
that were to come true all in God’s good time.
But the realization of love’s dream did not come true,
for Raphael had a rival. Death claimed his bride.
She was buried in the pantheon, where within a year
Raphael’s worn-out body was placed beside hers; and
there the dust of both mingle.
The history of this love tragedy has never been writ-
ten; it lies buried there with the lovers. But a con-
temporary said, that the fear of an enforced separation
broke the young woman’s heart; and this we know,
that after her death, Raphael’s hand forgot its cunning,
and his frame was ripe for the fever that so soon burned
out the strands of his life.
Michael Angelo, Leonardo da Vinci, Perugino and Fra
Bartolomeo had all made names for themselves before
Raphael appeared upon the scene. Yet they all profited
by his example, & were the richer in that he had lived.
sºr Michael Angelo was born nine years before Raphael
R A PH AEL, 25
and survived him forty-three years. Titian was six
years old when Raphael was born, and he continued
to live and work for fifty-six years after Raphael had
passed away.
It was a cause of grief to the day of his death to Michael
Angelo, that he and Raphael had not been close, per-
sonal, and loving friends, as they should have been.
The art world was big enough for both. Yet Rome was
divided into two hostile camps—those who favored
Raphael and those who had but one prophet, Michael
Angelo. Busybodies rushed back and forth, carrying
foolish messages; and these strong yet gentle men, both
hungering for sympathy and love were thrust apart.
sºr When Raphael realized the end was nigh, he sent
for Perugino, and directed that he should complete cer-
tain work. His career had begun by working with Peru-
gino, and now this friend of a life-time must finish the
broken task and make good the whole. He bade his be-
loved pupils one by one farewell, signed his will which
gave most of his valuable property to his fellow-work-
ers, and commended his soul to the God who gave it.
He died on his birthday, Good Friday, April 6, 1520,
aged thirty-seven years.
Michael Angelo wore mourning upon his sleeve for
a year after Raphael’s death. Once he said: “Raphael
was a child, a beautiful child, and if he had only
lived a little longer, he and I would have grasped
hands as men and worked together as brothers.”
HERE ENDETH THE LITTLE Journey To THE Home
OF RAPHAEL, AS WRITTEN BY ELBERT HUBBARD :
THE TITLE PAGE, INITIALS AND ORNAMENTS BEING
DESIGNED BY SAMUEL WARNER, AND THE WHOLE
DONE INTO A BOOK BY THE ROYCROFTERS, AT THEIR
SHOP, WHICH IS IN EAST AURORA, ERIE COUNTY, NEW
York, IN THE MONTH OF JANUARY, McMIf ++++++++

Pears'
Why is Pears' Soap—the best in the
world, the soap with no free alkali in it
—sold for 15 cents a cake
It was made for a hospital soap in the
first place, made by request, the doctors
wanted a soap that would wash as sharp
as any and do no harm to the skin.
That means a soap all soap, with no
free alkali in it, nothing but soap; there
is nothing mysterious in it. Cost depends
on quantity; quantity comes of quality.
Sold all over the world.
HE success of Little Journeys to the Homies
of Eminent Painters has encouraged Mr.
Hubbard to shake the same tree again, so
the series of LIT T L E JOURNEY S for
Nineteen Hundred and Two will be
More Journeys to the Homes of
6 m i m 2 m tº PI r t is t 8
The numbers will be published in the following order:
I RAPHAEL, 7 COROT
2 LEONARDO 8 HORACE VERNET
3 BOTTICELLI 9 PAUL VERONESE
4 THORWALDSEN ro CELLINI
5 GAINSBOROUGH II ABBEY
6 VELASQUEZ I2 WHISTLER
One booklet a month will be issued as usual, begin-
ning January 1st, 1902. The price will be Twenty-five
Cents each, or Three Dollars for the year.
Life Members are entitled to & will receive Little Journeys without further fee.
The Philistine, $1.oo per year.
Little Journeys, $3.oo per year.
SPECIAL–One Dollar for Both, if subscription is
sent before February 1, 1902.
Regular Rates }
The Philistine, East Aurora, N. Y.
Enclosed is One Dollar, and I request you to send me the Philistine
Magazine for one year and Little Journeys for 1902, as proposed.

§ §33 §
ź.Sº
ºš 5/sº
Yºğ. º). ><2\º:
Kºº
| gº: O)3% Q2
L_ E-z-z-










wº"
•º
w-r …?
.**
*... → *.
Af
* * * * ...
* ... yº.
~ y, -
--
r
Little Journeys
* º: *.*.*.*.
GREAT MUSIcIANs ºf
Volumes VIII and IX—New Series
Each book. contains the following numbers: :
-Dolume-UIII. - . *. Uolume IX: <-'. ...:
1. WAGNER * 7 LISZT * . * , , , , ,
2 PAGANINI a BEETHoven . . .
3 chopIN . . . . 9 HANDEL . . .
4 MozART . . * ro, VERDI : * ~ *
5 BACH * - 11 SCHUMANN .
6 MENDELssoRN - , ; 12 BRAHMs . . . . . .
Containing frontispiece portraits of each of the
subjects, text on Roycroft water-mark, hand-made.
i.j. *:
x * : .#
paper, initials & title-page hand illumined, bound -
in limp chamois—silk lined, gilt top. Edition lim: . .
signed I
ited to one thousand copies, numbered &
by the author.” . . . . . . . . . *.
Price of volumes is Three Dollars each.
Subscribers who already have the above men- '.
tioned booklets in paper covers, may, if they
Fº
choose, return the loose numbers to us by mail
* -r
with remittance of Three Dollars, for, binding, .
and the volumes will go forward. . . . . 4.
t *
x * x
*k
*
A.
*
&
r; , 3 & --> *
tº $ ;"
~ : *
-1. §
* * *
To T H E H o M. Es o F. . . . ºf
i
-;2
A
:-
K:
# -
$. * ... < *
——----→ t— r ":
n *: y ** ,”
& * , k? tly Ł -º-º:
* * ... *
# * - *z r - %, --> -- a r" K.
... * * r * : * H
*~. * - > *: *
- - * , , … " ** 2°, - ºf
+r- ----> **** 3> f ."
***
× { *, ** ,”, i.
East Aurora, New York . . . …,
-r
+ E-E •º- r *. =Fir-
*3. r * * y {# … if
* **

** *, *
ºr
$º ,
*Little gourmer g
(To THE HOMEs of EMINENT ARTISTs
...” -º-º: -º- i-
... - -* -E *
A.
5 * I I I L
* ºt **
* B O
#. 3. *-
2 & 1– —a-- -
º z- º, # wº
,” *
, Vol. X. MARCH 1902. No. 3 By ELBERT HUBBARD
*
Jºs *...* Q: •.
s". * * *- "… * º
* " . **
*: ". *...*
* º # * ...;
* ~#. ir }.” :* .* - X, *
ºx tº gº ºx * * * - ſ
*. * , *
*. †: * ~$. #
*** * * * º <
S.
f * }
* ºw *-*
* % #
• *
** **
*
*** *
*
* *. + #.
* *w
4. d
g-
+- * *
-*. •º. y
> *
*-i
# * * }+ y $.” %.
*:- r **
#. *...*
arº * ** *-
** ** $f *
r
* *.
—r- Ai.
Single Copies, 25 cents By the Year, $3.oo

~~~.
L IT T L E J O U R N-EY.S.
* Jº * # * ** x -->
to T H E H o M. E. S., of ...--".
*
y ** § { … ºff
©minent 3rtistg.º.
**i; *
*. +, T. --- ;:
S E R I E S OF M C M II
*: *
--- * st 4. ** * º
*. -" * + 3- >;-- * ~ à-
The subjects will be in the following order:
1 RAPHAEL- ... 7 coroT º 'º .*
2 LEONARDO . . 8 correggio; i.f.i.
3 BotticFLLI 9 PAUL vićRon Ese .
4 THorwalDSEN - io cFLLIN: "... ...: '..
5 GAINSBorough 11 ABBEY." ... ºf
6 velasquez . . i2 whistLERº &
- * * ,
*…
* **
One booklet a month will be-issued as usual, begin-
ning January Ist. , --, "… ." sº, **
The LITTLE JOURNEYs for goz, will be strictly:
de luxe in form and workmanship. The type will be a,
new font of antique blackface; the initials designed
especially for this work; a frontispiece portrait from.
the original drawing made at our Shop in each on:
Japan Vellum. The booklets will be stitched by hand
with silk. * ... -. – , . * º º, º
The price—25 cents each, or $3.00 for the year..… .
ºzººi...º.º.º.
Address THE ROYCROFTERS at their
Shop, which is at East Aurora; New York:
Entered at the Postoffice at East Aurora, New York for transmission
as second-class mail matter, Copyright, 1902, by Elbert Hubbard."
#3 #. f






THAT PORTRAIT
Of Stevenson by our Mr. Samuel Warner has received
high praise from several Gentle Folk who knew
Master Robert Louis in life, and also from various of
the Discerning who love the man because he voiced
so many beautiful things that we might have voiced
for ourselves had we the mind.
We have a few Artist Proofs of the Warner Portraits,
as follows:
STEVENSON RAPHAEL
LEONARDO BOTTICELLI
Size of these portraits is Io x 14, signed by the Artist,
framed Roycroftie in Antique Oak, forming a takement
that is a Discreet and Delectable ornament for any
library. We will disconnect ourselves from these por-
traits, while they last, for five dollars each—sent to
the Faithful on suspicion. A postal card will do it.
T H E R O Y C R O FT ERS
East Aurora, New York
MO RR IS C H AIR
This is a close replica of the original chair made by the hands of
William Morris. Cushioned complete, $50.00.
THE RoycroFTERs, East Aurora, N. Y.

: % LITTLE--- *
JOURNEYS
A.J. To the Homes of
EMIN ENT
SIART IS T S A.
|#50ttitt IIt
Written by Elbert
A |Hubbard and done
into a Book by the
Roycrofters at their
Shop, which is in “e
East Aurora, New
York, A.D. 1902~~~

In Leonardo’s “Treatise on Painting,” only one contempo-
rary is named—Sandro Botticelli. * * * * * * The Pagan and
Christian world mingle in the work of Botticelli; but the man
himself belonged to an age that is past and gone—an age that
flourished long before men recorded history. His best efforts
seem to spring out of a heart that forgot all precedent, and
arose, Venus-like, perfect and complete, from the unfathom-
able Sea of Existence. WALTER PATER.
B O TT I C E L L I
BOTT ICE L L I 5.I
NE Professor Max Lautner has recently
| placed a small petard under the Euro-
pean world of Art, and given it a hoist
to starboard, by asserting that Rem-
brandt did not paint Rembrandt’s best
pictures. The Professor makes his point
luminous by a cryptogram he has invent-
ed and for which he has filed a caveat.
It is a very useful cryptogram; no well
regulated family should be without it—
for by it you can prove any proposition
you may make, even to establishing
that Hopkinson Smith is America's only
stylist. My opinion is that this crypto-
gram is an infringement on that of our la-
mented countryman, Ignatius Donnelly.
QI. But letting that pass, the statement
that Rembrandt could not have painted
the pictures that are ascribed to him “be-
cause the man was low, vulgar, and
untaught,” commands respect on ac-
count of the extreme crudity of the
thought involved. Lautner is so dull that
he is entertaining.
“I have the capacity in me for every
crime,” wrote that gentlest of gentle
men, Ralph Waldo Emerson. Of course
he had n’t, and in making this assertion,
Emerson pulled toward him a little more

52 B O TT I C E L L I
credit than was his due. That is, he overstated a great
classic truth.
“If Rembrandt painted the ‘Christ at Emmaus' and
the “Sortie of the Civic Guard,” then Rembrandt had
two souls,” exclaims Professor Lautner.
And the simple answer of Emerson would have been,
“He had.”
That is just the difference between Rembrandt and
Professor Lautner. Lautner has one flat, dead-level,
unprofitable soul that neither soars high nor dives deep;
and his mind reasons unobjectionable things out syllo-
gistically, in a manner perfectly inconsequential. He
is icily regular, splendidly null.
Every man measures others by himself—he has only
one standard. When a man ridicules certain traits in
other men, he ridicules himself. How would he know
that other men were contemptible, did he not look into
his own heart and there see the hateful things? Thack-
eray wrote his book on Snobs, because he was a Snob,
—which is not saying that he was a Snob all the time.
GLVVhen you recognize a thing, good or bad, in the out-
side world, it is because it was yours already.
“I carry the world in my heart,” said the Prophet of
old. All the universe you have is the universe you have
within sº sºr
Old Walt Whitman when he saw the wounded soldier,
exclaimed, “I am that man!” And two thousand years
before this, Terence said, “I am a man, and nothing
that is human is alien to me.”
B O TT I C E L L I 53
I know just why Professor Lautner believes that Rem-
brandt never could have painted a picture with a deep,
tender, subtle and spiritual significance. Professor
Lautner averages fairly well, he labors hard to be con-
sistent, but his thought gamut runs just from Bottom
the weaver to Dogberry the judge. He is a cauliflower,
—that is to say, a cabbage with a college education.
CLYes, I understand him, because for most of the
time, I myself am supremely dull, childishly dogmatic,
beautifully self-complacent.
I am Lautner.
Lautner says, Rembrandt was “untaught,” and Don-
nelly said the same of Shakespeare, and each critic
gives this as a reason why the man could not have
done a sublime performance. Yet since “Hamlet” was
never equalled, who could have taught its author how?
And since Rembrandt at his best was never surpassed,
who could have instructed him P
Rembrandt sold his wife's wedding garments, and
spent the money for strong drink.
The woman was dead.
And then there came to him days of anguish, and nights
of grim, grinding pain. He paced the echoing halls, as
did Robert Browning after the death of Elizabeth Bar-
rett when he cried aloud, “I want her! I want her!!”
GLThe cold grey light of morning came creeping into
the sky. Rembrandt was fevered, restless, sleepless.
He sat by the window and watched the day unfold.
And as he sat there looking out to the East, the light
54 E O TT I C E L L I
of love gradually drove the darkness from his heart.
He grew strangely calm—he listened, he thought he
heard the rustle of a woman’s garments; he caught
the smell of her hair—he imagined Saskia was at his
elbow ºf sºr
He took up the palette and brushes that for weeks had
lain idle, and he outlined the “Christ at Emmaus”—
the gentle, loving, sympathetic Christ—the worn,
emaciated, thorn-crowned, bleeding Christ, whom
the Pharisees misunderstood, and the soldiers spit
upon. GI Don’t you know how Rembrandt painted
the “Christ at Emmaus”? (I, I do. Q. I am that man.

B O TT I C E L L I 55
HORTLY after Sandro Botticelli
had painted that most distinctly
pagan picture, “The Birth of Ve-
nus,” he equalized matters, eased
conscience and silenced the critics,
by producing a beautiful Madonna,
surrounded by a circle of singing
angels. Yet, George Eliot writes,
there were wiseacres who shook
their heads and said, “This Madonna is the work of
some good monk—only a man who is deeply religious
could put that look of exquisite tenderness and sympa-
thy in a woman's face. Some one is trying to save
Sandro's reputation, and win him back from his way-
ward ways.”
In the lives of Botticelli and Rembrandt there is a close
similarity. In temperament as well as experience they
seem to parallel each other. In boyhood Botticelli and
Rembrandt were dull, perverse, wilful. Both were
given up by teachers and parents as hopelessly handi-
capped by stupidity. Botticelli’s father, seeing that
the boy made no progress at school, apprenticed him
to a metal-worker. The lad showed the esteem in
which he held his parent by dropping the family name
of Filipepi and assuming the name of Botticelli, the
name of his employer.
Rembrandt thought his boy might make a fair miller,
but beyond this his ambition never soared. Botticelli
and Rembrandt were splendid animals. The many pic-

56 B O TT I C E L L I
tures of Rembrandt, painted by himself, show great
physical vigor and vital power.
The picture of Botticelli, by himself, in the “Adoration
of the Magi,” reveals a powerful physique and striking
personality. The man is as fine as an Aztec, as strong
and self-reliant as a cliff-dweller. Character and habit
is revealed in the jaw—the teeth of the Aztecs were
made to grind dried corn in the kernel, and as long as
they continued grinding dried corn in the kernel, they
had good teeth. Dentists were not required until men
began to feed on mush.
Botticelli had broad, strong, square jaws, wide nos-
trils, full lips, large eyes set wide apart, forehead
rather low and sloping, and a columnar neck that rose
right out of his spine. A man with such a neck can
“stand punishment”—and give it. Such a neck is only
seen once in a thousand times. Men with such necks
have been mothered by women who bore burdens
balanced on their heads, boycotted the corsetier, and
eschewed all deadly French heels.
Do you know the face of Oliver Goldsmith, the droop
of the head, the receding chin and bulging forehead P
Well, Botticelli’s face was the antithesis of this.
Most of the truly great artists have been men of this
Stone-Age,_quality-men who dared. Michael Angelo
was the pure type: Titian who lived a century (lack-
ing one year) was another. Leonardo was the same fine
savage (who in some miraculous way also possessed
the grace of a courtier). Franz Hals, Van Dyck, Rem-
B O TT I C E L L I 57
brandt and Botticelli were all men of fierce appetites,
and heroic physiques. They had animality plus that
would have carried them across the century mark, had
they not drawn checks on futurity, in a belief that their
bank balance was unlimited.
Botticelli and Rembrandt kept step in their history,
both receiving instant recognition in early life and be-
coming rich. Then fashion and society turned against
them—the tide of popularity began to ebb. One rein-
forced his genius by strong drink, and the other became
intoxicated with religious enthusiasm. Finally both
begged alms in the public streets; and the bones of
each filled a pauper’s grave.
Ruskin unearthed Botticelli, (just as he discovered
Turner) and gave him to the Pre-Raphaelites, who fell
down and worshipped him. Whether we would have
had Burne-Jones without Botticelli, is a grave ques-
tion, and anyway it would have been another Burne-
Jones. There would have been no processions of tall,
lissome, melancholy beauties wending their way to
nowhere, were it not for the “Spring.” Ruskin held up
the picture, and the Pre-Raphaelites got them to their
easels. At once all original “Botticellis” were gotten
out, “restored” and reframed. The prices doubled,
trebled, quadrupled as the brokers scoured Europe.
By the year 1876 every “Botticelli” had found a home
in some public institution or gallery, and no lure of
gold could bring one forth.
At Yale University there is a modest collection of good
58 B O TT ICE L L I
pictures. Among them is a “Botticelli”—not a great
picture like the “Crowned Madonna” of the Uffizi, or
“The Nativity” of the National Gallery, but still a
picture painted by Sandro Botticelli, beyond a doubt.
Recently Mr. J. Pierpont Morgan, alumnus of Harvard,
conceived the idea that the “Botticelli” at Yale would
look quite as well, and be safer if it were hung on the
walls of the new granite fireproof Art Gallery at Cam-
bridge. Accordingly he dispatched an agent to New
Haven to buy the “Botticelli.” The agent offered fifty
thousand dollars, seventy-five, one hundred—no. Then
he proposed to build Yale a new art gallery and stock it
with Pan-American pictures, all complete, in exchange
for that little, insignificant and faded “Botticelli.”
But no trade was consummated, and on the walls of
Yale the picture still hangs. Each night a cot is carried in
and placed beneath the picture. And there a watchman
sleeps and dreams of that portrait of the Duchess of Dev-
onshire by Gainsborough, stolen from its frame, lost for
a quarter of a century, and then rescued by one Colonel
Patrick Sheedy, (philanthropist and friend of art) for a
consideration, and sold to J. Pierpont Morgan, alumnus
of Harvard (and a very alert, alive and active man).

B O TT I C E L L I 59
SHORT time ago there shot across
the artistic firmament a comet of
daring and dazzling brightness.
Every comet is hurling onward to
its death: destruction is its only
end: and upon each line and tracery
of the work of Aubrey Beardsley
is the taint of decay.
To deny the genius of the man
were vain—he had elements in his character that made
him akin to Keats, Shelley, Burns, Byron, Chopin and
Stephen Crane. With these his name will in brother-
hood be forever linked. He was one made to suffer, sin,
and die—a few short summers, and autumn came with
yellow leaves and he was gone. And the principal legacy
he left us is the thought of wonder as to what he might
have been had he only lived
Aubrey Beardsley's art was the art of the ugly. His
countenances are so repulsive that they attract. The
psychology of the looks, and leers, and grins, and hot
hectic desires upon the faces of his women are a puz-
zle that we cannot lay aside—we want to solve the
riddle of this paradox of existence—the woman whose
soul is mire and whose heart is hell. Many men have
tried to fathom it at close range, but we devise a safer
plan and follow the trail in books, art and imagination.
Art shows you the thing you might have done or been.
Burke says the ugly attracts us, because we congrat-
ulate ourselves that we are not it.

6o B O TT I C E L L I
The Madonna pictures, multiplied without end, stand
for peace, faith, hope, trustfulness and love. All that
is fairest, holiest, purest, noblest, best, men have tried
to portray in the face of the Madonna. All the good
that is in the hearts of all the good women they know,
all the good that is in their own hearts, they have made
to shine forth from the “Mother of God.” Woman has
been the symbol of righteousness and faith.
On the other hand it was a woman—Louisa De la Rame
—who said, “Woman is the instrument of lust.” Saint
Chrysostom wrote, “She is the snare the devil uses
to lure men to their doom.” I am not quite ready to
accept the dictum of that old, old story that it was the
woman who collaborated with the serpent and first
introduced sin and sorrow into the world. Or, should
I believe this, I wish to give woman due credit for
giving to man the Fruit of the Tree of Knowledge—
the best gift that ever came his way.
But the first thought holds true in a poetic way—it has
always been, is yet, and always will be true, that the
very depths of degradation are only sounded by woman.
As poets, painters and sculptors have ever chosen a
woman to stand for what is best in humanity, so she
has posed as their model when they wanted to reveal
the worst.
This desire to depict villainy on a human face seems
to have found its highest modern exponent in Aubrey
Beardsley. With him man is an animal, and woman
a beast. Aye, she is worse than a beast—she is a vam-
B O TT I C E L L I 6I
pire. Kipling's summing up of woman as “a rag and a
bone, and a hank of hair” gives no clue to the possibili-
ties in way of subtle, reckless, reaches of deviltry,
compared with a single simple outline drawing by
Beardsley ºf sºr
Beardsley's heroines are the kind of women who can
kill a man by a million pin pricks, so diabolically, subtly
and slyly administered that no one but the victim would
be aware of the martyrdom—and he could not explain it.
(LAs you enter the main gallery of statuary at the
Luxembourg you will see, on a slightly raised platform,
at the extreme opposite end of the room, the nude
figure of a man. The mold is heroic, and the strong
pose at once attracts your attention. As you approach
closer you will see, standing behind the man, the figure
of a woman. Her form is elevated so she is leaning
over him and her face is turned so her lips are about
to be pressed upon his. You approach still closer, and
a feeling of horror flashes through you—you see that
the beautiful arms of the woman end in hairy claws.
The claws embrace the man in deadly grasp, and are
digging deep into his vitals. On his face is a look of
fearful pain, and every splendid muscle is tense with
awful agony.
Now if you do as I did, you will suddenly turn and go
out into the fresh air—the fearful realism of the marble
will for the moment unnerve you.
This is the piece of statuary that gave Phillip Burne-
Jones the cue for his painting, “The Vampire”; which
62 B O TT I C E L L I
picture suggested the poem, by the same name, to
Rudyard Kipling.
Aubrey Beardsley gloated on the Vampire—she was
the sole goddess of his idolatry.
No wonder it was that the story of Salome attracted
him Salome was a woman so wantonly depraved that
Beardsley, with a touch of pious hypocrisy, said he
dared not use her for dramatic purposes, save for the
fact that she was a Bible character.
You remember the story:—John the Baptist, the strong,
fine youth came up out of the wilderness crying in the
streets of Jerusalem, “Repent ye! Repent ye!”
Salome heard the call and looked upon the semi-naked
young fanatic, from her window with half-closed, cat-
like eyes. She smiled, did this idle creature of luxury,
as she lay there amid the cushions on her couch, and
gazed through the casement upon the preacher in the
street. Suddenly a thought came to her l She arose on
her elbow—she called her slaves.
They clothed her in a gaudy gown, dressed her hair,
and led her forth.
Salome followed the wild, weird, religious enthusiast.
She pushed through the crowd and placed herself near
the man, so the smell of her body would reach his
nostrils, and his eye would range the swelling lines of
her body sºr ºf
Their eyes met. She half smiled and gave him that
look which had snared the soul of many another. But
he only gazed at her with passionless, judging intensity
B O TT I C E L L I 63
and repeated his cry, “Repent ye, Repent ye, for the
day is at hand!”
Her reply, uttered soft and low, was this: “I would
kiss thy lips!”
He turned away and she reached to seize his garment,
repeating—“I would kiss thy lips—I would kiss thy
lips!” ºr sºr
He turned aside, and forgot her, as he continued his
warning cry, and went his way.
The next day she waylaid the youth again; as he came
near she suddenly and softly stepped forth and said in
that same low voice, “I would kiss thy lips!”
He repulsed her with scorn. She threw her arms
about him and sought to draw his head down near
hers. He pushed her from him with sinewy hands,
sprang as from a pestilence, and was lost in the press-
ing throng.
That night she danced before Herod Antipas and when
the promise was recalled that she should have anything
she wished, she named the head of the only man who
had ever turned away from her—“The head of John
the Baptist on a charger!”
In an hour the wish is gratified. Two eunuchs stand
before Salome with a silver tray bearing its fearsome
burden sº ºf
The woman smiles—a smile of triumph, as she steps
forth with tinkling feet. A look of pride comes over the
painted face. Her jeweled fingers reach into the blood-
matted hair. She lifts the head aloft, and the bracelets
B O TT I C E L L I
on her brown, bare arms fall to her shoulders, making
d
she exclaims, “I have kissed thy lips!”
the face of the
ead.
!
usic. Her face presses

B O TT I C E L L I 65
|HE most famous picture painted
by Botticelli is the “Spring,” now
in the Academy at Florence. The
picture has given rise to endless
inquiry, and the explanation was
made in the artist’s day and is still
made, that it was painted to illus-
trate a certain passage in Lucre-
tius. This innocent little subterfuge
of giving a classic turn to things in art and literature,
has allowed many a man to shield his reputation and
gloss his good name. When Art relied upon the pro-
tecting wing of the Church, the poet-painters called
their risky little things “Susannah and the Elders,”
“The Wife of Uriah” or “Pharaoh's Daughter.” Lucas
Van Leyden once pictured a Dutch wench with such
startling and realistic fidelity that he scandalized a
whole community, until he labeled the picture “Poti-
phar’s Wife.”
When the taste for the classics began to be cultivated,
we had “Leda and the Swan,” “Psyche,” “Phryne
before the Judges,” “Aphrodite rising from the Sea;”
and later, England experienced quite an artistic erup-
tion of Lady Godivas. Literature is filled with many
such naive little disguises as “Sonnets from the Port-
uguese,” and Robert Browning himself caught the idea
and put many a maxim into the mouth of another, for
which he preferred not to stand sponsor.
Botticelli painted the “Spring” for Lorenzo the Mag-

66 B O TT I C E L L I
nificent, to be placed in the Medici villa at Castello.
The picture, it will be remembered, represents seven
female figures, a flying cupid, and a youth. The youth
is a young man of splendid proportions; he stands in
calm indifference with his back to the sparsely clad
beauties, and reaches into the branches of a tree for
the plentecus fruit. This youth is a composite portrait
of Botticelli and his benefactor, Lorenzo. The women
were painted from life, and represent various favorites
and beauties of the court. The drawing is faulty, the
center of gravity being lost in several of the figures,
and the anatomy of a quality that must have given a
severe shock to the artist’s friend Leonardo. Yet the
grace, the movement and the joyous quality of the
spring is in it all. It is a most fascinating picture, and
we can well imagine the flutter it produced when first
exhibited four hundred years ago.
Two figures in the picture challenge attention. One of
these represents approaching maternity—a most daring
thing to attempt. This feature seems to belong to the
School of Hogarth alone—a school, which, let us pray,
is hopelessly dead.
Cimabue and several of his pupils painted realistic pic-
tures representing Mary visiting Elizabeth, but the
intense religious zeal back of them, was a salt that
saved from offending. Occasionally the staid and sober
Dutch successfully attempted the same theme, and
their stolidity stood for them, as religious zeal had
done for the early Italians—we pardon them simply
B O TT I C E L L I 67
because they knew no better than to choose a subject
that is beyond the realm of art.
The restorers and engravers have softened down Bot-
ticelli's intent, which was originally well defined, but
we can easily see that the effect was delicate and
spiritual. The woman’s downcast gaze is full of ten-
derness and truth. That figure when it was painted
was history, and must have had a very tender interest
for two persons at least. Had the painter dared to
suggest motherhood in that other figure—the one with
the flowered raiment—he would have offended against
decency, and the art-sense of the world would have
stricken his name from the roster of fame forever,
and made him anathema.
More has been written and said, and more copies made
of that woman in the flowered dress in the “Spring”
than of any other portrait I can remember, save pos-
sibly the “Mona Lisa.”
The face is not without a certain attractiveness; the
high cheek bones, the narrow forehead, and the lines
above her brow show that this is no ideal sketch—it
is the portrait of a woman who once lived. But the
peculiar mark of depravity is the eye—this woman
looks at you with a cold, calm, calculating, brazen
leer. Hidden in the folds of her dress or the coil of her
hair, is a stiletto—she can find it in an instant—and
as she looks at you out of those impudent eyes, she is
mentally searching out your most vulnerable spot. In
this woman’s face there is an entire absence of wonder,
68 B O TT I C E L L I
curiosity, modesty, or passion. All that we call the
eternally feminine is obliterated.
“Mona Lisa” is infinitely wise, while this woman is
only cunning. All the lure she possesses is the lure of
warm, pulsing youth—grown old she will be a repul-
sive hag. Speculation has made her one of the Borgias,
for in the days of Botticelli a Borgia was a Pope, and
Caesar Borgia and his court were well known to Bot-
ticelli—from such a group he could have picked his
model, if anywhere. Ruskin has linked this unknown
wicked beauty with Machiavelli. But Machiavelli had
a head that out-matched hers, and he would certainly
have left her to the fool-moths that fluttered around
her candle. Machiavelli used women, and this woman,
has only one ambition and that is to use men. She
represents concrete selfishness, the mother instinct
swallowed up in pride, and conscience smothered by
hate. Certainly sex is not dead in her, but it is perverted
below the brute. Her passion would be so intense and
fierce that even as she caressed her lover, with arm
about his neck, she would feel softly for his jugu-
lar, mindful the while, of the stiletto hidden in her
hair. GLAnd this is the picture that fired the brain
of Aubrey Beardsley, and caused him to fix his
ambition on becoming the Apostle of the Ugly.
B O TT I C E L L I 6g
To LIKEN Beardsley to Botticelli
seems indeed a sin. The master
was an artist, but Beardsley only
gave chalk talks. His work is
often rude, crude and raw. He is
only a promise, turned to dust.
Yet let the simple fact stand for
what it is worth, that Beardsley
had but one god and that was Botti-
celli. Most of the things Beardsley did were ugly; many
of the things Botticelli did were supremely beautiful.
6LYet in all of Botticelli's work there is a tinge of mel-
ancholy—a shade of disappointment. The “Spring” is
a sad picture. On the faces of his tall, fine, graceful
girls there is a hectic flush. Their cheeks are hollow,
and you feel that their beauty is already beginning to
fade. Like fruit too much loved by the sun, they are
ready to fall.
Botticelli had the true love nature. By instinct he was a
lover, the proof of which lies in the fact that he was deep-
ly religious. The woman he loved he has pictured over
and over again. The touch of sorrow is ever in her wan
face, but she possessed a silken strength, a heroic nature,
a love that knew no turning. She had faith in Botticelli,
and surely he had faith in her. For forty years she was
in his heart; at times he tried to dislodge her and replace
her image by another; but he never succeeded and the
last Madonna he drew is the same wistful, loving, pa-
tient face—sad yet proud, strong yet infinitely tender.

7o B O TT I C E L L I
|N THAT piece of lapidary work,
“How Sandro Botticelli saw Simo-
netta in the Spring,” is a bit of
heart psychology which, I believe,
has never been surpassed in Eng-
lish ºf sºf
Simonetta, of the noble house of
Vespucci, was betrothed to Giuli-
J ano, brother of Lorenzo the Mag-
nificent. Simonetta was tall, stately,–beautiful as
Venus, wise as Minerva and proud as Juno. She knew
her worth, realized her beauty, and feeling her power
made others feel it, too.
On a visit to the villa of the Medici at Fiesole she first
saw Sandro Botticelli at an evening assembly in the
gardens. She had heard of the man and knew his genius.
When they suddenly met face to face under the boughs,
she noted how her beauty startled him. His gaze ranged
the exquisite lines of her tall form, then sought the
burnished gold of her hair. Their eyes met.
First of all this man was an artist: the art-instinct
in him was supreme: after that he was a lover.
Simonetta saw he had looked upon her merely as a
“subject.” She was both pleased and angry. She too
loved art, but she loved love more. She was a woman.
GI. They separated, and Simonetta inwardly compared
the sallow, slavish scion of a proud name, to whom
she was betrothed, with this God’s Nobleman whom
she had just met. Giuliano's words were full of soft

B O TT I C E L L I 71
flattery; this man uttered an oath of surprise under his
loreath, on first seeing her, and treated her almost with
rudeness ºf sºf
She fought the battle out there, alone, leaning against
a tree, listening to the monotonous voice of a poet who
was reading from Plato. She felt the disinterested
greatness of Sandro, she knew the grandeur of his in-
tellect—she was filled with a desire to be of service to
him. Certainly she did not love him—a social abyss
separated them—but could not her beauty and power
in some way be allied with his, so that the world should
be made better?
“Shame is of the brute dullard who thinks shame,”
came the resonant voice of the reader. The words rang
in her ears. Sandro was greater than the mere flesh–
she would be, too. She would pose for him, and thus
give her beautiful body to the world—beauty is eternal.
Her action would bless and benefit the centuries yet
to come. She was the most beautiful of women—he
the greatest of artists. It was an opportunity sent from
the gods!
Instantly she half ran, seeking the painter. She found
him standing apart, alone. She spoke eagerly and hotly,
fearing her courage would falter before she could make
known her wish:
“Ecco, Messer Sandro,” she whispered, casting a fur-
tive look about—“who is there in Florence like me?”
QI"There is no one,” calmly answered Sandro.
“I will be your Lady Venus,” she went on breath-
72 B O TT I C E L L I
lessly, stepping closer—“You shall paint me rising
from the seal” “ ” “ ” “ * * * * * * * * * * *
Very early the next morning, before the household was
astir, Sandro entered the apartments of the Lady Simo-
netta. She was awaiting him, leaning with feigned
carelessness against the balustrade, arrayed from head
to toe in a rose-colored mantle. One bare foot peeped
forth from under the folds of the robe.
Neither spoke a word.
Sandro arranged his easel, spread his crayons on the
table, and looked about the room making calculations
as to light.
He motioned her to a certain spot. She took the posi-
tion, and as he picked up a crayon and examined it
carelessly, she raised her arms and the robe fell at
her feet sº ºr
Sandro faced her, and saw the tall delicate form, pal-
pitating before him. The rays of the morning sun swept
in between the lattices and kissed her shoulder, face
and hair ºr ºf
For an instant the artist was in abeyance. Then from
under his breath he exclaimed “Holy Virgin! what a
line! Stay as you are, I implore you—swerve not a
hair's breadth, and soon you shall be mine forever!”
QIThe pencil broke under his impetuous stroke. He
seized another and worked at headlong speed. The
woman watched him with eyes dilated. She was agi-
tated, and the pink of her fair skin came and went. Her
B O TT I C E L L I 73
face grew pale, and she swayed like a reed. GIAll the
time she watched the artist, fearfully. She was at his
mercy! sºr ºf
Ah God! he was only an artist with the biggest mouth
in all Florence! She noted how he tossed the hair
from his eyes every moment. She saw the heavy jaw,
the great broad-spreading feet, the powerful chest.
His smothered exclamations as he worked filled her
with scorn. What had she done? Who was she, any-
way, that she should thus bare her beauty before such
a creature? He had not even spoken to her! Was she
only a thing?
She grew deadly pale and reeled as she stood there.
Two big tears chased each other down her cheeks.
The painter looking up saw other tears glistening on
her lashes.
He noted her distress.
He dropped his crayon and made a motion as if to ad-
vance to her relief.
A few moments before and he might have folded her
mantle about her and assisted her to a seat—then they
would have talked, reassured each other, and been
mutually understood. To be understood—to be appre-
ciated—that is it!
It was too late, now—she hated him.
As he advanced she recovered herself.
She pointed her finger to the door, and bade him begone.
QI Hastily he huddled his belongings into a parcel and
without looking up, passed out of the door. She heard
74 B O TT I C E L L I
his steps echoing down the stairway, and soon from
out the lattice she saw him walk across the court and
disappear. He did not look up!
She threw herself upon her couch, buried her face in
the pillows and burst into tears.
}
In one short week word came to Sandro that Simo-
netta was dead—a mysterious quick fever of some kind
—she had refused all food—the doctors could not under-
stand it—the fever had just burned her life out!
Let Maurice Hewlett tell the rest: They carried dead
Simonetta through the streets of Florence with her
pale face uncovered and a crown of myrtle in her hair.
People thronging there held their breath, or wept to
see such still loveliness; and her poor parted lips wore
a patient little smile, and her eyelids were pale violet
and lay heavy on her cheek. White, like a bride, with
a heavy nosegay of orange-blossom and syringa at her
throat, she lay there on her bed with lightly folded
hands and the strange aloofness and preoccupation all
the dead have. Only her hair burned about her like
molten copper.
The great procession swept forward; black brothers of
Misericordia, shrouded and awful, bore the bed or
stalked before it with torches that guttered and flared
sootily in the dancing light of day. * * * * * *
Santa Croce, the great church, stretched forward be-
yond her into distances of grey mist and cold spaces
of light. Its bare vastness was damp like a vault. And
she lay in the midst, listless, heavy-lidded, apart, with
the half smile, as it seemed, of some secret mirth.
Round her the great candles smoked and flickered, and
mass was sung at the High Altar for her soul’s repose.
B O TT I C E L L I 75
Sandro stood alone facing the shining altar, but looking
fixedly at Simonetta on her couch. He was white, with
dry-parched lips and eyes that ached and smarted. Was
this the end? Was it possible, my God! that the trans-
parent unearthly thing lying there so prone and pale
was dead? Had such loveliness aught to do with life
or death? Ah! sweet lady, dear heart, how tired she
was, how deadly tired! From where he stood, he could
see with intolerable anguish the sombre rings around
her eyes and the violet shadows on the lids, her folded
hands and the straight meek line to the feet. And her
poor wan face with its wistful pitiful little smile was
turned half aside on the delicate throat, as if in a last
appeal:—“Leave me now, O Florentines, to my rest.”
Poor child! Poor child! Sandro was on his knees with
his face pressed against the pulpit and tears running
through his fingers as he prayed. * * * * * *
As he had seen her, so he painted. As at the beginning
of life in a cold world, passively meeting the long
trouble of it, he painted her a rapt Presence floating
evenly to our earth. A grey, translucent sea laps
silently upon a little stream and, in the hush of a still
dawn, the myrtles and sedges on the water’s brim are
quiet. It is a dream in half tones that he gives us,
grey and green and steely blue; and just that, and
some homely magic of his own, hint the commerce
of another world with man’s discarded domain. Men
and women are asleep, and as in an early walk you
may startle the hares at their play, or see the creatures
of the darkness—owls and night hawks, and heavy
moths—flit with fantastic purpose over the familiar
scene, so here it comes upon you suddenly that you
have surprised Nature's self at her mysteries; you are
let into the secret; you have caught the spirit of the
April woodland as she glides over the pasture to the
76 B O TT I C E L L I
copse. And that, indeed, was Sandro's fortune. He
caught her in just such a propitious hour. He saw the
sweet wild thing, pure and undefiled by touch of earth;
caught her in that pregnant pause of time ere she had
lighted. Another moment and a buxom nymph of the
grove would fold her in a rosy mantle, colored as the
earliest wood-anemones are. She would vanish, we
know, into the daffodils or a bank of violets. And you
might tell her presence there, or in the rustle of the
myrtles, or coo of doves mating in the pines; you
might feel her genius in the scent of the earth
or the kiss of the west wind; but you could
only see her in mid-April, and you should look for
her over the sea. She always comes with the first
warmth of the year. GI But daily, before he painted,
Sandro knelt in a dark chapel in Santa Croce, while a
priest said mass for the repose of Simonetta’s soul.

B O TT I C E L L I 77
EORGE ELIOT gives many a side-
glimpse of the art life of Florence
in the days of the luxury-loving
Medici. She saturated herself in
Italian literature and history, and
the days of Fra Angelico, Fra Lippo
Lippi, and Fra Girolamo Savon-
arola are bodied forth from lines
- deeply etched upon her heart.
When you go to Florence carry “Romola” in your
side-pocket, just as you take the “Marble Faun” to
Rome. The book is sad, but on the theory that like
cures like, you will find to read something sad in a sad
city will lighten your spirits. And certainly it will make
history live again and pass before your gaze. The story
is unmistakably high art, for from the opening lines of
the proem you hear the slow, measured wing of death;
and after you have read the volume, forever, for you,
will the smoke of martyr fires hover about the Piazza
Signoria, and from the gates of San Marco you will see
emerge that little man in black robe and cowl,—that
homely, repulsive man with the curved nose, the pro-
truding lower lip, the dark leathery skin—that man
who lured and fascinated by his poise and power,
whose words were whips of scorpions that stung his
enemies until they had to silence him by a rope; and
as a warning to those whom he had hypnotized, they
burned his swart, shrunken body in the public square,
just as he had burned their books and pictures.

78 B O TT I C E L L I
Sandro Botticelli, the painter, who made sensuality
beautiful, ugliness seductive, and the sin-stained soul
attractive, renounced all and followed the Monk of
San Marco–sensuality and asceticism at the last are
one. When the procession headed for the Piazza Sig-
noria, where the fagots were piled high, Sandro stood
afar off and his heart was wrung in anguish, as he saw
the glare of the flames gild the Eastern sky. And this
anguish was not for the friends who had perished—
no no, it was for himself: the thought that he was un-
worthy of martyrdom filled his mind—he had fallen at
the critical moment. Basely and cravenly he had saved
himself. By saving all he lost all. To lose one's self-
respect is the only calamity. Sandro Botticelli had
failed to win the approval of his Other Self—and this
is defeat, and there is none other. He might have sent
his soul to God on the wings of victory, in glorious
company, but now it was too late—too late!
From this time forth he ceased to live—he merely ex-
isted. Into his soul there occasionally shot gleams of
sunshine, but his nerveless hands refused to do the
bidding of his brain. He stood on crutches, hat in hand,
at church doors, and asked for alms. Sometimes he
would make bold to tell people of wonderful pictures
within, over the Altar or upon the walls; and he would
say that they were his, and then the hearers would laugh
aloud, and ask him to repeat his words, that others too
might hear and laugh. Thus dwindled the passing days;
and for him who had painted the glorious “Spring,”
B O TT I C E L L I

so HERE ENDETH THE LITTLE JOURNEY TO THE
HOME OF BOTTICELLI, AS WRITTEN BY ELBERT HUB-
BARD, THE TITLE PAGE, INITIALS AND ORNAMENTS
BEING DESIGNED BY SAMUEL WARNER, AND THE
WHOLE DONE INTO A BOOKLET BY THE ROYCROFT-
ERS AT THEIR shop, which IS IN EAST AURORA,
NEw York, IN THE MONTH of MARCH, McMII w w w

Pears'
Agreeable soap for the hands is one
that dissolves quickly, washes quickly,
rinses quickly, and leaves the skin soft
and comfortable. It is Pears’.
Wholesome soap is one that attacks
the dirt but not the living skin. It is
Pears’.
Economical soap is one that a touch
of cleanses. And this is Pears’.
Established over Ioo years.

KEEP THE CHANGE
S YOU go East or West, Men and Things change but slightly;
It is longitude gives the change, not latitude.
You need a Change—everybody does occasionally—so go
South sº sº
Suppose you go by the Big Four to Cincinnati. Arriving there you
walk just across the street—uniformed porters meet every train and
will carry your luggage—to the Grand Hotel. Mine Host Shears will
greet you with a gladsome smile—he 's a Philistine, kind, gentle, frank,
courteous, psychic, and never fussy. You will like him because he
will put you next to every good thing and then let you relax and rest.
The following morning you better take the day train for Chattanooga
—Queen and Crescent Route, just across the street—same station
where you came in.
The night ride in the sleeper is an easy journey, but the day ride
down is a change all day long. Things just unfold for you from the
time you cross the Ohio River. Take the Observation Parlor Car and
George will look after your wants. You can sit in a Morris Chair, write
Poetry or Hot Stuff at a desk, recline on a sofa or sit out-doors at the
rear and watch the panorama.
When you want lunch George will prepare it for you. He will broil
you a chicken or a steak while you stand by and superintend the
operation—it's lots of fun. Six of us (never met before) had a family
dinner—the girls set the table with the help of George.
Go by the Queen and Crescent and the trip will do you so much good
that you will forever after

KEEP THE CHANGE
LIB R A R Y TABLE
Four feet, two inches long, two feet nine inches
wide, mortised and pinned, $25.00.
THE ROYCROFTERs, East
Aurora, New York


TIME (8). CHANCE
By E L B E R T H U B B A R D
HE adventurous and romantic career of John
Brown of Osawatomie, the unfortunate and the
heroic. A big story told in a big way G G G & G G G
New York Mail and Express: We have nothing but praise for Mr. Hubbard's
book. It is as well done as “The Crisis,” and as successful in its presentation of
a great and significant figure in the story of human freedom.
Buffalo Express: The whole book, fact and fiction combined, is a powerful ex-
position of public thought and of events during the most important period in
our Nation’s history. The tale is artistically, effectively told.
St. Louis Globe-Democrat : Several authors have tried their hands, or, rather,
their pens, on old John Brown of Osawatomie, but no one has given a better
characterization of this unique personage than in “Time & Chance.”
Col. Richard J. Hinton : I have read Hubbard's book “Time and Chance.” I read
it at a gulp, with tears and heart throbbings. I knew John Brown, lived with
him, tramped with him, fought with him, and had a price placed upon my head
for being mixed up with him at Harper's Ferry. Hubbard gives the truest por-
trait of old Osawatomie Brown that I ever read. The book rings true—sternly,
awfully, vividly true, and the writer must have been marching with the soul of
the man in order to have penned it.
The Criterion (New York): Those who have known Mr. Hubbard only through
the mingled slang and sarcasm of his Philistine, will be surprised on reading
this book to find that he can write a good story. But it is valuable as a biog-
raphy also, and Hubbard, like most biographers, is in love with his hero.
Chicago Tribune: The story is fascinatingly told and with the conception of
the artist.
Louisville Courier-Journal: One of the strongest and best written books in
years.
G. P. Putnam’s Jons | $1.50
MEU YORK 2 a. and all Booksellers
º:
º (A
385 C Kºº. gºzº. |
º
Yºº
º

3. —-
C jºr " ; ×, ** * ** -
Little Journeys.
T o f H. E. H. o M E s or gºe.
wºr * * * *...
GREAT MUSICIANS ...:
–M-
Wo 'a in es W H 1 i a n d IX—New Series
* ** -*.
* ...?.
*:
* w * *- • , ” wº * *
Each book contains the following numbers: . . .
*
Uolume U11ſ. . . totiune 1.x. º '...}
I WAGNER 7 LISZT - , , , ºff
2 PAGANINI ~ 8 BEETHoven.'... "sº
3 CHOPIN *—we 9 HANDEL . . . ." §.
4 MOZART • roverni w . . . .”
5 BACH * ** 11 schumann . . . . . * *
6 MENDELssohn ... sa BRAHMs: º, .
-r * *
* * * *. **** **
Containing frontispiece portraits of eae of the sº
subjects, text on Roycroft water-mark, hand-mădº.
paper, initials & title-page hand illumined; bound:
in limp chamois—silk lined, gilt top. Edition limi-,
ited to one thousand copies, numbered & signed.
by the author. . . . . . . . . .” - ºf
Price of volumes is Three Dollars each. . . .º
Subscribers who already have the above -men-,”
tioned booklets in paper covers, may, if they, .
choose, return the loose numbers to us by mail
with remittance of Three Dollars, for binding,
and the volumes will go forward. . . . . . . . . .
*
**
º
*
**
*
r: 1.” :
. ...” º
THE RoycroFTERs " . "
East Aurora, New York " -g
* *— —------1––=~~~-* *r- a * f
r;
—F. +--— *-





*%,
4. **** 3.,* ş.,º***** 4. ?-?*ſae§§
*+ +*≡
-ș
%
}ș•
;ºſ#*
?> ！! ！！ ！！！
|×（~~}, … ?！?！?！
#ă
co^eºS ‘Jeax oqa &q （ - syu35.9%ºsaſ**ų:
*>'，
、、、”?
*、、。。 。
****ş, ſº*
*
§-ſ
*,
*, ***#:
º*žºj.r-E-：！， ¡i# Pi?：
**ż-§ 2. ſæſºn
rz** .. '！ºxf ， , ; *****¿¿¿ { */
2Àå‘……x�****2-.*¿?eſ,A^*^），±%.*¿¿.
CIſIwgºn H JL±1，±，±，± Ãgwººn， ºe， ºrixav（x，yºğº
• * *.?*… și*
*
--------*** •î–*±%.*£）;*es. , **¿?ș-***
*
ș*
§.<%
sº· * * …**«.ș，ș
+£
ae;
***…*
~• w：* virș
*„*Ł-4�*:
-*** ,• • •
<!„
r.
„…*
+ ' '） ***
*
r*
！«
.*
på *
）;
* 4 **
ºrr-！~~~;~~ș.！
ſºſ.șº_ſ=**..、
{„* *și-
\sISI Lºv （NANIwaſg sºwoſº），
r-șx
* * * *
ș*
§?
ršÅ§§§ ,
**---<--
#&·&. ，→ *,·āſ &Ă
#**. 3.#? ***
* •?ș º∞ √ √
ș•», ºg * , †€.yº,ſaegºſ
**.*%*s)，*： ：»…!Ķ
4º*#~º:#;<*№.£ș*“;
****ș*,#*“º”）,* xx*:）*）ș8，（§.?*?）（…）??? :）
*aeșè.·șÈ.* * * * · * （º.*ț¢º№ſ ſººſ
*„x&º~~ ~~~. :） ***#！***！ ſae; 3 ） $
��|׫¿ș*、。----ér. -º-№ en✉ , ！Š，…x.， L.，，，，，，，，**）：·
w tº
Eºr.


ºº:
º sº
$º gº
; “f sº º
sº gº º 8
º ſº. #
zºº .#
* º
§:
º
****
º
ſº
* .# ° e. rº * *** º ºg à. tº:
* * #: O # * ºf $ºgº.
T.G., T H.E. º o:M sº º
º, tº f sº º º żº:
* A
* *
* # * ***
* ** :* ſº ** º & "... * tºº. º
H. +. * i. *: ... # * **ś
** ** * <º *…* * nº. ºx 3 ** ¥ sº
* ~, 3. * §:
* 3%.
~# “,
*g $
...? * - !--- 3.
- wrº-sº -> -- - tºº.º.º.º.º.º.º.º.º.º.
** g wº … ." §. z * ~x-----tº- #Tº gºy-ºr --> -
y $º rº' -- - - ç *. &: †. tº: -
& * } a. * * # * ** & *.
+4 -###. * $:
*. * * **** * 3.
º * * * º “º, # * w *::s. º
*º- .* * º, $3. ****
º
*ś
*::: º .
§§§
§
r
* *†. *. ...? º §§ 3. §
* x Jº §
* * : º: 3. gº
O.F.'s C.º
* zz. ‘. *. i.
zºº. Tº
.
*
ºf **
wºx
z-
º *
... . . . . ...º.º.º. º.
$3. #. wº * * * wº ~ * #. .# *:
The subjects will be in the following order:
* * • - * ... • J. • *.*.*.*.*: § ºf #.
sº **'.”
& sº
§ rº
**º- * -* *, *- *. *** 3.3°.”
1 RAPHAEL x ~ : ... -7 corderº
2 Leonardo 8-corrāGºrº
4 THorwalps EN. : rö Q#Lºf . º
5 GAINSBoroughºff. Asāīy:
6 VELASQUEZ ºra W.
* * * * *; # . ; : **** tº * tº
“... * ; * *º: ..? &
One booklet a month will beiºsº sº &
ning January 1st. - Tº º
- ... ." – ... " ...º.º.
The LITTLE Journeys for sº
* * s. * * > . & * º º
de luxe in form and workmanship. Theº ãº
º # º: *…
new font of antique blackfate; the initia
especially for this work; a frontispiece fºrtrait.
the original drawing made at our Shºp in each
§º
ſº
ºs ºº
º ;
tºº -
ºš. . .” - * :
ºf tº 2. º sº
*: ſº . . $4.25°.” º * † º & wº
Japan Vellum. The booklets will be stitched biº
* * * * , s, *, *, r* ºº:
with silk. . . . • * * * * ~ *. º *:::::::s * *ś#3 3.
sº .* ...” # " . *J • . & "...a sº & #:
The price—25 cents each, or $3.06 for the year: º,
$* * & ºf 4. *...** 3. & * *** * -i- 's *. ...?” *- & :
* :F -º-, sº-º-º-º-º:
Address THE ROYCROFTERSºtºrieſ;
$, sº **, : & & Sgt. f #. * ~ * sº sº * Hºº-ºº:
Shop, which is at East Attrörajewºrk
*--- wº x" <-i. -º- 2: *ºtº *
Entered at the Postomee at Éist Aurors. New Yºsfits ississiº
second-cla il m ; yfights room. Bºšibsº
as second-class may matter copyright; isºft
º * §3.
3. ** *: :*


































TIME (8). CHANCE
By E. L. B E R T H U B B A R D
HE adventurous and romantic career of John
Brown of Osawatomie, the unfortunate and the
heroic. A big story told in a big way G G G G G G &
New York Mail and Express: We have nothing but praise for Mr. Hubbard's
book. It is as well done as “The Crisis,” and as successful in its presentation of
a great and significant figure in the story of human freedom.
Buffalo Express: The whole book, fact and fiction combined, is a powerful ex-
position of public thought and of events during the most important period in
our Nation's history. The tale is artistically, effectively told.
St. Louis Globe-Democrat: Several authors have tried their hands, or, rather,
their pens, on old John Brown of Osawatomie, but no one has given a better
characterization of this unique personage than in “Time & Chance.”
Col. Richard J. Hinton : I have read Hubbard's book “Time and Chance.” I read
it at a gulp, with tears and heart throbbings. I knew John Brown, lived with
him, tramped with him, fought with him, and had a price placed upon my head
for being mixed up with him at Harper's Ferry. Hubbard gives the truest por-
trait of old Osawatomie Brown that I ever read. The book rings true—sternly,
awfully, vividly true, and the writer, must have been marching with the soul of
the man in order to have penned it.
The Criterion (New York): Those who have known Mr. Hubbard only through
the mingled slang and sarcasm of his Philistine, will be surprised on reading
this book to find that he can write a good story. But it is valuable as a biog-
raphy also, and Hubbard, like most biographers, is in love with his hero.
Chicago Tribune: The story is fascinatingly told and with the conception of
the artist.
Louisville Courier-Journal: One of the strongest and best written books in
years.
(This book is printed by G. P: Putnam's Sons,
but bound Roycroftie by the Roycrofters,
East Aurora, N. Y. The price is two dollars.
S O L ID O A. K. C. H. A. I. R.
All hand work. The price is $20. Address
THE RoycroFTERs, East Aurora, N. Y.


Q
§§ EMinent.
º ARTISTS-e ve y
ºº::
KJourneys
To the Homes of
CbQrwaldsen
§3. &
§ G. §§
(TSNWº:
*X #y Cº.

See the hovering ships on the wharves! The Dannebrog
waves, the workmen sit in circle under the shade at their
frugal breakfasts; but foremost stands the principal figure in
this picture; it is a boy who cuts with a bold. hand the life-
like features in the wooden image for the beakhead of the
vessel. It is the ship’s guardian spirit, and, as the first image
from the hand of Albert Thorwaldsen, it shall wander out
into the wide world. The swelling sea shall baptize it with its
waters, and hang its wreaths of wet plants around it; nor
night, nor storm, nor icebergs, nor sunken rocks shall lure it
to its death, for the Good Angel that guards the boy shall,
too, guard the ship upon which with mallet and chisel he has
set his mark. HANS CHRISTIAN ANDERSEN.
Th or w a lú sen

T H O R W A L D S E N
T H O R W A L D S E N 81
cº, HE real business-like biographer begins
º by telling when his subject “first saw
V the light”—by which he means when
the man was born. In this instance we
will go a bit farther back and make note
of the interesting fact that Thorwaldsen
was descended from an ancestor who
had the rare fortune to be born in Rhode
Island, in the year roo7.
Wiggling, jiggling, piggling individuals
with quibbling proclivities, and an inca-
pacity for distinguishing between fact
and truth, may maintain that there was
no Rhode Island in the year Ioo7. Emer-
son has written, “Nothing is of less
importance on account of its being
small.” And so I maintain that in the
year Ioo7, Rhode Island was just where
it is now, and to the Cosmos quite as
important. Let Pawtucket protest and
Providence bite the thumb–no retrac-
tion will be made!
About the year 1815 the Secretary of the
Rhode Island Historical Society wrote
y, Thorwaldsen informing him that he had
been elected an honorary member of the
Society, on account of his being the only
known living descendant of the first
European white man born in America.

82 T H O R W A L D S E N
(LThorwaldsen replied, expressing his great delight in
the honor conferred, and touched feelingly on the fact
that while he had been elected to membership in
various societies in consideration of what he had done,
this was the first honor that had come his way on
account of his ancestry. To a friend he said, “How
would we ever know who we are, or where we came
from were it not for the genealogical savants!”
In a book called “American Antiquities,” now in the
Library at Harvard College, and I suppose accessible
in various other libraries, there is a genealogical table
tracing the ancestry of Thorwaldsen. It seems that in
the year roof, one Thorfinne, an Icelander whaler,
commanded a ship which traversed the broad Atlantic,
and skirted the coast of New England. Thorfinne win-
tered his craft in one of the little bays of Rhode Island
and spent the winter at Mount Hope, where the marks
of his habitat endure even unto this day.
The statement to the effect that when the Indians saw
the ships of Columbus, they cried out, “Alas, we are
discovered!” goes back to a much earlier period, like
many another of Mark Twain's gladsome scintillations.
So little did Thorfinne and his hardy comrades think
of crossing the Atlantic in search of adventure, that
they used to take their families along, as though it
were a picnic. And so Fate ordered that Gudrid, the
good wife of Thorfinne, should give birth to a son,
there at Mount Hope, Rhode Island, in the year roo?.
And they called the baby boy Snome. And to Snome the
T H O R W A L D S E N 83
American, the pedigree of Thorwaldsen traces. QI. In
a lecture on the Icelandic Sagas, I once heard William
Morris say that all really respectable Icelanders traced
their genealogy to a king, and many of them to a god.
Thorwaldsen did both—first to Harold Hildestand,
King of Denmark, and then with the help of several
kind old gran'mamas, to the god Thor.
His love for mythology was an atavism. In childhood
the good old aunties used to tell him how the god
Thor once trod the earth and shattered the mountains
with his hammer. From Thor and the World his first
ancestor was born, so the family name was Thor-vald.
The appendix “sen” or son means that the man was
the son of Thorwald; and in some way the name got
ossified like the name Robinson, Parkinson, Peterson
or Albertson; and then it was Thorwaldsen.
Men who are strong in their own natures are very apt
to smile at the good folk who chase the genealogical
anise-seed trail—it is a harmless diverson with no
game at the end of the route. And on the other hand,
all men, like Thorwaldsen, who reach cosmic con-
sciousness, recognize their Divine Sonship. Such men
feel that their footsteps are mortised and tenoned in
granite; and the Power that holds the worlds in
space and guides the wheeling planets, also prompts
their thoughts and directs their devious way.
They know that they are a necessary part of the
Whole. Small men are provincial, mediocre men
are cosmopolitan, but great souls are Universal.
84 T H O R W A L DSE N
WO islands, one city and the open
sea claim the honor of being the
birthplace of Bertel Thorwaldsen.
The date of his birth ranges, ac-
cording to the authorities, from
1770 to 1773—take your choice. His
father was an Icelander who had
worked his passage down to Co-
penhagen and had found his stint
as a wood-carver in a shipyard where it was his duty
to carve out wonderful figure-heads, after designs made
by others. Gottschalk Thorwaldsen never thought to
improve on a model, or change it in any way, or to
model a figurehead himself. The cold of the North had
chilled any ambition that was in his veins. Goodsooth !
Such work as designing figureheads was only for those
who had been to college, and who could read and write!
So he worked away, day after day, and by the help of
the good-wife's foresight and economy, managed to
keep out of debt, pay his tithes at church and lead a
decent life.
Little Bertel used to remember when, like the Peg-
gottys, they lived in an abandoned canal boat that had
been tossed up on the beach. Bertel carried chips and
shavings from the shipyard for fuel and piled them
against the “house.” One night the tide came up in a
very unexpected manner and carried the chips away,
for the sea is so very hungry that it is always sending
the tide in to shore after things. It was quite a loss for

T H O R W A L D S E N 85
the poor wood-carver and his wife to have all their
winter fuel carried away; so they cuffed little Bertel
soundly (for his own good) for not piling the chips up
on the deck of the boat, instead of leaving them on the
shifting sand.
This was the first great cross that came to Bertel. He
had a few others afterward, but he never forgot the
night of anguish and the feeling of guilt that followed
the losing of the shavings and chips.
Some weeks after another high tide came sweeping in,
and lapped and sniffed and sighed around the canal
boat as if it were trying to tug it loose and carry the
old craft and all the family out to sea. Little Bertel
hoped the tide would fetch it, for it would be kind o'
nice to get clear out away from everybody and every-
thing—where there were no chips to pick up. His
mother could supply a quilt for a mainsail and he
would use his shirt for a jib and they would steer
straight for America—or somewhere.
But lest the dream should come true, Gottschalk and
his wife talked the matter over and concluded to
abandon the boat, before it got sunk into the sand
quite out of sight. So the family moved into a little
house on an alley, half a mile away from the ship-
yard—it was an awful long way to carry chips.
The second calamity that came into the life of little
Bertel was when he was eight years old. He and sev-
eral companions were playing about the King’s Market,
where there was an equestrian statue of Charles V.
86 T H O R W A L D S E N
The boys climbed up onto the pedestal, cut various
capers there, and finally they challenged Bertel to
mount the horse behind the noble rider. By dint of
much boosting from several boys older than himself,
he was at last perched on the horse. Then his com-
panions made hot haste to run away and leave him in
his perilous position. Just then, as unkind fate would
have it, a pair of gendarmes came along on the lookout
for anything that might savor of sedition, contumacy
or contravention. They found it in little Bertel clutch-
ing tearfully to the royal person of Charles V., twelve
feet above the ground. Quickly they rushed the lad off
to the police station, between them, each with a firm
grip upon his collar.
Victor Hugo once said, “The minions of the law go
stolidly after vice, and not finding it, they stolidly take
virtue instead.”
Besides an awful warning “never to do this thing
again” from a judge in a ferocious wig, the boy got a
flogging at home, (for his own good) although his
father first explained that it was a very painful duty te
himself to be obliged to punish his son. The son vol-
unteered to excuse the father, and this brought the
youngster ten extra lashes for being so smart.
Long years after, at Rome, Thorwaldsen told the story
to Hans Christian Andersen about being caught astride
the great bronze horse at Copenhagen, and of the awful
reprimand of the judge bewigged.
“And honestly now—I 'll never tell”—said Andersen
T HO R W A L D S E N 87
with a sly twinkle in his blue eyes, “did you ever
repeat the offense?”
“Since you promise not to divulge it, I’ll confess that
forty-three years after my crime of mounting that
horse, I had occasion to cross King’s Market Square
at midnight. I had been out to a little social gathering,
and was on my way home alone. I saw the great horse
and rider gleaming in the pale moonlight. I recalled
vividly how I had occupied that elevated perch and
been hauled down by the scandalized and indignant
officers. I remembered the warning of the judge as to
what would happen if I ever did it again. Hastily I
removed my coat and hat and clambered up on the
pedestal. I seized a leg of the royal person, and swung
up behind. For five minutes I sat there mentally defy-
ing the State, and saying unspeakable things about all
gendarmes and Copenhagen gendarmes in particular.”

88 T H O R W A L D S E N
HAVE a profound respect for boys.
Grimy, ragged, towsled boys in
the street often attract me strange-
ly. A boy is a man in the cocoon—
you do not know what it is going
to become—his life is big with
possibilities. He may make or
| unmake kings, change boundary
lines between states, write books
that will mold characters, or invent machines that will
revolutionize the commerce of the world. Every man
was a boy—I trust I will not be contradicted—it is really
so. Would n’t you like to turn Time backward, and see
Abraham Lincoln at twelve, when he had never worn
a pair of boots?—the lank, lean, yellow, hungry boy—
hungry for love, hungry for learning, tramping off
through the woods for twenty miles to borrow a book,
and spelling it out crouching before the glare of the
burning logs.
Then there was that Corsican boy, one of a goodly
brood, who weighed only fifty pounds when ten years
old; who was thin and pale and perverse, and had
tantrums, and had to be sent supperless to bed, or
locked in a dark closet because he would n’t “mind!”
Who would have thought that he would have mastered
every phase of warfare at twenty-six, and when told
that the Exchequer of France was in dire confusion,
would say, “The finances? I will arrange them!”
Distinctly and vividly I remember a squat, freckled

T H O RVV A L D S E N 89
boy who was born in the “Patch” and used to pick
up coal along the railroad tracks in Buffalo. A few
months ago I had a motion to make before the Court
of Appeals. That boy from the “Patch” was the judge
who wrote the opinion, granting my petition.
Yesterday I rode horseback past a field where a boy
was plowing. The lad's hair stuck out through the top
of his hat; one suspender held his trousers in place;
his form was bony and awkward; his bare legs and
arms were brown and sunburned and briar-scarred.
He swung his horses around just as I passed by, and
from under the flapping brim of his hat he cast a quick
glance out of dark, half-bashful eyes, and modestly
returned my salute. When his back was turned I took
off my hat and sent a God-bless-you down the furrow
after him.
Who knows?—I may go to that boy to borrow money
yet, or to hear him preach, or to beg him to defend me
in a law-suit; or he may stand with pulse unhastened,
bare of arm, in white apron, ready to do his duty, while
the cone is placed over my face, and Night and Death
come creeping into my veins. GI Be patient with the
boys—you are dealing with Soul-stuff—Destiny awaits
just around the corner. GI Be patient with the boys!

90 T H O R W A L D S E N
ERTEL THORWALDSEN was
fourteen years old. He was pale
and slender, and had a sharp chin
and a straight nose and hair the
color of sunburned tow. His eyes
were large, set wide apart and
bright blue; and he looked out
upon the world silently, with a
sort o' wistful melancholy. He
helped his father carve out the wonderful figureheads
that were to pilot the ships across strange seas and
bring good luck to the owners.
“A boy like that should be sent to the Academy and
taught designing” said one of the ship-owners one day
as he watched the lad at his work. Gottschalk shook
his head dubiously. “How could a poor man, with a
family to support, and provisions so high, spare his
boy from work! Aye, was n’t he teaching the lad a
trade, himself, as it was P’’
But the ship-owner fumbled his fob, and insisted, and
to test the boy, he had him work with his designers.
And he compromised with the father by having Bertel
sent to the Academy half a day at a time.
At the school one of the instructors remembered Ber-
tel, on account of his long yellow hair that hung down
in his eyes when he leaned over the desk; also his
dullness in every line except drawing and clay-model-
ing. The newspapers one day announced that a certain
young Master Thorwaldsen had been awarded a prize

T H O R VVAL D S E N 9I
for clay-modeling. “Is that your brother?” asked the
teacher next day. “It is myself, Herr Chaplain,” re-
plied the boy, blushing to the roots of his yellow hair.
G.I.The Chaplain coughed to conceal his surprise. He
had always thought this boy incapable of anything.
“Herr Thorwaldsen,” he said, severely, “you will
please pass to the first grade l’’ And to be addressed as
“Herr” meant that you really were somebody. “He
called me • Herr,'” said Bertel to his mother that
night—“He called me “Herrl’”
About this time we find the painter Abildgaard taking
a special interest in young Bertel, giving him lessons
in drawing and painting, and encouraging him in his
modeling. In fact Thorwaldsen has himself explained
that all of his “original” designs about this time were
supplied by Abildgaard. The interest of Abildgaard in
the boy was slightly resented by the young man’s par-
ents, who were afraid that their son was getting above
his station. Abildgaard has left a record to the effect
that at this time Thorwaldsen was very self-contained,
reticent and seemingly without ambition. He used to
postpone every task, and would shirk his duties until
often sharp reminders came. Yet when he did begin,
he would fall on the task like one possessed and finish
it in an hour. This proved to Abildgaard that the stuff
was there, and down in his heart he believed that this
sleepy lad would some day awake from slumber. Any-
way, Abildgaard used to say, long years after, “What
did I tell you?” (I Gottschalk was paid by the piece for
pa T H O R W A L D S E N
his carving; he was getting better pay now, because he
did better work, his employer thought. Bertel was help-
ing him. The family was getting quite prosperous.

T H O R W A L D S E N 93
|HEN Bertel had secured between
sleepy spells, about all the prizes
for clay-modeling and sketching
that artistic Copenhagen had to
offer, he started for Rome, armed
with a three-years' traveling schol-
arship. This prize proved to be a
pivotal point. The young man had
= | done good work, and seemingly
without effort; but he was sadly lacking in general
education and worse—apparently he had no desire to
learn ºf ºf
He was twenty-six years of age when he sailed for
Rome on the good ship “Thetis.” The scholarship he
had won four years before, but through disinclination
to press his claims, and the procrastination of official-
ism, the matter was pigeon-holed. It might have gone
by default had not Abildgaard said “Go!” and loudly.
CI Thorwaldsen was a sort of charity passenger on the
ship, taken on request of the owner, and it was
assumed that he would make himself useful. But the
captain of the craft left him a recommendation to the
effect that “The young fellow Thorwaldsen is the
laziest man I ever saw.” The ship was on a trading
tour and lingered along various coasts and put into
many harbors; so nine months went by before Bertel
Thorwaldsen found himself in the Eternal City.
“I was born March 8th, 1797,” Thorwaldsen used to
say. That was the day he reached Rome. His scholar-

94 T H O R W A L D S E N
ship provided for a three years' residence—but
twenty-three years were to elapse before he should
again see Copenhagen; and as for his parents,
he had looked into their eyes for the last time.

T H O R W A L D S E N 95
HE soul grows by leaps and bounds,
by throes and throbs. A flash! and
a glory stands revealed for which
you have been blindly groping
| through the years. Well did Thor-
waldsen call the day of his arrival
in Rome the day of his birth ! For
the first time the world seemed to
unfold before him. On the voyage
thither, the captain of the “Thetis” had offered to
prepare him for his stay in Rome by teaching him the
Italian language, but the young sculptor was indifferent.
During the months he was on shipboard, he might
have mastered the language—this came back to him as
he stood in the presence of St. Peter's, and realized
that he was treading the streets once trod by Michael
Angelo. He spoke only “Sailor's Latin,” a composite
of Danish, Swedish, Norwegian and Icelandic. The
waste of time of which he had been guilty, and the
extent of all that lay beyond, pressed home upon him.
GI. Of course we know that the fallow years are as good as
the years of plenty—the silent winter prepares the soil
for spring; and we know, too, that the sense of unworth-
iness and the discontent that Thorwaldsen felt during
his first few weeks at Rome, were big with promise.
GIThe antique world was a new world to him; he knew
nothing of mythology; nothing of history; little of
books. He began to thirst for knowledge, and this
being true, he drank it in. Little men spell things out

96 T H O R VV A L D S E N
with sweat and lamp-smoke, but others there be who
absorb in the mass, read by the page, and grow great
by simply letting down their buckets.
This fair-haired descendant of a Viking bold had the
usual preliminary struggle, for the Established Order is
always resentful toward pressing youth. He worked in-
cessantly; sketched, read, studied, modeled, and to help
out his finances, copied pictures for prosperous dealers
who made it their business thus to employ 'prentice tal-
ent. (I But a few years and we see Bertel Thorwaldsen
occupying the studio of Flaxman, and more than filling
that strong man’s place. For specimens of Flaxman's
work examine your “Wedgwood”; and then to see
Thorwaldsen’s product, multiply Flaxman by one
hundred. One worked in the delicate and exquisite;
the other had a taste for the heroie: both found inspi-
ration in the Greek.
It will not do to claim for Thorwaldsen that he was a
great and original genius. He lacked that hirsute, inde-
pendent quality of Michael Angelo, and surely he
lacked the Attic invention. He was receptive as a
woman, and he builded on what had been done. He
moved in the line of least resistance—made friends of
Protestant and Catholic alike; won the warm recog-
nition of the Pope, who averred, “Thorwaldsen
is a good Catholic, only he does not know it.” He
kept clear of factions, and with a modicum more
will, might have been a very prince of diplomats.
As it was, he evolved into a prince of artists.
T H O RVV A. L. D S E N 97
oon after his advent in Rome,
Thorwaldsen met at the country
house of his friend, critic and ben-
efactor Zoega, a young woman
who was destined to have a pro-
found influence upon his life. Anna
Maria Magnani was lady's maid
and governess in the Zoega house-
hold. She was a beautiful animal
—dark, luminous, flashing eyes, hair black as the raven's
wing, and a form that palpitated with passion—a true
daughter of the warm, sun-kissed South.
The young sculptor of the yellow locks danced with
the signorina at the rustic fetes upon the lawn. She
spoke no English, and his Italian was exceedingly
limited, but hand pressed hand and they contrived to
make themselves understood. She volunteered to give
him lessons in Italian; this went well and then she
posed for him as a model.
What should have been at best or worst a mere inci-
dent in the artist’s life ripened into something more.
Intellectually and spiritually they lived in different
worlds, and in sober moments both realized it. An
arrangement was entered into of the same quality and
kind as Goethe and Christiana Vulpius assumed. Only
this woman had moments of rebellion when she
thirsted for social honors. As his wife, Thorwaldsen
knew that she would be a veritable dead-weight and
he sought to loosen her grasp upon him. An offer of

98 T H O R W A L D S E N
marriage came to her from a man of means and social
station. Thorwaldsen favored the mating and did what
he could to hasten the nuptials. But when the other
man had actually married the girl and carried her
away, he had a sick spell to pay for it—he was n’t
quite so calloused in heart as he had believed. Like
many other men Thorwaldsen found that such a tie is
not easily broken.
Anna Maria thought she loved the man she had mar-
ried, and at least she believed she could learn to do so.
Alas! After six months of married life she packed up
and came back to Rome, declaring that though her
husband was kind and always treated her well, she
would rather be the slave and servant of Thorwaldsen
than the wife of any man on earth. The sculptor
had n’t the heart to turn her away. More properly, her
will was stronger than his conscience. Perhaps he was
glad too, that she had came back! The injured husband
followed and Anna Maria warned the man to begone,
and emphasized the suggestion with the gleam of a
pearl handled stiletto; and by the same token kept all
gushing females away from the Thorwaldsen preserve.
G.I.Thorwaldsen never married, and there is no doubt
that his engagement to Miss Mackenzie, a most excel-
lent English lady, was vetoed by Anna Maria and her
pearl handled stiletto.
One child was born to Anna Maria and Thorwaldsen
—a girl, who was legally acknowledged by Thorwald-
sen as his daughter. When prosperity came his way,
T H O RW A L D S E N 99
some years later he deposited in the Bank of Copen-
hagen a sum equal to twenty thousand dollars, with
orders that the interest should be paid to her as long
as she lived.
Unlike Byron's daughter Allegra, born the same year
only a few miles away, who died young and for whose
grave at Harrow the poet had carved the touching line,
“I shall go to her, but she will not return to me,”—the
daughter of Thorwaldsen grew up, was happily mar-
ried and bore a son who achieved considerable distinc-
tion as an artist. GIThus the sculptor's good fortune at-
tended him even in circumstances that work havoc in
most men's lives—he disarmed the Furies with a smile!

IOO T H O R W A L D S E N
ANY visitors daily thronged the
studio of Thorwaldsen. He had one
general reception room containing
casts of his work, and many curi-
ous things in the line of art. His
servant greeted the callers and
made them at home, expressing
* || much regret at the absence of his
—º- master who was “out of the city,”
etc. Meanwhile Thorwaldsen was hard at it in a back
room to which only the elect were admitted.
The King of Bavaria, a genuine artist himself in spirit,
who spent much time in Rome, conceived a great
admiration for Thorwaldsen. He walked into the
atelier where the sculptor was at work one day and
hung around his neck by a gold chain, the “Cross of
the Commander,” a decoration never before given to
any but great military commanders.
King Louis had a very unkinglike way of doing things,
and used to go by the studio and whistle for Thorwald-
sen and call to him to come out and walk, or drive,
ride or dine.
“I wish that King would go off and reign—I have work
to do,” once said the sculptor rather impatiently.
Envious critics used to maintain that there were ten
men in Rome who could model as well as Thorwald-
sen, “but they have n’t yellow hair that falls to their
shoulders, and heaven-blue eyes with which to snare
the ladies.”

T H O R W A L D S E N IOI
The fact must be admitted that the vogue of Thor-
waldsen owed much to the remarkable social qualities
of the man. His handsome face and fine form were
supplemented by a manner most gentle and winning;
and whether his half-diffident ways, and habit of reti-
cence were natural or the triumph of art, was a vexing
problem that never found solution.
He was the social rage in every salon. And his ability
to do the right thing at the right time, seemingly with-
out premeditation, made him a general favorite. For
instance if he attended a fete given by the King of
Bavaria, he wore just one decoration—the decoration
of Bavaria. If he attended a ball given by the French
Embassador, in the lapel of his modest black velvet
coat he wore the red ribbon that tokens the Legion of
Honor. When he visited the Villa of the Grand Duchess
Helena of Russia, he wore no jewel save the diamond-
studded star presented to him by the Czar. At the
reception given by the “English Colony” to Sir Walter
Scott, the great sculptor wore a modest thistle blos-
som in his lapel, which caused Lord Elgin to offer
odds that if O’Connell should appear in Rome, Thor-
waldsen would wear a sprig of shamrock in his hat and
say nothing.
The thistle caught Sir Walter, and the next day when he
came to call on the sculptor he saw a “Tam O’Shan-
ter” hanging on the top of an easel and a bit of plaid
scarf thrown carelessly across the corner of the picture
below. The poet and the sculptor embraced, patting
IO2 T H O R W A L D S E N
each other on the back, called each other “Brother”
and smiled good will. But as Thorwaldsen could not
speak English and Sir Walter spoke nothing else, they
merely beamed and ran the scale of adjectives, thus:
Sublimissimol Hero! Precious! Plaisir! La Grande!
Delighted! Splendidel Honorable! Then they embraced
again and backed away, waving each other good-bye.
G|Thorwaldsen had more medals, degrees and knight-
hoods than Sir Walter ever saw, but he would allow
no prefix to his name. Denmark, Russia, Germany,
Italy, France and the Pope had outdone themselves in
doing him honor. All these “trifles” in the way of
decorations he kept in a specially prepared case, which
was opened occasionally for the benefit of lady visitors.
“The girls like such things,” said Thorwaldsen, and
smiled in apology.
Shelley found his way to Thorwaldsen's Studio, and
made mention that the master was a bit of a poseur.
Byron came, and as we know sat for that statue which
is now at Cambridge. The artist sought to beguile the
melancholy sitter with pleasant conversation, but the
author of “Don Juan” would none of it, and when the
work was completed and unveiled before him, he ex-
claimed in disappointment, “I look far more unhappy
than that!”
Thorwaldsen was a musician of no mean quality, and
there was always a piano in his studio, to which he
often turned for rest. When Felix Mendelssohn was
in Rome he made the Sculptor's workshop his head-
T H O R W A L D S E N Io3
quarters, and sometimes the two would play “four
hands,” or Thorwaldsen would accompany the “Songs
without Words” upon his violin.
Gradually the number of the “elect” seemed to grow.
It was regarded as a great sight to see the master at
his work. And by degrees Thorwaldsen reached a
point where he could keep right along at his task and
receive his friends at the same time.
The man at his work! there is nothing finer. I have seen
men homely, uncouth and awkward when “dressed
up,” who were superb when at their work. Once I saw
Augustus St. Gaudens in blouse and overalls, well
plastered with mud, standing on a ladder hard at it
on an equestrian statue, lost to everything but the task
in hand—intoxicated with a thought, working like mad
to materialize an idea. The sight gave me a thrill!—
one of those very few unforgetable thrills that time
fixes ever the more firmly in one’s memory.
To gain admittance to the work-room of Thorwaldsen
was a thing to boast of proud ladies schemed and
some sought to bribe the trusty valet; but to these the
door was politely barred. Yet the servant, servant-
like, was awed by titles and nobility.
“The Duchess of Parma!” whispered the valet one
day in agitation—“The Duchess of Parma—she has
followed me in and is now standing behind you!”
Thorwaldsen could not just place the lady, he turned,
bowed, and gazed upon a stout personage slightly over-
dressed. The lady quite abruptly stated that she had
IO4 TH O R W A L D S E N
called to make arrangements to have a statue, or a
bust at least, made of herself. The idea that Thorwald-
sen would be proud to model her features seemed quite
fixed in her mind. The artist cast her a swift glance
and noted that Nature had put small trace of the clas-
sic in the lady's modeling. He mentally declined the
commission, and muttered something about being “so
delighted and honored but unluckily I am so very
busy,” etc.
“My husband desires it,” continued the lady, “and so
does my son, the King of Rome—a title I hope that is
not strange to you!”
It swept over Thorwaldsen like a winter’s wave, that
this big, brusque, bizarre woman before him was
Maria Louisa, the second wife of Napoleon. He knew
her history—wedded at nineteen to Napoleon—the
mother of L'Aiglon at twenty—married again in un-
becoming haste to the Count Niepperg Nobody, with
whom she had been on very intimate terms, as soon
as word arrived of the death of Napoleon at St. Helena;
and now raising a goodly brood of Nobodies! The artist
grew faint before this daughter of kings who had made
a mesalliance with Genius—he excused himself and
left the room.
Thorwaldsen was a hero-worshipper by nature, and
Napoleon’s memory loomed large to him on the hori-
zon of the ideal. Needless to say, he never modeled
the features of Maria Louisa Hapsburgh, but her visit
fired him with a desire to make a bust of Napoleon,
T H O RW A L D S E N Io5
and the desire materialized is ours in heroic mold.
GI Sometime after this Thorwaldsen designed a monu-
ment to the Duke Leuchtenberg, Eugene de Beauhar-
nais, son of the Empress Josephine.
The days went in their fashion, and the Count Niep-
perg passed away, as even Counts do, for Death recog-
nizes no title; and Maria Louisa was again experiencing
the pangs of widowhood. She sent word for Thorwald-
sen to come and design the late lamented a proper
tomb, something not unlike that which he had done
for the son of Josephine,—money was no object in the
Hapsburgh family!
Very few commissions were declined by Thorwaldsen.
He was a good business man and often had a dozen
men quietly working out his orders, but he wrote to
Maria Louisa begging to be excused—and as a relief
to his feelings, straightway modeled another bust of
Napoleon. This bust was sold to Alexander Murray,
Byron's publisher, and is now to be seen in Edinburgh.
Strange is it not, that the home of “The Scotch Greys,”
tumbled by Fate and Napoleon into an open grave,
should do the Little Man honor! And Thorwaldsen the
man of peace, was bound to the man of war by the
silken thread of sentiment. GIThorwaldsen was the
true successor of Canova—his great career was inaugu-
rated when Canova gave him his blessing. The triumphs
of the lover of Pauline Bonaparte were transferred to
him. He accepted the situation with all of its precedents.
Iof T H O R W A L DSE N
HORWALDSEN spent forty-two
years of his life at Rome, but Den-
mark never lost her hold upon him
during this time. The King show-
ered him with honors and gave
| him every privilege at his com-
| mand sº sº."
The Danish Ambassador always
had special instructions “not to
neglect the interests and welfare of our brother, Chev-
alier Thorwaldsen, Artist and Sculptor to the King.”
GI. For years, in the Academy at Copenhagen, rooms
were set apart for him, and he was solicited to return
and occupy them, and by his gracious presence honor
the institution that had sent him forth. Only once,
however, did he return, and then his stay was brief.
But from time to time he presented specimens of his
work to his native city, and various casts and copies
of his pieces found their way to the “Thorwaldsen
Room” at the Academy; so there gradually grew up
there a “Thorwaldsen Museum.”
Now the shadows were lengthening toward the west.
The master had turned his seventieth milestone, and
he began to look backward to his boyhood’s home as a
place of rest, as old men do. A Commissioner was
sent by the King of Denmark with orders to use his
pest offices to the end that Thorwaldsen should re-
turn; and plans were made to evolve the Thorwaldsen
Room into a complete museum.

T H O R W A L D S E N ro7
The result of these negotiations brought about the
Thorwaldsen Museum—that plainly simple, but solidly
built structure at Copenhagen, erected by the city,
from plans made by the master. Here are shown
over two hundred large statues and bas-reliefs, copies
and originals of the best things done in that long and
busy life.
Thorwaldsen left his medals, decorations, pictures,
books and thousands of drawings and sketches to this
Museum—the sole property of the municipality. The
building is arranged in the form of a square, with a
court; and here the dust of the master rests. No artist
has ever had a more fitting tomb, designed by him-
self, surrounded by the creations of his hand and
brain. These chant his elegy and there he sleeps.

Io& T H O R VVAL D S E N
OOD looks, courtesy and social
accomplishments are factors in our
artistic career that should not be
lightly waived.
Thorwaldsen won every recogni-
tion that is possible for men to win
from other men—fame, honor,
wealth. In way of success he
º tasted all that the world can offer.
GI. He built on Winckelmann, Mengs and Canova, in-
spired by a classic environment, and examples of work
done by men turned to dust centuries before. In many
instances Thorwaldsen followed the letter and failed
to catch the spirit of Greece—this is not to his dis-
credit, who has completely succeeded in revitalizing
the breath of ancient art?
Thorwaldsen won everything but immortality. It
sounds harsh but let us admit it, he was at best a
great imitator, however noble the objects of his imita-
tion. A recent writer has tried to put him in the class
with “John Rogers, the Pride of America” but this is
manifestly unfair. As an artist he ranks rather with
Powers, Story and Palmer. Never for a moment can
he be compared with St. Gaudens—our own French:
Bartlett and Ward surpass him in general skill and
fertility of resources. All is comparative—Thorwald-
sen’s fame floats upon the wave, far astern. We are
making head.
We have that superb “Night,” so full of tenderness

T H O R W A L D S E N Io9
and spirit, done in tears (as all the best things are).
The “Night” is not to be spoken of without its beau-
tiful companion piece, the “Morning.” Each was
done at a sitting, in a passion of creative energy.
Yet when the roll of all Thorwaldsen's pieces
is called, we see that his fame centers and
is chiefly embodied in “The Lion of Lucerne.”

| [O TH OF WATED SEN
SUPPOSE it need not longer be
concealed that in Switzerland you
can purchase copies and models of
Thorwaldsen’s “Lion of Lucerne.”
Some are in marble, some in gran-
ite, some in bronze, a great many
are in wood—carved while you
wait—and at my hotel in Lucerne
we used to have the noble beast
on the table every morning at breakfast, done in butter.
QIThe reproductions are of all sizes, from heroic mold
to watch charms and bangles. Sculptors have carved
this lion, painters have painted it, artists have sketched
it, but did you ever see a reproduction of “The Lion
of Lucerne?” No, dearie, you never did, and never
will. No copy has a trace of that indefinable look of
mingled pain and patience, which even the broken spear
in his side cannot disturb—that soulful, human quality
which the original has. No, every copy is a caricature.
It is a risky thing to try to put love in a lion’s face!
{LAn intelligent young woman called my attention to
the fact that the psychological conditions under which
we view “The Lion” are the most subtle and com-
plete that man can devise; and these are the things
that add the last touch to art and cause us to stand
speechless, and which make the unbidden tears start.
The little lake at the foot of the cliff prevents a too near
approach; the overhanging vines and melancholy
boughs form a dim, subduing shade; the falling water

T H O R W A L D S E N III
seems like the playing of an organ in a vast cathedral;
and last, the position of the lion itself, against the solid
cliff, partakes of the miraculous. It is not set up there
for people to look at: it is a part of the mountain and
the great seams of the strata running through the figure
lend the spirit of miracle to it all. It seems as though
God himself had done the work and the surprise and
joy of discovery are ours, as we stand uncovered be-
fore it sº sº."
One must concede the masterly framing and hanging of
the picture, but beyond all this is the technical skill,
giving the look of woe that does not tell of weakness,
as woe usually does, but strength and loyalty and death
without flinching in a righteous cause—symbolic of the
Swiss Guard that died at their post, not one of the
three hundred wavering, there at the King’s palace at
Paris—all dead and turned to dust a century past, and
this lion, mortally wounded, mutely pleading for our
tears! sº sº."
We pay the tribute.
And the reason we are moved is because we partake
of the emotions of the artist when he did the work;
and the reason we are not moved by any models or
copies or imitations is because there is small feeling
in the heart of an imitator. Great art is born of feeling!
In order to do, you must feel.
If Thorwaldsen had done nothing else, “The Lion”
would be monument enough. We remember William
Cullen Bryant, like Dante Gabriel Rosetti, for one
II2 T H O R W A L D S E N
poem; Poe for three. Thoreau wrote only one essay
the world will cherish; and “keeping Ruskin’s “Sesame
and Lilies’ and “The Golden River” we can let the rest
go,” says Augustine Birrell.
Thorwaldsen paid the penalty of success. He should
have tasted exile, poverty and heart-break—not to have
known these was his misfortune. And perhaps his
best work lay in keeping alive the classic tradi-
tion; in educating whole nations to a taste for
sculpture; in turning the attention of society from
strife to art, from war to harmony. His were the
serene successes of beauty, the triumphs of peace.

so HERE ENDETH THE LITTLE Journey To THE Home
OF THORWALDSEN, AS WRITTEN BY ELBERT HUB-
BARD, THE TITLE PAGE, INITIALS AND ORNAMENTS
BEING DESIGNED BY SAMUEL WARNER, AND THE
WHOLE DONE INTO A BOOK BY THE ROYCROFTERS
AT THEIR SHOP, WHICH IS IN EAST AURORA, IN THE
MONTH OF MARCH, IN THE YEAR MCMII sºr ºr sºr sºr ºr

Pears'
We perspire a pint a day without
knowing it; ought to ; if not, there 's
trouble ahead. The obstructed skin be-
comes sallow or breaks out in pimples.
The trouble goes deeper, but this is
trouble enough.
If you use Pears' Soap, no matter
how often, the skin is clear and soft
and open and clear.
Sold all over the world.
-
R O U N D. T. A. B. L. E.
All hand work.
Three feet diameter, very solid, $20. Address
THE ROYCROFTERs, East Aurora, N. Y.



THAT PORTRAIT
Of Stevenson by our Mr. Samuel Warner has received
high praise from several Gentle Folk who knew
Master Robert Louis in life, and also from various of
the Discerning who love the man because he voiced
so many beautiful things that we might have voiced
for ourselves had we the mind.
We have a few Artist Proofs of the Warner Portraits,
as follows:
STEVENSON RAPHAEL,
LEONARDO BOTTICELLI
Size of these portraits is Io x 14, signed by the Artist,
framed Roycroftie in Antique Oak, forming a takement
that is a Discreet and Delectable ornament for any
library. We will disconnect ourselves from these por-
traits, while they last, for five dollars each—sent to
the Faithful on suspicion. A postal card will do it.
T H E R O Y C R O FTERS
East Aurora, New York


-* º +.
Yº... 2 —- -- 3.3tºc-...--&
*
—
Little Journeys.
# to t H E H & M E s or . . .”
*
*>
•’u’
-r
:
GREAT MUSICIANs
Volumes VIII and Ex—New series:
sº A- =rs º #.
+r----------->
*- : + º -> Fº
Each book contains the following numbers: ... :
Uolume U11ſ. •r - Uolume IX. º
I VVAGNER 7 Lisz'r , " . " 4:
2 PAGANINI * a BEETHoven , , ;
3 CHOPIN 9 HANDEL
4 MOZART ro verdi . . . . . . .
5 BACH ... ºr SCHUMANN . . . .
5 MENDELSSOHN 12 BRAHMs. * ,
Containing frontispiece portraits of each of the
subjects, text on Roycroftwater-mark, hand-made *
paper, initials & title-page hand-illumined, bound
in limp chamois—silk lined, gilt top. Edition lim- |
ited to one thousand copies, numbered & signed-
by the author. *
Price of volumes is Three Dollärs each.
Subscribers who already have the above men-
*
tioned booklets in paper covers, may, if they
choose, return the loose numbers to us by mail
•.
and the volumes will go forward. -- . * *
*—
with remittance of Three Dollars, for binding,'."
**
***
f
** --
THE ROYCROFTERs . . . .]
East Aurora, New York “ . . . . .
*, * > . * * -
—w-r- —- —re- wº- ºr - ~r-
* *
*g.
º, , " ... * * * tº .."
***** .” -aº ' A. +
* - * as . .” **:
H. : * * , . Bº **
...~# & sº tº º *...º.º. \, º V - - 5 ſ D
… Jºãº. Sº, *_º . . . ºf . . * . . . . A sº
- - º: - ++2.4 7-g * º gº º: are: ... sº *" º : ºar #
* * -> * Aſ +. :-
* * # * †. - \
* * -
-ºr" **
}' k? F INENT ARTISTS?
#Homº ES OF E #
* -e-à- * *
- ". §: “.” # **, * * º: ! ~ ** ,
cºrº.; *** , , º …→ º: - -* * *.
-: jº . * º ”. - —4–
* * # —r-
1 * * : * * g 3 w ºr;
º .*
** -, * ºr
3:
C)
.
§
G.
H
|
- *
* * ºf
* * * *
-º- tºº ºftº: sº sºirºshººt as: * wn, *
*...* *** **psºs Bºssºstºvº, a z.
* - ~. ... ** *
fººtagº By E H
, Vol. BºAYºzgº H. RT HUBBARD
* ‘.…, * A * * # ** * * .*. º- º tº” y -º- * * * * *
* *
* , , ; º • * .* *. • , ...ºts *
* Tº sº r → `- ſº º º: *T J *:
*** .. f *. #. .*.*.*.*.*. *. * -* * *
? * * Nº. 5 x ~ *. º:
* ...” * #. * . * -Yº & 3. 2. “º. *:, ;- * r- , - *
º & º: § -* +* *** * * :*: … K.
* * * * * * - ld *
: 3-4 , , § 2, <&# ** $$…ºf º: *: * * *: ºs *
Hy ** * * * * AT&#x3 º a . º º - A. #, **** * *}”
-: 'rººs * * ** * ++ * .**
ºf ~ **: Wł * * riºt $º. ** * wº. **, * * * * # * *
“, # * ** *
º & “ **... " # * ºr -º-º: *w. * * ~ * > *. * *.
*: *- £ºs *. ** s 3 × 3.
* , 3, *…, *- * ve *... * * ... . - .” - ... ?" s: >t: - *
* * f* st º * -
* ^*. *** - 3% Sº, º f * r * ºf v.
* Wºº. 3 -g: ; **, *** § * #: #3. ‘. . *... 32
A s > * **. * * "s. *
ºl. 3. º:.-riºr * *: *
Aft *
#- º, *: º ~º + 3. ...”
* Ya ** Pº ‘ā * r
* 3. *- * *
- ~ * Aº tº 4. *
- * ~. #3: tº 3. * ...A ºt 4. * *
º sº hº * #4; ** * * *****
- $ 33 ºr ºf #&
* *.xlsº *::...” * * * -
§ºgºsº ºth” .. . .
3. *** **** —º +: *
* → *, * A. : * * 4 * - -
*i. ** *** - fº
º'ºrºtº-, ..."; º-sº
$f. * j *, *,
** *. *** {3, ºf *: * ºt-º * .
* $- $: * , . gº º: #### * --- . . . . . . . * * *
* ºr * -* * * % *- -
***ś. 3. * * t
*. - - ~ * * *** *. *
**, ## *.sitºire a tºw s.a.s.º.º. tº . . . .
#. # , * & *
# ***** * * *
*. 3-
t f **; -4 $: ** *
** * * ***
". } º * *
* * * * sº *
. . . . .rssst siężºłęt sº. 3 º' tºº; ; 2:... • .
** ..” •r- # * * x 2. &
4. ºs 3.17; *-*- *-*-*- *g ***-is-- * *-* -- ~~
ww. **
º ºº:: * > . *, *, *, * g :
.# * *-
-- rºº :* º- tºs * * : A * + * 3 * A #. .* **.
s: -
$ºs
* , *. - * {{ * * * * * *, º ... , 3
* & ſº § º:...º * , * zº f –4. **
- ** a vºw-ºs- *Tºw º w-r-,
º: - •ºst. **** *- ~~~~"-rºwth-ººººyº- wº-
§
-:
S
i.
was cents, as JBy the Year, $3.00
* * º **, *#. *
- A * * * - *** **
.*** #: * * * *śº ºf"... " 3.















L IT T L E J O U R N E Y.S.
To T H E H o M E S of , a gif||
&minent 3rtists ºff
S E R I E S OF M C M II
The subjects will be in the following order:
1 RAPHAEL 7 coroT
a LEONARDo 8 correggio.
3 BOTTICELLI g PAUL VERONE.S.E
4 THORwaldsen ro, CELLINI,
5 GAINSBOROUGH 11 ABBEY
6 VELASQUEZ 12 whistLER.
One booklet a month will be issued as, usual, begiãº,
ning January 1st, , * &
The LITTLE JOURNEYs for 1902 will be strictly
de luxe in form and workmanship. The type will be a
new font of antique blackface; the initials designed
especially for this work; a frontispiece porträit from.
the original drawing made at our Shop in each on
Japan Vellum. The booklets will be stitched by hand
with silk. h. . . . . . . .
The price—25 cents each, or $3.00 for the year. 3. ! . º
Address THE ROYCROFTERS aſ Their
Shop, which is at East Aurora, New York
Entered at the Postoffice at East Aurora, new York, foreansmissiº
as second-class mail matter. Copyright, 1902, by Elbert Hubbard,








|HE imperfection in the article made by hand
is its chief charm. The useful product thus
thought out and materialized by labor may
be very simple, quite inexpensive, thoroughly
unobtrusive, yet at the Sāme time decidedly artistic.
We have Rag Carpet Rugs for Summer Cottages. Cut,
dyed and woven by Roycroft girls seventy years young.
They will make you think you are back on the old farm.
The price for a three-yard rug is Three Dollars. Address
T H E R O Y C R O F T E R S
E as t A u r or a , New York
F Old Izaak Walton were alive and in Amer-
|ica he would live in northern Michigan. Lakes
and streams everywhere, and what the poets
call the Finny Tribe—well, I guess so! No
miasma, no mosquitoes, no hay fever, no
nothing but fish and fun, fresh air and HEALTH. .
The cost is n’t much, either.
The best way to reach this Ike Walton Paradise is via the
GRAND RAPIDS & INDIANA RAILWAY.
For rates of fare, maps, information as to hotels, boarding
places, guides, & truth about where they bite best, send 2
cent stamp and get “Michigan in Summer.”
C. L. L O C K W O O D, G. P. A.,
Io 3 South Ionia St., Grand Rapids, Michigan


M U S I C R A C K.
All hand work, of solid oak, 42 inches high, 25 inches wide, $25.
THE ROYCROFTERs, East Aurora, New York,
|
|

|Gaillsborough
rt
Shop, which is in ve
New
<ſ
ås
$
<%
3
Il-l
Cſ
�
&
©
©N
@
eš
<ſ
?
©
}>1
Z

If ever this nation should produce a genius sufficient to ac-
quire to us the honorable distinction of an English School,
the name of Gainsborough will be transmitted to posterity,
in this history of the art, among the very first of that rising
Ilalū) (3. SIR JOSHUA REYNOLDS.
Gains borough

GAINS B O R O U G H
GA INS B O R O U G H II3
OST biographies are written with intent
to make a man the demi-god, or to damn
him as rogue who has hoodwinked a
world. Of the first mentioned class,
Weems’ “Life of Washington” must ever
stand as the true type. The author is so
fearful that he will not think well of his
subject that he conceals every attribute
of our common humanity, and gives us
a being almost devoid of eyes, ears,
organs, dimensions, passions. Next to
Weems, in point of literary atrocity
comes John S. C. Abbott whose life of
Napoleon is a splendid concealment of
the man.
Of those who have written biographies
for the sake of belittling their subject,
John Galt's “Life of Byron” occupies a
conspicuous position. But for books writ-
ten for the double purpose of downing
the subject and elevating the author,
| Philip Thicknesse’s “Life of Gainsbor-
ough’’ must stand first. The book is so
bad that it is interesting, and so stupid
that it will never die. Thicknesse had a
quarrel with Gainsborough and three-
fourths of the volume are given up to a
minute recital of “says he’’ and “says I.”
It is really only an extended pamphlet

II4 G. A.I. N S B O R O U G H
written by an arch-bore with intent to get even with
his man.
The writer regards his petty affairs as of prime im-
portance to the world, and he shows with great care,
and not a single flash of wit, how all of Thomas Gains-
borough’s success in life was brought about by Thick-
nesse. And then, behold! after Thicknesse had made
the man by hand, all he received for pay was ingrati-
tude and insolence! Thicknesse was always good, kind,
unselfish and disinterested; while Gainsborough was
ungrateful, procrastinating, absurd and malicious—
this according to Thicknesse, who was on the spet and
knew. Well, I guess so!
Brock-Arnold describes Thicknesse as “a fussy, osten-
tatious, irrepressible busybody, without the faintest
conception of delicacy or modesty, who seems to think
he has a heaven-born right to patronize Gainsborough,
and to take charge of his affairs.”
The aristocratic and pompous Thicknesse presented
the painter to his friends, and also gave much advice
about how he should conduct himself. He also loaned
him a fiddle and presented him a viola da gamba, and
often invited him to dinner. For these favors Gains-
borough promised to paint a portrait of Thicknesse,
but never got beyond washing in the background.
During ten years he made thirty-seven excuses for
not doing the work, and as for Mrs. Gainsborough,
she once had the temerity to hand Thicknesse his
cocked hat and cane and show him the door. From
G. A. I. N S B O R O U G H II5
this, Thicknesse is emboldened to make certain re-
marks about Mrs. Gainsborough’s pedigree, and to
suggest that if Thomas Gainsborough had married a
different woman he might have been a different painter.
Thicknesse, throughout the book, thrusts himself into
the breach and poses as the Injured One.
On reading “the work” it is hard to believe it was
written in sober, serious earnest—it contains such an
intolerable deal of Thicknesse and so little Gainsbor-
ough. The Mother Gamp flavor is upon every page.
Andrew Lang might have written it to show the liter-
ary style of a disgruntled dead author.
And the curious part is that up to 1829, Thicknesse
held the stage and many people took his portrait of
Gainsborough as authentic. In that year Allan Cun-
ningham put the great painter in his proper light, and
thanks to the minute researches of Fulcher and others,
we know the man as though he had lived yesterday.

II6 G. A. INS B O R O U G H
HE father of Gainsborough was a
tradesman of acute instincts. He
resided at Sudbury, in Suffolk,
seventy miles from London. It
was a time when every thrifty
merchant lived over his place of
business, so as to be on hand
when buyers came; to ward off
robbers; and to sweep the side-
walk, making all tidy before breakfast. Gainsborough
pere was fairly prosperous, but not prosperous enough
to support any of his nine children in idleness. They
all worked, took a Saturday night “tub,” and went to
the Independent Church in decent attire on Sunday.
CI Thomas Gainsborough was the youngest of the
brood, the pet of his parents, and the pride of his big
sisters who had nursed him and brought him up in
the way he should go. In babyhood he was n’t so
very strong, but love and freedom gradually did their
perfect work, and he evolved into a tall, handsome
youth of gracious manner and pleasing countenance.
All the family were sure that Tom was going to be
“somebody.”
The eldest boy, John, known to the town as “Schem-
ing Jack,” had invented a cuckoo clock, and this led to
a self rocking cradle that wound up by a strong spring;
next he made a flying machine; and so clever was he
that he painted signs that swung on hinges, and in
several instances essayed to put a picture of the pros-

G. A. I. N S B O R O U G. H. 117
perous owner on the sign. GIThe second son, Hum-
phrey, was a brilliant fellow, too. He made the model
of a steam engine and showed it to a man by the name
of Watt, who was greatly interested in it; and when
Watt afterward took out a patent on it, Humphrey’s
heart was nearly broken, and it might have been quite,
but he said he had in hand half a dozen things worth
more than the steam engine. As tangible proof of his
power, he won a prize of fifty pounds from the London
Society for the Encouragement of Art, for a mill that
was to be turned by the tide of the sea. The steam
engine would require fuel, but this tide engine would
be turned by Nature at her own expense. In the British
Museum is a sun-dial made by Humphrey Gainsbor-
ough, and it must stand to his credit that he made the
original fire-proof safe. From a fire-proof safe to liberal
theology is but a step, and Humphrey Gainsborough
became a Dissenting Clergyman, passing rich on forty
pounds a year.
The hopes of the family finally centered on Thomas. He
had assisted his brother John at the sign painting, and
had done several creditable little things in drawing
'scutcheons on coach doors for the gentry. Besides all
this, once, while sketching in his father’s orchard, a face
cautiously appeared above the stone wall and for a
single moment studied the situation. The boy caught
the features on his palette, and transferred them to his
picture. The likeness was so perfect that it led to the
execution of the thief who had been robbing the orchard,
II8 G. A. INS B O R O U G H
and also the execution of that famous picture, finished
many years after, known as “Tom Peartree.”
The orchard episode pleased the Gainsboroughs great-
ly. A family council was held, and it was voted that
Thomas must be sent to London to study art. The
girls gave up a dress apiece, the mother retrimmed her
summer bonnet for the winter, the boys contributed,
and there came a day when Tom was duly ticketed
and placed on top of the great coach bound for Lon-
don. Good-byes were waved until only a cloud of dust
was seen in the distance.
Gainsborough went to “St. Martin’s Drawing Acade-
my” at London, and the boys educated him. The art at
the “Academy” seems to have been very much akin
to the art of the Writing Academies of America, where
learned bucolic professors used to teach us the mys-
teries of the Spencerian System for a modest stipend.
The humiliation of never knowing “how to hold your
pen” did much to send many budding geniuses off on
a tangent after grasshopper chirography, but those
who endured unto the end acquired the “wrist move-
ment.” They all wrote alike. That is to say, they all
wrote like the professor, who wrote just like all Spen-
cerian professors. So write the girls in Melvil Dewey's
Academy for Librarians, at Albany—God bless them
all—they all write like Dewey.
Thomas Gainsborough at London seems to have
haunted the theatres and coffee houses, and whenever
there were pictures displayed, there was Thomas to
G. A. I N S B O R O U G. H. II9
be found. To help out the expense account, he worked
at engraving and made designs for a silversmith. The
strong receptive nature of the boy showed itself, for
he succeeded in getting a goodly hold on the art of en-
graving, in a very short time. He absorbed in the mass.
GI But he tired of the town—he wanted freedom, fresh
air, the woods and fields. Hogarth and Wilson were
there in London, but the Academy students never
heard of them. And if Gainsborough ever listened to
Richardson's famous prophecy which inspired Hogarth
and Reynolds, to the effect that England would soon
produce a great school of art, we do not know it.
The young man grew homesick; he was doing nothing
in London—no career was open to him—he returned
to Sudbury after an absence of nearly two years. He
thought it was defeat, but his family welcomed him as
a conquering hero. He was eighteen and looked twenty
—tall, strong, fair baired, gentle in manner, gracious
in speech.
Two of his sisters had married clergymen and were
happily situated in neighboring towns; his brother
Humphrey was “occupying the pulpit” and causing
certain local High Churchmen to have dreams of
things tumbling about their ears.
The sisters and mother wanted Tom to be a preacher,
too—he was so straight and handsome and fine, and
his eyes were so tender and blue!
But he preferred to paint. He painted in the woods and
fields, by streams and old mills, and got on good terms
I2O G. A. INS B O R O U G H
with all the flocks of sheep and cattle in the neighbor-
hood sº sº."
The art of landscape painting developed from an acci-
dent. The early Italian painters used landscape only
as a background for figures. All they pictured were men,
women and children, and to bring these out rightly they
introduced scenery. Imagine a theatre with scenes set
and no person on the stage, and you get the idea of
landscape up to the time of Gainsborough. Landscape!
it was nothing—a blank.
Wilson first painted landscapes as backgrounds for
other men to draw portraits upon. A marine scene was
made merely that a Commodore might stand in cocked
hat, a spy-glass under his arm, in the foreground,
while the sun peeps over the horizon begging permis-
sion to come up. Gradually these incomplete pictures
were seen hanging in shop windows, but for them
there was no market. They were merely curios.
Gainsborough drew pictures of the landscape because
he loved it. He seems to be the first English artist
who loved the country for its own sake. Old bridges,
winding roadways, gnarled oaks, cattle grazing and
all the manifold beauties of quiet country life fasci-
nated him. He educated the collector, and educated
the people into a closer observation and study of nature.
Gainsborough stood at the crossways of progress and
pointed the way.
With Hogarth’s idea that a picture should teach a
lesson and have a moral, he had no sympathy. And
G. A. I N S B O R O U Gº H I2][
with Reynolds, who thought there was nothing worth
picturing but the human face, he took issue. Beauty
to him was its own excuse for being. However, in all
of Gainsborough’s landscapes you will find the human
interest somewhere—man has not been entirely left
out. But from being the one important thing, he sinks
simply into a part of the view that lies before you.
Turner’s maxim, “you cannot leave man out,” he
annexed from Gainsborough. And Corot’s landscapes,
where the dim, shadowy lovers sit on the bank-side
under the great oaks,—the most lovely pictures ever
painted by the hand of man—reveal the extreme evo-
lution from a time when the lovers occupied the center
of the stage, and the landscape was only an accessory.
GLAnd it is further interesting to note that the origin-
ator of English landscape painting was also a great
portrait painter, and yet he dared paint portraits with
absolutely no scenery back of them—a thing which up
to that time was only done by a man who had n’t
the ability to paint landscape. Thus do we prove
Rabelais' proposition, “The man who has a well-
filled strong-box can surely afford to go ragged.”

I22 G. A. INS B O R O U G H
HOMAS GAINSBOROUGH, aged
nineteen, was one day intently
sketching in a wood near Sudbury,
when the branches suddenly part-
ed and out into a little open space
stepped Margaret Burr. This
young woman had taken up her
abode in Sudbury during the time
the young man was in London,
and he had never met her, although he had probably
heard her praises sounded. Everybody around there
had heard of her. She was the handsomest woman in
all Suffolk—and knew it. She lived with her “uncle,”
and the gossips, who looked after these little things,
divided as to whether she was the daughter of one of
the exiled Stuarts, or the natural child of the Duke of
Bedford. Anyway, she was a true princess in face,
form and bearing, and had an income of her own of
two hundred pounds a year. Her pride was a thing so
potent that the rustic swains were chilled at the sight
of her, and the numerous suitors sighed and shot their
love-sick glances from a safe distance.
Let that pass: the branches parted and Margaret
stepped out into the open. She thought she was alone,
when all at once her eyes looked full into the eyes of the
young artist—not a hundred feet away. She was start-
led; she blushed, stammered and tried to apologize for
the intrusion. Her splendid self possession had failed
her for once—she was going to flee by the way she

GAI N S B O R O U G H I23
had come. GI* Hold that position, please, stand just as
you are!” called the artist in a tone of authority.
Even the proudest of women are willing to accept
orders when the time is ripe; and I am fully convinced
that to be domineered over by the right man is a thing
all good women warmly desire.
Margaret Burr, the proud beauty, stood stock still,
and Thomas Gainsborough admitted her into his land-
scape and his heart.
This is not a love story or we might begin here and
extend our booklet into a volume. Suffice it to say that
within a few short months after their first meeting,
the young woman, being of royal blood, exercised her
divine right and “proposed.” She proposed just as
Queen Victoria did later. And then they were mar-
ried—both under twenty—and lived happy ever after.
QI. It is a great mistake to assume that pride and a high
degree of common sense cannot go together. Margaret
knew how to manage. After a short stay in Sudbury
the couple rented a cottage at Ipswich for six pounds
a year—a dove-cote with three rooms. The proud
beauty would not let the place be profaned by a ser-
vant—she did all the work herself, and if she wanted
help, she called on her husband. Base is the man who
will not fetch and carry for the woman he loves.
They were accounted the most distinguished and
handsomest couple in all Sudbury, and when they
attended church there was so much craning of necks,
and so many muffled exclamations of admiration that
I24 G. A. I. N S B O R O U G H
the clergyman made it a point not to begin the service
until they were safely seated.
They were very happy—they loved each other and so
loved life and everything and everybody, and God’s
great green Out-o’-Doors was their playhouse. Mar-
garet’s income was quite sufficient for their needs, and
mad ambition passed them by. Gainsborough drew
pictures and painted and sketched, and then gave his
pictures away.
Music was his passion and whenever at concerts, held
'round about there, the player did exceptionally well,
Gainsborough would proffer a picture in exchange for
the instrument used. In this way the odd corners of
their house got filled with violins, lutes, hautboys,
kettle-drums and curious stringed things that have
died the death and are now extinct. At this time if any-
one had asked Gainsborough his profession, he would
have said, I am a musician.
Fifteen years had slipped into the eternity that lies
behind—“years not lost, for we can turn the hour-
glass and live them all over in sweet memory,” once
said Gainsborough to his wife. The constant sketching
had developed much skill in the artist’s hand. Thick-
nesse had come puffing alongside, and insisted out of
pure friendliness to take the artist and wife in tow. They
laughed at him behind his back, and carried on con-
versation over his head, and dropped jokes at his feet
by looks and pantemime and communicated in cipher
—for true lovers always evolve a code.
G. A. I N S B O R O U G H I25
Thicknesse was sincere and serious and surely was
not wholly bad—even Mephisto is not bad all of the
time. Mrs. Gainsborough once said she would prefer
Mephisto to Thicknesse, because Mephisto had a sense
of humor. Very naturally they often referred to Thick-
nesse as “Thickhead”—the joke was too obvious to
let pass entirely, until each “took the pledge,” wit-
nessed by Gainsborough's favorite terrier, “Fox.”
Thicknesse had a summer house at Bath, and thither
he insisted his friends should go. He would vouch for
them and introduce them into the best society. He
would even introduce them to Beau Nash, “the King
of Bath,” and arrange to have Gainsborough do him-
self the honor of painting the “King’s” picture. Two
daughters nearing womanhood reminded Mr. and Mrs.
Gainsborough that an increase in income would be
well; and Thicknesse promised many commissions
from his friends, the gentry.
The cheapest house they could find in Bath was fifty
pounds a year. “Do you want to go to gaol P” asked
Mrs. Gainsborough of her husband when he proposed
signing the lease. The worldly Thicknesse proposed
that they should take this house at fifty pounds a year,
or else take another at one hundred and fifty at his
expense. They decided to risk it at the rate of fifty
pounds a year for a few months, and were duly settled.
QIThicknesse was very proud of his art connections.
He had but one theme—Gainsborough! People of note
began to find their way to the studio of the painter-
I26 G. A. INS B O R O U G. H.
man in the Circus. GIGainsborough was gracious, hand-
some and healthy—fresh from the country. He met all
nobility on a frank equality—God had made him a
gentleman. His beautiful wife, now in her early thir-
ties, was much sought in local society circles.
Everybody of note who came to Bath visited Gains-
borough's studio.
Garrick sat to him and played such pranks with his
countenance that each time when the artist looked up
from his easel, he saw a new man. “You have every-
body's face but your own,” said Gainsborough to Gar-
rick, and dismissing the man, he completed the picture
from memory.
This portrait and also pictures of General Honeywood,
the Comedian Quin, Lady Grosvenor, the Duke of
Argyle, besides several landscapes were sent up to
the Academy Exhibition at London.
George III. saw them and sent word down that he
wished Gainsborough lived in London so he could sit
to him.
The carrier, Wiltshire, who packed the pictures and
took them up to London had a passion for art that
filled his heart and refused to accept gold, that base
and common drudge twixt man and man, for his ser-
vices in an art way. And so Gainsborough presented
him with a picture. In fact, during the term of years
that Gainsborough lived at Bath, he gave Wiltshire,
the modest driver of an express cart, a dozen or more
pictures and sketches. He gave him the finest picture
G. A. I N S B O R O U G H 127
he ever painted—that portrait of the old Parish Clerk.
GI, Gainsborough was not so good a judge of his OWIl
work as Wiltshire was. Wiltshire kept all the “Gains-
boroughs” he could get, reveled in them during his
long life, basked and bathed his soul in their beauty,
and dying, bequeathed them to his children.
Had Wiltshire been moved by nothing but keen, cold
worldly wisdom—which he was n't—he could not have
done better. Even friendship, love and beauty have
their Rialto—the appraiser footed up the Wiltshire
estate at over fifty thousand pounds.
Gainsborough found himself with more work than he
could well care for, so he raised his prices for a “half
length” from five pounds to forty; and for a “full
length” from ten pounds to one hundred, in order to
limit the number of his patrons. It doubled them.
His promised picture of Thicknesse was delegated be-
hind the door, and a check was sent the great man for
five hundred pounds for his borrowed viola da gamba
and other favors.
But Thicknesse was not to be bought off. He took
charge of the studio, looked after the visitors, explain-
ing this and that, telling how he had discovered the
artist and rescued him from obscurity, giving scraps
of his history, and presenting little impromptu lectures
on art as he had found it. -
The fussy Thicknesse used to be funny to Mr. and
Mrs. Gainsborough, but now he had developed into a
nuisance. To escape him, they resolved to turn the
I28 G. A. INS B O R O U G. H.
pretty compliment of King George into a genuine re-
quest. They packed up and moved to London.
The fifty pounds a year at Bath had seemed a great
responsibility, but when Gainsborough took Schom-
berg House in Pall Mall at three hundred pounds, he
boasts of his bargain. About this time “Scheming
Jack” turns up asking for a small loan to perfect a
promising scheme. The gracious brother replies that
although his own expenses are over a thousand
pounds a year, yet he is glad to accommodate him,
and hopes the scheme will prosper—which of course
he knew it would not, for success is a matter of the
red corpuscle.
Almost immediately on reaching London the Royal
Academy recognized Gainsborough's presence by
electing him a member of its Council. However, he
never attended a single meeting. He did not need the
Academy. Royalty stood in line at his studio doors,
and he took his pick of sitters. He painted five different
portraits of the king, various pictures of his children,
did the rascally heir apparent ideally and made a pic-
ture of Queen Charlotte that Goldsmith said “looked
like a sensible woman.”
He painted portraits of his lovely wife, Richard Brins-
ley Sheridan, Burke, Walpole the dictator of Straw-
berry Hill, and immortalized the hats worn by the
smashing, dashing Duchess of Devonshire. One of
these pictures of Her Grace comes very close to us
Americans, as it was cut from the frame one dark,
G. A. INS B O R O U G H I29
foggy night in London, sealed up in the false bottom of
a trunk and brought to New York. Here it lay for over
twenty years, when Colonel Patricius Sheedy, con-
noisseur and critic, arranged for its delivery to the
heirs of the original owners on payment of some such
trifle as twenty-five thousand dollars. This superb
picture, with its romantic past was not des-
tined to traverse the Atlantic again; for thanks
to the generosity of J. Pierpont Morgan, it has
now found a permanent home at Harvard College.
T is only a little way back from
civilization to savagery. We live
in a wonderful time: the last
twenty-five years have seen
changes that mark epochs in the
onward and upward march. Not
to mention but two, we might
name the almost complete evolu-
tion of our definition as to what
constitutes “Christianity”; and in material things the
use of electricity, which has worked such a revolution
as even Jules Verne never conjured forth.
Americans are somewhat given to calling our country
“The Land of the Free”—as if there were no other.
But the individual in England today has greater free-
dom of speech and action than the individual has in
America. In every large city of America there is an
extent of petty officialism and dictation that the

I30 G. A. INS B O R O U G H
English people would not for a day endure. Our
policemen, following their Donnybrook proclivities,
are all armed with clubs, and allowing pre-natal influ-
ences to lead, they unlimber the motto, “Wherever
you see a head, hit it,” on slight excuse. In Central
Park, New York, for instance, the citizen who “talks
back” would speedily be clubbed into silence—but try
that thing in Hyde Park, London, if you please, and see
what would follow ! But, thank heaven, we are working
out our salvation all the time—things are getting better,
and it is the “dissatisfied” who are making them go.
Were we satisfied, there would be no progress.
During the sixty-one years of Gainsborough's life,
wondrous changes were made in the world of thought
and feeling. And the good natured but sturdy quality
of such as he was the one strong factor that worked
for freedom. Gainsborough was never a tuft-hunter:
he toadied to no man, and his swinging independence
refused to see any special difference between himself
and the sleek, titled nobility. He asked no favors of
the Academy, no quarter from his rivals, no grants
from royalty. This dissenting attitude probably cost
him the mate of the knighthood which went to Sir
Joshua, but behold the paradox! he was usually closer
to the throne than those who lay in wait for honors.
Gainsborough sought for nothing—he did his work,
preserved the right mental attitude, and all good things
came to him.
It is a curious thing to note that while England was
G. A. I. N S B O R O U G H I31
undergoing a renaissance of art, and realizing a burst
of freedom, Italy, that land so long prolific in greatness,
produced not a single artist who arose above the dull
and commonplace. Has Nature only just so much
genius at her disposal?
The reign of the Georges worked a blessed, bloodless
revolution for the people of England. They reigned
better than they knew. Gainsborough saw the power
of the monarch transferred to the people, and the King
become the wooden figurehead of the ship, instead of
its Captain. So, thanks to the weakness of George III.
and the short-sighted policy of Lord North, America
achieved her independence about the same time that
England did hers.
Theological freedom and political freedom go hand in
hand, for our conception of Deity is always a pale re-
flection of our chief ruler. Did not Thackeray say that
the people of England regarded Jehovah as an infinite
George the Fourth 2
Gainsborough saw Whitefield and Wesley entreating
that we should go to God direct; Howard was letting
the sunshine into dark cells; Clarkson, Sharp and Wil-
berforce had begun their crusade against slavery, and
their arms and arguments were to be transferred a
hundred years later to William Lloyd Garrison, Wen-
dell Phillips, and Henry Ward Beecher, who bought
“Beecher Bibles” for old John Brown, Osawatomie
Brown, whose body, no longer needed, was hanged
on a sour apple tree, while his soul goes marching on.
I32 G. A. I. N S B O R O U G. H.
QI. In the realm of Letters, Gainsborough saw changes
occur no less important than in the political field.
Samuel Johnson bowled into view, scolding and chal-
lenging the Ensconced Smug; Goldsmith scaled the
Richardson ghetto and wrote his touching and death-
less verse; Fielding’s saffron comedies were produced
at Drury Lane; Cowper, nearly the same age as the
artist, did his work and lapsed into imbecility, surviving
him sixteen years; Richardson became the happy
father of the English Novel; Stern took his Sentimen-
tal Journey; Chatterton, the meteor, flashed across
the literary sky; Gray mused in the churchyard and
laid his head upon the lap of earth; Burns was pro-
moted from the Excise to be the idol of all Scotland.
The year that Gainsborough died, Napoleon, a slim,
slip of a youth seventeen years old, was serving as a
sub-lieutenant of artillery; while Wellington had just
received his first commission and was marching zig-
zag, by the right oblique, to meet him eighteen miles
from Brussels on the night of a ball sung into immor-
tality by Byron; Watt had invented the steam engine,
thanks to Humphrey Gainsborough; Arkwright had
made his first spinning-frame; Humphrey Davy was
working at problems (with partial success) to be
solved later by Edison of Menlo Park; Lord Hastings
was tried, and it was while listening to the speech of
Sheridan—the one speech of his life, the best words
of which, according to his butler, were, “My Lords, I
am done,” that Gainsborough caught his death o' cold.
G. A. I N S B O R O U G H I33
AINS B O R O U G H never went
abroad to study; he painted things
at home, and painted as he saw
them. He never imagined he was
a great artist, so took no thought
as to the future of his work. He
set so little store on his pictures
that he did not think even to sign
them. The masterpiece that satis-
fied him was never done.
His was a happy life of work and love, with no cloud
to obscure the sun, save possibly now and then a
bumptious reproof from Sir Thicknesse or the occasion-
al high-handed haughtiness of a Hanging Committee.
GIThus passed his life in work, music, laughter and
love; but to music he ever turned for rest. He made
more money than all of his seven brothers and sisters
combined, five times over, and divided with them
without stint. He educated several of his nieces and
nephews, and one nephew, Gainsborough Dupont, he
adopted and helped make of him an acceptable artist.
GLOf that peculiarly to be dreaded malady, artistic
jealousy, Gainsborough had not a trace. His failure to
court Sir Joshua’s smile led foolish folks to say he was
jealous—not so! he was simply able to get along with-
out Sir Joshua, and he did. Yet he admired Reynolds’
work and admired the man, but was too wise to force
any close personal relationship.
He divided with West, the American, the favor of

I34 G. A. INS B O R O U G. H.
the Court, and with Romney and Reynolds the favor
of the town. He got his share, and more, of all the
world counts worth while. The gratitude of his heart
was expressed by his life—generous, kind, joyous—
never cast down excepting when he thought he had
spoken harshly or acted unwisely—loyal to his friends,
forgetting his enemies.
He did a deathless work, for it is a work upon which
other men have built. He prepared the way for those
who were to come after.
It is a great privilege to live, to work, to feel, to endure,
to know: to realize that one is the instrument of Deity
—being used by the Maker to work out His inscruta-
ble purposes: to see vast changes occur in the social
fabric and to know that men stop, pause and consider:
to comprehend that this world is a different place
because you have lived. Yes, it is a great privilege to
live! Gainsborough lived—he reveled in life, and filled
his days to their brim, ever and alway grateful to the
Unknown that had guided his hand and led him
forth upon his way. QI. It is a great privilege to live!

º
HERE ENDETH THE LITTLE Journey To THE HOME
OF GAINSBOROUGH, AS WRITTEN BY ELBERT HUB-
BARD, THE TITLE PAGE, INITIALS AND ORNAMENTS
DESIGNED BY SAMUEL WARNER, AND THE WHOLE
DONE INTO A BOOK BY THE ROYCROFTERS, AT THEIR
SHOP, WHICH IS IN EAST AURORA, ERIE COUNTY, NEW
YORK, IN THE MONTH OF MAY, MCMII sºr sºr sºr sºr sºr sºr
ROY CROFT
MOTTOEs
(I LLU M IN ED)
On heavy Charcoal paper, wide margins,
suitable for framing.
Texts as
Size, about 8 x 12.
Follows
Speak well of every one, if you speak
of them at all—none of us is so very
good l
Blessed is that man who has found
his work.
Men are great only as they are kind.
Lift the stone and thou shalt find me:
cleave the wood and there am I.
They say—what say they? Let them
Say.
Talk less and listen more.
We are all children in the kindergar-
ten of God.
Be gentle and keep your voice low.
Aim high and consider yourself capa-
ble of great things.
Do your work as well as you can—
and be kind.
THE ROYCROFT CREED.
MENTAL ATTITUDE.
The following Orphic Sayings of Ali
Baba, in similar style, suitable for
framing:
Blessed is that man who does not
rubber.
It is a wise guy who does not monkey
with his destiny.
Don't scrap ! Do unto others as you
would be done by.
Life is too short to spend in Chewing
the Rag.
Those who do not know how to take
the PHILISTINE had better not.
Folks who never do any more than
they get paid for, never get paid for
any more than they do.
The package of eighteen mottoes, by mail, $1.5o or
singly say, Io cents each.
THE ROYCROFTERS at East Aurora, N.Y.
;:SºlR, have for sale a few back numbers
Yºº
#
*Ayy Bº
of LITTLE JOURNEYS bound
solidly in boards, leather backs, ad-
vertisements and covers bound in
complete, six numbers in a volume, as follows:
Volume Six.
I MORRIS
2 BROWNING:
3 TENNYSON
4 BURNS
5 MILTON \
6 JOHNSON
Volume Eight.
I WAGNER
2 PAGANINI
3 CHOPIN
4 MOZART
5 BACH
6 MENDELSSOHN
Volume Seven.
I MACAULAY
2 BYRON
3 ADDISON
4 SOUTHEY
5 COLERIDGE
6 DISRAELI
Volume Nine.
I LISZT
2 BEETHOVEN
3 HANDEL
4 VERDI
5 SCHUMANN
6 BRAHMS
The price of these books (for the present) is
Two Dollars each. Address
<><>
THE ROYCROFTERS,
East Aurora, New York.

“Whoever thinks a faultless piece to see,
Thinks what ne'er was, nor is, nor e'er shall be.”
If Pope had lived fifty years later
than he did, he would have changed
this generalization. His first cake of

Pears'
Soap would have convinced him of his
CTTOTs
Pears' Soap is not an expensive soap,
and it is all soap, pure soap, nothing
but soap. For toilet, bath and shaving,
it is the best in the world, and has been
so for more than a century.
All sorts of stores sell it; all sorts of people use it.
as E bind books beautifully and well
#||—at least some folks think we do.
But we do not do job binding:
ɺll however we will bind up your
back numbers, of
| The Philistine and Little Journeys
for you, the prices as follows:
Six numbers of the Little Journeys
in a volumé, covers and advertising pages
all bound together in solid boards and
leather backs, e © • $1.00
Six numbers of the Philistine in a
| volume, advertising pages and covers, all
bound in solid boards, leather backs, .75
######
THE ROYCROFTERS,
EAST AURORA, NEW YORK

ITTLE books descriptive of New Eng-
land and intended to display the advantages of
this grand summer playground as a health re-
sort are issued by the Boston & Maine Railroad.
Some of the titles are: “Among the Mountains,”
“Lakes and Streams,” “All Along Shore,” “The
Hoosac Country and Deerfield Valley.” They also publish
nine other books covering various sections. All are illustrated,
and they will be mailed for two cents for each book with cata-
logue and a Tour Book giving routes, rates and maps. In ad-
dition to the above are some fine specimens of New England
views in five portfolios of about thirty pictures each ; these are
mailed for six cents each or thirty cents for the set. Address,
Passenger Department, Boston & Maine Railroad, Boston.
N
D. J. FLANDERS, Gen. Pass. & Ticket Agent.
|0 finer find can be annexed than a Membership
in the American Academy of Immortals. The
| advantages are increased activity of all the
secretions, deeper breathing capacity, perfect
digestion and sweet sleep o' mights: these things mean
bigger bank balance and the return of wavering affection.
The cost is Ten Dollars, with no further dues for ninety-
nine years. Address
T H E PH I L IST IN E ,
EAST AURORA, NEW YORK


º
iº
§
|(§
Q
3R.
2) ſº
º
*
(2.
º

--- 7: º wº FT ºf
.*-
3 **-*.* • ? .
** ſº-º:
***
2 tº- * & 3. * > . .
Ç ‘. . .*s +. -3 > *š. *c. …” -
“, $3.
ittle Journey’sº
** *. * : * * ... ** ** $.
*
To r H E Hºo M. E. s - or . H
* * *
4+
→
“, wº- * ** *
GREAT MUSICIANS - ||
- wº ...” > *, *, 5
_f + ºr ". ..
*
Volumes VI If and IX—New Series
Each book contains the following numbers: ...}
Dolume UIII. *E. * Dotume IX. ". . . . .4
I jº $, ** 7. Liszt. • * : : ** *
2 PAGANINI ... , s sºovés. . . .31
3 CHOPIN . . . . . ."g, HAMoſſº. 3, , ºf
4 MOZART sº i- 'Lº º: - sºf
5 BACH ,, . " i schººns ... ºf
• MENDElssohn, "... ...,’ss asshº ºil
* . . Jº -*::::::::". * & ºr •
Containing frontispiece portraits ºf eighâf the, |
subjects, text on Roycroft water-mark; hand-made ''
º e. * ... • Neº -- ~ * ** > * • ** **
paper, initials & title-page hand illumined, bound-
in limp chamois—silk lined, gilt top. Edition tims
ited to one thousand copies, numbered & signed
by the author. “ t is, . . . . . . . * * 3 *
**
*||
k
* **,
**** *
r- 3.
Price of volumes is Three Dollars each.”.” "...
Subscribers who already have the above smeñº
tioned booklets in paper covers, may, if they
choose, return the loose numbers to us by mail
with remittance of Three Dollars, for -binding,”
.*
and the volumes will go forward. +, ׺ &
s #
|
3.
*. *
THE RoycroFTERs
East Aurora, New York ". . . .







... ." º * --
• ******* - (< *.*.*, * : .. . . . . ºr
** “… ." * & * y A Ž **** * {-, *: *-rºr
- “… ." **...*, sº < * > * wº
º jºr .*** vº”. .* ~ • * *- .*
.*. * * * ** * : . ** #. * *. .# * -
* * ſº * : * * - F ºr * *
sº 33. §§ & Fº
& $4. ºf #
#. ..'. * , ** tº."zº .*. *...º. § * *. *... .. ~$ºr
* i.º.” ...tº . . . . … * # , ºr sºi, º, . . ... " *
& $ *** **. * &
*. : HößIES OF-EMINENT ARTISTS'.
U- sº ** …” #x *
º 3. ** :* 3. * * * rº, ºr ** ... i. ša's * 3 * *.
*::::: 3 *. ~~~~ * *s ‘. zºº *1. #.: *s ** *
*** * *~...~, gº: * : *-.' . …&# ºx.” º * *. } A.
* **
t ... º. 2 *. *** *** - S - ". ** ***
• * : *** * ... * :*
4 :* * * sº *: & # 3. &-
* * * *
jº * : * º * > A
* * ** 3. $. *y
** ** *… . . # § “,
× %. 3. *. * * .."
**, •- . ** ** tº-
* ––– s ~ * > Æ 2. ' *_2,...e. - —º
sº ** ++----. y si. ---z— f –––. z-
** rº 1. i. ºr wºrk
† tº § * *. *: *
. .” - - *: • i' >. * * *r. * *. *::: * 3 * *
• * * * *: *-* §
Vol. X. JUNE, Igoa. No. 6 By ELBERT HUBBARD
* º, sº R.' .
3. * *s # .* *
jº ***
* i. # 4. … i ~3-- *
* > *— M. *—a--—f * + 3. * **, * * * .* *
r:-- T- -º- + --- *: r zº-º-º-º: x *sº
'# *
# ~ * . . *
* , - ... • *. *
*. * k 3. A 3. 4. Yºr
* ri * , * * sº sº. * f
* ... * ~sº ** * Fºrt. *
*: 3. & tº, c. *
* * <---, **
{ •y ...” & •y *
*$k *** *. •º f § ºr- 3.
* …, * * * #
#
** Jº s .* * ºr *
* * * # ** *
* * * *
.." * * *
**
§ *** * * ** * .* *
** - "x → *
. * 4 zº- $,
3. *
* g., * 3,
3º ***
; : « * * - 5 - *
: * ** “, ** * *
& ** *
* *
*
sº jºs *...*.* ºf -3. * • * x
** *. : “ :*.* * **
fºx, # *ś
t
** *, $_º. %. *. *. **
* … ** * j-
# **** as, º, ºr *
* -š tº # *egº. ... "
**, ** * $. it.
... º. ** *...* -
* r * ~ *, ; " ... * : i;
: 3 * ... º. ~ y R. " *
–%.
* - *x. * - ºf . : , , ra.
** *
*, * ** t * s : *** *... . *
* t $º .º.
§º. $º. A. * ~ ::::: #: > * *
* * * ***. *ſ, *- }rk. *-
* * * * * * * * > *
**** *, < * ** * 3. ‘.S. A. * *
º #- 2 *, *. * * ł.
4. _*- ef =y # f * $º # * + -č X.
* . ~ * * *- .** a. * * $ *... " wº
* as “” #º
.. x^*, * ** . ; : S.” * rº- t
W.
‘. J*, * # wº ... * ** & *
* * ** #3
*…* , > * $ * #
... k. * ** * y *** * * ---, 2-2-
*, * ºf ºr t; **.
*** * * * * ~ * .* *
*** ... " " . * . * " *- - *.* "- * * , 3’ * * *
* * W. * & * . * * . “... < g * 3 * * *.*
** sº * * *. 3.
* * & “ t f w * $
** f • * * º 3. * º
.* { A. * * ~...~~ ** ** # *: * * *
* * * * *-* *** * ** $2.
s ## 3.” * # -- *.p. *. ſº- as *.
.# ** *: * *— — . ł *
i.
25 cents . . . By the Year, $3.00
*
wº
#
*Single Copies,
* ~ º & , - x-
* * * *
#











--> → --- ==== ..
L IT T L E J O U R N E YS
to T H E H on e s o f : ...:
* º - *** *.*. cº" || |
&minent 3rtists º
S E R I E S O F. M. C. M.II
The subjects will be in the following order:
1 RAPHAEL 7 coror... tº
2 LEONARDO 8 correggig
3 BOTTICELLI 9 PAUL versonESE.
4 THorwalDSEN io cBLLINI : *
5 GAINSBorough 11 ABBEY ºf
6 VELASQUEZ 12 whistler.
One booklet a month will be issued as usual, begin-
ning January Ist. * ; : * **, ºss
The LITTLE JOURNEYs for 1902 will be strictly
de luxe in form and workmanship. The tygºg *:
new font of antique blackface; the inità designed.
especially for this work; a frontispiege’ portraitºgº
the original drawing made at our Shop in each.sº
Japan Vellum. The booklets will be stitched by hand.
with silk. - . . ." " s’ .. º
The price—25 cents each, or $3.00 for the year: º, . .”
Address THE ROYCROF TERS at Their
Shop, which is at East Aurora, New York.
Entered at the postoffice at East Aurora, New York, fortrama. '* šti
as second-glass mail matter, Copyright, 1902; by Elbeit Hub #3:
º
**.*
wjº &





H A R M O N Y
HERE is only one Harmony, but
it has many forms—these all speak
to the Harmony within. Painting
appeals to us through the sense of
sight, Literature through the understanding,
and Music through the sense of hearing.
The Roycrofters make special use of Music:
we have pianos in every room, and one hun-
dred and forty of our workers are receiving
regular musical instruction. Many of them
take individual lessons in vocal and instru-
mental work; then we have a Chorus; a
Guitar and Mandolin Club; a Brass Band;
an Orchestra; and a Little German Band to
stimulate the ganglionic cells of the Local
Agrarians. All of our Musical Instruments
came from Lyon & Healy of Chicago, Cook
County, Illinois. At first we tried different
dealers; but Lyon & Healy’s instruments
we have found to be the best; they never
disturb the neighbors and if things were
not just right Lyon & Healy made
them right without question or quibble. It
is a satisfaction to deal with men like these.


E bind books beautifully and well
—at least some folks think we do.
But we do not do job binding: ||.
however we will bind up your |
. …"
back numbers of f
The Philistine and Little Journeys
for you, the prices as follows:
Six numbers of the Little Journeys
in a volume, covers and advertising pages
all bound together in solid boards and
leather backs, º © & $1.00
Six numbers of the Philistine in a
volume, advertising pages and covers, all
bound in solid boards, leather backs, .75 ||
######
THE ROYCROFTERS,
EAST AURORA, Ar NEW YORK

The Royal Frontenac
Is one of the newest and finest resort
* hotels in Michigan, beautifully situated
at Frankfort, Mich., facing the lake and
only a few steps from it. And fishing,
too, that will delight the Ike Walton
follower! "I Good Philistines who have
not planned their summer vacation had
, better consider this place where they can
get right close to Mother Nature in all
her tenderness. Fine lake breezes and
mineral water and anything you can ask
for in way of accommodations—they
are all here. Open July 1st to October
1st. "I The proprietors will be very glad
to send you a little booklet, telling
more about it. Address
J. R. HAYES, CHAS. A. BRANT, Lessees,
FRANKFORT, MICHIGAN.

Pears'
Why is Pears' Soap—the best in the
world, the soap with no free alkali in
it—sold for 15 cents a cake?
It was made for a hospital soap in the
first place, made by request, the doc-
tors wanted a soap that would wash as
sharp as any and do no harm to the
skin. That means a soap all soap, with
no free alkali in it, nothing but soap;
there is nothing mysterious in it. Cost
depends on quantity; quantity comes
of quality. ! £.
Sold all over the world.
Sºl LITTLE---|E
C. MEMIN ENT
NIART IS T S :
JOURNEYS
To the Homes of -
|Pelag ques
Written by Elbert
ſº and done
into a Book by the
|Roycrofters at their
Shop, which is in v
||East Aurora, New
York, A.D. 1902~~~

Among the notable prophets of the new and true, Rubens,
Rembrandt, Claude—Velasquez was the newest and certainly
the truest from our point of view. He showed us the mystery
of light as God made it STEVENSON,
V E L AS QUEZ I35
HERE be, anong writing men, those
who please the populace, and also that
Elect Few who inspire writers. When
Horace Greeley gave his daily mes-
sage to the world, every editor of any
power in America paid good money for
the privilege of being a subscriber to the
“Tribune.” The “Tribune” had no ex-
change list—if you wanted the “Tri-
bune” you had to buy it, and the writers
bought it because it wound up their
clocks—set them a-going—and they
either carefully abstained from mention-
ing Greeley, or else went in right valiant-
ly and exposed his vagaries.
Greeley may have been often right, and
we now know he was often wrong, but
he infused the breath of life into his
words—his sentences were a challenge
—he made men think. And the reason
he made men think was because he him-
self was a thinker.
Among modern literary men, the two
English writers who have most inspired
writers are Carlyle and Emerson. They
were writers’ writers. In the course of
their work, they touched upon every
phase of man’s experience and endeavor.
You cannot open their books anywhere

136 V E L AS QUEZ
and read a page without casting about for your pencil
and pad. Strong men infuse into their work a deal of
their own spirit, and their words are charged with a
suggestion and meaning beyond the mere sound. There
is a reverberation that thrills one. All art that lives is
thus vitalized with a spiritual essence: an essence that
ever escapes the analyst, but which is felt and known by
all who have hearts that throb and souls that feel.
QI Strong men make room for strong men. Emerson
and Carlyle inspired other men, and they inspired each
other—but whether there be warrant for that over-
worked reference to their “friendship” is a question.
Some other word surely ought to apply here, for their
relationship was largely a matter of the head, with a
weather eye on Barabbas, and three thousand miles of
very salt brine between them. Carlyle never came to
America: Emerson made but three trips to England;
and often a year or more passed without a single let-
ter on either side. Tammas Carlyle, son of a stone-
mason, with his crusty ways and clay pipe, with per-
sonality plus, at close range would have been a com-
bination not entirely congenial to the culminating
flower of seven generations of New England clergymen
—probably not more so than was the shirt-sleeved
and cravatless Walt, when they met that memorable
day by appointment at the Astor House.
Our first and last demand of Art is that it shall give us
the artist’s best. Art is the mintage of the soul. All
the whim, foible and rank personality are blown away
V E L AS QUEZ I37
on the winds of time—the good remains. CIOf artists
who have inspired artists, and who being dead yet
live Velasquez stands first.
“Velasquez was a painters’ painter—the rest of us are
only painters.” And when the man who painted “Sym-
phonies in White,” further explained that a picture is
finished when all traces of the means used to bring
about the end have disappeared—for work alone will

138 V E L AS QUEZ
HE subject of this sketch was born
in the year 1599, and died in 1660.
And while he lived there also lived
these: Shakespeare, Cervantes,
Murillo, Rembrandt, and Ru-
bens. sº sº."
As an artist and a man Velasquez
was the equal, in his way, of any
of the men just named. Ruskin has
said, “Everything that Velasquez does may be regard-
ed as absolutely right.” And Sir Joshua Reynolds
placed himself on record by saying “The portrait of
Pope Innocent X. by Velasquez, in the Doria Gallery,
is the finest portrait in all Rome.” Yet until the year
1776, a date Americans can easily remember, the work
of Velasquez was scarcely known outside of Spain. In
that year Raphael Mengs wrote: “How this painter,
greater than Raphael or Titian, truer far than Rubens or
Van Dyke, should have been lost to view is more than
I can comprehend. I can not find words to describe
the splendor of his art!”
But enthusiasts who ebulliate at low temperature are
plentiful. The world wagged on in its sleepy way, and
it was not until 1828 that an Englishman, Sir David
Wilkie, following up the clue of Mengs, began quietly
to buy up all the stray pictures by Velasquez he could
find in Spain. He sent them to England, and the world
one day awoke to the fact that Velasquez was one of
the greatest artists of all time. Curtis compiled a list of

V E L AS QUEZ I39
two hundred and seventy-four pictures by Velasquez,
which he pronounces authentic. Of these one hundred
and twenty-one were owned in England, thirteen in
France, twelve in Austria and eight in Italy. At least fif-
teen of the English 'oldings have since been transferred
to America; so outside of England and Spain, America
possesses more of the works of this Master than any
other country. But of this be sure: No Velasquez will
ever leave Spain unless spirited out of the country be-
tween two days—and if one is carried away, it will not
be in the false bottom of a trunk. Within a year one Ve-
lasquez was so found secreted at Cadiz, and the owner
only escaped prison by presenting the picture, with his
compliments to the Prado Museum at Madrid. The re-
lease of the prisoner, and the acceptance of the picture,
were both a bit irregular as matter of jurisprudence;
but I am told that lawyers can usually arrange these

I40 V E L AS QUEZ
HERE seems to have been some
little discussion in the de Silva
family of Seville as to whether
Diego should be a lawyer, and fol-
low in his father's footsteps, or
become an artist and possibly a
vagrom. The father had hoped the
boy would be his helper and suc-
cessor, and here the youngster was
wasting his time drawing pictures of water jugs,
baskets of flowers, old women and foolish folk about
the market!
Should it be the law school or the Studio of Herrera
the painter?
To almost every fond father the idea of discipline is,
to have the child act just as he does. But in this case
the mother had her way, or more properly, she let the
boy have his—as mothers do—and the sequel shows
that a woman’s heart is sometimes nearer right than a
man's head.
The fact that “Velasquez” was the maiden name of
his mother, and was adopted by the young man, is a
straw that tells which way the vane of his affections
turned ºf sºr
Diego was sixteen and troublesome. He was n’t “bad”
—only he had a rollicksome, flamboyant energy that
inundated everything, and made his absence often a
blessing devoutly to be wished. Herrera had fixed
thoughts about art and deportment. Diego failed to

VELAS QUEZ I4I
grasp the beauty and force of these ideas, and in the
course of a year he seems to have learned just one
thing of Herrera—to use brushes with very long
handles and long bristles. This peculiarity he clung to
through life, and the way he floated the color upon
the canvas with those long, ungainly brushes, no one
understood; he really did n’t know himself, and the
world has long since given up the riddle. But the
scheme was Herrera's, improved upon by Velasquez;
yet not all men who paint with a brush that has a
handle eight feet long can paint like Velasquez.
In Herrera's studio there were often heated arguments
as to merits and demerits, flat contradictions as to
facts, and wordy warfare that occasionally resulted in
broken furniture. On such occasions Herrera never
hesitated to take a hand and soundly cuff a pupil’s ears,
if the master thought the pupil needed it.
Velasquez has left on record the statement that Her-
rera was the most dogmatic, pedantic, overbearing and
quarrelsome man he ever knew. Just what Herrera
thought of the young man Velasquez, unfortunately,
we do not know. But the belief is that Velasquez left
Herrera's studio on request of Herrera.
He next entered the studio of the rich and fashionable
painter, Pacheco. This man, like Macaulay, had so
much learning that it ran over and he stood in the slop.
He wrote a book on painting, and might also have
carried on a Correspondence School wherein the art
of portraiture would be taught in ten easy lessons.
I42 V E L AS QUEZ
(I. In Madrid and Seville are various specimens of
work done by both Herrera and Pacheco. Herrera had
a certain style, and the early work of Velasquez
showed Herrera's earmarks plainly; but we look in
vain for a trace of influence that can be attributed to
Pacheco sº ºf
Velasquez at eighteen could outstrip his master, and
both knew it. So Pacheco showed his good sense by
letting the young man go his own pace. He admired
the dashing, handsome youth, and although Velasquez
broke every rule laid down in Pacheco’s mighty tome,
“Art as I have Found It,” yet the master uttered no
word of protest.
The boy was bigger than the book.
More than this, Pacheco invited the young man to
come and make his home with him, so to better avail
himself of the master's instruction. Now Pacheco (like
Brabantio in the play) had a beautiful daughter, Juana
by name. She was about the age of Velasquez, gentle,
refined and amiable. Love is largely a matter of pro-
pinquity: and the world now regards Pacheco as a
master match-maker as well as a master painter.
Diego and Juana were married, aged nineteen, and
Pacheco breathed easier. He had attached to himself
the most daring and brilliant young man he had ever
known, and he had saved himself the annoyance of
having his studio thronged with a gang of suitors such
as crowded the courts of Ulysses.
Pacheco was pleased.
V E L AS QUEZ I43
And why should Pacheco not have been pleased ?. He
had linked his name for all time with the History of
Art. Had he not been the teacher and father-in-law of
Velasquez, his name would have been writ in water,
for in his own art there was not enough Attic salt to
save it; and his learning was a thing of dusty, musty
books ºf ºf
Pacheco’s virtue consisted in recognizing the genius of
Velasquez, and hanging on to him closely, rubbing off
all the glory that he could make stick to himself. QITo
the day of his death Pacheco laid the flattering unction
to his soul that he had made Velasquez; but leaving
this out of the discussion, no one doubts that Velasquez
plucked from oblivion the name and fame of Pacheco.

I44 V E L AS QUEZ
R. V A N C E T H O M PSON has
| written, “Those splendid blonde
women of Rubens are the solaces
of the eternal fighting man.” The
wife of Velasquez was of the Ru-
bens type: she looked upon her
husband as the ideal. She believed
in him, ministered to him, and
had no other gods before him.
She had but one ambition, and that was to serve her
lord and master.
Her faith in the man—in his power, in his integrity
and in his art—corroborated his faith in himself. We
want One to believe in us, and this being so, all else
matters little.
Velasquez seems a type of the “eternal fighting man”
—not the quarrelsome, quibbling man, who draws on
slight excuse, but the man with a message, who goes
straight to his destination with a will that breaks
through every barrier, and pushes aside every obsta-
cle. With the savage type there is no progression—the
noble red man is content to be a noble red man all his
days, and the result is that in standing still he is re-
treating off the face of the earth. Not so your “eternal
fighting man”—he is scourged by a restlessness that
allows him no rest nor respite save in his work.
Beware when a thinker and worker is let loose on the
planet. QI. In the days of Velasquez, Spain had but two
patrons for art: Royalty and the Church.

V E L AS QUEZ I45
Although nominally a Catholic, Velasquez had little
sympathy with the superstitions of the multitude. His
religion was essentially a Natural Religion: to love
his friends, to bathe in the sunshine of life, to preserve
a right mental attitude—the receptive attitude, the
attitude of gratitude—and to do his work—these things
were for him the sum of life.
His passion was art—to portray his feelings on can-
vas and make manifest to others the things he himself
saw. The Church, he thought, did not afford sufficient
outlet for his power. Cherubs that could live only in
the tropics, and wings without muscles to manipulate
them, did not mean much to him. The men and women
on earth appealed to him more than the angels in
heaven, and he could not imagine a better paradise
than this. So he painted what he saw—old men, market
women, beggars, handsome boys and toddling babies.
These things did not appeal to prelates—they wanted
pictures of things a long way off. So from the Church
Velasquez turned his gaze toward the Court at Madrid.
GLVelasquez had been in the studio of Pacheco at
Seville for five years. During that time he filled the
days with work—joyous, eager work. He produced a
good many valuable pictures and a great many sketches
that were mostly given away. Yet today Seville, with
her splendid art gallery and her hundreds of palaces,
contains not a single specimen of the work of her
greatest Son.
It was a daring thing, for a young man of twenty-four

146 V E L AS QUEZ
to knock boldly at the gates of Royalty. But the appli-
cation was made in Velasquez's own way. All of his
studies which the critics tauntingly called “tavern
pieces” were a preparation for the life and work before
him. He had mastered the subtlety of the human face,
and had seen how the spirit shines through and reveals
the soul sº ºf
To know how to write correctly is nothing—you must
know something worth recording. To paint is nothing
—you must know what you are portraying. Velasquez
had become acquainted with humanity, and gotten on
intimate terms with life. He had haunted the waysides
and markets to good purpose—he had laid the founda-
tion of those qualities which characterize his best
work—mastery of expression, penetration into char-
acter, the ability to look upon a face and read the
thoughts that lurk behind, the crouching passions, and
all the aspirations too great for speech. To picture
great men you must be a great man.
Velasquez was twenty-four—dark, daring, silent, with
a face and form that proclaimed him a strong and
valiant soul. Strong men can well afford to be gentle
—those who know can well cultivate silence.
The young man did not storm the doors of the Alcazar.
No, at Madrid he went quietly to work copying Titians
in the gallery, and incidentally painting portraits—
royalty must come to him. He had faith in his power:
he could wait. His wife knew the Court would call
him—he knew it, too—the Court of Spain needed
V E L AS QUEZ I47
Velasquez. It is a fine thing to make yourself needed.
QI Nearly a year had passed, and Velasquez gave it
out quietly that he was about to return to his home in
Seville. Artistic Madrid rubbed its eyes. The Minister
of State, the great Olivares, came to him with a com-
mission from the King and a goodly payment in ad-
vance, begging that as soon as he had made a short
visit to Seville, he should return to Madrid. Apart-
ments had already been set aside for him in the Alcazar
Palace. Would he not kindly comply?
Such a request from the King was really equal to an
order. Velasquez surely had no intention of declining
the compliment since he had angled for it most ingen-
iously; but he took a little time to consider it. Of course
he talked it over with his wife and her father, and we
can imagine they had a quiet little supper by them-
selves in honor of the event.
And so in the month of May, 1623, Diego de Silva Velas-
quez duly became a member of the Royal Household,
and very soon was the companion, friend, advisor and
attendant of the King—that post which he was to hold
for thirty-six years, ere Death should call him hence.

148 - V E L AS QUEZ
HE farmer thinks that place and
power are fine things, but let him
know that the President has paid
dear for his White House,” said
the sage of Concord.
The most miserable man I ever
knew was one who married a rich
woman, managed her broad acres,
looked after her bonds and made
report of her stocks. If the stocks failed to pay dividends,
or the acres were fallow, my friend had to explain why
to the tearful wife and sundry sarcastic next of kin.
GI. The man was a Jeffersonian Democrat and preached
the Life of Simplicity, because we always preach
about things that are not ours. He rode behind horses
that had docked tails, and apologized for being on
earth to an awful butler in solemn black.
The man had married for a home—he got it. When he
wanted funds for himself, he was given dole, or else
was put to the necessity of juggling the Expense Ac-
count. If he wished to invite friends to his home, he
had to prove them standard-bred, morally sound in
wind and limb, and free from fault or blemish.
The good man might have lived a thoroughly happy
life, with everything supplied that he needed, but he
acquired the Sanatarium Habit, for which there is no
cure but poverty. And this man could not be poor even
if he wanted to, for there were no grounds for divorce.
His wife loved him dearly, and her income of five

V E L AS QUEZ I49
thousand dollars a month came along with startling
regularity, willy nilly.
Finally, at Hot Springs, death gave him treatment and
he was freed from pain.
From this o'er-time incident it must not be imagined
that wealth and position are bad things. Health is
potential power. Wealth is an engine that can be used
for good if you are an engineer; but to be tied to the
fly-wheel of an engine is rather unfortunate. Had my
friend been big enough to rise supreme over horses
with docked tails, to subjugate a butler, to defy the
next of kin and manage the wife (without letting her
know it) all would have been well.
But it is a Herculean task to cope with the handicap
of wealth. Mediocre men can endure failure, for as
Robert Louis, the beloved, has pointed out, failure is
natural, but worldly success is an abnormal condition.
In order to stand success you must be of very stern
fibre, with all the gods on your side.
The Alcazar Palace looked strong, solid and self-suf-
ficient on the outside. But inside, like every Court, it
was a den of quibble, quarrel, envy, and the hatred
that tinctured with fear, knocks an anvil chorus from
day-dawn to dark.
A thousand people made up the household of Philip
IV. Any one of these could be dismissed in an hour—
the power of Olivares, the Minister, was absolute.
Very naturally there were plottings and counter-plot-
tings. GIA Court is a prison to most of its inmates; no
I5o —s-— V E L AS QUEZ
freedom is there—thought is strangled and inspiration
is still-born.
Yet life is always breaking through. When locked in a
cell in a Paris prison, Horace Greeley wrote, “Thank
God, at last I am free from intrusion.”
Stone walls do not a prison make
Nor iron bars a cage,
laughed Lovelace. Have not some of the great books
of the world been written in prison? Things work by
antithesis; and if your discipline is too severe, you get
no discipline at all. Puritanical pretence, hypocrisy
and a life of repression, with “thou shalt not” set on
a hair-trigger, have made more than one man bold,
genuine and honest. Draw the bow far enough this
way and your arrow will go a long way that. Forbid a
man to think for himself or to act for himself, and you
may add the joy of piracy and the zest of smuggling
to his life.
In the Spanish Court, Velasquez found life a lie, public
manners an exaggeration, etiquette a pretence, and all
the emotions put up in sealed cans. Fashionable Soci-
ety is usually nothing but Canned Life. Look out for
explosions ! Velasquez held the balance true by an
artistic courage and an audacity of private thought that
might not have been his in a freer atmosphere. He
did not wear his art upon his sleeve—he outwardly
conformed, but inwardly his soul towered over every
petty annoyance, and all the vain power of the fear-
ing and quibbling little princes touched him not.
V E L AS QUEZ. $51,
PAIN, under the rule of Philip II.,
grew great. Her ships sailed every
sea—the world contributed to her
wealth. Art comes after a surplus
has accumulated, and the mere
necessities of life have been pro-
vided. Philip built great palaces,
founded schools, gave encourage-
ment to the handicrafts, and sent
his embassies scouring the world for the treasures of
Art. The King was a practical man, blunt, far-seeing,
direct. He knew the cost of things, studied out the
best ways, ascertained right methods. He had the red
corpuscle, the deep convolution, and so was King. His
ministers did his bidding.
The grim sarcasm of entailed power is a thing so ob-
vious that one marvels it has escaped the recognition
of mankind until yesterday. But stay! men have always
seen its monstrous absurdity—hence the rack.
The Spanish Inquisition, in which Church and State
combined against God, seems an awful extreme to
show the depths of iniquity to which Pride married to
Hypocrisy can sink. Yet martyrdom has its compensa-
tion. The spirit flies home upon the wings of victory,
and in the very moment of so-called defeat, the man
has the blessed consolation that he is still master of
his fate—captain of his soul.
The lesson of the Inquisition was worth the price—
the martyrs bought freedom for us. The fanged dogs

I52 V E L AS QUEZ
of war, once turned loose upon the man who dared to
think, have left as sole successor only a fat and harmless
poodle, known as Social Ostracism. This poodle is old,
toothless and given over to introspection; it has to be fed
on pap; its only exercise is to exploit the horse-blocks,
doze in milady's lap, and dream of a long lost canine
paradise. The dog-catcher awaits around the corner.
GI Philip III. was an etiolate & perfumed dandy. In him
culture had begun to turn yellow. Men who pride
themselves upon their culture have n’t any of which
to speak. All the beauties of art, this man thought
were exclusively for him and his precious company of
lisping exquisites and giggling, mincing queans. The
thought that those who create beauty are also they
who possess it, never dawned upon this crack-pated
son of tired sheets.
He lived to enjoy—and so he never enjoyed anything.
Surfeit and satiety overtook him in the royal hog-
wallow; digestion and zest took flight. Philip III.
speedily became a wooden Indian on wheels, moved
by his Minister of State, the Duke of Lerma.
Huge animals sustain huge parasites, and so the Court
of Philip III., with its fools, dwarfs, idiots and all of its
dancing, jiggling, juggling, wasteful folly, did not suc-
ceed in wrecking the land. When Philip III. traveled he
sent hundreds of men ahead to beat the swamps, day
and night, in the vicinity of his royal presence, so as
to silence the frogs. He thought their croaking was a
personal matter meant for him.

V E L AS QUEZ I53
I think he was right. GI. How the Lords of Death must
chuckle in defiant glee when they send malaria and
night into the palaces of the great through cracks and
crevices! Philip's bloated, unkingly body became full
of disease and pain; lingering unrest racked him; the
unseen demons he could not exorcise, danced on his
bed, wrenched his members and played mad havoc
with each quivering nerve. CLAnd so he died.
Then comes Philip IV., immortal through his forty
portraits painted by Velasquez. Philip was only four-
teen when his father died. He was a rare-ripe and
showed strength and decision far beyond his years.
His grandfather, Philip II., was his ideal, and he let it
pe known right speedily that his reign was to be one
of moderation and simplicity, modeled along the lines
of Philip the Great.
The Duke of Lerma, Minister of State, who had so
long been the actual ruler of Spain, was deposed and
into his place slipped the suave and handsome Olivares,
Gentleman-in-Waiting to the young King.
Olivares was from Seville, and had known the family
of Velasquez. It was through his influence that Diego
so soon got the nod of royalty. The King was eighteen,
Velasquez was twenty-four, and Olivares not much
older—all boys together. And the fact that Velasquez
secured the appointment of Court Painter with such
ease was probably owing to his dashing horsemanship,
as much as to his being a skillful painter.
At Harvard once I saw a determined effort made to

I54 V E L AS QUEZ
place a famous “right tackle” in the chair of Assistant
Professor of Rhetoric. The plan was only given over
with great reluctance, when it was discovered that the
“right tackle” was beautifully ignorant of the subject
he would have to tackle. Even then it was argued he
could “cram”—keeping one lesson in advance of his
class sº sº."
But Olivares knew Velasquez could paint, and the
artist's handsome face, stalwart frame and fearless
riding did the rest. The young King was considered
the best horseman in Madrid—Velasquez and Olivares
took pains never to outdo him in the joust.
The biography of Olivares as a study of life is a better
subject far than either the life of Velasquez or the
King. Their lives were too successful to be interesting.
Olivares is a fine example of a man growing great
through exercise. Read history and behold how com-
monplace men have often had greatness thrust upon
them and met the issue. I have seen an absurd Class
B lawyer elevated into a judgeship, and rise to the
level of events, keeping silence, looking wise, hugging
his dignity hard, until there came a time when the
dignity really was a fair fit. Trotters often need toe-
weights to give them ballast and balance—so do men
need responsibility. We have had at least three com-
monplace men for President of the United States, who
1ive in history as adequately great—and they were.
Various and sundry good folk will here arise and say
the germ of greatness was in these men all the time,
V E L AS QUEZ I55
awaiting the opportunity to unfold. And the answer is
correct, right and proper; but a codicil should then be
added to the effect that the germ of greatness is in
every man, but we fall victims of arrested develop-
ment, and success or society, like a worm i' the bud,
feeds on our damask cheek.
Philip was nipped i' the bud by falling into the pro-
tecting shadow of Olivares. The Prime Minister pro-
vided boar-hunts and tourneys and masquerades
and fetes. Philip's life of simplicity faded off into dress-
ing in black—all else went on as before. Philip glided
into the line of least resistance and signed every paper
that he was told to sign by his gracious, winning,
inflexible Minister—the true type of the iron hand in
the velvet glove. From his twentieth year, after that
first little flurry of pretended power, the novelty of
ruling wore away; and for over forty years he never
either vetoed an act or initiated one. His ministers
arranged his recreations, his gallantries, his hours of
sleep. He was ruled and never knew it, and here the
Richelieu-like Olivares showed his power. It was any-
thing to keep the King from thinking, and Spain, the
Mother of Magnificence, went drifting to her death.
GLThere were already three Court Painters when
Velasquez received his appointment. They were Ital-
ians appointed by Philip III. Their heads were full of
tradition and precedent, and they painted like their mas-
ters who had been pupils of men who had worked with
Titian—beautiful attenuations three times reduced.
x55 VELASQUEZ
We only know their names now because they raised a
pretty chorus of protest when Velasquez appeared at
the palace. They worked all the wires they knew to
bring about his downfall, and then dwindled away
into chronic Artistic Jealousy, which finally struck in;
and they were buried. That the plots, challenges and
constant knockings of these underling court painters
ever affected Velasquez, we cannot see. He swung
right along at prodigious strides, living his own life,
a life outside and beyond all the pretence and vanity
of place and power.
The King came by a secret passage daily to the studio
to watch Velasquez work. There was always a chair
for him, and the King even had an easel and sets of
brushes and a palette where he played at painting.
Pacheco, who had come up to Madrid and buzzed
around, encroaching on the Samuel Pepys copyright,
has said that the King was a skilled painter. But this
statement was for publication during the King’s life-
time sy" ºf
When Velasquez could not keep the King quiet in any
other way, it seems he made him sit for his picture.
The studio was never without an unfinished portrait
of the King. From eighteen to sixty he sat to Velas-
quez—and it is always that same tall, spindle-legged,
impassive form and the dull, unspeaking face. There
is no thought there, no aspiration, no hope too great
for earth, no unrequited love, no dream unrealized.
The King was incapable of love as he was of hate,
V E L AS QUEZ I57
And Velasquez did not use his art to flatter; he had
the artistic conscience. Truth was his guiding star.
And the greatness of Velasquez is shown in that all
subjects were equally alike to him. He did not select
the classic or peculiar. Little painters are always
choosing their subjects and explaining that this or that
may be pretty or interesting, but they will tell you it is
“unpaintable.”—which means that they cannot paint it.
GI*I can write well on any topic—all are alike to me!”
said Dean Swift to Stella. “Then write me an essay
on a broomstick,” answered Stella.
And Swift wrote the essay—full of abstruse reasons,
playful wit and charming insight.
The long, oval, dull face of Philip lured Velasquez.
He analyzed every possible shade of emotion of which
this man was capable, and stripped his soul bare. The
sallow skin, thin curling locks, nerveless hands and
unmeaning eyes are upon the walls of every gallery of
Christendom, matchless specimens of the power to
sink self, and reveal the subject.
That is why whistler is right when he says that Velas-
quez is the painters’ painter. “The Blacksmith.” by
Whistler shows you the blacksmith, not Whistler;
Rembrandt's pictures of his mother show the woman;
Franz Hals gives you the Burgomaster, not himself.
Shakespeare of all writers is the most impersonal—he
does not give himself away.
When Rubens painted a portrait of Philip II. he put a
dash of daring, exuberant health in the face that was
158 V E L AS QUEZ
never there. The health and joy of life was in Rubens
and he could not keep it off his palette. There is a
sameness in every Rubens, because the imagination
of the man ran over, and falsified his colors: he always
gives you a deal of Rubens.
But stay! that expression “sinking self,” is only a
figure of speech. At the last the true artist never sinks
self: he is always supreme and towers above every sub-
ject, every object that he portrays. The riotous health
and good cheer of Rubens marked the man’s limita-
tions. He was not great enough to comprehend the
small, the delicate, the insignificant and the absurd.
Only a very great man can paint dwarfs, idiots, topers
and kings. And so the many-sidedness of the great
man continually deceives the world into thinking that
he is the thing with which he associates; or, on the
other hand, we say he “sinks self” for the time, where-
as the truth is that in his own nature he comprehends
the Whole. Shakespeare being the Universal Man, we
lose him in the labyrinth of his winding and wondrous
imagination. The great comprehends the less.
The beginner paints what he sees; or, more properly,
he paints what he thinks he sees. If he grows he will
next paint what he imagines, as Rubens did. Then
there is another stage which completes the spiral and
comes back to the place of beginning, and the painter
will again paint what he sees.
This Velasquez did, and this is what sets him apart.
The difference between the last stage and the first is
V E L AS QUEZ I59
that the artist has learned to see. (L.To write is nothing
—to know what to write is much. To paint is nothing
—to see and know the object you are attempting to
portray, is everything.
“Shall I paint the thing just as I see it?” asked the in-
genue of the great artist. “Why, yes,” was the answer,
“provided you do not see the thing as you paint it.”
HE King and the Painter grew old
together. They met on a common
ground of horses, dogs, and art;
and while the King used these
things to kill time and cause him
to forget self, the Painter found
horses and dogs good for rest and
recreation. But art was for Velas-
quez a religion, a sacred passion.
QI Nominally the Court Painter ranked with the Court
Barber, and his allowance was the same. But Velas-
quez ruled the King, and the King knew it not. Like
all wasteful, dissolute men, Phillip IV. had spasms of
repentance when he sought by absurd economy to
atone for folly. We are all familiar with individuals
who will blow to the four winds good money, and
much of it, on needless meat and drink for those who
are neither hungry nor athirst, and take folks for a car-
riage ride who should be abed, and then the next day
buy a sandwich for dinner and walk a mile to save a
five cent carfare. Some of us have done these things;


I6o V E L AS QUEZ
and so occasionally Philip would dolc out money to
buy canvas and complain of the size of it, and ask in
injured tone how many pictures Velasquez had painted
from that last bolt of cloth 1
But Velasquez was a diplomat and humored his liege;
yet when the artist died, the administrator of his estate
had to sue the State for a settlement, and it was ten
years before the final amount due the artist was paid.
After twenty years of devotion Olivares—outmatched
by Richelieu in the game of statecraft—fell into dis-
repute and was dismissed from office. Monarchies like
republics are ungrateful. Velasquez sided with his old
friend Olivares in the quarrel, and thus risked incur-
ring the sore displeasure of the King. The King could
replace his Minister of State, but there was no one to
take the place of the artist; so Philip bottled his wrath,
gave Velasquez the right of his private opinion, and
refused to accept his resignation.
There seems little doubt that it was a calamity for
Velasquez that Philip did not send him flying into dis-
grace with Olivares. Had Velasquez been lifted out on
the toe of the King's displeasure, Italy would have
claimed him, and the Vatican would have opened wide
its doors. There, relieved of financial badgering, in the
company of his equals, encouraged and uplifted, he
might have performed such miracles in form and color
that even the wonderful ceiling of the Chapel of the
Sistine would have faded into mediocre.
And again he might not—what more idle and fascinat-
V E L AS QUEZ I61
ing than such speculation? (I That the King endured
the calm rebuke of Velasquez, when Olivares was
deposed, and still retained the Painter in favor, was
probably because Rubens had assured the King that
Velasquez as an artist was the master of any man in
all Europe.
Velasquez made two trips to Italy, being sent on royal
embassies to purchase statuary for the Prado Gallery,
and incidentally to copy pictures. So there is many a
Veronese, Tintoretto, and Titian now in the Prado
that was copied by Velasquez.
Think of the value of a Titian copied by Velasquez?
And so faithfully was the copying done, even to in-
serting the signature, initials and date, that much
doubt exists as to what pictures are genuine and what
copies ºf sºr
When Rubens appeared at the Court of Madrid, sent
by the Duke of Mantua, with presents of Old Masters
(done by himself) I cannot but imagine the quiet con-
fession, with smiles and popping of corks, that occurred
when the wise and princely Rubens, and the equally
wise and princely Velasquez got together in some
private corner.
The advent of Rubens at Madrid sent a thrill through
the entire Court, and a lesser man than Velasquez
would have quaked with apprehension when he found
the King sitting to Rubens for a portrait in his own
studio ºr sºr
Not so Velasquez—he had done the King on canvas a
I62 V E L AS QUEZ
score of times; no one else had ever been allowed to
paint the King's portrait—and he was curious to see
how the picture would come out.
Rubens, twenty-two years the senior of Velasquez,
shrank a bit, it seems, from the contest, and connois-
seurs have said that there is a little lack of the exuber-
ant, joyous Rubenesque quality in the various pictures
done by the gracious Fleming in Spain.
The taunt that many of the pictures attributed to
Rubens were done by his pupils loses its point when
we behold the prodigious amount of work that the
master accomplished at Madrid in nine months—a
dozen portraits, several groups, a score of pictures
copied. And besides this, there was time for horse-
back rides when the King, Rubens and Velasquez gal-
loped away together, when they climbed mountains,
and when there were fetes and receptions to attend.
Rubens was then over fifty, but the fire of his youth
and that joyous animation of the morning, the years
had not subdued.
Velasquez had many pupils, but in Murillo his skill as
a teacher is best revealed. Several of his pupils painted
exactly like him, save that they neglected to breathe
into the nostrils of their work the breath of life. But
Velasquez seems to have encouraged Murillo to follow
the bent of his moody and melancholy genius—so
Murillo was himself, not a diluted Velasquez.
The strong administrative ability of Velasquez was
prized by the King as much as his ability as a painter,
V E L AS QUEZ 163
and he was, therefore, advanced to the position of
Master of Ceremonies. In this work with its constant
demand of close attention to petty details, his latter
days were consumed. He died, aged sixty-one, a vic-
tim to tasks that were not worth the doing, but which
the foolish King considered as important as painting
deathless pictures.
So closely was the life of his wife blended with his
own that in eight days after his passing, she followed
him across the Border, although the physicians de-
clared that she had no disease. Husband and wife were
buried in one grave in a church that a hundred years
later was burned and never rebuilt. No stone marks
their resting place; and none is needed, for Velasquez
lives in his work. The truth, splendor and beauty that
he produced are on a hundred walls—the inspira-
tion of men who do and dare—the priceless heritage
of us who live today and those who shall come after.
º

so HERE ENDETH THE LITTLE Journey To THE
Home OF VELAsquEz, As written BY ELBERT HUB:
BARD, THE TITLE PAGE, INITIALS AND oRNAMENTs
BEING DESIGNED BY SAMUEL WARNER, AND THE
WHOLE DONE INTO A BOOKLET BY THE ROYCROFT-
ERS AT THEIR SHOP, WHICH IS IN EAST AURORA,
NEW YORK, IN THE MONTH OF JUNE, MCMII sºr ºr ºr sºr

TALKS OUT
Doctor Talks About Food
It is often the case that doctors themselves drift
into bad habits of food and drink, although they
know better, but doctors are human you know
like the rest of us, but when they get into
trouble they generally know better how to get
out of it, and the “food route ’’ is a common one
among them.
Dr. H. Barber of Laurel, Ind., concluded that
coffee and badly selected food was the cause of
his stomach trouble and his loss of weight from
184 pounds to 153 pounds with nerves impaired
and general nervous breakdown.
He did not give coffee up at once but began the
use of Grape-Nuts and says, “Within a month
I could see a wonderful change had taken place
due to the use of the new food. I decided to give
up coffee and use Postum in its place. So regu-
larly for a time I have been on a breakfast made
up of Grape-Nuts, a little graham bread, and
Postum Food Coffee. My weight has increased
to 174 pounds, my stomach trouble has entirely
gone and my mind is clear and vigorous as ever.
Wishing you every success I beg to assure you
of my warm appreciation of Grape-Nuts and
Postum.” e
S E R W I N G T A B L E
All hand made, half-round, three legs, 24x48 inches, $10.
THE ROYCROFTERs, East Aurora, New York.


^2-/s. Tº 2-, * > * º
39 C.C޺y SC 3×3×. (3
* - ard % w"

al --
--> F→ *T* Tr; ++---w-r-rºr rr– Fr- gºver E Fº ºr ºf
} --~~~. . . . . ‘. ... ... à cº s sº º ; sº
* +-ºx. *º- -
. - ‘ſº * s ë. * : º, ***. < *… * * * * º § *z, *ś § - &:
ittleºfovirneys:
- 2. *: ... - . ". ºr ...: ** ..}~ º: 3. %, sº -
º º:
& " - 3. * * *
º, , ~ *% º
* *.
º
.* e -º * *% # ºf
To t tº itseºs ºf:
* *3 : * * º
“- 3. ' ** ºr gºº!
-- ** .# *****, *
, GREAT's Mºjšº IANSº
- £º # "Tº *:::...º
*—-º * ** Yº. -, * ... sº sº, ſº
º A.
** * ...”. ..º. ** * ~ *
+ * 2, …t. -- ~ * *. +º - º º
7, +-L x = F * K-5- *** ...; "+". º-W3 , *-º
“J * ** §: *.*.*** § º”. 㺠5. *- :
y. *’s §§ *. E. : :" 3. *... tº A. ######
f #3 tº fit tº & & ſt A $.353. *...*.*. *ś cº-d º
- * *: *} - - *R - ºr “exº~rrº
. . . . . º. f* ::::: *º-sºº.”
* - sº *—º-º-º-º-º: sº
**
** ~ſ **kr Lºº." ' -º-
... * *** * º +.
r ** *. *— tº . • º f # *
* ** **. %. º **, y * º ſº, º *. º ** :- * 3,55. &#x,
- Each book containstheft &
§ “... }.
oftewingnü
w
... *S**ś, ź
‘I R. * r *
*
£º
.*
*4,
--- * < *. º. "...} * ** * * *…
* ** f*. * 2-tº J. * * ** *—t e. *:::: *: :2;" 㺠,
... volums plit.... . . . . . #s t £º §
- : * > *, * F- * * * 5: *...*
1 wagneR .. * *. Fºlsº
:: ***. - t -- .*** ..f: - --> §º:
..º. 2 PAGANINE * ...”. a BEºrhoven ºf
3 CHOPIN T * ** o Hºpeiß.
4 MozART ' ', ' , , , roºyertº’ ºf ...º.
Sri- *: ***. * *A
X- •r i $3; *s, *4 |
| : . :: . . . . . is schuß.
:
6 MENDELssohn º: *
& " c. *** *
4 ºr •c .* ** $º, 3: ...}º:
RONTISPIECE Portraits
**
ir -f
** $4 *
£c. * ... x: ëº, *.*, *.
*- }; ~} § s: • * * * *
. . 12 BRAHMs. * …... ***, *
" ; }: * , , §s
'ºf each subº
* tºº.
**
z; †. 3...º-** 2: .
*
ject, text on Roycroft water-mark:
2.’”
.*
3.
-
*mark:
hand-made paper, initials, and title-page.
hand illumined, bound in Aimºcharnois.
º * tº * :-º-º-º-º-º-º: sº
—silk lined, gilt top. Price of vºlumes is:
* * **: **. wºº -ºš *:::: £3. :
Three Dollars each... …, sº
A few specially bound in bqār
%.
*
# :*: “sº-2, # *t ºw
*. *-*. w
1éatfieß
*…." : º, º º # *... ."
back and corners, at Five Dollars eachº
€rS, at tº Jºãº S. g º
ers, at rive Houars eacº º
*. r? * * * * & º
* x * ** ** …” *:::::". : º *...*& *...* #
7- zgº wº 3. * *
Å. *...* {-º. E.
* * ... *... º … …'." * R
T H E. Roy cººpeks.gº.
. . . . .º. º.º.º.º.º.º.
3+r * a- M.”, ºr tºx”
E. as tº, Aurora; sºwº or kºº
9. * Pº r " . .3' º ~ * , *::: # 3
* -*. - ----- ...' . .# **~~~~~< " .. 4 -: * - ; & 4. *







34t ttle gy ourne på
(To THE HOMEs of EMINENT ARTISTs
p-
* E F --r y y +
* *x
**- * ~# *
* # * f
* 3. *E.
is: *
* *
& —r *
** ****
vol. xi. ºutly, rooa, o No. 1 | By ELBERT HUBBARD
* -
*-*—--—
Single Copies, 25 cents By the Year, $3.00







LIT T L E JOURNEYs
to T H E H o M E s of - ... . .
&minent 3rtists
S E R I E'S OF M C M I
The subjects will be in the following order:
|-.
~
I.
==
ſ
:
1 RAPHAEL, 7 coroT
2 LEONARDO 8 CORREGGIO
3 BotticeLLI 5 PAUL veroNESE -
4 THORwalDSEN 10 cellin1-,
5 GAINSBOROUGH 11 ABBEY " .
6 VELASQUEZ 12 WHISTLER
One booklet a month will be issued as usual, begin-
ning January 1st.
The LITTLE JOURNEYs for 1902 will be strictly
de luxe in form and workmanship. The type will be a
new font of antique blackface; the initials desi ed'
especially for this work; a. frontispiece portrait from .
the original drawing made at our Shop in each on
Japan Vellum. The booklets will be stitched by hand
with silk. “ . . -
The price—25 cents each, or $3.oo for the year.
Address THE roycroFters at Their
Shop, which is at East Aurora, New York
Entered at the postoffice at East Aurora, New York, for transmission
as second-class mail matter. Copyright, Igo2, by Elbert Hubbard.





ELAMPERS BUSINESS.
Coffee Drinking Incapacitates Some Peo-
ple for Business at Times.
z
A gentleman from McBain, Michigan, says, “Coffee drinking
has cost me much, for during my life I have been many times so
thoroughly put out of condition that I have been compelled to
abandon business for a day or two at a time. The attacks of
headache would commence on the right side behind the ear and
become so severe as to totally incapacitate me for any exercise,
even mental. I have frequently had to take morphine to relieve
the suffering. Sour stomach troubled me and I had a nervous
heart that gave me a great deal of trouble.
“Four years ago I saw an advertisement for Postum Food Cof-
fee which recited the ill effects of coffee on the nerves. I at
Once decided to make the change and leave off coffee and take
on Postum. The result has been all that one could expect.
“I am never constipated any more, the bilious attacks never
come on except from some indiscretion such as drinking coffee,
which I am foolish enough to do now and then. I have no more
headaches, no more sour stomach and no bilious spells. I have
not been sick to my stomach or had a nervous vomiting spell in
three years. Am now 56 years old, and have better health and do
a better business and more comfortable than ever before in my
life. I certainly attribute the change to leaving off coffee and
using Postum for I have taken no medicine to aid in making the
change. The experiment as stated is absolutely true. I am
willing, if necessary, to attach my affidavit to it.” Name given by
Postum Co., Battle Creek, Mich.
N
ERHAPS you would like to see the
1902 Roycroft Catalogue. It contains
a reprint of that January Cosmopol-
itan article, telling about the Shop and,
Things; also some pictures of the workers,
buildings, bindings, etc., that will interest
the Elect. Apostal card will fetch it. Address
THE ROYCROFTERS, EAST AURORA, N.Y.
|HE imperfection in the article made by hand
is its chief charm. The useful product thus
thought out and materialized by labor may
be very simple, quite inexpensive, thoroughly
unobtrusive, yet at the same time decidedly artistic.
We have Rag Carpet Rugs for Summer Cottages. Cut,
dyed and woven by Roycroft girls seventy years young.
They will make you think you are back on the old farm.
The price for a three-yard rug is Three Dollars. Address
T H E R O Y C R O F T E R S
East A u r or a , New York













fºx. ~e?
§§ |0 finer find can be annexed than a Membership
§ in the American Academy of Immortals. The
3: Wºłº * tº tº
§ advantages are increased activity of all the
ºš secretions, deeper breathing capacity, perfect
digestion and sweet sleep o' nights: these things mean
bigger bank balance and the return of wavering affection.
The cost is Ten Dollars, with no further dues for ninety-
nine years. Address
\
T H E PHIL IST IN E ,
EAST AURORA, NEW YORK
ITTLE books descriptive of New Eng-
land and intended to display the advantages of
this grand summer playground as a health and
vacation resort are issued by the Boston & Maine
Railroad. Some of the titles are: “Among the
Mountains,” “Lakes and Streams,” “All Along
Shore,” “The Hoosac Country and Deerfield Valley.” They
also publish nine other books covering various sections. All
are illustrated, and they will be mailed for two cents for each
book with catalogue and a Tour Book giving routes, rates and
maps. In addition to the above are some fine specimens of
New England views in five portfolios of about thirty pictures
each ; these are mailed for six cents each or thirty cents for
the set. Address, Passenger Department, Boston & Maine
Railroad, Boston.
D. J. FLANDERS, Gen. Pass. & Ticket Agent.




H A R M O NY
HERE is only one Harmony, but
it has many forms—these all speak
to the Harmony within. Painting
appeals to us through the sense of
sight, Literature through the understanding,
and Music through the sense of hearing.
The Roycrofters make special use of Music:
we have pianos in every room, and one hun-
dred and forty of our workers are receiving
regular musical instruction. Many of them
take individual lessons in vocal and instru-
mental work; then we have a Chorus; a
Guitar and Mandolin Club; a Brass Band;
an Orchestra; and a Little German Band to
stimulate the ganglionic cells of the Local
Agrarians. All of our Musical Instruments
came from Lyon & Healy of Chicago, Cook
County, Illinois. At first we tried different
dealers; but Lyon & Healy’s instruments
we have found to be the best; they never
disturb the neighbors and if things were
not just right Lyon & Healy made
them right without question or quibble. It
is a satisfaction to deal with men like these.

The sun sinks more and more behind the horizon. Bam he throws
his last ray, a streak of gold and purple which fringes the flying
clouds. There, now it has entirely disappeared. Bien bien twilight
commences. Heavens, how charming it is . There is now in the sky
only the soft vaporous color of pale citron—the last reflection of the
sun which plunges into the dark blue of the night, going from green
tones to a pale turquoise of an unheard-of fineness and a fluid deli-
cacy quite indescribable * * * * *
The fields lose their color, the trees form but gray or brown masses
* * * * * the dark waters reflect the bland tones of the sky.
We are losing sight of things—but one still feels that everything is
there—everything is vague, confused, and Nature grows drowsy.
The fresh evening air sighs among the leaves—the birds, these voices
of the flowers are saying their evening prayer.
COROT’S LETTER TO GRAHAM.
[Translated by David Croal Thompson.]
OST young artists begin by working for
microscopic effects, trying to portray
every detail, to see every leaf, stem and
branch and reveal them in the picture.
G|The ability to draw carefully and fin-
ish painstakingly is very necessary, but
the great artist must forget how to draw
before he paints a great picture; just as
every strong writer must put the gram-
mar upon the shelf before he writes
well. I once heard Mr. William Dean
Howells say that any good, bright High
School girl of sixteen could pass a far
better examination in rhetoric than he
could—and the admission did Mr. How-
ells no discredit.
“Would you advise me to take a course
in elocution?” once asked a young man
with oratorical ambitions of Henry
Ward Beecher.
“Yes, by all means. Study elocution very
carefully, but you will have to forget it
all before you ever become an orator,”
was the answer.
Corot began as a child by drawing very
rude, crude, uncertain pictures, just such
pictures as any schoolboy can draw.
Next he began to “complete” his
sketches, and work with infinite pains.

2 C O R O T
If he sketched a house he showed whether the roof
was shingled or made of straw or tile; his trees re-
vealed the texture of the bark and showed the shape
of the leaf, and every flower contained its pistil and
stamens, and told the man knew his botany. Two
of his pictures done in Rome in his twenty-ninth year,
“The Coliseum” and “The Forum,” now in the
Louvre, are good pictures—complete in detail, pains-
taking, accurate, hard and tight in technique. They
are bomb-proof–beyond criticism—absolutely safe.
QI Have a care, Corot. Keep where you are and you will
become an irreproachable painter. That is to say, you
will paint just like a hundred other French painters.
There will be a market for your wares, the critics will
approve, and at the Salon your work will never be either
enskyed nor consigned to the catacombs. Society will
court you, fair ladies will smile and encourage. You
will be a success; your name will be safely pigeon-
holed among the unobjectionable ones and before your
wind-combed shock of hair has turned to silver, you
will be supplanted by a new crop of fashion’s favorites.

C On Oil

3
T is a fact worth noting that the
two greatest landscape painters
of all time were city-born and
city-bred. Turner was born in
London, the son of a barber, and
Fate held him so in leash that he
never got beyond the sound of
Bow Bells until he was a man
grown. Corot was born in Paris,
and his first outdoor sketch, made at twenty-two, was
done amidst the din and jostle of the quays of the Seine.
QI Five strong men made up the Barbizon School, and
of these, three were reared in Paris, Paris the frivo-
lous, Paris the pleasure-loving: Corot, Rousseau and
Daubigny were children of the Metropolis.
I state these facts in the interests of truth, and also to
ease conscience, for I am aware that I have glorified
the country boy in pages gone before, as if God were
kind to him alone.
Turner made over a million dollars by the work of his
hands (reinforced by head and heart); and left a dis-
card of nineteen thousand sketches to the British
Nation. Was ever such an example of concentration,
energy and industry known in the history of art?
Corot, six feet one, weight two hundred, ruddy, simple,
guileless, singing softly to himself as he walked, in
peasant blouse, and sabot-shod, used to come up to
Paris, his birthplace, two or three times a year, and
the gamins would follow him on the streets, making

4 C O R O T
remarks irrelevant and comments uncomplimentary,
just as they might follow old Joshua Whitcomb on
Broadway in New York.
British grandees often dress like farmers, for pride
may manifest itself in simplicity, but the disinterested
pose of Camille Corot, if pose it was, fitted him as the
feathers fit a wild duck. If pose is natural it surely is
not pose: and Corot, the simplest man in the world,
was regarded by the many as a man of mannerisms.
His work was so quiet and modest that the art world
refused to regard it seriously. Corot was as unpreten-
tious as Walt Whitman and just as free from vanity.
QI. During the War of the Rebellion, Whitman bank-
rupted himself in purse and body by caring for the
stricken soldiers. At the siege of Paris, Corot could
have kept outside the barriers, but safety for himself
he would not accept. He remained in the city, refused
every comfort that he could not divide with others,
spent all the money he had in caring for the wounded,
nursed the sick by night and day, listened to the con-
fessions of the dying, and closed the eyes of the dead.
To everybody, especially the simple folk, the plain,
the unpretentious, the unknown, he was “Papa Corot,”
and everywhere did the stalwart old man of seventy
five carry hope, good cheer and a courage that never
faltered. sº sº."
Corot, like Whitman, had the happiness to have no
history. sº ºf
Corot used paint just as if no one had ever painted be-
C O R O T 5
fore, and Whitman wrote as if he were the first man
who had ever expressed himself in verse—precedent
stood for naught. Each had all the time there was;
they were never in a hurry; they loafed and invited
their souls; they loved all women so well that they
never could make choice of one; both were ridiculed
and hooted and misunderstood; recognition came to
neither until they were about to depart; and yet in
spite of the continual rejection of their work, and the
stupidity that would not see, and the ribaldry of those
who could not comprehend, they continued serenely on
their way, unruffled, kind,-making no apologies nor
explanations—unresentful, with malice toward none,
and charity for all.
The world is still divided as to whether Walt Whit-
man was simply a coarse and careless writer, without
either skill, style or insight; or one with such a subtle,
spiritual vision, such a penetration into the heart of
things that few comparatively can follow him.
During forty years of Corot's career the critics said,
when they deigned to mention Corot at all, “There
are two worlds, God’s World and Corot's World.”
He was regarded as a harmless lunatic, who saw
things differently from others, and so they indulged
him, and at the Salon hung his pictures in the “Cata-
combs” with many a sly joke at his expense. The ex-
pression “Corot Nature” is with us yet.
But now the idea has gradually gained ground that
Camille Corot looked for beauty and found it—that he
6 C OR OT
painted what he saw, and that he saw things that the
average man, through incapacity, never sees at all.
Science has taught us that there are sounds so subtle
that our coarse senses cannot recognize them, and there
are thousands of tints, combinations and variations in
color that the unaided or uneducated eye cannot detect.
QI. If Corot saw more than we, why denounce Corotº
And so Corot has gradually and very slowly come into
recognition as one who had power plus—it was we
who were weak, we who were faulty, not he. The
stones that were cast at him have been gathered up

7
HE father of Camille Corot was a
peasant who drifted over to Paris
to make his fortune. He was ac-
tive, acute, intelligent and eco-
nomical—and when a Frenchman
is economical his economy is of a
kind that makes the Connecticut
brand look like extravagance.
This young man became a clerk
in a dry-goods store that had a millinery attachment,
as most French dry-goods stores have. He was pre-
cise, accurate, had a fair education, and always wore
a white cravat. In the millinery department of this
store was employed, among many others, a Swiss girl
who had come up to Paris on her own account to get
a knowledge of millinery and dressmaking. When
this was gained she intended to go back to Switzer-
land, the land of liberty and Swiss cheese, and there
live out her life in her native village making finery for
the villagers for a consideration.
She did not go back to Switzerland, because she very
shortly married the precise young dry-goods clerk who
wore the white cravat.
The Swiss are the most competent people on this
globe of ours, which is round like an orange and
slightly flattened at the poles. There is less illiteracy,
less pauperism, less drunkenness, more general intelli-
gence, more freedom in Switzerland than in any other
country on earth. This has been so for two hundred

8 C OR OT
years: and the reason, some say, is that she has no
standing army and no navy. She is surrounded by big
nations that are so jealous of her that they will not
allow each other to molest her. She is not big enough
to fight them. Being too little to declare war, she makes
a virtue of necessity and so just minds her own busi-
ness. That is the only way an individual can succeed
—mind your own business—and it is also the best
policy with a nation.
The way the Swiss think things out with their heads
and materialize them with their hands is very won-
derful. In all the Swiss schools the pupils draw, sew,
carve wood and make things. Pestalozzi was Swiss,
and Froebel was more Swiss than German. Manual
Training and the Kindergarten are Swiss ideas. All of
our progress in the line of pedagogy that the years
have brought has consisted in carrying Kindergarten
Ideas into the Little Red School House, and else-
where.
The world is debtor to the Swiss—the carmine of their
ideas has tinted the whole thought-fabric of civiliza-
tion. GI. The Swiss know how.
Skilled workmen from Switzerland are in demand
everywhere.
That Swiss girl in the Paris shop was a skilled needle-
woman, and the good taste and talent she showed in
her work was a joy to her employers. There are hints
that they tried to discourage her marriage with the
clerk in the white cravat. What a loss to the art world
C O R O T 9
if they had succeeded! But love is stronger than busi-
ness ambition, and so the milliner married the young
clerk, and they had a very modest little nest to which
they flew when the day's work was done.
In a year a domestic emergency made it advisable for
the young woman to stay at home, but she kept right
along with her sewing. Some of the customers hunted
her up and wanted her to do work for them.
When the stress of the little exigency was safely
passed, the young mother found she could make more
by working at home for special customers. A girl was
hired to help her, then two—three.
The rooms down stairs were secured, and a show
window put in. This was at the corner of the Rue du
Bac and the Pont Royal, within sight of the Louvre.
It is an easy place to find, and you would better take
a look at the site the next time you are in Paris—it is
sacred soil.
Corot has told us much about his mother—a French-
man is apt to regard his father simply as a necessary
though often inconvenient appendage, possibly absorb-
ing the idea from the maternal side of the house—but
his mother is his solace, comforter and friend. The
mother of Corot was intelligent, industrious, tactful;
sturdy in body and strong in mind.
In due course of time she built up a paying business,
bought the house in which they lived, and laid by a
goodly dot for her son and two daughters. And all the
time Corot pere wore the white cravat, a precise
IO C O R O T
smile for customers and an austere look for his family.
He held his old position as floor-walker and gave
respectability to his wife’s Millinery and Dressmak-
ing Establishment.
The father’s ambition for Camille was that he should
become a model floor-walker, treading in the father’s
footsteps; and so while yet a child, the boy was put
to work in a dry-goods store, with the idea of disci-
pline strong in mind,
And for this discipline, in after years Corot was grate-
ful. It gave him the habit of putting things away,
keeping accurate accounts, systematizing his work,
and throughout his forty years or more of artistic life,
it was his proud boast that he reached his studio every
morning at three minutes before eight.
Young Corot's mother had quite a little skill as a
draughtsman. In her business she drew designs for
patterns, and if the prospective customer lacked imag-
ination, she could draw a sketch of the garment as it
would look when completed.
Savage tribes make pictures long before they acquire
an alphabet; so do all children make pictures before
they learn to read. The evolution of the child mirrors
the evolution of the race. Camille made pictures just
as all boys do, and his mother encouraged him in this,
and supplied him copies.
When he was set to work in the dry-goods store he
made sketches under the counter and often ornament-
ed bundles with needless hieroglyphics. But these
C O R O T II
things did not necessarily mean that he was to be a
great artist—thousands of dry-goods clerks have
sketched and been dry-goods clerks to the end of their
days. But good dry-goods clerks should not sketch too
much or too well, else they will not rise in their career
and some day have charge of a Department.
Camille Corot did not get along at haberdashery—his
heart was not in it. He was not quite so bad as a cer-
tain budding, artistic genius I once knew, who clerked
in a grocery store, and when a woman came in and
ordered a dozen of eggs and a half bushel of potatoes,
the genius counted out a dozen potatoes, and sent the
customer a half bushel of eggs.
Then there was that absent-minded young drug clerk,
who when a stranger entered and inquired for the
proprietor, answered, “He 's out just at present, but
we have something that is just as good.”
Corot had n’t the ability to make folks think they
needed something they did not want—they only got
what they wanted, after much careful diplomacy and
insistence. These things were a great cross to Corot
pere, and the dullness of the boy made the good father
grow old before his time—so the father alleged. Were
the woes of parents written in books, the world would
not be big enough to contain the books. Camille Corot
was a failure—he was big, fat, lazy, and tantalizingly
good-natured. He haunted the Louvre, and stood open
mouthed before the pictures of Claude Lorraine until
the attendants requested him to move on. His mother
I2) C O R O T
knew something of art, and they used to discuss all
the new pictures together. The father protested: he
declared that the mother was encouraging the boy in
his vascillation and dreaminess.
Camille lost his position. His father got him another
place, and after a month they laid him off for two
weeks, and then sent him a note not to come back. He
hung around home, played the violin, and sang for his
mother’s sewing girls while they worked. The girls
all loved him—if the mother went out and left him in
charge of the shop, he gave all hands a play-spell until
it was time for Madam to return. His good nature was
invincible. He laughed at the bonnets in the windows,
slyly sketched the customers who came to try on the
frivolities, and even made irrelevant remarks to his
mother about the petite fortune she was deriving
from catering to dead-serious nabobs who discussed
flounces, bows, stays, and beribboned gewgaws as
though they were Eternal Verities.
“Mamma is a sculptor who improves upon Nature,”
one day Camille said to the girls, “If a woman has n’t
a good form Madam Corot can supply her such amo-
rous proportions that lovers will straightway fall at her
feet.” But such jocular remarks were never made to
the father—in his presence Camille was subdued and
suspiciously respectful. The father had “disciplined”
him—but had done nothing else.
Camille had a companion in Achille Michallon, son of
the sculptor, Claude Michallon. Young Michallon
C OR OT I3
modeled in clay and painted fairly well, and it was he
who, no doubt, fired the mind of young Corot to follow
an artistic career, to which Corot the elder was very
much opposed.
So matters drifted and Camille Corot, aged twenty-
six, was a flat failure, just as he had been for ten
years. He had n’t self-reliance to push out for himself,
nor enough will to swing his parents into his way of
thinking. He was as submissive as a child; and would
not and could not do anything until he had gotten per-
mission—thus much for discipline.
Finally, in desperation, his father said, “Camille, you
are of an age when you should be at the head of a
business, but since you refuse to avail yourself of your
opportunities and become a merchant, why, then, I’ll
settle upon you the sum of three hundred dollars a
year for life and you can follow your own inclinations.
But depend upon it, you shall have no more than I have
named. I am done—now go and do what you want.”
CI The words are authentic, being taken down from
Corot's own lips; and they sound singularly like that
remark made to Alfred Tennyson by his grandfather,
“Here is a guinea for your poem, and depend upon it,
this is the first and last money you will ever receive
for poetry.”
Camille was so delighted to hear his father’s decision
that he burst into tears and embraced the austere and
stern-faced parent in the white cravat.
Straightway he would begin his artistic career, and
I4 C OR OT
having so announced his intention to the sewing girls
in an impromptu operatic aria, he took easel and paints
and went down on the tow-path to paint his first out-
door picture.
Soon the girls came trooping after, in order to see
Monsieur Camille at his work. One girl, Mlle. Rose,
staid longer than the rest. Corot told of the incident in
1858—a lapse of thirty years—& added, “I have not mar-
ried—Mlle. Rose has not married—she is alive yet, and
only last week was here to see me. Ah! what changes
have taken place—I have that first picture I painted
yet—it is the same picture and still shows the hour
and the season, but Mlle. Rose and I, where are we?”

I5
URNER and Corot trace back to
the same artistic ancestor. It was
Claude who first fired the heart
of the barber’s boy, and it was
Claude who diluted the zeal of
Camille Corot for ribbons and hab-
erdashery.
Turner stipulated in his will that
a certain picture of his should
hang on the walls of the National Gallery by the side
of a “Claude Lorraine”; and today in the Louvre you
can see, side by side, a “Corot” and a “Claude.”
These men are strangely akin; yet so far as I know,
Corot never heard of Turner. However, he was pow-
erfully influenced by Constable, the English painter,
who was of the same age as Turner, and for a time,
his one bitter rival.
Claude had been dead a hundred years before Consta-
ble, Turner or Corot was born. But time is an illusion;
all souls are of one age, and in spirit these men were
contemporaries and brothers. Claude, Corot and Tur-
ner never married—they were wedded to art. Constable
ripened fast; he got his reward of golden guineas,
and society caught him in its silken mesh. Success
came faster than he was able to endure it, and he fell
a victim to fatty degeneration of the cerebrum, and
died of an acute attack of self-complacency.
It was about the year 1832 that Constable gave an ex-
hibition of his work in Paris—a somewhat daring thing

I6 C O R O T
for an Englishman to do. Paris had then, and has yet,
about the same estimate of English art that the Eng-
lish have now of ours—although it is quite in order to
explain in parentheses that three Americans, Whistler,
Sargent and Abbey, have recently called, a halt on
English ribaldry as applied to American artists.
But John Constable’s exhibit in Paris met with favor
—the work was singularly like the work of Claude
Lorraine, the critics said. And it was, for Constable
had copied Claude conscientiously. Corot saw the
Englishman’s pictures, realized that they were just
such pictures as he would like to paint, and so fell
down and worshipped them. For a year he dropped
Claude and painted just like Constable.
There was a time when Turner and Constable painted
just alike, for they had the same master; but there
came a day when Turner shoved out from shore, and
no man since has been able to follow him.
And no one can copy Corot. The work that he did after
he attained freedom and swung away from Claude and
Constable has an illusive, intangible, subtle and spirit-
ual quality that no imitator can ever catch on his canvas.
Corot could not even copy his own pictures—his work
is born of the spirit. His effects are something beyond
skill of hand, something beyond mere knowledge of
technique. You can copy a Claude and you can copy a
Constable, for the pictures have well defined outline
and the forms are tangible. Claude was the first painter
who showed the shimmering sunlight on the leaves,
C OR OT 17
the upturned foliage of the silver poplar, the yellow
willows bending beneath the breeze, the sweep of the
clouds across the sky, the play of the waves across
the seashore, the glistening dewdrops on the grass,
the soft stealing mists of twilight.
Constable did all this, too, and he did it as well as
Claude, but no better. He never got beyond the stage of
microscopic portrayal; if he painted a dewdrop he
painted it, and his blades of grass, swaying lily stems
and spider webs are the genuine articles.
Corot painted in this minute way for many years, but
gradually he evolved a daring quality and gave us the
effect of devdrops, the spider threads, the foliage, the
tall lilies without painting them at all—he gives you
the feeling, that is all, stirs the imagination until the
beholder, if his heart be in tune, sees things that only
the spiritual eye beholds.
The pale silvery tones of Corot, the shadowy bounda-
ries that separate the visible from the invisible can
never be imitated without the Master’s penetration
into the heart of Nature. He knew things he could
never explain, and he held secrets he could not im-
part. Before his pictures we can only stand silent—he
disarms criticism and strikes the quibbler dumb. Be-
fore a Corot you would better give way, and let its
beauty caress your soul. His colors are thin and very
simple—there is no challenge in his work as there is
in the work of Turner. Greens and grays predominate,
and the plain drab tones are blithe, airy, gracious,
I8 C O R O T
graceful and piquant as a beautiful young Quaker
woman clothed in the garb of simplicity and humility
—but a woman still. Corot coquettes with color—with
pale lilac, silver gray, and diaphanous green. He poet-
izes everything he touches—quiet ponds, clumps of
bushes, white-washed cottages, simple swards, yel-
low cows, blowsy peasants, woodland openings,
stretching meadows and winding streams—they are
all full of divine suggestion and joyous expectancy.
Something is just going to happen—somebody is coming,
some one we love—you can almost detect a faint per-
fume, long remembered, never to be forgotten. A Corot
is a tryst with all that you most admire and love best
—it speaks of youth, joyous, hopeful, expectant youth.
GI. If the Greeks had left us any paintings, they would
all have been just like Corot's.

I9
HE bubbling, boyish good cheer
that Corot possessed is well shown
in a letter he once wrote to Stevens
Graham. This letter was written,
without doubt, in that fine intoxi-
cation which comes after work
well done; and no greater joy ever
comes to a mortal in life than this.
GIGeorge Moore tells somewhere
of catching Corot in one of these moods of rapture:
the Master was standing alone on a log in the woods,
like a dancing faun, leading an imaginary orchestra
with silent but tremendous gusto. At other times when
Corot captured certain effects in a picture, he would
rush across the fields to where there was a peasant
ploughing, and seizing the astonished man, would lead
him over and stand him before the canvas crying,
“Look at that! Ah, now, look at that! What did I tell
you! You thought I never could catch it—Oho, aha,
ohe, tralala, la, la, la, loo!”
This willingness to let the unrestrained spirit romp
was strong in Corot—and it is to be recommended.
How much finer it is to go out into the woods and lift
up your voice in song, and be a child, than to fight
inclination and waste good God-given energy endeav-
oring to be proper—whatever that may be
Corot never wrote anything finer than that letter to
his friend Graham, and, like all really good things, it
was written with no weather eye on futurity. The

2O C OR OT
thought that it might be published never came to him,
for if it had, he would probably have produced some-
thing not worth publishing. It was scribbled off with a
pencil, hot from the heart, out of doors, immediately
after having done a particularly choice bit of work.
Every one who writes of Corot quotes this letter, and
there are various translations of it. It cannot be trans-
lated literally, because the language in which it was
written is effervescent, flashing, in motion like a cas-
cade. It defies all grammar, forgets rhetoric, and simply
makes you feel. I have just as good a right to translate
this letter as anybody, and while I will add nothing
that the spirit of the text does not justify, I will omit
a few things, and follow my own taste in the matter
of paragraphing.
So here is the letter:
A landscapist’s day is divine. You are jealous of the
moments, and so are up at three o’clock—long before
the sun sets you the example.
You go out into the silence and sit under a tree, and
watch and watch and wait and wait.
It is very dark—the nightingales have gone to bed,
all the mysterious noises of night’s forenoon have
ceased—the crickets are asleep, the tree-toad has
found a nest—even the stars have slunk away.
You wait.
There is scarcely anything to be seen at first—only
dark, spectral shapes that stand out against the blue-
thlack of the sky.
Nature is behind a veil, upon which some masses of
form are vaguely sketched. The damp, sweet smell of
C OR OT 2I
the incense of spring is in the air—you breathe deeply
—a sense of religious emotion sweeps over you—you
close your eyes an instant in a prayer of thankfulness
that you are alive.
You do not keep your eyes closed long though—some-
thing is about to happen—you grow expectant, you
wait, you listen, you hold your breath—everything
trembles with a delight that is half pain, under the in-
vigorating caress of the coming day.
You breathe fast, and then you hold your breath and
listen. ºf ºf
You wait.
You peer.
You listen.
Bing! A ray of pale yellow light shoots from horizon
to zenith. The dawn does not come all at once, it
steals upon you by leaps and subtle strides like de-
ploying pickets.
Bing! Another ray, and the first one is suffusing itself
across an arc of the purple sky.
Bing, Bing! The east is all aglow.
The little flowers at your feet are waking in joyful mood.
CI The chirrup of birds is heard. How they do sing!
When did they begin? You forgot them in watching
the rays of light.
The flowers are each one drinking its drop of quiver-
ing dev.
The leaves feel the cool breath of the morning, and
are moving to and fro in the invigorating air.
The flowers are saying their morning prayers, accom-
panied by the matin song of the birds.
Amoretti, with gauzy wings, are perching on the tall
blades of grass that spring from the meadows, and the
tall stems of the poppies and field lilies are swaying,
swaying, swaying a minuet motion fanned by the kiss
22 C O R O T
of the gentle breeze. GI. Oh, how beautiful it all is How
good God is to send it! How beautiful! how beautiful!
GI But merciful easel! I am forgetting to paint—this ex-
hibition is for me, and I'm failing to improve it. My
palette—the brushes—there! there!
We can see nothing—but you feel the landscape is
there—quick now, a cottage away overyonder is push-
ing out of the white mist. To thine easel—go!
Oh! it 's all there behind the translucent gauze—I
know it—I know it—I know it!
Now the white mist lifts like a curtain—it rises and
rises and rises.
Bam! the sun is risen.
I see the river, like a stretch of silver ribbon; it weaves
in and out and stretches away, away, away.
The masses of the trees, of the meads, the meadows—
the poplars, the leaning willows, are all revealed by
the mist that is reeling and rolling up the hillside.
I paint and I paint and I paint, and I sing and I sing
and I paint!
We can see now all we guessed before. Q. Bam, bam!
The sun is just above the horizon—a great golden ball
held in place by spider threads.
I can see the lace made by the spiders—it sparkles
with the drops of dev.
I paint and I paint and I sing and I paint.
Oh, would I were Joshua-I would command the sun
to stand still.
And if it should, I would be sorry, for nothing ever
did stand still, except a bad picture. A good picture is
full of motion. Clouds that stand still are not clouds—
motion, activity, life, yes, life is what we want—life!
GI Bam! A peasant comes out of the cottage and is
coming to the meadow.
Ding, ding, ding! There comes a flock of sheep led by
C O R O T 23
a bell wether. Wait there a minute, please, sheepy-
sheepy, and a great man will paint you.
All right then, don’t wait. I did n’t want to paint you
anyway. Sº sº."
Bam! All things break into glistening—ten thousand
diamonds strew the grasses, the lilies and the tall
stalks of swaying poppies. Diamonds on the cobwebs—
diamonds everywhere. Glistening, dancing, glittering
light—floods of light—pale, wistful, loving light: caress-
ing, blushing, touching, beseeching, grateful light.
Oh, adorable light! The light of morning that comes
to show you things—and I paint and I paint and I paint.
(I. Oh, the beautiful red cow that plunges into the wet
grass up to her dew-laps! I will paint her. There she
is—there!
Here is Simon, my peasant friend, looking over my
shoulder.
“Oho, Simon, what do you think of that?”
“Very fine,” says Simon, “very fine!”
“You see what it is meant for, Simon?”
“Me? Yes, I should say I do—it is a big red rock.”
“No, no, Simon, that is a cow.”
“Well, how should I know unless you tell me,”
answers Simon.
I paint and I paint and I paint.
Boom! Boom! The sun is getting clear above the tree-
tops. QI. It is growing hot.
The flowers droop.
The birds are silent.
We can see too much now—there is nothing in it. Art
is a matter of soul. Things you see and know all about
are not worth painting—only the intangible is splendid.
QI Let’s go home. We will dine, and sleep, and dream.
G|That 's it—I 'll dream of the morning that would
not tarry—I’ll dream my picture out, and then I 'll
24 C O R O T
get up and smoke, and complete it, possibly—who
knows! sº sº."
Let 's go home.
Sk Sk Sk Sk sk :: Sk sk >|< *:
Bam! Bam! It is evening now—the sun is setting.
I did n’t know the close of the day could be so beauti-
ful—I thought the morning was the time.
But it is not just right—the sun is setting in an explosion
of yellow, of orange, of rouge-feu, of cherry, of purple.
GLAh! it is pretentious, vulgar. Nature wants me
to admire her—I will not. I'll wait—the sylphs of the
evening will soon come and sprinkle the thirsty flowers
with their vapors of dew.
I like sylphs—I'll wait.
Boom! The sun sinks out of sight, and leaves behind
a tinge of purple, of modest gray touched with topaz
—ah! that is better.
I paint and I paint and I paint.
Oh, Good Lord, how beautiful it is—how beautiful!
CI The sun has disappeared and left behind a soft,
luminous, gauzy tint of lemon—lemons half ripe. The
light melts and blends into the blue of the night.
How beautiful! I must catch that—even now it fades
—but I have it: tones of deepening green, pallid tur-
quoise, infinitely fine, delicate, fluid and etherial.
Night draws on. The dark waters reflect the mysteries
of the sky—the landscape fades, vanishes, disappears
—we cannot see it now, we only feel it is there.
But that is enough for one day—Nature is going to
sleep, and so will we, soon. Let us just sit silent a
space and enjoy the stillness.
The rising breezes are sighing through the foliage, and
the birds, choristers of the flowers, are singing their
vesper songs—calling, some of them, plaintively for
their lost mates.
C OR OT 25
Bing! A star pricks its portrait in the pond.
All around now is darkness and gloom—the crickets
have taken up the song where the birds left off.
The little lake is sparkling, a regular ant-heap of
twinkling stars.
Reflected things are best—the waters are only to re-
flect the sky—Nature’s looking glass. QI. The sun has
gone to rest; the day is done. But the Sun of Art has
arisen, and my picture is complete. QI. Let us go home.

26 C OR OT
HE Barbizon School—which, by
the way, was never a school, and
if it exists now is not at Barbizon
—was made up of five men: Corot,
Millet, Rousseau, Diaz and Dau-
bigny sº ºf
Corot saw it first—this straggling
little village of Barbizon, nestling
there at the foot of the Forest of
Fontainebleau, thirty-five miles southeast of Paris.
This was about the year 1830. There was no market then
for Corot’s wares, and the artist would have doubted
the sanity of anyone who might have wanted to buy.
His income was one dollar a day—and this was enough.
If he wanted to go anywhere, he walked; and so he
walked into Barbizon one day, his pack on his back,
and found there a little inn, so quaint and simple that
he stayed two days.
The landlord quite liked the big, jolly stranger. Hang-
ing upon his painting outfit was a mandolin, a har-
monica, a guitar and two or three other small musical
instruments of nondescript pedigree. The painter made
music for the village, and on invitation painted a
sketch on the tavern wall to pay for his board. And
this sketch is there even to this day, and is as plain to
be seen as the splash of ink on the wall at Eisenach
where Martin Luther threw the ink bottle at the devil.
GIWhen Corot went back to Paris he showed sketches
of Barbizon and told of the little snuggery, where life

C O R O T 27
was so simple and cheap. QI. Soon Rousseau and Diaz
went down to Barbizon for a week’s stay—later came
Daubigny. QI. In the course of a few years Barbizon
grew to be a kind of excursion point for artistic and
ragged Bohemians, most of whom have done their
work, and their little life is now rounded with a sleep.
(I. Rousseau, Diaz and Daubigny, all younger men than
Corot, made comfortable fortunes long before Corot
got the speaker’s eye; and when at last recognition
came to him, not the least of their claim to greatness
was that they had worked with him.
It was not until 1849 that Jean Francois Millet with
his goodly brood was let down from the stage at Bar-
bizon, to work there for twenty-six years, and give
himself and the place immortality. For when we talk
of the Barbizon School, we have the low tones of
“The Faggot Gatherer” in mind—the browns, the
russets and the deep, dark yellows fading off into the
gloom of dying day.
And only a few miles away, clinging to the hillside, is
By, where lived Rosa Bonheur—too busy to care for
Barbizon, or if she thought of the “Barbizon School”
it was with a fine contempt, which the “School” re-
turned with usurious interest.
At the Barbizon Inn the Bohemians used to sing songs
about the Bonheur breeches, and “The Lady who
keeps a Zoo.” The offense of Rosa Bonheur was that
she minded her own business, and sold the “Horse
Fair” for more money than the entire Barbizon School
28 C OR OT
had ever earned in its lifetime. QI. Only two names
loom large out of Barbizon. Daubigny, Diaz and
Rousseau are great painters, and they each have dis-
ciples and imitators who paint as well as they; but
Corot and Millet stand out separate and alone, incom-
prehensible and unrivaled.
And yet were ever two artists more unlike! Just com-
pare “The Dancing Sylphs” and “The Gleaners.”
The theme of all Millet’s work is, “Man goeth forth to his
labors unto the evening.” Toil, hardship, heroic endur-
ance, plodding monotony, burdens grievous to be borne
—these things cover the canvases of Millet. All of his
deep sincerity, his abiding melancholy, his rugged
nobility are there; for every man who works in free-
dom simply reproduces himself. That is what true work
is—self-expression, self-revelation. The style of Millet
is so strongly marked, so deeply etched that no man
dare imitate it. It is covered by a perpetual copyright,
signed and sealed with the life’s blood of the artist.
Then comes Corot the joyous, Corot the careless,
Corot who had no troubles, no sorrows, no grievances
and not an enemy that he recognized as such. He even
loved Rosa Bonheur, or would, he once said, “If
she would only chain up her dog, and wear woman’s
clothes!” Corot, singing at his work, unless he was
smoking, and if he was smoking, removing his pipe
only to lift up his voice in song: Corot, painting and
singing—“Ah ha—tra la la. Now I’ll paint a little boy
oho, oho, tra lala la loo—lal loo—oho—what a nice
C O R O T 29
little boy—and here comes a cow; hold that, bossy—
in you go for art’s dear sake—tra la la la, la loo!”
Look at a Corot closely and listen, and you can always
hear the echo of the pipes o' Pan. Lovers sit on the
grassy banks, children roll among the leaves, sylphs
dance in every open, and out from between the
branches lightly steps Orpheus, harp in hand, to greet
the morn. Never is there a shadow of care in a Corot
—all is mellow with love, ripe with the rich gift of life,
full of prayer and praise just for the rapture of drinking
in the day—grateful for calm, sweet rest and eventide.
CI Corot, eighteen years the senior of Millet, was the
first to welcome the whipped-out artist to Barbizon.
With him Corot divided his scanty store; he sang and
played his guitar at the Millet hearthstone when he had
nothing but himself to give, and when, in 1875, Millet
felt the chill night of death settling down upon him,
and the fear that want would come to his loved ones
haunted his dreams, Corot assured him by settling
upon the family the sum of one thousand francs a year,
until the youngest child should become of age, and
during Madam Millet’s life.
So died Jean Francois Millet. (I. In 1889 “The Angelus.”
was bought by an American Syndicate for five hundred
and eighty thousand francs. In 1890 it was bought back
by agents of the French Government for seven hundred
and fifty thousand francs, and now has found a final
resting place in the Louvre. (LWithin a few months
after the death of Millet, Corot, too, passed away.
3O C O R O T
– OROT is a remarkable example of
a soul ripening slowly. His skill
was not at its highest until he was
seventy-one years of age. He then
had eight years of life, and work
left, and he continued even to the
end. In his art there was no decline.
QI. It cannot be said that he received
due recognition until he was ap-
proaching his seventy-fifth year, for it was then, for
the first time, that the world of buyers besieged his
door. The few who had bought before were usually
friends who had purchased with the amiable idea of
helping a worthy man. QI. During the last few years of
Corot's life, his income was over fifty thousand francs
a year—“more than I received for pictures during my
whole career,” he once said. And then he shed tears at
parting with the treasures that had been for so long his
close companions. QI. "You see, I am a collector,” he
used to say, “but being poor, I have to paint all my
pictures myself—they are not for sale.” GLAnd proba-
bly he would have kept his collection unbroken were it
not that he wanted the money so much to give away.
GIWhen he passed out in 1875, he was the best loved
man in Paris. Five thousand art students wore crepe
on their arms for a year in memory of “Papa Corot,”
a man who did his work joyously, lived long, and
to the end carried in his heart the perfume of the
morning, and the beneficent beauty of the sunrise.

so HERE ENDETH THE LITTLE Journey TO THE
HOME OF COROT, AS WRITTEN BY ELBERT HUBBARD:
THE TITLE PAGE AND INITIALS BEING DESIGNED
BY SAMUEL waRNER, THE whole DONE Into A
PRINTED Book BY THE RoycroFTERs, -AT. THEIR
SHOP, WHICH IS IN EAST AURORA, ERIE COUNTY, NEW
YORK, IN JULY, OF THE YEAR MCMII ºr ºr sº sºr sºr ºr sº
book case
Thirty-six inches wide, sixty-six inches high, thirteen and one-half inches
deep, door glazed with sheet glass, small panes, $35.00.
THE ROYCROFTERS, EAST AURORA, N. Y.


“Whoever thinks a faultless piece to see,
Thinks what ne'er was, nor is, nor e'er shall be.”
If Pope had lived fifty years later
than he did, he would have changed
this generalization. His first cake of

Pears'
Soap would have convinced him of his
CT TOT.
Pears' Soap is not an expensive soap,
and it is all soap, pure soap, nothing
but soap. For toilet, bath and shaving,
it is the best in the world, and has been
so for more than a century.
All sorts of stores sell it; all sorts of people use it.


Little Journeys
to r H E H o M. E. s or . . . .''
GREAT MUSICIANS
Volumes VIII and F X—New Series
. Each book contains the following numbers:
volume U111. volume Ix. ;
Y WAGNER • 7 Liszt
2 PAGANI:NI g BEETHoven . ;
3 CHOPIN 9 HANDEL :
4 MOZART -- 15 VERDI * *
5 BACH xx SCHUMANN . .
5 MENDEE,SSOHN ... ta BRAHMs {
TRONTISPIECE Portraits of each sub-
* 'ject, text, on Roycroft water-mark;
hand-made paper, , initials and title-page
hand illumined, bound in limp chamois |
—silk lined, gilt top. Price of volumes is |
*.
Three Dollars each: tº
. A few specially bound in boards; leather
back, and corners, at Five Dollars each.
;
i
*
T H E R O Y C R O FT E R S
E. as t Aur or a, New Y or k
|
* * a---------> º: *
* * * * :* *
*
*-
*
ºr ºv. *g.
at it tº e gourne pº
*
*
*
to THE HOMEs of EMINENT ARTISTs
**
** * $ 3r
** g * s tº
3, ...” * 4. 4; #:
~ *...*
... < * , #. & A
& *: .** *:
,x* : * Bº
* .*, sº. º #. ** * x &
$º * *; * * .** .# *... $º
*:
3. * *ś 23:- -º- ~~
* zººs --> F. --- ** * s *
* Vol. XI, August, 1902. No. 2: By ELBERT HUBBARD
`... º. *, sy. * .: * ~ * ... .*: *… -:
* aº
gº #
* g. --- r.
isingle copies, as cents. . . By the Year, $3.00


-T —- # r
*—- 3. 5- * ..º- i-tº- fººt. * * * #
r & * ** * ~~ sº is . *
f**
I E ** O -U R N. *:: %. ... *
L I L * * *
*r * * :
Jr & º:
.S
3. >
to C r. H. E. H. o M e
, º'
* O. R 4.” * *,
.# .." p. r 3. #- # , * , wº #- & $. ‘g *
(ſºminent 3rtigtgº.
4. III ..º. § --
sº ...t * • *s. * ~& * , , i. * # * 3
* *
.# -*—- ,” —º- * 3. *As. £3. * ,
The subjects will be in the following order:
1 RAPHAEL 7 coroT
2 LEONARDO 8 CORREGGIO
3 BotticeLLI * 9 GIAN BELLINI
4 THORwalDSEN." Io CELLINI ·
5 GAINSBorough 11 ABBEY
6 velAsquez .. 13 whistLER,
one booklet a month will bëissued as usual, begins
ning January 1st. . . . . . . . . . .” . .''.
The LITTLE JOURNEYS. for 1902 will be strictly
de luxe in form and workmanship, ºffie-type will be a
new font of antique blackface; the initialsº signed
•especially for this work; a frontispiece portiºn
the original drawing made' at 'our. shop injeº
Japan Vellum. The booklets wilt be stitched by hand:
with silk. st :: . º.º.º.
The price—25 cents each, or $3.00 for the year: 3 .
Address THE RoycroFTERs at their
Shop, which is at East Aurora, New York.
r z-z-z-zr.
* * * } . .
Aº’ .*.*.
'Entered at the postoffice at East Aurora, New York, for staismissions
& * * * *...* *:::::::::: •ºr **
as second-class gail matter. Copyright, 1992, by Élºßbbard.









JUST THINK.
You Can Think When the Food Makes
Your Brain Work.
The mind does not work properly unless the right
kind of food is furnished. A young man studying te-
legraphy said that his progress was very slow. It seemed
impossible for him to pick up the art and understand it.
* He suffered continually with stomach trouble and
could not digest his food properly, and he finally got
so he could do but little work and was tempted to give
up his studies altogether.
About that time some one told him about the brain
food Grape-Nuts and he went in for it. In a short time
a very remarkable change took place. His stomach re-
covered and he became free from headaches. His hand
was no longer nervous and trembling when he used
the key, and the whole mystery of telegraphy untan-
gled itself, for, as he says, “I had the mental power to
master it, and the understanding came easy when the
mind was in poise and strong.” sº
He is now holding a responsible position as an operator.
This is but one of the many illustrations of the advan-
tage of using food purposely manufactured for rebuild-
ing the broken down gray matter in the brain and
nerve centers throughout the body. The facts are there
and can be proven to any one making the trial.
Don't overlook the recipe book in each package of
Grape-Nuts.
1902 Roycroft Catalogue. It contains
a reprint of that January Cosmopol-
itan article, telling about the Shop and
Things; also some pictures of the workers,
buildings, bindings, etc., that will interest
the Elect. Apostal card will fetch it. Address
P: you would like to see the
THE ROYCROFTERS, EAST AURORA, N. Y.
V 2/
|HE imperfection in the article made by hand
is its chief charm. The useful product thus
thought out and materialized by labor may
be very simple, quite inexpensive, thoroughly
unobtrusive, yet at the same time decidedly artistic.
We have Rag Carpet Rugs for Summer Cottages. Cut,
dyed and woven by Roycroft girls seventy years young.
They will make you think you are back on the old farm.
| The price for a three-yard rug is Three Dollars. Address
T H E R O Y C R O F T E R S
E a st A u r or a , New York

W E B IN D B O O KS
beautifully and well—at least some folks
think we do. But we do not do job bind-
ing: however, we will bind up your back
numbers of
THE PHILISTINE
and
LITTLE JOURNEYs
for you, the prices being made as follows:
Six numbers of the Little Journeys in a volume,
covers and advertising pages all bound together
in solid boards and leather backs, $1.00
Six numbers of the Philistine in a volume, ad-
vertising pages and covers all bound in solid
boards, leather backs, $ .75
THE ROYOROFTERS
EAST AURORA NEW YORK

Little Journeys
By ELBERT HUBBARD
“gº
Vols. VI, VII, VIII, IX and X—New Series
QEUition ºc ilute *
VOL. SIX—Morris, Browning, Tennyson, Burns, Mil-
ton, Johnson. \
VOL. SEVEN–Macaulay, Byron, Addison, Southey,
Coleridge, Disraeli.
VOL. EIGHT — Wagner, Paganini, Chopin, Mozart,
Bach, Mendelssohn.
VOL. NINE–Liszt, Beethoven, Handel, Verdi, Schu-
mann, Brahms.
VOL. TEN–Raphael, Leonardo, Botticelli, Thorwald-
Sen, Gainsborough, Velasquez.
Frontispiece Portraits of each subject, text
on Roycroft water-mark, hand-made paper,
initials and title-page hand-illumined, bound
in limp chamois—silk lined, gilt top. Price
of volumes is Three Dollars each.
A few specially bound in boards, leather
back and corners, at Five Dollars each.
The Roycrofters, East Aurora, N. Y.
*2.
. . .
Q
---+
©
|-
ſu
±
±）
C)
O


: 8): LITTLE---
JOURNEYS
QTL), [To the Homes of
MEMINEn Tº
5||ARTIST Slº
QL 0 t t t g g iO
Written by Elbert
Hubbard and donc
into a Book by the
Roycrofters at their
Shop, which is in “e
East Aurora, New
York, A.D. 1902-see-

What genius disclosed all these wonders to thee ? All the
fair images in the world seem to have sprung forward to
meet thee, and to throw themselves lovingly into thy arms.
How joyous was the gathering when smiling angels held
thy palette, and sublime spirits stood before thy inward vis-
ion in all their splendor as models 1 Let no one think he has
seen Italy, let no one think he has learnt the lofty secrets of
art, until he has seen thee and thy Cathedral at Parma, O
Correggio ! LUDWIG. TIECK.
C O R. R. E. G. G. I. O 3I
cº, HERE is no moment that comes to mor-
º tals so charged with peace and precious
º joy as the moment of reconciliation. If
the angels ever attend us, they are surely
present then. The ineffable joy of for-
giving and being forgiven forms an
ecstacy that well might arouse the envy
of the gods.
How well the theologians have under-
stood this! Very often, no doubt, their
psychology has been more experimental
than scientific—but it is effective. They
plunge the candidate into a gloom of
horror, guilt and despair; and then
when he is thoroughly prostrated—
submerged—they lift him out and up
into the light, and the thought of recon-
ciliation possesses him.
He has made peace with his Maker!
That is to say, he has made peace with
himself—peace with his fellow men. He
is intent on reparation; he wishes to
forgive every one. He sings, he dances,
he leaps into the air, clasps his hands
in joy, embraces those nearest him, and
calls aloud, “Glory to God! Glory to
God!”
It is the moment of reconciliation.
Yet there is a finer temperament than
}
§
ſº
Ş.

32 C O R. R. E. G. G. I. O
that of the “new convert,” and his moment of joy is
one of silence—sacred silence.
In the Parma Gallery is the painting entitled “The
Day,” the masterpiece of Correggio. The picture
shows the Madonna, St. Jerome, St. John and the
Christ-child. A second woman is shown in the picture.
This woman is usually referred to as Magdalen, and
to me she is the most important figure in it. She
may lack a little of the ethereal beauty of the Madonna,
but the humanness of the pose, the tenderness and
subtle joy of it, shows you that she is a woman in-
deed, a woman the artist loved—he wanted to paint
her picture, and St. Jerome, the Madonna and the
Christ-child are only excuses.
John Ruskin, good and great, but with prejudices that
matched his genius, declared this picture “immoral
in its suggestiveness.” It is so splendidly, superbly
human that he could not appreciate it. Yet this figure
of which he complains is draped from neck to ankle
—the bare feet are shown—but the attitude is sweetly,
tenderly modest. The woman, half reclining, leans
her face over and allows her cheek, very gently, to
press against the Christ-child. Absolute relaxation is
shown, perfect trust—no tension, no anxiety, no pas-
sion—only a stillness and rest, a gratitude and sub-
dued peace that are beyond speech. The woman is
so happy that she cannot speak, so full of joy that she
dare not express it, and a barely perceptible tear-
stain upon her cheek suggests that this peace has not
C O R. R. E. G. G. I. O 33
always been. She has found her Savior—she is His
and He is hers. QI. It is the moment of reconciliation.
HE Renaissance came as a great
burst of divine light, after a thou-
sand years of lurid night. The iron
heel of Imperial Rome had ground
individuality into the mire. Un-
ceasing war, endless bloodshed,
slavery without limit, and ram-
pant bestiality had stalked back
and forth across Europe. Insanity,
uncertainty, drudgery and crouching want, were the
portion of the many. In such a soil neither art, litera-
ture nor religion can prosper.
But now the Church had turned her face against dis-
order, and was offering her rewards for excellence
and beauty. Gradually there came a feeling of safety
—something approaching security. Throughout Italy,
beautiful, stately churches were being built; in all
the little principalities, palaces were erected: archi-
tecture became a science. The churches and palaces
were decorated with pictures, statues filled the niches,
memorials to great ones gone were erected in the
public squares.
It was a time of reconciliation—peace was more pop-
ular than war—and where men did go to war, they
always apologized for it by explaining that they fought
simply to obtain peace.

34 C O R. R. E. G. G. I. O
Michael Angelo, Raphael, Leonardo and Botticelli
were doing their splendid work—work palpitating
with the joy of life, and yet upon it was the tinge of
sorrow, the scars of battles fought, the tear-stains
that told of troubles gone. Yet the general atmosphere
was one of blitheness, joyous life and gratitude for
existence. Men seemed to have gotten rid of a great
burden; they stood erect, they breathed deeply, and
looking around them, were surprised to perceive that
life was really beautiful, and God was good.
In such an attitude of mind they reached out friendly
hands toward each other. Poets sang; musicians
played; painters painted, and sculptors carved. Uni-
versities sprang into being—schools were everywhere.
The gloom was dispelled even from the monasteries.
The monks ate three meals a day—sometimes four
or five. They went a-visiting. Wine flowed, and music
was heard where music was never heard before. In-
stead of the solemn processional, there were Barnabee
steps seen on stone floors—steps that looked like ec-
clesiastical fandango. The rope girdles were let out a
trifle, flagellations ceased, vigils relaxed, and in many
instances the coarse horse-hair garments were re-
placed with soft, flowing robes, tied with red, blue,
or yellow sashes of silk and satin.
The earth was beautiful, men were kind, women were
gracious, God was good, and His children should be
happy—these were the things preached from many
pulpits.
C O R. R. E. G. G. I. O 35
Paganism had got grafted on to Christianity, and the
only branches that were bearing fruit were the pagan
branches. The old spirit of Greece had come back,
romping, laughing in the glorious Italian sunshine.
Everything had an Attic flavor. The sky was never so
blue, the yellow moonlight never before cast such
soft, mysterious shadows, the air was full of perfume,
and you had but to stop and listen any time and any-
where to hear the pipes o' Pan.
When Time turned the corner into the Sixteenth Cen-
tury, the tide of the Renaissance was at its full. The
mortification of the monasteries, as we have seen
had given place to a spirit of feasting—good things
were for use. The thought was contagious, and
although the Paulian idea of women keeping silence
in all due subjection has ever been a favorite one with
masculine man, yet the fact is that in the matter of
manners and morals men and women are never far
apart—there is a constant transference of thought,
feeling and action. I do not know why this is. I merely
know that it is so. Some have counted sex a mistake
on the part of God; but the safer view is for us to con-
clude that whatever is, is good; some things are bet-
ter than others, but all are good. This is what they
thought during the Renaissance. So convent life lost
its austerity, and as the Council of Trent had not yet
issued its stern orders commanding asceticism, pray-
ers were occasionally offered accompanied by synco-
pated music.
36 C O R. R. E. G. G. I. O
The blooming daughters of great houses were con-
signed to convents on slight excuse. “To a nunnery
go, and quickly, too,” was an order often given and
followed with alacrity. Married women, worn with
many cares, often went into “retreat”; girls tired of
society’s whirl; those wrung with hopeless passion;
unmanageable wives; all who had fed on the husks of
satiety; those who had incurred the displeasure of
parents or kinsmen, or were deserted, forlorn and
undone, all these found rest in the convents—provid-
ed they had the money to pay. Those without money
or influential friends simply labored as servants and
scullions. Rich women contracted the “Convent Hab-
it”; this was about the same thing as our present
dalliance known as the “Sanitarium Bacillus’’—which
only those with a goodly bank balance can afford to
indulge. The poor, then as now, had a sufficient pan-
acea for trouble: they kept their nerves beneath their
clothes by work—they had to grin and bear it, at
least they had to bear it.
In almost every town that lined the great Emilian
Highway, that splendid road laid out by the Consul
Marcus Emilius, 83, B. C., from Rimini and Piacenza,
there were convents of high and low degree—some
fashionable, some plain, and some veritable palaces,
rich in art and full of all that makes for luxury. These
convents were at once a prison, a hospital, a sanita-
rium, a workshop, a school and a religious retreat.
The day was divided up into periods for devotion,
C O R. R. E. G. G. I. O 37
work and recreation, and the discipline was on a slid-
ing scale matching the mood of the Abbess in charge,
all modified by the prevailing spirit of the inmates.
But the thought that life was good was rife, and this
thought got over every convent wall, stole through
the garden walks, crept softly in at every grated win-
dow and filled each suppliant's cell with its sweet,
amorous presence.
Yes, life is good, God is good! He wants His children
to be happy! The white clouds chase each other
across the blue dome of heaven, the birds in the
azaleas and in the orange trees twitter, build nests
and play hide-and-seek the live-long day. The balmy
air is flavored with health, healing and good cheer.
QI Life in a convent had many advantages and bene-
fits. Women were taught to sew and work miracles
with the needle; they made lace, illumined missals,
wove tapestries, tended the flowers, listened to lec-
tures, read from books, and spent certain hours in
silence and meditation. To a great degree the convents
were founded on science and a just knowledge of
human needs. There were “orders” and degrees that
fitted every temperament and condition.
But the humble garb of a nun never yet changed the
woman’s heart that beats beneath—she is a woman
still sºr ºf
Every night could be heard the tinkle of guitars
beneath bedroom windows, notes were passed up on
forked sticks, and missives freshly kissed by warm
38 C O R. R. E. G. G. I. O
lips were dropped down through lattices; secret mes-
sengers came with letters, and now and again rope
ladders were in demand; while not far away, there
were always priests who did a thriving business in the
specialty of Gretna Green.
Every sanitarium, every great hotel, every public
institution—every family, I was going to say—has
two lives; the placid moving life that the public
knows, and the throbbing, pulsing life of plot and
counter-plot—the life that goes on beneath the sur-
face. It is the same with the human body—how
bright and calm the eye, how smooth and soft the
skin, how warm and beautiful this rose-mesh of flesh!
But beneath there is a seething struggle between the
forces of life and the disintegration—and eventually
nothing succeeds but failure.
Every convent was a hotbed of gossip, jealousy, hate
and seething strife; and now and again there came a
miniature explosion that the outside world heard
and translated with emendations to suit.
Rivalry was rife, competition lined the corridors, and
discontent sat glum or rustled uneasily in each stone
cell. Some of the inmates brought pictures, busts and
ornaments to embellish their rooms. Friends from the
outside world sent presents; the cavalier who played
the guitar beneath the window varied his entertain-
ment by gifts; flowers filled the beautiful vases, and
these blossoms were replaced ere they withered so
as to show that true love never dies.
C O R. R. E. G. G. I. O 39
Monks from neighboring monasteries preached ser-
mons or gave lectures; skilled musicians came, and
sang or played the organ; noblemen visited the place
to examine the works of art, or to see fair maids on
business, or consult the Abbess on matters spiritual.
Often these visitors were pressed to remain, and then
receptions were held and modest fetes given and ban-
quets tendered. At intervals there were fairs when
the products made by the marriage of hand and brain
of the fair workers, were exhibited and sold.
So life, though in a convent, was life, and even death
and disintegration are forms of life —and all life is good.
ſº
->



40 C O R. R. E. G. G. I. O
H.E Donna Giovanni Piacenza was
appointed Abbess of San Paola
Convent, Parma, in 1507. The Ab-
bess was the daughter of the no-
bleman Marco. Donna Giovanni
was a woman of marked mental
ability; she had a genius for man-
agement; a wise sense of diplo-
macy; and withal was an artist
by nature and instinct.
The Convent of San Paola was one of the richest and
most popular in the Emilia.
The man to whose influence the Abbess owed most
in securing her the appointment was the Cavaliere
Scipione, a lawyer and man of affairs, married to the
sister of the Abbess.
As a token of esteem and by way of sisterly recipro-
city, the Abbess soon after her appointment called
the Cavaliere Scipione to the position of Legal Ad-
viser and Custodian of the Convent Funds. Before
this the business of the institution had been looked
after by the Garimberti family; and the Garimberti
now refusing to relinquish their office, Scipione took
affairs into his own hands and ran the chief offender
through with his sword. Scipione found refuge in the
Convent, and the officers of the law hammered on the
gates for admission, and hammered in vain.
Parma was split into two factions—those who favored
the Abbess Giovanni and those who opposed her.

C O R. R. E. G. G. I. O 4I
GI Once at midnight the gates were broken down and
the place searched, for hiding cavaliers, by the Gov-
ernor of the city and his cohorts, to the great con-
sternation of the nuns.
But time is the great healer, and hate left alone
is short lived, and dies a natural death. The Abbess
was wise in her management, and with the advice
and assistance of Scipione, the place prospered. Vis-
itors came, delegations passed that way, great prelates
gave their blessing, and the citizens of Parma became
proud of the Convent of San Paola.
Some of the nuns were rich in their own right, and
some of these had their rooms frescoed by local artists
to suit their fancies. Strictly religious pictures were
not much in vogue with the inmates—they got their
religion at the chapel. Mythology and the things that
symbolized life and love were the fashion. On one
door was a flaming heart pierced by an arrow, and
beneath in Italian was the motto, “Love while you
may.” Other mottoes about the place were, “Eat,
drink and be merry”; “Laugh and be glad.” These
mottoes revealed the prevailing spirit.
Some of the staid citizens of Parma sent petitions to
Pope Julius demanding that the decree of strict clois-
tration be enforced against the nuns. But Julius sort
of reveled in life himself, and the art spirit shown by
the Abbess was quite to his liking. Later, Leo X. was
importuned to curb the festive spirit of the place, but
he shelved the matter by sending along a fatherly let-
42 C O R. R. E. G. G. I. O
ter of advice and counsel. GI. About this time we find
the Abbess and her Legal Adviser planning a scheme
of decoration that should win the admiration or envy,
—or both—of every art lover in the Emilia. The
young man, Antonio Allegri, from Correggio should do
the work. They had met him at the house of Veronica
Gambara, and they knew that anyone Veronica recom-
mended must be worthy of confidence. Veronica said
the youth had sublime talent—it must be so. His
name, Allegri, meant joy, and his work was charged
with all his name implied. He was sent for, and he
came—walking the forty miles from Correggio to
Parma with his painter’s kit on his back.
He was short of stature, smooth faced and looked like
a good natured country bumpkin in his peasant garb,
all decorated by dust. He was modest, half shy, and
the nuns who peered at him from behind the arras as
he walked down the hallway of the Convent caused
his countenance to run the chromatic scale.
He was sorry he came, and if he could have gotten
away without disgrace he surely would have started
straight back for Correggio. He had never been so far
away from home before, and although he did not know
it he was never to get further away in his life. Venice
and Titian were to the east a hundred miles; Milan
and Leonardo were to the north about the same dis-
tance; Florence and Michael Angelo were south
ninety miles; Rome and Raphael were one hundred
and sixty miles beyond; and he was never to see any
C O R. R. E. G. G. I. O 43
of these. But the boy shed no tears over that; it is
quite possible that he never heard of any of these
names just mentioned, save that of Leonardo—none
loomed large as they do now—there were painters
everywhere, just as Boston Common is full of poets.
Veronica Gambara had told him of Leonardo—we
know that—and described in glowing words and with
an enthusiasm that was contagious how the chief
marks of Leonardo’s wonderful style lay in the way
he painted hands, hair and eyes. The Leonardo hands
were delicate, long of finger, expressive and full of
life; the hair was wavy, fluffy, sun-glossed, and it
seemed as if you could stroke it, and it would give
off magnetic sparks; but Leonardo’s best feature was
the eye—the large, full-orbed eye that looked down
so that you really never saw the eye, only the lid,
and the long lashes upon which a tear might glisten.
Antonio listened to Veronica with open mouth, drink-
ing it all in, and then he sighed and said, “I am a
painter, too.” He set to work, fired with the thought
of doing what Leonardo had done—hands, hair and
eyes—beautiful hands, beautiful hair, beautiful eyes!
Then these things he worked upon, only he never
placed the glistening tear upon the long lash, because
there were no tears upon his own lashes. He had never
known sorrow, trouble, disappointment or defeat.
The specialty of Allegri was “putti”—tumbling, tu-
multuous, tricksy putti. These cherubs symboled the
joy of life, and when Allegri wished to sign his name,
44 C O R. R. E. G. G. I. O
he drew a cherub. He had come up out of a family
that had little and expected nothing. Then he needed
so little—his wants were few. If he went away from
home on little journeys, he stopped with peasants
along the way and made merry with the children and
outlined a chubby cherub on the cottage wall, to the
delight of everybody; and in the morning was sent on
his way with blessings, God-speeds, and urgent invi-
tations to come again. Smiles and good-cheer, a little
music and the ability to do things, when accompanied
by a becoming modesty, are current coin the round
world over. Tired earth is quite willing to pay for be-
ing amused.
The Abbess Giovanni showed Antonio about the
Convent, and he saw what had already been done.
He was appreciative, but talked little. The Abbess
liked the youth. He suggested possibilities—he might
really become the great painter that the enthusiastic
Veronica prophesied he would some day be.
The Abbess gave up one of her own rooms for his
accommodation, brought him water for a bath, and at
supper sat him at the table at her own right hand.
GL"And about the frescoes?” asked the Abbess.
“Yes, the frescoes—your room shall be done first. I
will begin the work in the morning,” replied Antonio.
GI. The confidence of the youth made the Abbess smile.
C O R. R. E. G. G. I. O 45
ANY of our finest flowers are
merely transplanted weeds.
Transplantation often works won-
ders in men. When fate lifted
Antonio Allegri out of the little
village of Correggio and sat him
down in the city of Parma, a great
change came over him. The
wealth, beauty and freer atmos-
phere of the place caused the tendrils of his imagina-
tion to reach out into a richer soil, and the result was
such blossoms of beauty, so gorgeous in form and
color, that men have not yet ceased to marvel.
The Convent of San Paola is a sacred shrine for art
lovers—they come from the round world over, just to
see the ceiling in that one room—the room of the
Abbess Giovanni where Antonio Allegri, the young man
from Correggio, first placed his scaffolds in Parma.


46 C O RR E G G I O
HE village of Correggio is quite off
the beaten track of travel. You
will have to look five times on the
map before you can find it. It is
only a village now, and in the
year 1494 when Antonio Allegri
was born, Christoforo Colombo,
the Genoese, was discovering
continents, it was little better
than a hamlet. It had a church, a convent, a palace
where dwelt the Corregghesi-the Lords of Correggio,
—and stretching around the square, where stood the
church, were long, low, stone cottages, white-washed,
with trellises of climbing flowers. Back of these cottages
were little gardens where the peas, lentils, leeks and
parsley laughed a harvest. There were flowers, flow-
ers everywhere—none were too poor to have flowers.
Flowers are a strictly sex product and symbol the joy
of life; and where there are no flowers, there is little
love. Lovers give flowers—and they are enough:—
and if you do not love flowers, they will refuse to
blossom for you. “If I had but two loaves of bread,
I 'd sell one of them and buy white hyacinths to feed
my soul”—that was said by a man who loved this
world, no less than the next. Do not defame this
world—she is the mother that feeds you, and she
supplies you not only bread, but white hyacinths to
feed your soul.
On market day in every Italian town four hundred

C O R. R. E. G. G. I. O 47
years ago, just as now, the country women brought
big baskets of vegetables and also baskets of flowers.
And you will see in those markets, if you observe,
that the people who buy vegetables usually buy sprays
of mignonette, bunches of violets, roses upon which
the dew yet sparkles, or white hyacinths. Loaves alone
are not quite enough—we want also the bread of life,
and the bread of life is love, and did n’t I say that
flowers symbol love?
And I have noted this, in those old markets: often the
pile of flowers that repose by the basket of fruit or
vegetables are to give away to the customers as to-
kens of good-will. I remember visiting the market at
Parma one day and buying some cherries, and the old
woman who took my money, picked up a little spray
of hyacinth and pinned it to my coat, quite as a matter
of course. The next day I went back and bought figs,
and got a big moss rose as a premium. The peculiar
brand of Italian that I spoke was unintelligible to the
old woman, and I am very sure that I could not un-
derstand her, yet the white hyacinths and the moss.
rose made all plain. That was five years ago, but if I
should go back to Parma tomorrow, I would go straight
to the Market Place, and I know that my old friend
would reach out a brown calloused hand to give me
welcome, and the choicest rose in her basket would
be mine—the heart understands.
That spirit of mutual giving was the true spirit of the
Renaissance, and in the forepart of the Sixteenth Cen-
48 C O R. R. E. G. G. I. O
tury it was at its fullest flower. Men gave the beauty
that was in them, and Vasari tells of how at Correg-
gio the peasants, who had nothing else to give, each
Sunday brought flowers and piled them high at the feet
of the virgin.
There were painters and sculptors at the village of
Correggio then; great men in their day, no doubt, but
lost now to us in the maze of years. And there was,
too, a little court of beauty and learning, presided
over by Veronica Gambara. Veronica was a lover of
art and literature, and a poet of no mean quality.
Antonio Allegri, son of the village baker, was a wel-
come visitor at her house. The boy used to help the
decorators at the church, and had picked up a little
knowledge of art. That is all you want—an entrance
into the Kingdom of Art, and all these things shall be
added unto you. Veronica appreciated the boy because
he appreciated art, and great lady that she was, she
appreciated him because he appreciated her. There is
nothing that so warms the cockles of a teacher’s heart
as appreciation in a pupil. The intellect of the village
swung around Veronica Gambara. Visitors of note
used to come from Bologna and Ferrara just to hear
Veronica read her poems, and to talk over together
the things they all loved. At these conferences Anto-
nio was often present. He was eighteen, perhaps,
when his sketches were first shown at Veronica’s
little court of art and letters. He had taken lessons
from the local painters, and visiting artists gave him
C O R. R. E. G. G. I. O 49
the benefit of advice and criticism. Then Veronica
had many engravings and various copies of good pic-
tures. The boy was immersed in beauty, and all he
did he did for Veronica Gambara. She was no longer
young—she surely was old enough to have been the
boy's mother, and this was well. Such a love as this
is spiritualized under the right conditions, and works
itself up into art, where otherwise it might go dancing
down the wanton winds and spend itself in folly.
Antonio painted for Veronica. All good things are
done for someone else, and then after a while a stand-
ard of excellence is formed, and the artist works to
please himself. But paradoxically, he still works for
others—the singer sings for those who hear, the
writer writes for those who understand, and the
painter paints for those who would paint just such
pictures as he, if they could. Antonio painted just such
pictures as Veronica liked—she fixed the standard
and he worked up to it.
And who then could possibly have foretold that the
work of the baker’s boy would rescue the place from
oblivion, so that anywhere where the word is men-
tioned, “Correggio’’ should mean the boy Antonio
Allegri, and not the village nor the wide domain of the
Corregghesi!
50 C O R. R. E. G. G. I. O
HE distinguishing feature of Cor-
reggio’s work is his “putti.” He
delighted in these well-fed, un-
spanked and needlessly healthy
cherubs. These rollicksonne, frolic-
some, dimpled boy babies—and
that they are boys is a fact which
I trust will not be denied—he has
them everywhere!
Paul Veronese brings in his omnipresent dog—in
every “Veronese,” there he is, waiting quietly for his
master. Even at the “Assumption” he sits in one
corner, about to bark at the angels. The dog obtrudes
until you reach a point where you do not recognize a
“Veronese” without the dog—then you are grateful
for the dog, and surely would scorn a “Veronese”
minus the canine attachment. We demand at least
one dog, as our legal and inborn right, with every
“Veronese.”
So, too, we claim the cherubs of Correggio as our
own. They are so oblivious of clothes, so beautifully
indifferent to the proprieties, so delightfully self-suf-
ficient! They have no parents; they are mostly of one
size, and are all of one gender. They hide behind the
folds of every apostle’s cloak, peer into the Magdalen’s
jar of precious ointment, cling to the leg of St. Joseph,
make faces at Saint Bernard, attend in a body at the
“Annunciation”—as if it were any of their business—
hover everywhere at the “Betrothal,” and look on

C O R. R. E. G. G. I. O 5.I
wonderingly from the rafters, or make fun of the
Wise Men in the Stable.
They invade the inner Courts of Heaven, and are so
in the way that St. Peter falls over them, much to
their amusement. They seat themselves astride of
clouds, some fall off, to the great delight of their
mates, and still others give their friends a boost over
shadows that are in the way.
I said they had no parents—they surely have a father,
and he is Correggio; but they are all in sore need of a
mother’s care.
I believe it was Schiller who once intimated that it
took two to love anything into being. But Correggio
seems to have performed the task of conjuring forth
these putti all alone; yet it is quite possible that Ve-
ronica Gambara helped him. That he loved them is
very sure—only love could have made them manifest.
This man was a lover of children, otherwise he could
not have loved putti, for he sympathized with all
their baby pranks, and sorrows as well.
One cherub bumps his head against a cloud and
straightway lifts a howl that must have echoed all
through Paradise. His mouth is open to its utmost
limit; tears start from between his closed eyes that
he gouges with chubby fists, and his whole face is
distorted in intense pigmy wrath. One might really
feel awfully sorry for him were it not for the fact that
he sticks out one foot trying to kick a playfellow
who evidently had n’t a thing to do with the accident.
52 C O R. R. E. G. G. I. O
He 's a bad, naughty cherub—that is what he is, and
he deserves to have his obtrusive anatomy stung,
just a little, with the back of a hair brush, for his own
good ºf sºr
This same cherub appears in other places, once blow-
ing a horn in another's ear; and again he is tickling a
sleeping brother's foot with a straw. These putti play
all the tricks that real babies do, and besides have a
goodly list of “stunts” of their own. One thing is
sure, to Correggio heaven would not be heaven with-
out putti; and the chief difference that I see between
putti and sure enough babies is, that putti require no
care and babies do.
Then putti are practical and useful—they hold up
scrolls, tie back draperies, carry pictures, point out
great folks, feed birds, and in one instance Correggio
has ten of them leading a dog out to execution. They
carry the train of the Virgin, assist the apostles, act
as ushers, occasionally pass the poor-box, make
wreaths and crowns, but I am sorry to say, some-
times get into unseemly scuffles for first place.
They have no wings, yet they soar and fly like Eng-
lish sparrows. They are not troubled by nerv. pros.
nor introspection. What they feed upon is uncertain,
but sure it is that they are well nourished. A putti
needs nothing, not even approbation.
In the dome of the Cathedral at Parma, there is a
regular flight of them to help on the Ascension. They -
mix in everywhere, riding on clouds, clinging to robes,
C O R. R. E. G. G. I. O 53
perching on the shoulders of Apostles, everywhere
thick in the flight and helping on that glorious ana-
basis. Away, away they go—movement—movement
everywhere—right up into the blue dome of Heaven!
As you look up at that most magnificent picture, a
tinge of sorrow comes over you—the putti are all go-
ing away, and what if they should never come back!
CIA little girl I know once went with her Mamma
to visit the Cathedral at Parma. Mother and daugh-
ter stood in silent awe for a space, looking up at that
cloud of vanishing forms. At last the little girl turned
to her mother and said, “Mamma, did you ever see
so many bare legs in all the born days of your life?”

54 C O R. R. E. G. G. I. O
OME years ago in a lecture Mr. John
La Farge said that the world had
produced only seven painters that
deserved to rank in the first class,
and one of these is Correggio. The
speaker did not name the other
six; and although requested to do
so, smilingly declined, saying that
he preferred to allow each auditor
to complete the list for himself.
One person present made out this list of seven Im-
mortals, and passed the list to Mr. Edmund Russell,
seated near, for comments. This is the list: Michael
Angelo, Leonardo, Titian, Rembrandt, Correggio, Ve-
lasquez, Corot.
Mr. Russell approved the selection, but added a note
claiming the privilege to change and substitute names
from time to time as his mood might prompt. This
seems to me like a very sensible verdict. “Who is
your favorite author?” is a question that is often
asked. Just as if any one author ever got first place in
the mind of a strong man and stuck there! Authors
jostle each other for first place in our hearts. We may
have Emerson periods and Browning periods when
they alone minister to us; and so also pictures, like
music, make their appeals to mood.
This peaceful, beautiful May day, as I write this at
my cabin in the woods, Correggio seems to me truly
one of the world’s marvelous men. He is near, very

C O R. R. E. G. G. I. O 55
dear, and yet before him I would stand silent and un-
covered.
He did his work and held his peace. He was simple,
modest, unobtrusive and unpretentious. He was so
big that he never knew the greatness of his work, any
more than the author of Hamlet knew the immensity
of his sº sº
Correggio was never more than a day’s journey from
home—he toiled in obscurity and did work so grand
that it only made its final appeal to the future. He
never painted his own portrait, and no one else seemed
to consider him worth while; his income was barely
sufficient for his wants. He was so big that following
fast upon his life came a lamentable decline in art:
his personality being so great that his son and a
goodly flock of disciples tried to paint just like him.
All originality faded out of the fabric of their lives,
and they were only cheap, tawdry and dispirited imi-
tators. That is one of the penalties which nature
exacts when she vouchsafes a great man to earth—all
others are condemned to insipidity. They are whipped,
dispirited and undone, and spontaneity dies a-born-
ing. No man should try to do another man’s work.
Note the anatomical inanities of Bernini in his at-
tempts to out-Angelo Michael Angelo
In this “rushing in ’’ business, keep out, or you may
count as one more fool.
Correggio struck thirteen because he was himself, and
was to a great degree even ignorant and indifferent to
56 C O R. R. E. G. G. I. O
what the world was doing. He was filled with the joy
of life, and with no furtive eye on the future, and no
distracting fears concerning the present, he did his
work and did it the best he could. He worked to
please himself, cultivated the artistic conscience—
scorning to create a single figure that did not spring
into life because it must. All of his pictures are born
of this spirit.
Good old Guido of Parma, afar from home, once asked,
with tear filled eyes, of a recent visitor there—“And
tell me, you saw the Cathedral and the Convent of
San Paola—and are not the cherubs of Master Cor-
reggio grown to be men yet?”
It is only life and love that give love and life. Correg-
gio gave us both out of the fullness of a full heart.
And growing weary when scarce forty years of age,
he passed out into the Silence, but his work is ours.

So HERE ENDETH THE LITTLE Journey to THE
HOME OF CORREGGIO, AS WRITTEN BY ELBERT HUB-
BARD, THE TITLE PAGE, INITIALS AND ORNAMENTS
BEING DESIGNED BY SAMUEL WARNER, AND THE
WHOLE DONE INTO A BOOKLET BY THE ROYCROFT-
ERS AT THEIR SHOP, WHICH IS IN EAST AURORA,
NEW YORK, IN THE MONTH OF AUGUST, MCMII sºr sºr
R OUND TA BLE
Solid Oak, three feet in diameter. The price is $20.
THE ROYCROFTERS, EAST AURORA, N. Y.

QI No finer find can be
annexed than a Membership in the American
Academy of Immortals. The advantages are
increased activity of all the secretions, deeper
breathing capacity, perfect digestion and sleep
o’ nights: these things mean bigger bank bal-
ance and the return of wavering affection. The
cost is Ten Dollars, with no further dues for
ninety-nine years. Address
T H E P H I L IST IN E
E A S T A U R O R A N E V Y O R K
S P E C I A L
We have ten sets of “Little Journeys to
the Homes of Eminent Musicians” that
would do well for say a birthday present. The
books are especially illumined, bound in three-
quarters levant, hand-tooled, and are very
sumptuous. The price for the set of two vol-
umes is Fifteen Dollars. &
T H E R O Y C R O F T E R S
E A S T A U R O R A N E V Y O R K
5 : A ==. . . º... ... Tº
The New York Special
I S T H E F I N E N E W T R A I N O F T H E
WIGHIGAN CENTRAL
“The Niagara Falls Route.”
between Chicago and Detroit and Buffalo, New York and Boston.
It leaves Chicago 5.20 P.M. daily and arrives Buffalo 7.50 A.M.,
New York State points during the day, Grand Central Station,
New York, at 6.30 P.M., daily, and Boston 11.30 P. M., except
Sunday, with Dining, Pullman Sleeping and Buffet Library Cars.
TI All MICHIGAN CENTRAL trains arrive at and depart from the
Grand Central Station, New York, and New South Station, Boston.
O. W. R U G G L E S ,
General Passenger & Ticket Agent, Chicago.
###|ſilibitº:
#######
Jultilºil. It
SS º
Sººyººs
iſſiſſiſłºśnº is
cº- iſ] . . .


“Whoever thinks a faultless piece to see,
Thinks what ne'er was, nor is, nor e'er shall be.”
If Pope had lived fifty years later
than he did, he would have changed
this generalization. His first cake of

Pears'
Soap would have convinced him of his
CTTOT.
Pears' Soap is not an expensive soap,
and it is all soap, pure soap, nothing
but soap. For toilet, bath and shaving,
it is the best in the world, and has
been so for more than a century.
All sorts of stores sell it; all sorts of people use it.
--> ** *O
Ǻ
º
a. º tº
2 ºf
ºšāºš
ºğ
| * º fº
ºpºgº
[º
º • I
غº)3%

R I- 2. -
& * I *..." ..". -
Li tl > $ <--- *
it OU11”. Q. Gº Sº
* * ¥ * ſº ;
e ... --> º: , 3.
* , * * * º ..?
to T H E . Ho M is s. 3 or * ** {
- prº- º: *: *.*.*.* *# , *
ANS “..." .
+ * . , —rt * * __*S$ 2 . . * * * -4
+ *. * ~\,
*:
Volumes Vºl.1 and IX-Nāar Series
*: *: X -- Sº sº ºr 3. sº ‘. .
Each book containsthe following numbers:
Dolume UIII. * volume 1.xº~ *
r WAGNER , 7 Liszt. . . . . . . . . "
2 PAGANINI , s BEETHoven a st
3 CHOPIN * 9 HANDEL., . . . . . ºf
* 4 MOZART ºr * to verpº ºsº.”
5 BACH , is schüßANN-"...º ..
5 MENDELSSOHN 12 BRAHMs "... : :".
RoNTISPIECE Portraitsofeach sub-.”
ject, text on Roycroft, water-mark;
hand-made paper, initials and title-pa e. .
hand illumined, bound in limp champis,
—silk lined, gilt top. Priče of volumes-is. .
* -ºº:
Hºf !' is
Three Dollars each. ... * * * * *
ºf .
* * . . . … ...!
A few specially bound in boards, leather:
back and corners, at Five. Dollars each.º. H
2-
**. *: $:
*— -*. —r 4. 4–5– —a : ...” º
* -- E * * *::::H
T H E Roycroft E its ºf
.*-*. ... .” -
Eašt Aurora, New York ºl
– *—"->– . . . . . . " ": {
Yºr >r—








* 3 ->
*;
| 3Little gotirm epig
(to the Howes of EMINENT ARTIsrs S
#s
*.
* *. *– —-t
----- A. ... *s + *
-i.
* ... < * ***..., A * -
** # * * ... * *
$ ~. “’; a ‘iº w"
* * * *
* *
". *.
º
*.
By ELBERT HUBBARD
ſº
ºr
§
* . **
*
Ak
—H
vol. xi. SEPTEMBER, 1902. No. 3
4.
*
, º t
F-ºr- g - * º * Tr
º
* & y-
* ~.
*
} .* %. *- w
* * bº,
... ?" *
*
* 3.
A. - “K. 4
t * ** * * #.
* * x- wº
# = T - “. - *
** -
- rº-
t *.
**. º * r
*
**. * *.*
+ *
* * }
*
* f
“,
* *, J . * A.
4. W.
*
... -
& wº +
*
*
* *t. -
***
*
5. <!. t-e x:
, * .*
y *. i *
•f * * **t
* * * *; º
; : * # ¥ **
& &
* 3. * * *
w? Jº * 3.
* A." ... 3- -: * * - 3. +
§
** y
sº * *
1. ** * *.
i. * - f hy
* * & .* * *
s', **
-**
... ? si * --
3.
3. *. -**
* re. -ºr
*. º **, & *...*
-** *- *
* * * #. * *}.
k'
* yºf fº
-** ** Af
*. * f
4. * *
y e.” ** ~ *
*: *** Fº: *g, *
-Yº :g
**
* *x wº-
cents By th
“.
e y the Year, $3.oo
* .**-
*
*
. sº. 3 *
| Single Copies, 25
A c. * ** + . - ap-
*. ` i.
*.*.*.

L i t t L. E JOUR NEYs
3.
to r H E H o M E sº o f : . .
P y * *** * * * #4.
&minent 3rtist3 =
S.E R I E S OF . MC M II
The subjects will be in the following order:
I RAPHAEL . 7 coroT.
2 LEONARDO 8 correggio
3 BOTTICELLI g GIAN BELLINI .
4 THORwalDSEN 10 CELLINI,
5 GAINSBOROUGH 11 ABBEY
6 VELASQUEZ 12 whistLER.
One booklet a month will be issued as usial; begin-
ning January Ist. . . . .” - sº
The LITTLE Journeys for 1902 win be strictly,
de luxe in form and workmanship. The type will be a
new font of antique blackface; the initials designed.
especially for this work; a frontispiece portraitºfräth.
the original drawing made at our shop in each on
Japan Vellum. The booklets will be stitched by hand
with silk. ... º.º.
The price—25 cents each, or $3.oo for the year.g. sº
Address THE RoycroFTERS aſ Tāj;
Shop, which is at East Aurora, New Yºrk.
-gº * • *3 -> ~7 - * * * º, *: =.
Entered at the postoffice at East Aurora, New Yörk, for fansfºssiºn,
* *... ºr *
as second-class mail matter. Copyright, 1902, by Elbert. Hubbará.







SUSBICION
Leads to the Real Cause.
The question of coffee disease or Postum health becomes of the
greatest importance when we are thrown on our own resources.
Many a woman when suddenly left without means of support
can make a comfortable living if health remains.
A brave little woman out in Barnes, Kansas, says, “I feel that
I owe you a letter for the good Postum coffee has done me.
For years I was a great sufferer with nervousness without ever
suspecting the cause. Two years ago I came down with nervous
prostration. My work was light, but I could not do it, I could
not even sew or read.
My sleep was broken and unrefreshing; I suffered intensely and
it seemed only a matter of time till I must lose my reason.
My mental distress was as great as my physical, when one day
a friend brought me a trial of Postum Coffee and urged me to
use it instead of coffee for a few days, saying that Postum had
cured her of liver trouble and sick headaches. I replied that I
thought I could not give up coffee, I had always used it as a
stimulant, however the Postum Food Coffee proved to be pleas-
ing to the taste and I used it and was surprised to see that I
was resting and getting better.
My husband bought several packages and insisted on me using
it altogether. Gradually, but not the less surely, I fully recov-
ered. I never used coffee afterward and when I was left a widow
a year later I was able to open a dressmaking shop and support
myself and little girls.” Name given by Postum Co., Battle
Creek, Mich.
2 Ts. \ . - —-ºr- — = m N
ERHAPS you would like to see the [[
1902 Roycroft Catalogue. It contains
a reprint of that January Cosmopol-
itan article, telling about the Shop and ||
| Things; also some pictures of the workers,
buildings, bindings, etc., that will interest,
the Elect. Apostal card will fetch it. Address
!"*>
THE ROYCROFTERS, EAST AURORA, N. Y. I
W- ==x-x =/
|
i HE imperfection in the article made by hand
is its chief, charm. The useful product thus
thought out and materialized by labor may
be very simple, quite inexpensive, thoroughly
unobtrusive, yet at the same time decidedly artistic.
We have Rag Carpet Rugs for Summer Cottages. Cut,
dyed and woven by Roycroft girls seventy years young. |
They will make you think you are back on the old farm.
The price for a three-yard rug is Three Dollars. Address
T H E R O Y C R O FTE R'S -
East A u r or a , * New York ||
' ' " i , #


ºSººs ºsº º
2.2׺- -
*
- ::sº sº sº Sºx - sº sº sº.I. grº- º - - º
- Lºcº- ... ." .* ºś:
- t
* †.
; : Published Monthly. Written by Elbert Hubbard. º
§ Circulation per month 60,000. Full page advertisement $100 %
F
i
Y.
One-half or one-quarter page at the same rate.
schools, colleges and clubs, and are now more than ever recog-
nized as most readable and instructive essays. Nine-tenths of
>\º them are bound (covers, advertisements and all) and remain per-
§ manently in the libraries of the owners.
iſ . People who desire to read and know of the world's famous people, and
gº to have their lives pictured in such a manner as to give them such an
§ acquaintance as they can remember are quick to discard the numerous
iſ "bulky and uninteresting histories and biographies and read LITTLE
y: JOURNEYS. t
§ They are keyed a bit different from THE PHILISTINE, but are none the
S. less enjoyable to the hosts of Philistia and their friends.
ºf Little or no advertising has heretofore been accepted for LITTLE JOUR- i.
§ NEYS and but little is wanted, and that only of the highest and best ſº
§ class. The circulation at present is 60,000 copies monthly, and contracts &
ºf can be made now at the rate of $100 per page—which is at the rate of º
one dollar and sixty-six cents per page per thousand—about one-sixth ſº
§ of the cost of printing and addressing ordinary postal cards.
ºf . If you have anything to sell to reading, thinking people, a better or
more permanent method of placing yourself before them than an adver-
ºf tisement in LITTLE JOURNEYs cannot be found. tº-

Little Journeys
By ELBERT HUBBARD
~ge
Vols. VI, VII, VIII, IX and X—New Series
QEUition ºc HLu£2
VOL. SIX—Morris, Browning, Tennyson, Burns, Mil-
ton, Johnson.
VOL. SEVEN-Macaulay, Byron, Addison, Southey,
Coleridge, Disraeli.
VOL. EIGHT – Wagner, Paganini, Chopin, Mozart,
Bach, Mendelssohn.
VOL. NINE–Liszt, Beethoven, Handel, Verdi, Schu-
mann, Brahms.
VOL. TEN-Raphael, Leonardo, Botticelli, Thorwald-
Sen, Gainsborough, Velasquez.
Frontispiece Portraits of each subject, text
on Roycroft water-mark, hand-made paper,
initials and title-page hand-illumined, bound
in limp chamois—silk lined, gilt top. Price
of volumes is Three Dollars each.
A few specially bound in boards, leather
back and corners, at Five Dollars each.
The Roycrofters, East Aurora, N. Y.

tº Journeys
To the Homes of
5|EMinent;
A R T IS T S >
Wilſº e II in i
Written by Elbert
A |Hubbard and done
into a Book by the
Roycrofters at their
Shop, which is in “e
East Aurora, New wº
' [York.A.D. 1902*]}º Sl)
§:
N º NZQ.
\@Sº 2.)§§ º
§§



rººt
B E L L I N I
And if in our day Raphael must give way to Botticelli, with
how much greater reason should Titian in the heights of his
art, with all his earthly splendor and voluptuous glow, give
place to the lovely imagination of dear old Gian Bellini, the
father of Venetian Art? MRS. OLIPHANT,
In “The Makers of Venice.”
B E L L I N I 57
T is a great thing to teach. I am never
more complimented than when some-
one addresses me as “teacher.” To give
yourself in a way that will inspire others
to think, to do, to become—what nobler
ambition! To be a good teacher demands
a high degree of altruism, for one must
be willing to sink self, to die—as it were
—that others may live. There is some-
thing in it very much akin to motherhood
—a brooding quality. Every true mother
realizes at times that her children are
only loaned to her—sent from God—
and the attributes of her body and mind
are being used by some Power for a
Purpose. The thought tends to refine
the heart of its dross, obliterate pride
and make her feel the sacredness of
her office. All good men everywhere
recognize the holiness of motherhood—
this miracle by which the race survives.
([There is a touch of pathos in the
thought that while lovers live to make
themselves necessary to each other, the
mother is working to make herself un-
necessary to her children. The true
mother is training her children to do
without her. And the entire object of
teaching is to enable the scholar to do

58 B E L L I N I
without his teacher. Graduation should take place at
the vanishing point of the teacher.
Yes, the efficient teacher has in him much of this
mother-quality. Thoreau, you remember, said that
genius is essentially feminine; if he had teachers in
mind his remark was certainly true. The men of much
motive power are not the best teachers—the arbitrary
and imperative type that would bend all minds to
match its own may build bridges, tunnel mountains,
discover continents and capture cities, but it cannot
teach. In the presence of such a towering personality
freedom dies, spontaneity droops, and thought slinks
away into a corner. The brooding quality, the patience
that endures, and the yearning of motherhood, are all
absent. The man is a commander, not a teacher; and
there yet remains a grave doubt whether the warrior
and ruler have not used their influence more to make
this world a place of the skull, than the abode of hap-
piness and prosperity. The orders to kill all the first-
born, and those over ten years of age, were not given
by teachers.
The teacher is one who makes two ideas grow where
there was only one before.
Just here, before we pass on to other themes, seems
a good place to say that we live in a very stupid old
world, round like an orange and slightly flattened at
the polls. The proof of this seemingly pessimistic
remark, made by a hopeful and cheerful man, lies in
the fact that we place small premium in either honor
B E L L I N I 59
or money on the business of teaching. As in the olden
times, barbers and scullions ranked with musicians,
and the Master of the Hounds wore a bigger medal
than the Poet-Laureate, so do we pay our teachers
the same as coachmen and coal-heavers, giving them
a plentiful lack of everything but overwork.
I will never be quite willing to admit that this country
is enlightened until we cease the inane and parsimo-
nious policy of trying to drive all the really strong
men and women out of the teaching profession by
putting them on the pay-roll at one-half the rate, or
less, than what the same brains and energy can com-
mand elsewhere. In this year of our Lord, Igo2, in a
time of peace, we have appropriated four hundred
million dollars for war and war appliances, and this
sum is just double the cost of the entire public school
system in America. It is not the necessity of economy
that dictates our actions in this matter of education—
we simply are not enlightened.
But this thing cannot always last—I look for the time
when we shall set apart the best and noblest men and
women of earth for teachers, and their compensation
will be so adequate that they will be free to give
themselves for the benefit of the race, without appre-
hension of a yawning almshouse. A liberal policy will
be for our own good, just as a matter of cold expedi-
ency; it will be Enlightened Self-Interest.
6o B E L L I N I
ITH the rise of the Bellinis, Vene-
tian art ceased to be provincial,
blossoming out into national. Ja-
copo Bellini was a teacher—mild,
gentle, sympathetic, animated. His
work reveals personality, but is
somewhat stiff and statuesque :
sharp in outline like an antique
- stained glass window. This is be-
cause his art was descended from the glass workers;
and he himself continued to make designs for the glass
workers of Murano all his life. Considering the time
in which he lived he was a great painter, for he im-
proved upon what had gone before & prepared the way
for those greater than he who were yet to come. He
called himself an experimenter, and around him there
clustered a goodly group of young men who were
treated by him more as comrades than as students.
They were all boys together—learners, with the added
dignity which an older head of the right sort can lend.
GI “Old Jacopo” they used to call him, and there was
a touch of affection in the term to which several of
them have testified. All of the pupils loved the old
man, who was n’t so very old in years, and certainly
was not in heart. Among his pupils were his two sons,
Gentile and Gian, and they called him Old Jacopo,
too. I rather like this—it proves for one thing that the
boys were not afraid of their father. They surely did
not run and hide when they heard him coming, neither

B E L L I N I 6I
did they find it necessary to tell lies in order to defend
themselves. A severe parent is sure to have untruth-
ful children, and perhaps the best recipe for having
noble children is to be a noble parent.
It is well to be a companion to your children, and just
where the idea came in which developed into the Eng-
lish boarding-school delusion, that children should be
sent away among hirelings—separated from their par-
ents—in order to be educated, I do not know. It surely
was not complimentary to the parents. Old Jacopo
did n’t try very hard to discipline his boys—he loved
them, which is better if you are forced to make choice.
They worked together and grew together. Before Gian
and Gentile were eighteen they could paint as well as
their father. When they were twenty they excelled
him, and no one was more elated over it than Old
Jacopo. They were doing things he could never do:
overcoming obstacles he could not overcome — he
clapped his hands in gladness, did this old teacher,
and shed tears of joy—his pupils were surpassing him
Gian and Gentile would not admit this, but still they
kept right on, each vieing with the other. Vasari says
that Gian was the better artist, but Aldus refers to
Gentile as “the undisputed master of painting in all
Venetia.” Ruskin compromises by explaining that Gen-
tile had the broader and deeper nature, but that Gian
was more feminine, more poetic, nearer lyric, possess-
ing a delicacy and insight that his brother never ac-
quired. These qualities better fitted him for a teacher,
62 B E L L I N I
and when Old Jacopo passed away, Gian drifted into
his place, for every man is gravitating straight to where
he belongs.
The little workshop of one room now was enlarged:
the bottega became an atelier. There were groups of
workrooms and studios, and a small gallery that be-
came the meeting place for various literary and artistic
visitors at Venice. Ludovico Ariosto, greatest of Ital-
ian poets, came here and wrote a sonnet to “Gian
Bellini, sublime artist, performer of great things, but
best of all the loving Teacher of Men.”
Gian Bellini had two pupils whose name and fame are
deathless: Giorgione and Titian. There is a fine flavor
of romance surrounds Giorgione, the gentle, the re-
fined, the beloved. His was a spirit like unto that of
Chopin or Shelley, and his death dirge should have
loeen written by the one and set to music by the other
—brothers doloroso, sent into this rough world unpre-
pared for its buffets, passing away in manhood’s morn-
ing. Yet all heard the song of the skylark. Giorgione
died broken-hearted, through his lady love’s incon-
stancy. He was exactly the same age as Titian, and
while he lived surpassed that giant far, as the giant
himself admitted. He died aged thirty-three, the age
at which a full dozen of the greatest men of the world
have died, and the age at which several other very
great men have been born again—which possibly is
the same thing. Titian lived to be a hundred, lacking
six months, and when past seventy used to give alms
B E L L I N I 63
to a beggar-woman at a church door—the woman who
had broken the heart of Giorgione. He also painted
her portrait—this in sad and subdued remembrance of
the days agone.
The Venetian School of Art has been divided by Rus-
kin into three parts: the first begins with Jacopo Bel-
lini, and this part might be referred to as the budding
period. The second is the flowering period, and the
palm is carried by Gian Bellini. The period of ripe fruit
—o'er-ripe fruit, touched by the tint of death—is repre-
sented by four men: Giorgione, Titian, Tintoretto and
Paul Veronese. Beyond these four, Venetian Art has
never gone, and although four hundred years have
elapsed since they laughed and sang, enjoyed and
worked, all we can do is to wonder and admire. We
can imitate, but we cannot improve.
Gian Bellini lived to be ninety-two, working to the
last, always a learner, always a teacher. His best
work was done after his eightieth year. The cast-off
shell of this great spirit was placed in the tomb with
that of his brother Gentile, who had passed out
but a few years before. Death did not divide them.

64 B E L L I N I
I OVA N N I B E L LIN I was his
name. Yet when people who loved
beautiful pictures spoke of “Gian,”
every one knew who was meant,
but to those who worked at art he
was “The Master.” He was two
inches under six feet in height,
strong and muscular. In spite of
his seventy summers his carriage
was erect and there was a jaunty suppleness about
his gait that made him seem much younger. In fact
no one would have believed that he had lived over
his three score and ten were it not for the iron gray
hair that fluffed out all around under the close fitting
black cap, and the bronzed complexion—sun-kissed
by wind and weather—which formed a trinity of oppo-
sites that made people turn and stare.
Queer stories used to be told about him. He was a
skillfuſ gondolier, and it was the daily row back and
forth from the Lido that gave him that face of bronze.
Folks said he ate no meat and drank no wine, and that
his food was simply ripe figs in the season, with
coarse rye bread and nuts. Then there was that funny
old hunchback, a hundred years old at least, and stone
deaf, who took care of the gondola, spending the whole
day, waiting for his master, washing the trim, grace-
ful blue-black boat, arranging the awning with the
white cords and tassels, and polishing the little brass
lions at the sides. People tried to question the old

B E L L I N I 65
hunchback, but he gave no secrets away. The master
always stood up behind and rowed, while down on
the cushions, rode the hunchback, the guest of honor.
CI There stood the master erect, plying the oar, his
long black robe tucked up under the dark blue sash
that exactly matched the color of the gondola. The
man’s motto might have been, “Ich Dien,” or that
passage of scripture, “He that is greatest among you
shall be your servant.” Suspended around his neck
by a slender chain was a bronze medal, presented by
vote of the Signoria when the great picture of “The
Transfiguration” was unveiled. If this medal had been
a crucifix, and you had met the wearer in San Marco,
one glance at the finely chiseled features, the black
cap and the flowing robe and you would have said at
once the man was a priest, Vicar General of some
important diocese. But seeing him standing erect on
the stern of a gondola, the wind caressing the dark
gray hair, you would have been perplexed until your
gondolier explained in serious undertone that you had
just passed “The greatest Painter in all Venice, Gian,
the Master.”
Then if you showed curiosity and wanted to know
further, your gondolier would have told you more
about this strange man.
The canals of Venice are the highways, and the gon-
doliers are like 'bus drivers in Piccadilly—they know
everybody and are in close touch with all the Secrets
of State. When you get to the Gindecca and tie up for
66 B E L L IN I
lunch, over a bottle of chianti, your gondolier will tell
you this:
The hunchback there in the gondola, rowed by the
Master, is the devil who has taken that form just to
be with and guard the greatest artist the world has
ever seen. Yes, Signor, that clean-faced man with his
frank, wide open, brown eyes is in league with the
Evil One. He is the man who took young Tiziano from
Cadore into his shop, right out of a glass factory, and
made him a great artist, getting him commissions and
introducing him everywhere ! And how about the di-
vine Giorgione who called him father ? Oho!
And who is Giorgione P The son of some unknown
peasant woman. And if Bellini wanted to adopt him,
treat him as his son indeed, kissing him on the cheek
when he came back just from a day's visit to Mestre,
whose business was it ! Oho!
Beside that, his name is n’t Giorgione—it is Giorgio
Barbarelli. And did n’t this Giorgio Barbarelli, and
Tiziano from Cadore, and Espero Carbonne, and that
Gustavo from Nuremberg, and the others paint most
of Gian's pictures P Surely they did. The old man sim-
ply washes in the backgrounds and the boys do the
work. About all old Gian does is to sign the picture,
sell it and pocket the proceeds. Carpaccio helps him,
too, Carpaccio, who painted the loveliest little angel
sitting cross-legged playing the biggest mandolin you
ever saw in your life.
That is genius, you know, the ability to get some one
B E L L I N I 67
else to do the work, and then capture the ducats and
the honors for yourself. Of course Gian knows how to
lure the boys on—something has to be done in order
to hold them. Gian buys a picture from them now and
then ; his studio is full of their work—better than he
can do. Oh, he knows a good thing when he sees it.
These pictures will be valuable some day, and he gets
them at his own price. It was Antonello of Messina
who introduced oil painting in Venice. Before that
they mixed their paints with water, milk or wine. But
when Antonello came along with his dark, lustrous
pictures, he set all artistic Venice astir. Gian Bellini
discovered the secret, they say, by feigning to be a
gentleman and going to the newcomer and sitting for
his picture. He it was who discovered that Antonello
mixed his colors with oil. Oho!
Gl. Of course not all of the pictures in his studio are
painted by the boys—some are painted by that old
Dutchman what-'s-his-name — oh, yes, Durer, Al-
berto Durer of Nuremberg. Two Nuremberg painters
were in that very gondola last week just where you
sit—they are here in Venice now, taking lessons
from Gian, they said. Gian was up there to Nurem-
berg and lived a month with Durer—they worked to-
gether, drank beer together, I suppose, and caroused.
Gian is very strict about what he does in Venice, but
you can never tell what a man will do when he is
away from home. The Germans are a roystering lot—
but they do say they can paint. Me? I have never been
68 B E L L IN I
there—and do not want to go, either—there are no
canals there. To be sure, they print books in Nurem-
berg. It was up there somewhere that they invented
type, a lazy scheme to do away with writing. They
are a thrifty lot—those Germans—they give me my
fare and a penny more, just a single penny, and no
matter how much I have talked and pointed out the
wonderful sights, and imparted useful information,
known to me alone—only one penny extra–think of it.
CLYes, printing was first done at Mayence by a Ger-
man, Gutenberg, about sixty years ago. One of Gu-
tenberg’s workmen went up to Nuremberg and taught
others how to design and cast type. This man Alberto
Durer helped them, designing the initials and making
their title page by cutting the design on a wood block,
then covering this block with ink, laying a sheet of
paper upon it, placing it in a press, and then when the
paper is lifted off it looks exactly like the original
drawing. In fact most people could n’t tell the differ-
ence, and here you can print thousands of them from
the one block
Gian Bellini makes drawings for title pages and initials
for Aldus and Nicholas Jenson. Venice is the greatest
printing place in the world, and yet the business be-
gan here only thirty years ago. The first book printed
here was in 1469, by John of Speyer. There are nearly
two hundred licensed printing presses here, and it
takes usually four men to a press—two to set the type
and get things ready, and two to run the press. This
B E L L I N I 69
does not count, of course, the men who write the
books, and those who make the type and cut the blocks
from which they print the pictures for illustrations.
At first, you know the books they printed in Venice
had no title pages, initials or illustrations. My father
was a printer and he remembers when the first large
initials were printed—before that the spaces were left
blank and the books were sent out to the monasteries
to be completed by hand.
Gian and Gentile had a good deal to do about cutting
the first blocks for initials—they got the idea, I think,
from Nuremberg. And now there are Dutchmen down
here from Amsterdam learning how to print books,
and paint pictures. Several of them are in Gian's stu-
dio, I hear—every once in a while I get them for a
trip to the Lido or to Murano.
Gentile Bellini is his brother and looks very much
like him. The Grand Turk at Constantinople came
here once and saw Gian Bellini at work in the Great
Hall. He had never seen a good picture before and was
amazed. He wanted the Senate to sell Gian to him,
thinking he was a slave. They humored the Pagan by
hiring Gentile Bellini to go instead, loaning him out
for two years, so to speak.
Gentile went, and the Sultan, who never allowed any
one to stand before him, all having to grovel in the
dirt, treated Gentile as an equal. Gentile even taught
the old rogue to draw a little, and they say the painter
had a key to every room in the palace, and was treated
7o B E L L IN I
like a prince. QI. Well, they got along all right, until
one day Gentile drew the picture of the head of John
the Baptist on a charger.
“A man’s head does n’t look like that when it is cut
off,” said the Turk contemptuously. Gentile had for-
gotten that the Turk was on familiar ground.
“Perhaps the Light of the Sun knows more about
painting than I do l’” said Gentile, as he kept right on
at his work.
“I may not know much about painting, but I 'm no
fool in some other things I might name,” was the
reply sy’sº
The Sultan clapped his hands three times: two slaves
appeared from opposite doors. One was a little ahead
of the other, and as this one approached, the Sultan
with a single swing of the snickersnee snipped off his
head. This teaches us that obedience to our superiors
is its own reward. But the lesson was wholly lost on
Gentile Bellini, for he did not even remain to examine
the severed head for art’s sake. The thought that it
might be his turn next was supreme, and he leaped
through a window, taking the sash with him. Making
his way to the docks he found a sailing vessel loading
with fruit, bound for Venice. A small purse of gold
made the matter easy—the captain of the boat secreted
him, and in four days he was safely back in St. Mark’s
giving thanks to God for his deliverance.
No, I did n’t say Gian was a rogue—I only told you
what others say. I am only a poor gondolier, why
B E L L I N I 71
should I trouble myself about what great folks do? I
simply tell you what I hear—it may be so, and it may
not; God knows | There is that Pascale Salvini—he
has a rival studio, and when that Genoese, Christoforo
Colombo, was here and made his stopping place at
Bellini's studio, Pascale told every one that Colombo
was a lunatic, and Bellini another, for encouraging
him to show his foolish maps and charts. Now, they
do say that Colombo has discovered a new world, and
Italians are feeling troubled in conscience because
they did not fit him out with ships instead of forcing
him to go to Spain.
No, I did n’t say Bellini was a hypocrite,_Pascale's
pupils say so, and once they followed him over to Mu-
rano—three barca loads and my gondola beside.
You see it was like this: Twice a week just after sun-
down, we used to see Gian Bellini untie his boat from
the landing there behind the Doge's palace, turn the
prow, and beat out for Murano, with no companion
but that deaf old care-taker. Twice a week, Tuesdays
and Fridays, always at just the same hour, regard-
less of weather, we would see the old hunchback light
the lamps, and in a few moments the Master would
appear, tuck up his black robe, step in the boat, take
the oar and away they would go. It was always to
Murano, and always to the same landing—one of our
gondoliers had followed several times, just out of
curiosity ºf
Finally it came to the ears of Pascale that Gian took
72 B E L L I N I
this regular trip to Murano. “It is a rendezvous,” said
Pascale. “Worse than that, an orgy among those
lace-makers and the rogues of the glass-works. Oh,
to think that Gian should stoop to such things at his
age—his pretended asceticism is but a mask—and at
his age l’’ sºfsº
The Pascale students took it up, and once came in
collision with that Tiziano of Cadore, who they say
broke a boat-hook over the head of one of them who
had spoken ill of the Master.
But this did not silence the talk, and one dark night,
when the air was full of flying mist, one of Pascale’s
students came to me and told me that he wanted me
to take a party over to Murano. The weather was so
bad that I refused to go—the wind blew in gusts,
sheet lightning filled the eastern sky, and all honest
men, but poor belated gondoliers, had hied them
home sy'sſ
I refused to go.
Had I not seen Gian the painter go not half an hour
before ? Well, if he could go, others could too.
I refused to go—except for double fare.
He accepted and placed the double fare in silver in
my palm. Then he gave a whistle and from behind
the corners came trooping enough swashbuckler stu-
dents to swamp my gondola. I let in just enough to
fill the seats and pushed off, leaving several standing
on the stone steps cursing me and everything and
everybody.
B E L L I N I 73
As my good boat slid away into the fog and headed
on our course, I glanced back and saw the three barca
loads following in my wake.
There was much muffled talk, and orders from some
one in charge to keep silence. But there was passing
of strong drink, and then talk, and from it I gathered
that these were all students from Pascale’s, out on
one of those student carousals, intent on heaven
knows what It was none of my business.
We shipped considerable water, and several of the
students were down on their knees praying and bailing,
bailing and praying.
At last we reached the Murano landing. All got out,
the barcas tied up, and I tied up, too, determined to
see what was doing. The strong drink was passed, and
a low heavy-set fellow who seemed to be captain
charged all not to speak, but to follow him and do as
he did sy’sºr
We took a side street where there was little travel
and followed through the dark and dripping way, fully
a half mile, down there in that end of the island called
the sailors’ broglio, where they say no man’s life is
safe if he has a silver coin or two. There was much
music in the wine shops and shouts of mirth and
dancing feet on stone floors, but the rain had driven
every one from the streets.
We came to a long low stone building that used to be
a theatre, but was now a dance hall upstairs and a
warehouse below. There were lights upstairs and
74 B E L L I N I
sounds of music. The stairway was dark, but we felt
our way up and on tiptoe advanced to the big double
door, from under which the light streamed.
We had received our orders, and when we got to the
landing we stood there just an instant. “Now we have
him—Gian the hypocrite l’’ whispered the stout man
in a hoarse breath. We burst in the doors with a
whoop and a bang. The change from the dark to the
light sort of blinded us at first. We all supposed that
there was a dance in progress of course, and the
screams from women were just what we expected,
but when we saw several overturned easels and an
old man, half nude, and too scared to move, seated on
a model throne, we did not advance into the hall as we
intended. That one yell we gave was all the noise we
made. We stood there in a bunch, just inside the door,
sort of dazed and uncertain. We did not know whether
to retreat, or charge on through the hall as we had
intended. We just stood there like a lot of driveling
fools sººstſ
“Keep right at your work, my good people. Keep right
at your work l’’ called a pleasant voice. “I see we
have some visitors.”
And Gian Bellini came forward. His robe was still
tucked up under the blue sash, but he had laid aside
his black cap, and his tumbled gray hair looked like
the aureole of a saint. “Keep right at your work,” he
said again, and then came forward and bade us wel-
come and begged us to have seats.
B E L L I N I 75
I dared not run away, so I sat down on one of the long
seats that were ranged around the wall. My compan-
ions did the same. There must have been fifty easels,
all ranged in a semi-circle around the old man who
posed as a model. Several of the easels had been up-
set, and there was much confusion when we entered.
QI “Just help us to arrange things—that is right, thank
you,” said Gian to the stout man who was captain of
our party. To my astonishment the stout man was
doing just as he was bid, and was pacifying the women
students and straightening up their easels and stools.
QI. I was interested in watching Gian walking around,
helping this one with a stroke of his crayon, saying a
word to that, smiling and nodding to another. I just
sat there and stared. These students were not regular
art students, I could see that plainly. Some were chil-
dren, ragged and bare-legged, others were old men
who worked in the glass factories, and surely with
hands too old and stiff to ever paint well. Still others
were young girls and women of the town. I rubbed
my eyes and tried to make it out!
The music we heard I could still hear—it came from
the wine shop across the way. I looked around and
what do you believe P My companions had all gone.
They had sneaked out one by one and left me alone.
QI. I watched my chance and when the Master's back
was turned I tiptoed out, too.
When I got down on the street I found I had left my
cap, but I dare not go back after it. I made my way
76 B E L L I N I
down to the landing, half running, and when I got
there not a boat was to be seen—the three barcas and
my gondola were gone.
I thought I could see them, out through the mist, a
quarter of a mile away. I called aloud, but no answer
came back but the hissing wind. I was in despair—
they were stealing my boat, and if they did not steal
it, it would surely be wrecked—my all, my precious
boatl sy’sº
I cried and wrung my hands. I prayed And the howl-
ing winds only ran shrieking and laughing around the
corners of the building.
I saw a glimmering light down the beach at a little
landing. I ran to it, hoping some gondolier might be
found who would row me over to the city. There was
one boat at the landing and in it a hunchback, sound
asleep, covered by a canvas. It was Gian Bellini’s
boat. I shook the hunchback into wakefulness and
begged him to row me across to the city. I yelled into
his deaf ears, but he pretended not to understand me.
Then I showed him the silver coin—the double fare,
and tried to place it in his hand. But no, he only shook
his head sº sº."
I ran up the beach, still looking for a boat.
An hour had passed.
I got back to the landing just as Gian came down to
his boat. I approached him and explained that I was
a poor worker in the glass factory, who had to work
all day and half the night, and as I lived over in the
B E L L I N I 77
city and my wife was dying, I must get home. Would
he allow me to ride with His Highness P “Certainly—
with pleasure, with pleasure l’’ he answered, and then
pulling something from under his sash he said, “Is
this your cap, signor P” I took my cap, but my tongue
was paralyzed for the moment so I could not thank
him sº sº
We stepped into the boat, and as my offer to row was
declined, I just threw myself down by the hunchback,
and the prow swung around and headed toward the
city sºfstſ
The wind had died down, the rain had ceased, and
from between the blue-black clouds the moon shone
out. Gian rowed with a strong, fine stroke, singing a
“Te Deum Laudamus’’ softly to himself the while.
QI. I lay there and wept, thinking of my boat, my all,
my precious boat
We reached the landing—and there was my boat,
safely tied up, not a cushion nor cord missing.
Gian Bellini P. He may be a rogue as Pascale says—God
knows How can I tell—I am only a poor Gondolier.

so HERE ENDETH THE LITTLE JOURNEY TO THE HOME
OF BELLINI, AS WRITTEN BY ELBERT HUBBARD :
THE TITLE PAGE AND INITIALS BEING DESIGNED
BY SAMUEL WARNER, THE WHOLE DONE INTO A
PRINTED BOOK BY THE ROYCROFTERS AT THEIR
SHOP, WHICH IS IN EAST AURORA, ERIE COUNTY, NEW
YORK, IN SEPTEMBER, OF THE YEAR MCMII sºrºr sºr sºr
D IN IN G C H AIR
Solid oak, leather seat. The price is $10.
-
_


W E B I N D B O O KS
beautifully and well—at least some folks
think we do. But we do not do job bind-
ing: however, we will bind up your back
numbers of
THE PHILISTINE
and
LITTLE JOURNEYs
for you, the prices being made as follows:
Six numbers of the Little Journeys in a volume,
covers and advertising pages all bound together
in solid boards and leather backs, $1.00
Six numbers of the Philistine in a volume, ad-
vertising pages and covers all bound in solid-
boards, leather backs, $ .75
THE ROYOROFTERS
EAST AURORA NEW YORK
º: ... : ::= −º gº. I - - . . . . . -º-º-e-... • *.*. ** , ,
‘. . . . ." |--- º -- ~ *.*.* . . . . ~~~~ * * : * ~...~ .
s: Eº *.ſ.l...º E– => . . . . . .
The New York Special
I S T H E F I N E N E W T R A I N O F T H E
WICHIGAN CENTRAL
“The Niagara Falls Route.”
between Chicago and Detroit and Buffalo, New York and Boston.
It leaves Chicago 5.20 P.M. daily and arrives Buffalo 7.50 A.M.,
New York State points during the day, Grand Central Station,
New York, at 6.30 P.M., daily, and Boston 11.30 P. M., except
Sunday, with Dining, Pullman Sleeping and Buffet Library Cars.
T All MICHIGAN CENTRAL trains arrive at and depart from the
Grand Central Station, New York, and New South Station, Boston.
O. W. R U G G L E S ,
General Passenger & Ticket Agent, Chicago.
-º- tºº Ǻ
º ſº º .. ; hº #ºſſ
ſº lº #º
T.I.T.T. tº Util...! II L I E- Jºlºi （lº ſº-º:
########". Hº
#|ſittiliſiifºlińſka-E, ºr
ºfº iſ ſºlº ºfti º ºf E ſº
X" ºr Bº' | ...lºſſ . º gº: ; * .
* *
Hº ºft
#
&
* - * > -ºº - -
, * -
i :
º
- *** * * * *s sº wº
*…* *-ºs-ºs- -
* * * : * ~ *º-ºººº...º.º.


“Whoever thinks a faultless piece to see,
Thinks what ne'er was, nor is, nor e'er shall be.”
If Pope had lived fifty years later
than he did, he would have changed
this generalization. His first cake of

Pears'
Soap would have convinced him of his
€1 TOT.
Pears' Soap is not an expensive soap,
and it is all soap, pure soap, nothing
but soap. For toilet, bath and shaving,
it is the best in the world, and has
been so for more than a century.
All sorts of stores sell it; all sorts of people use it.
jº
;&º
§§§º:
Öºoºººº.
&=Glºriºubbard
e










#aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaa;
A LIFE MEMBERSHIP ;
IN THE
ameritan Atabrmy;
of ſmn0ttalg ;
l,
#
3-5 °-- ;
Cogts (Len Dollarg—No further dues;
or assessments, and no liabilities. Your #
duties consist, in living up to your Idealiń.
(as nearly as possible) and attending;
the Annual Dinner (if convenient).
(1) The membership entitles you to one copy of the Philistine maga-
zine for ninety-nine years, but no longer. - “… . Tº.
(a) All the back bound volumes of “The Philistine" we have on hand.
(3) “Little Journeys,” beginning with current numbers, and all that §§:
shall be issued in future. . .4 ° *
(4) Such other books, pamphlets, addresses and documents as the *:
Roycrofters may elect to send you Every Little while, , :
(5) Success, Health and Love Vibrations, sent daily by the Pastor orº,
Ali Baba. pº *
ADDRess the Bursar, East Aurora, New York
* * - tº:
#
;
f
*
gº
kr
3 *
R º & sº * * * - * K. sº
ºf ...ºf a Fr., sº * N-ºx. w
º º: º
gº tº Yr 7 & ºr . * ºf º
‘. * : 2, ºr : * ºrs, ºxygwe º



*Little 3, ourne ºf
(to THE HOMEs of EMINENT ARTISTs)
TA BE Ey-
Vol. xi. November, 1902. No. 5 | º By ELBERT HUBBARD
*
−
º,
“. .
i * Tº *
Single Copies, 25 cents . By the Year, $3.00
















|LITTLE JOURNEYs
to T H E H 9 m e s or 'il
&minent 3rtists
S E R I, E S OF M C M H II
The subjects will be in the following order:
1 RAPHAEL, 7 coroT - . . .
2 LEONARDO 8 CORREGGIO ... " '
3 BOTTICELLI 9 GIAN BELLIN: .
4 THORWALDSEN Io CELLINI s
5 GAINSBOROUGH 11 ABBEY
6 vKºsquez ... - 12 whistºler
One booklet a month will be issued as usual, begin-
ning January fist.”- . . . . . .
The LITTLE JOURNEYs for igoa will 85-strictly.
de luxe in form and workmanship. The type will be a
new font of antique blackface; the initials designed
especially for this work; a frontispiece portrait from
the original drawing made at our Shop in each tº
Japan Vellum. The booklets will be stitched by hand:
with silk. A. * ...~~ * -.
The price—25 cents each, or $3.00
$s r. *—a
•es
for the year. ,
Address THE ROYCRöFTERS. at their
Shop, which is at East Aurora, New York.
Entered at the postoffice at East Aurora, New Yoº, for ºsmission
as second-class mail matter. Copyright, 1902, by Elbert Hubbard.
* * *





ALLURING COFFEE.
Nearly Killed the Nurse.
ºmsºmºsºm-
When one of the family is sick, Mother seems to
be the only person who can tenderly nurse the pa-
tient back to health. But we forget sometimes that it
is pretty hard on Mother.
Mrs. Propst of Albany, Ore., says:—“About twen-
ty-seven months ago, Father suffered with a stroke of
paralysis, confining him to his bed for months, and as
he wished Mother with him constantly, his care in
a great measure fell to her lot. She was seventy-
four years old, and through constant attendance upon
my father, lost both sleep and rest, and began drinking
coffee in quantities until finally she became very weak,
nervous and ill herself.
By her physician's order, she began giving Father
both Postum Food Coffee and Grape-Nuts, and in
that way began using both herself. The effect was very
noticeable. Father improved rapidly, and Mother re-
gained her strength and health, and now both are well
and strong. Mother says it is all due to the continued
use of both Postum and Grape-Nuts.”

—t-–
NO COMPETITION:—There
are two ways to get away from
competition. One is to make a
cheaper article and undersell
the other fellow; and the other
is to make a better article than
the other fellow does or can.
The public is not slow to rec-
ognize genuine merit, and has
always been willing to reward
the man who can serve it best.
H.J. Heinz Co. make fifty-seven
varieties of table delicacies. All
these articles are sightly, pala- |
table, nutritious and hygienic.
In their preparation science and
art have combined, and the re-
Sult is NO COMPETITION. .
A * * ~.
* >
* A \º. - O º
| Little Journeys
tº 1 By ELBERT HUBBARD
~gº • *
- Wolumes WI, WII, WIII, DX, X and XI–New Series
- QEUition 302 ilute
º
VOL. SIX—Morris, Browning, Tennyson, Burns, Mil-
*~ ton, Johnson.
VOL. SEVEN–Macaulay, Byron, Addison, Southey,
Coleridge, Disraeli.
VOL. EIGHT — Wagner, Paganini, Chopin, Mozart,
Bach, Mendelssohn.
VOL. NINE–Liszt, Beethoven, Handel, Verdi, Schu-
imann, Brahms.
VOL. TEN–Raphael, Leonardo, Botticelli, Thorwald-
'sen, Gainsborough, Velasquez.
VOL. ELEVEN–Corot, Correggio, Gian Bellini, Cel-
lini, Abbey, Whistler.
- Frontispiece Portraits of each subject, text
on Roycroft water-mark, hand-made paper,
initials and title-page hand-illumined, bound
in limp chamois—silk lined, gilt top. Price
of volumes is Three Dollars each.
A few specially bound in boards, leather
back and corners, at Five Dollars each.
The Roycrofters, East Aurora, N. Y.

*
LITTLE J
Published Monthly, written by Elbert Hubbard.
Circulation per month 60,000. Full page advertisement $100
One-half or one-quarter page at the same rate.
schools, colleges and clubs, and are now more than ever recog-
nized as most readable and instructive essays. Nine-tenths of Y
ºº:: them are bound (covers, advertisements and all) and remain per- y
§ manently in the libraries of the owners.
tº People who desire to read and know of the world's famous people, and
to have their lives pictured in such a manner as to give them such an
acquaintance as they can remember are quick to discard the numerous
tº bulky and uninteresting histories and biographies and read LITTLE *
§ JOURNEYS.
# They are keyed a bit different from THE PHILISTINE, but are none the
less enjoyable to the hosts of Philistia and their friends.
ºf Little or no advertising has heretofore been accepted for LITTLE JOUR- Ø
§ NEYs and but little is wanted, and that only of the highest and best ſº
§ class. The circulation at present is 60,000 copies monthly, and contracts º
ºf can be made now at the rate of $100 per page—which is at the rate of ſº
º one dollar and sixty-six cents per page per thousand—about one-sixth º
of the cost of printing and addressing ordinary postal cards. ...A ...
º: If you have anything to sell to reading, thinking people, a better or ſº
§ more permanent method of placing yourself, before them than an ādver-
i tisement in LITTLE JOURNEYs cannot be found. &
Think it over, and let us have your contract before the rates are ad- tº
vanced or the doors permanently closed.
ºn Nº. sº sº. Nº Se Nºe Nº.s Nºse. Sº Sº.S., eSS sº ſº dººr.
& Xº-º-º-º-º-º: &Sº sº;
Frederic W. Gardne
Sole owner of all advertising space in Hubbard’s “Roycroft." Publications,
809 Fine Arts Building, Chicago, Il

A b be V


A B B E Y
}
Edwin A. Abbey seems the perfect type of a man who by doing his
work well, with no vaulting ambitions, has placed himself right in
the line of Evolution. And there is no doubt but that the artist, now
in the fullness of his power, in perfect health, in love with life, sees
before him work of such vast worth that all that lies behind seems
but a preparation.
Io9
DVVIN A. ABBEY was born in Phila-
delphia (not of his own choosing) in the
year 1852. His parents were blessed in
that they had neither poverty nor riches.
: Their ambition for Edwin was that he
should enter one of the so-called Learned
Professions; but this was not to the boy’s
taste. I fear me he was a heretic through
prenatal influences, for they do say that
he was a child of his mother. This
mother’s mind was tinted with her
Quaker associations until she doubted
the five points of Calvinism and had
small faith in the Forty-Nine Articles.
She was able to think for herself and act
for herself; and as she perceived that
the preachers were making a guess, so
she discovered that doctors with bushy
eyebrows, who wore dog-skin gloves in
summer and who coughed when you
asked them a question—gaining time to
formulate a reply—did n’t know much
more about measles, mumps, chicken-
pox and whooping-cough than she did
herself. Philadelphia has always had a
plethora of Medical Journals and dog-
matic doctors. Living in Philadelphia
and having had a little experience with
doctors, Mrs. Abbey let them severely

I IO A B B E Y
alone and prescribed the pedaluvia, hop-tea, sulphur
and molasses and a roll-up in warm blankets for every-
thing—and with great success. Beyond this she filled
the day with work and kept everybody else at work.
The moral of Old Deacon Buffum, “Blessed is the man
who has found someone to do his work,” had no place
in her creed. To her, every one had his work that no
other could do, and every day had its work which
could not be done any other day, and success and
health and happiness lay in doing well whatever you
attempted.
Having eliminated two of the Learned Professions
from her ambitions for her boy, the Law was left as
the only choice.
To be a Philadelphia lawyer is a proud and vaulting
ambition. Philadelphia lawyers are exceedingly astute,
and are able to confuse the simplest propositions,
thus hopelessly befogging judge and jury. On the
banks of the Schuylkill all jurors are provided with
dice so as to decide the cases with perfect justice—
small dice for little cases and large dice for big ones.
Philadelphia lawyers carry green bags, full of briefs,
remarkable for everything but brevity; also statutes,
recognizances, tenures, double-vouchers, fines, recov-
eries, indentures, not to mention quiddities, quillets,
quirks and quips. Philadelphia lawyers have high
foreheads and many clients. Lawyers are educated
men, looked up to and respected by all—this was the
Abbey idea. Of course, it will be observed that it was
A B B E Y III
an idea that could only be held by people who had
viewed lawyers from a safe distance.
Fortunately for the Abbeys, they had really no more
use for the lawyers than they had for the two other
Learned Professions. Their idea of a lawyer was
gained from seeing one pass their house every morn-
ing at nine forty-five, for ten years. He wore a high
hat, carried a gold-headed cane in one hand and a
green bag in the other. He lived on Walnut street,
below Ninth, in a three story house with white mar-
ble steps and white shutters, tied with black strips
of bombazine in token of the death of a brother who
passed out in infancy.
Edwin should be a lawyer, and be an honor to the
family name.
But alas ! Edwin was small and had a low forehead
and squint eyes. He did n’t care for books—all he
would do was to draw pictures. Now all children
make pictures—before they can read, they draw.
And before they draw they get the family shears and
cut the pictures out of Harper’s Weekly. This boy
cut pictures out of Harper’s Weekly when he wore
dresses, and when George William Curtis first filled
the Easy Chair. Edwin cut out the pictures, not be-
cause they were especially bad, but because he, like
all children, was an artist in the germ; and the artist
instinct is to detach the thing, lift it out, set it apart,
and then give it away.
All children draw pictures, I said, and this is true,
II 2 A B B E Y
but most children can be cured of the habit by patience
and an occasional box on the ear, judiciously admin-
istered. All children are sculptors too, that is to say,
they want to make things out of mud or dough or
wax or putty; but no mother who sets her heart on
clean guimpes and pinafores can afford for a moment
to indulge in such inclinations. To give children dough,
putty and the shears would keep your house in a
pretty litter—1awksadaisy'
Mrs. Abbey hid the shears, put the “Harper’s ’’ on a
high shelf and took the boy’s pencils away, and threw
the putty out into Fourth Street, below Vine. Then
the boy had tantrums, and as a compromise got all
his playthings back.
Yes, this squat, beetle-browed, and bow-legged boy
had his way. Beetle-browed, bow-legged folks usually
do. Caesar and Cromwell had bow legs, so had Napo-
leon, and so has Pierpont Morgan and James J. Hill.
Charles the First was knock-kneed. Knock-knees are
a deformity; bow legs an accident. Bull dogs have
bow legs, hounds are knock-kneed. Bow legs mean
will plus—a determination to do—the child insists on
walking before the cartilage has turned to bone. Spirit
is stronger than matter—hence the Greek curve.
Little Edwin Abbey ran the Abbey household and
drew because he wanted to—on sidewalks, white
steps, kitchen wall, or the fly-leaves in books.
Rumor has it that Edwin Abbey did not get along well
at school—instead of getting his lessons he drew pic-
A B B E Y II3
tures, and thirty years ago such conduct was proof of
total depravity. Like the amateur blacksmith who
started to make a horseshoe and finally contented
Himself with a fizzle, the Abbeys gave up theology
and law, and decided that if Edwin became a good
printer it would be enough. And then how often print-
ers become writers—then editors and finally proprie-
tors' Edwin might yet own the “Ledger” and have a
collection of four hundred and seventy-two clocks.
Through a common friend Mr. Childs was interviewed
and Edwin was set to work in the typesetting depart-
ment of the “Ledger.” Evenings and an hour three
times a week he sketched in the free class at the
Academy of Art.
How long he remained in the newspaper work, I do
not know, but there came a day when Mr. Childs and
his minions, having no use for Edwin, gave him a
letter of recommendation to the Art Department of
Harper's Weekly.
That George W. Childs had a really firm friendship
for young Abbey, there is no doubt. He followed his
career with fatherly interest and was the first man, so
far as I know, who had the prophetic vision to see
that he would become a great artist. George W.
Childs was a many-sided man. He had a clear head
for business, was a judge of human nature, a patron
of the arts, a collector of rare and curious things, and
wrote with clearness, force and elegance. Men of such
strong personality have decided likings, and they also
II4 A B B E Y
have decided aversions. The pet aversion of Childs
was tobacco. All through the “Ledger” office were
startling signs, “No smoking!” It was never, “Please
do not smoke,” or “Smoking interferes with Insur-
ance!” Not these,_the order was imperative. And
the mutability of human affairs, as well as life’s
little ironies, is now shown in the fact that the name
and fame of George W. Childs is deathless through
a wonderful five cent cigar.
Whether the use of tobacco had anything to do with
young Abbey’s breaking with his “Ledger” friends,
is a question. Tradition has it that Childs extracted
from the youth a promise on his going away, that he
would never use the weed. The Union Square records
fail us at times, but it is believed that Abbey kept his
promise for fully three weeks.

II5
DVVIN ABBEY learned to swim
by jumping into deep water,” says
Henry James. A young man in the
Art Department of an absurdly
punctual periodical, before the Era
of the Half-Tone, just had to draw,
and that was all there was about it.
CI Things were happening up town,
down town, over in Boston, and
out as far as Buffalo–and the young men in the Art
Department were sent to make pictures. The experi-
ence of a reporter develops facility—you have to do
the assignment. To write well and rapidly on any
subject, the position of reporter on an old time daily
approached the ideal. Even the drone became ani-
mated, when the copy must be in inside of two hours.
The way to learn to write is to write. But young men
will not write of their own free will: the literary first-
mate in way of Managing Editor with a loaded club
of expletives is necessary. Or, stay! there is another
way to stimulate the ganglionic cells and become dex-
terous in the cosmic potentiality—the Daily Theme
sent to a woman who thinks and feels. That is the
way that Goethe acquired his style. There were love
letters that crossed each other daily, and after years
of this practice—the sparks a-flying—Goethe found
himself the greatest stylist of his day. Love taught him.
G.I.To write for a daily paper is a great drill, only you
must not keep at it too long or you will find yourself

II6 A B B E Y
bound to the wheel, a part of the roaring machinery.
CI Combine the daily paper with the daily love letter
and you have the ideal condition for forming a literary
style, and should you drop out one, why, cleave to
the second, would be the advice of a theorist.
To draw pictures is simply one way of telling a story.
Abbey told the story and there was soon evidence in
better work that he was telling it for Some One. Get
a complete file of Harper's Weekly, say from 1872 to
1890, and you can trace the Evolution of The Art of
Edwin Abbey. If any of the Abbey pictures have been
removed, the books are chiefly valuable as junk, but if
the set can be advertised, as I saw one yesterday,
“with all of Abbey’s drawings, warranted intact,” the
set of books commands a price. People are now wisely
collecting “Harper’s” simply because Abbey was
once a part of the Art Department. And the value of
the books will increase with the years, for they trace
the gradual but sure evolution of a great and lofty soul.

117
DVVIN A B B E Y was nineteen
years old when he accepted a po-
sition—more properly, secured a
job—in the Art Department of
Harper's. The records of the office
show his salary was seven dollars
a week—but it did not stay at
that figure always. The young
man did not get along well at
school, and he was not a success as a printer; but he
could focus his force at the end of a pencil, and he
did. Transplantation often turns a weed into a flower.
It seems a hard saying and a grievous one, but the
salvation of many a soul turns on getting away from
one’s own family. They are wise parents that do not
prove a handicap to their children. “The good old
fashioned idea” was that parents were wholly respon-
sible for their children’s coming into the world, and
they, therefore, owned them body and soul until they
reached their majority—and even then the restraint
was little removed. “Well, and what are you going
to make of William P” and “To whom are you going
to marry Fanny?” were once common questions. And
all the while the fact remains that the child is not
God’s gift to parents. Children are only God-given
tenants. Use them well if you would have them remain
with you as the joy of love and life and light. Give the
child love and then more love and then love and free-
dom to live his God-given life. Then all the precepts

II8 A B B E Y
you would give him for his own good, he will absorb
from you and you need not say a word. Trying to teach
a child by telling him is worthless and puts you in a
load light. A child has not lost his heavenly vision and
sees you as you are, not minding what you say.
At Harper’s Abbey came into competition with strong
men. In the office was a young fellow by the name of
Reinhart and another by the name of Alexander—
they used to call him Alexander the Great, and he has
nearly proved his title.
A little later came Howard Pyle, Joseph Pennel and
Alfred Parsons. Young Abbey did his work with much
good cheer, and sought to place himself with the best.
For a time he drew just like Alexander, then like
Reinhart, next Parsons was his mentor. Finally he
drifted out on a sea of his own, and this seems to
have been in the year of the Centennial Exhibition.
Harper’s sent the young man over to Philadelphia, or
perhaps he went of his own accord, anyway he haunted
the art rooms at the Exhibition, and got a lesson
there that spurred his genius as it had never been
spurred before.
He was then twenty-four years old. His salary had
been increased to ten dollars a week, fifteen, twenty-
five: if he wanted money for “expenses” he applied
to the cashier. There is more good honest velvet in
an Expense Account than in the Stock Exchange,
which true saying has nothing to do with Abbey.
At the “Centennial'' Abbey discovered the Arthurian
A B B E Y II9
Legend—fell over it, just as William Morris fell over
the Icelandic Sagas when past fifty. Abbey had been
called the “Stage-Coachman” at Harper’s, because
he had developed a faculty for picturing old taverns
at that exciting moment when horses were being
changed and the driver, in a bell-crowned white hat
and wonderful waistcoat, tosses his lines to a fellow
in tight hair-cut and still tighter breeches, and a
woman in big hoops gets out of the stage with many
bandboxes and a bird cage. The way Abbey breathed
into the scene the breath of life was wonderful—just
a touch of comedy, without caricature! “If it is in
1776, give it to Abbey,” said the Managing Editor,
with a growl—for Managing Editors, being beasts,
always growl.
Abbey and Parsons had walked to Philadelphia and
back, taking two weeks for the trip, sketching on the
way, stage-coaches, taverns, tall houses and old
wooden bridges all pinned together—just these and
nothing else, save Independence Hall. Later they
went to Boston and did Faneuil Hall, inside and out,
King’s Chapel and the State House and a house or
two out Quincy-way, including the Adams cottage
where lived two presidents and where now resides
one, William Queer, the only honorary male member
of the Daughters of the Revolution. Mr. Queer domi-
nates the artistic bailiwick and performs antique
antics for art’s sake: it was Mr. Queer who posed as
Tony Lumpkin for Mr. Abbey.
I2O A B B E Y
Abbey had done Washington Irving's Knickerbocker
tales and the various “Washington’s Headquarters.”
He worked exclusively in black and white—crayon,
pencil or pen and ink. His hand had taken on a style
— powdered wigs, spit-curls, hoops, flaring sunbon-
nets, cocked hats and the tally-ho! These were his
properties. He worked from model plus imagination.
He had exhausted the antique in America—he thirsted
to refresh his imagination in England. The Centen-
nial Exhibition had done its deadly work—Abbey and
Parsons were dissatisfied—they wanted to see more.
Back of the stage-coach times lay the days of the
castle. Back of the musket was the blunderbuss, and
back of these were the portcullis, the moat, the spear
and coats of mail.
A de luxe edition of “Herrick” was proposed by the
Publishing Department: some say the Art Depart-
ment made the suggestion. Anyway, there was a con-
sultation in the manager’s office and young Abbey
was to go to England to look up the scene and with
his pencil bring the past up to the present.
Abbey was going to England, that is just all there was
about it, and Harper & Brothers did not propose to
lose their hold upon him. Salary was waived, but ex-
penses were advanced and the understanding was
that Abbey was Harper’s man. This was in 1878, with
Abbey's twenty-sixth birthday yet to come. Abbey
had gone around and bidden everybody good-bye, in-
cluding his chum, Alfred Parsons. Parsons was going
A B B E Y I2 I
to the dock to see him off. “I wish you were going,
too,” said Edwin, huskily. “I believe I will,” said
Alfred, swallowing hard. And he did.
The Managing Editor growled furiously, but the Cunar-
der that bore the boys was then well toward the Banks.

I22 A B B E Y
T was an American that discov-
ered Stratford; and it is the Pe-
ter’s pence of American tourists
that now largely support the town.
At Stratford, Washington Irving
jostles the Master for the first
place, and when we drink at the
George W. Childs’s fountain we
piously pour a libation to all three.
(I Like all bookish and artistic Americans, when Ab-
bey and Parsons thought of England they thought of
Shakespeare’s England—the England that Washing-
ton Irving had made plain.
Washington Irving seemed very close to our young
men—London held them only a few days and then
they started for Stratford. They went afoot as became
men who carried crayons that scorned the steam-
horse. They took the road for Oxford and stopped at
the tavern where the gossips aver that the author of
“Love's Labor Lost’’ made love to the landlord’s
wife—a thing I never would believe, e'en though I
knew 'twere true. From Oxford the young men
made their way to storied Warwick, where the port-
culis is raised—or lowered, I do not remember which
—every evening at sun-down to tap of drum. It is the
same old Warwick Castle that Shakespeare knew;
the same cedars of Lebanon that he saw; the same
screaming peacocks; the same circling rooks and daws,
and down across the lazy Avon over the meadows

A B B E Y I23
the same skylark vibrates the happy air. GIYoung
Abbey saw these things, just as Washington Irving
saw them, and he saw them just as the boy William
Shakespeare saw them.
Nine miles from Warwick lies Stratford. But at Strat-
ford the tourist is loosed; the picnicker is abroad; the
voice of the pedant is heard in the land, and the
Baconian is upon us. Abbey and Parsons stopped at
the Red Horse Inn and slept in the room that Wash-
ington Irving occupied, and they do say now that
Irving occupied every room in the house. Stratford
was not to the liking of our friends. They wanted to
be in the Shakespeare country for six months, that
was what the Managing Editor said—six months,
mind you. But they did not want to study the tourist.
They wanted to be just a little off the beaten track of
travel, away from the screech of the locomotive,
where they could listen and hear the echoes of a
tally-ho horn, the crack of the driver’s whip and the
clatter of the coming stage-coach.
The village of Broadway is twelve miles from Strat-
ford, and five miles from the nearest railway station.
The worst thing about the place for a New Yorker is
the incongruity of the name.
In Broadway not a new house has been built for a
century, and several of the buildings date back four
hundred years. Abbey and Parsons found a house they
were told was built in 1563. The place was furnished
complete, done by those who had been dust a hundred
I24 A B B E Y
years. The rafters overhead were studded with hand-
made nails, where used to hang the flitches of bacon and
bunches of dried herbs; the cooking would have to be
performed in the fireplace, or the Dutch oven; funny
little cupboards were in the corners; and out behind
the cottage stretched a God’s half acre of the prettiest
flower garden ever seen, save the one at Bordentown
where lived Abbey’s lady-love.
The rent was ten pounds a year. They jumped at it—
and would have taken it just the same had it been
twice as much.
An old woman who lived across the street was hired
as housekeeper and straightway our artists threw
down their kits and said, like Lincoln, “We have
moved.”
The beauty and serene peace of middle England is
passing words. No wonder the young artists could
not paint for several weeks—they just drank it in.
GI Finally they settled down to work—seventeenth
century models were all around, and a look up the
single street would do for a picture. Parsons painted
what he saw; Abbey painted what he saw plus what
he imagined.
Six months went by, and the growls of the Managing
Editor back in New York, were quieted with a few
sketches. Parsons had tried water color with good re-
sults; and Abbey followed with an Arthurian sketch
—a local swain as model.
Several pictures had been sent down to London—
A B B E Y I25
which is up—and London approved. Abbey was elect-
ed a member of “The Aquarellists,” just as a little
later the Royal Academy was to open its doors,
unsolicited, for him.
Two years had gone, and new arrangements must be
made with the Harper’s. Abbey returned to America
with a trunk full of sketches—enough good stuff to
illustrate several “Herricks.” He remained in New
York eight months, long enough to see the book safely
launched, and to close up his business affairs in Phil-
adelphia.
And the Shakespeare country has been his home ever
since ºf sºr
An artist’s work is his life—where he can work best
is his home. Patriotism is n’t quite so bad as old Ursa
Major said, but the word is not to be found in the
bright lexicon of Art. The artist knows no country.
His home is the world, and those who love the beau-
tiful are his brethren.
Abbey has remained in England, not that he loves
America less, nor England more, but because the
Shakespeare country has a flavor of antiquity about it
that fits his artistic mood—it is a good place to work.
GLAn artist’s work is his life.
At “Morgan Hall,” Fairford, only a few miles from
where Abbey first made his home in England, he now
lives and works. Near by lives Mary Anderson, excel-
lent and gentle woman, wife and mother, who used to
storm the one night stands most successfully. The
I26 A B B E Y
place is old, vine-clad, built in sections running over
a space of three hundred years. So lost is it amid the
great spreading beeches that you have to look twice
before you see the house from the road.
Happily married to a most worthy woman whose only
thought is to minister to her household, the days
pass. That Mrs. Abbey never doubts her liege is not
only the greatest artist, but the greatest man, in all
England, is a most pleasing fact. She believes in him,
and she gives him peace. The Kansas Contingent may
question whether a woman’s career is complete who
thus lives within her home, and for her household,
but to me the old fashioned virtues seem very hard to
improve upon. Industry, truth, trust and abiding loy-
alty—what a bulwark of defense for a man who has a
message for the world!
There is a goodly brood of little Abbeys—I dare not
say how many. I believe it was nine a year ago, with
an addition since. They run wild and free along the
hedgerows and under the beeches, and if it rains there
are the stables, kennels and the finest attic that ever
was sº sº
Back of the house and attached to it Mr. Abbey has
built a studio forty feet wide by seventy-five long, and
twenty feet high. It is more than a studio—it is a
royal workshop such as Michael Angelo might have
used for equestrian statues, or cartoons to decorate a
palace for the Pope. Dozens of pictures, large and
small are upon the easels. Arms, armor, furniture, are
A B B E Y 127
all about, while on the shelves are vases and old china
enough to fill the heart of a collector to surfeit. In
chests and wardrobes are velvets, brocades and an-
tique stuffs and costumes, all labeled, numbered and
catalogued, so as to be had when wanted.
This studio was built especially to accommodate the
paintings for the Boston Public Library. The commis-
sion was given in 1890, and the last of the decorations
has just been put in place—covering in all something
over a thousand square feet of space, and forming quite
the noblest specimen of mural decoration in America.
(IOrders were given to John S. Sargent and Puvis de
Chavannes at the same time that contracts were closed
with Abbey. Chavannes was the first man to get his
staging up and the first to get it down. He died two
years ago, so it is hardly meet to draw a moral about
the excellence of doing things with neatness and dis-
patch. Sargent’s “Prophets” cover scarcely one-tenth
of the space assigned him, and the rest is bare white
walls, patiently awaiting his brush. Recently he was
asked when he would complete the task, and he replied
—“Never, unless I learn to paint better than I do
now—Abbey has discouraged me!”
I need not attempt to describe Abbey’s work in the
Boston Library—a full account of it can be found in
the first magazine you pick up. But it is a significant
fact that Abbey himself is not wholly pleased with it.
“Give me a little time,” he says, “and I'll do some-
thing worth while.” [[These words were spoken
I28 A B B E Y
half in jest, but there is no doubt but that the
artist, now in the fullness of his powers, in per-
fect health, in love with life, sees before him work
to do of such vast worth that all that lies behind
seems but a preparation for that which is yet to come.

I29
HE question is sometimes asked,
“What becomes of all the Vale-
dictorians and Class-Day Poets?”
I can give information as to two
parties for whom inquiry is made
—the Valedictorian of my Class
is now a worthy Floor-Walker in
Siegel, Cooper Company’s; and I
was the Class-Day Poet. Both of
us had our eyes on the Goal. We stood on the thresh-
old and looked out upon the World preparatory to
going forth, seizing it by the tail and Snapping its head
off for our own delectation.
We had our eyes fixed on the Goal—it might better
have been the gaol.
It was a very absurd thing for us to fix our eyes on
the Goal. It strained our vision and took our attention
from our work.
To think of the Goal is to travel the distance over and
over in your mind and dwell on how awfully far off it
is. We have so little mind—doing business on such a
small capital of intellect—that to wear it threadbare
looking for a far off thing is to get hopelessly stranded
in Siegel, Cooper Company’s.
Siegel, Cooper Company is all right, too, but the point
is this—it was n’t the Goal!
A goodly dash of indifference is a requisite in the for-
mula for doing a great work.
Nobody knows what the Goal is—we are sailing under

I3O A B B E Y
sealed orders. Do your work today, doing it the best
you can, and live one day at a time. The man that
does this is conserving his God-given energy, and not
spinning it out into tenuous spider threads that Fate
will probably brush away.
To do your work well today, is the sure preparation
for something better tomorrow—the past has gone,
the future we cannot reach, the present only is ours.
Each day’s work is a preparation for the next.
Live in the present—the Day is here, the time is Now.
(I. Edwin A. Abbey seems the perfect type of a man,
who by doing all of his work well, with no vaulting
ambitions, has placed himself right in the line of Evo-
lution. He is evolving into something better, strong-
er and nobler all the time. That is the only thing
worth praying for—to be in the line of Evolution.

so HERE ENDETH THE LITTLE Journey to THE Home
OF ABBEY, AS WRITTEN BY ELBERT HUBBARD, THE
TITLE PAGE, INITIALS AND ORNAMENTS BEING DE-
SIGNED BY SAMUEL WARNER, AND THE WHOLE DONE
INTo A BOOK BY THE ROYCROFTERS AT THEIR SHOP,
WHICH IS IN EAST AURORA, IN THE MONTH OF NOV-
EMBER, IN THE YEAR MCMII sºr sºr sºr sºr sºr sºr ºr sºr sºr
A N DI R O NS
This pair of Andirons, made Roycroftie by hand, $50. Others for less.
THE ROYCROFTERS, EAST AURORA, NEW YORK.

W E B I N D B O O K S
beautifully and well—at least some folks
think we do. But we do not do job bind-
ing: however, we will bind up your back
numbers of
THE PHILISTINE
and
LITTLE JOURNEYs
for you, the prices being made as follows:
\
Six numbers of the Little Journeys in a volume,
covers and advertising pages all bound together
in solid boards and leather backs, $1.00
Six numbers of the Philistine in a volume, ad-
vertising pages and covers all bound in solid
boards, leather backs, $ .75
THE ROYCROFTERS
EAST AURORA NEW YORK
sº # *- -----> ---_-_ _ _ ! ... . . .
º - ~- - º - * * * *
== . 7.... ... ſº as-E * : * > . . . . .
The New York Special
is t H E F 1 N E N E w T R A 1 N OF T H E
WICHICAN CENTRAL
“The Niagara Falls Route.”
between Chicago and Detroit and Buffalo, New York and Boston.
It leaves Chicago 5.20 P.M. daily and arrives Buffalo 7.50 A.M.,
New York State points during the day, Grand Central Station,
New York, at 6.30 P.M., daily, and Boston 11.30 P. M., except
Sunday, with Dining, Pullman Sleeping and Buffet Library Cars.
TI All MICHIGAN CENTRAL trains arrive at and depart from the
Grand Central Station, New York, and New South Station, Boston.
O. W. R U G G L E S ,
General Passenger & Ticket Agent, Chicago.
: E rºº
º &P --
ºlº Hº º
tº Mū < *- C
t i. ss
| º: F:. º º # º s #
#||||Biº
#
liftii
º AS:


A Romance of the Rail
OST everybody has seen the new car cards
M. the Lackawanna Railroad has been putting out this
season. They tell a story in a series of bright little jingles
that belies the old saying about the course of true love, for in this
romance love runs smooth “on the Road of Anthracite ’’ and the
wedding feast is served in the dining car before the lovers leave the
train. The entire set of cards has been put into the form of a booklet
entitled “A Romance of the Rail.” It will be sent free to any one
who will send 2 cents in stamps to cover postage to
T. W. LEE, General Passenger Agent,
26 Exchange Place, New York City.
QI No finer find can be
annexed than a Membership in the American
Academy of Immortals. The advantages are
increased activity of all the secretions, deeper
breathing capacity, perfect digestion and sleep
o’ nights: these things mean bigger bank bal-
ance and the return of wavering affection. The
cost is Ten Dollars, with no further dues for
ninety-nine years. Address
T H E P H I L IST IN E
E A S T A U R O R A N E V Y O R K
*Cº-
& (º sº
|. * @º *Sº.
ſº, “Nº) (s 2\º. Nºs 245 NS
% sº º Sº
|}}{\º §§§ O §§
{}ºš
§§ºš fº
#!º 㺠QºS

* #ſºft
A LIFE MEMBERSHIP ;
Ømeritan Qtabrmp;
*-* * - #
of ſmmortals
#
gº
wº
*
or assessments, and no liabilities. Your.
duties consist in living up to your Ideal.
(as nearly as possible), and attending
the Annual Dinner (if convenient).
(1) The membership entitles you to one copy of the Philistine maga-
zine for ninety-nine years, but no longer. ***
(2) All the back bound volumes of “The Philistine” we have on hand.
(3) “Little Journeys,” beginning with current numbers, and all that
shall be issued in future. - “,
(4) Such other books, pamphiets, addresses and documents as the
Roycrofters may elect to send you Every Little while. - * **,
(5) Success, Health and Love vibrations, sent daily by the Pastor or
Ali Baba. "
ADDRESS THE BURSAR, EAST. AURORA, NEw York
*
2.
#
QIOgtſ (Len Dollarg—No further dues ;
;
:
º
º
*-
4.
4+
º
&
www.www.www.www.www.wº


31 it tº t gº ourne på
to the Homes of Eminent artists
3. § —-i-
º z º sº re-si----r- º
º; #
.*
*x *
* # -ás,
* * 4%
3. aº. *
Af *
*-
*
g
<-- *– k X 4-
w * º
Vol. XI. DECEMBER, rgo2. No. 6 | By ELBERT HUBBARD
§§
*- *. Xa
* *
* * }.
*
AY g ---
*
* *. “Nº
-** ** ! ~
& r
jºr '. **
* *-
#1-
*
& H
&
*
*g. *a.
*...* * *
* jºr
* *...*
* 4. ** =
**
§
*.
Aº-
(...)
§
*
Fº
* + * *
*.*.
gº;
*# #-ºf
re
-*~.
a # 3. * * * Cº-
Single Copies, 25 cents. By the Year, $3.00
+
sº-
Ҽ

LITTLE JOURNEYs
T Q * h = # 9 s = s. O F
&minent artists
S E R I E S OF M C M I I.
The subjects will be in the following order:
r RAPHAEL, 7 coror . . . . . . .
2 LEONARDO 8 correggio .
3 BOTTICELLI. 9 GIAN BELLINI · *
4 THORWALDSEN 10 CELLINI ·
5 GAINSBOROUGH 11 ABBEY
6 VELASQUEZ 12 whistler. ... ". . .
.* - * * .*.*.s . . . .
one booklet a month will be issued as usual, begin-.
ning January 1st. * * * : " -
The LITTLE JOURNEYS for 1902 will be strictly.
de luxe in form and workmanship. The type will be a
new font of antique blackface; the initials designed .
especially for this work; a frontispiece portrait from
the original drawing made at our Shop in each on
Japan Vellum. The booklets will be stitched by hand .
with silk. .
The price—25 cents each, or $3.00 for the year.
Address the Roycrofters at their
Shop, which is at East Aurora, New York.
Entered at the postoffice at. East Aurora, New York, for transmission
as second-class mail matter, copyright, 190a, by Elbert Hubbard.


S A L E S M E N S T R I A L S.
Bad Food is One of Them.
Road traveling is rather hard on salesmen. Ir;
regular hours, indifferent hotels and badly cooked
food play smash with their digestion.
An old Philadelphia traveler tells how he got
the start of his troubles by using Grape-Nuts.
“For years I was troubled with a bad stomach,
which gave me constant headaches and pains all
through my body, caused by eating improper
food. I spent considerable money on doctors, who
said I had indigestion, and after taking medicine
for a year and it doing me no good, I decided to
go on a diet, but the different cereals I ate did
not help me. If it had n’t been for the advice of
a friend to try Grape-Nuts, I might be ailing yet.
I commenced to feel better in a short time
after using the food; my indigestion left me;
stomach regained its tone so that I could eat any-
thing, and headaches stopped. I have gained in
weight, and have a better complexion than I had
for years. At many hotels, the salesmen will have
nothing in the line of cereals but Grape-Nuts, as
they consider it not only delicious, but also ben-
eficial for their health in the life they lead.”
Name given by Postum Co., Battle Creek, Mich.

NO COMPETITION:—There
are two ways to get away from
competition. One is to make a
cheaper article and undersell
the other fellow; and the other
is to make a better article than
the other fellow does or can.
The public is not slow to rec-
ognize genuine merit, and has
always been willing to reward
the man who can serve it best.
H. J. Heinz Co. make fifty-seven
varieties of table delicacies. All
these articles are sightly, pala-
table, nutritious and hygienic.
In their preparation science and
art have combined, and the re-
Sult is NO COMPETITION.

LITTLE JOURNEYS
Published Monthly. Written by Elbert Hubbard-
CIRCULATION PER MONTH IS 60,000. FULL PAGE ADVERTISEMENT C0STS $100.00.
One-half or one-quarter page at the sarne rate.
HE LITTLE Journeys circulate as text books in thousands of
schools, colleges and clubs, and are now more than ever recog:
nized as most readable and instructive essays. Nine-tenths of
them are bound (covers, advertisements and all) and remain per-
manently in the libraries of the owners.
People who desire to read and know of the world's famous people, and
to have their lives pictured in such a manner as to give them such an
acquaintance as they can remember are quick to discard the numerous
bulky and uninteresting histories and biographies and read LITTLE
JOURNEYS.
They are keyed a bit different from THE PHILISTINE, but are none the
less enjoyable to the hosts of Philistia and their friends.
Little or no advertising has heretofore been accepted for LITTLE JOUR-
NEYs and but little is wanted, and that only of the highest and best
class. The circulation at present is 60,000 copies monthly, and contracts
can be made now at the rate of $100 per page—which is at the rate of
one dollar and sixty-six cents per page per thousand—about one-sixth
of the cost of printing and addressing ordinary postal cards.
If you have anything to sell to reading, thinking people, a better or
more permanent method of placing yourself before them than an adver-
tisement in LITTLE JOURNEYs cannot be found.
Think it over, and let us have your contract before the rates are ad-
vanced or the doors permanently closed.
Frederic W. Gardner
Sole owner of all advertising space in Hubbard’s “Roycroft” Publications,
809 Fine Arts Building, Chicago, Illinois
“The ROUND OAK

Steel Range is a perfect range in every
particular—distinguished in every de-
tail by the highest quality. Whatever is
best in material, design and workman-
ship has been incorporated in this range,
and we say, without reservation, that it
is the leader of its class—the best steel
range made in the United States.”
* Thus begins the text of the de luxe
booklet which tells all about the pre-
mier cooking member of the “ Round
Oak family,” and which illustrates in
beautiful half-tones the different styles.
If interested, send for book of the range. We mail it promptly, ,
Estate of P. D. B. Eck witH.
D O W A G IA C, M I C H I G A N.
Ma ke r s of g o O d g o O dis on iv
§§§LITTLE---|3&
JOURNEYSlº-S
QTL), [To the Homes of
MEM InBn Tlºs
NIART IS T S :
(ſſibigtler
Written by Elbert
Shop, which is in “e
East Aurora, New
ork, A.D. 1902~~~|N § dº / S
> // º @º
§
&ES) º

Art happens—no hovel is safe from it, no Prince may depend
upon it, the vastest intelligence cannot bring it about, and
puny efforts to make it universal end in quaint comedy, and
coarse farce. THE “ TEN O'CLOCK ?” LECTURE.
Whi St le ſº

..] /*.
. - ,’ -
S, , . " : /, f iſ tº . . . .
/)i vº 4 & Llº F **
& . . . . 'ſ º,
2. * - tº
W H IS T L E R - - - I31
cº, HE Eternal Paradox of Things is re-
º vealed in the fact that the men who
º have toiled most for peace, beauty and
harmony have usually lived out their
days in discord; and in several instances
died a malefactor’s death. Just how
much discord is required in God’s form-
ula for a successful life, no one knows,
but it must have a use, for it is always
there sº ºf
Seen from a distance, out of the range
of the wordy shrapnel, the literary
scrimmage is amusing. “Gulliver’s
Travels” made many a heart ache, but
it only gladdens ours. Pope’s “Dunciad”
sent shivers of fear down the spine of
all artistic England, but we read it
for the rhyme, and insomnia. Byron's
“English Bards and Scotch Review-
ers,” gave back to the critics what they
had given out—to their great surprise
and indignation, and our amusement.
Keats died from the stab of a pen, they
say, and whether ’twas true or not we
O), know that now a suit of Cheviot is suf-
ficient shield. “We love him for the
enemies he has made ’’—to have friends
is a great gain, but to achieve an enemy
is distinction.

I32 W H IS T L E R
Ruskin’s “Modern Painters” is a reply to the con-
tumely that sought to smother Turner under an ava-
lanche of abuse; but since the enemy inspired it, and
it made the name and fame of both Ruskin and Tur-
ner, why should they not hunt out the rogues in
Elysium and purchase ambrosia?
Whistler’s “The Gentle Art of Making Enemies” is a
bit of sharp-shooter sniping at the man who was brave
enough to come to the rescue of Turner, and who
afterward proved his humanity by adopting the tactics
of the enemy, working the literary stink-pot to repel
impressionistic boarders.
No friend could have done for Whistler what Ruskin
did. Before Ruskin threw an ink-bottle at him, as
Martin Luther did at the Devil, he was one of several;
after the bout he was as one set apart.
When we think of Whistler, if we listen closely, we
can hear the echo of shrill calls of recrimination,
muffled reveilles of alarm—pamphlet answering unto
pamphlet across seas of misunderstanding—vitupera-
tions manifold and recurring themes of rabid ribaldry
all forming a lurid Symphony in Red.

W H IS T L E R I33
OHN DAVIDSON has dedicated
a book to his enemy, thus:
Unwilling Friend, let not thy spite abate,
Help me with scorn, and strengthen me with
hate.
The general tendency to berate
the man of superior talent would
seem to indicate, as before sug-
gested, that disparagement has
some sort of compensation in it. Possibly it is the
governor that keeps things from going too fast—the
opposition of forces that holds the balance true. But
almost everything can be overdone; and the fact re-
mains that without encouragement and faith from
without, the stoutest heart will in time grow faint
and doubt itself. It hears the yelping of the pack, and
there creeps in the question, “What if they are
right?” Then comes the longing and the necessity
for the word of praise, the clasp of a kindly hand and
the look that reassures.
Occasionally the undiscerning make remarks, slightly
touched with muriatic acid, concerning the ancient
and honorable cult known as the Mutual Admiration
Society. My firm belief is, that no man ever did or
can do a great work alone—he must be backed up by
the Mutual Admiration Society. It may be a very
small Society—in truth, I have known Chapters
where there were only two members, but there was
such trust, such faith, such a mutual uplift, that an

I34 W H IS T L E R
atmosphere was formed wherein great work was done.
QI. In Galilee even the Son of God could do no great
work, on account of the unbelief of the people. “Fel-
lowship is heaven and lack of fellowship is hell,”
said William Morris. And he had known both.
Some one must believe in you. And through touching
finger-tips with this Some One, we may get in the
circuit, and thus reach out to all. Self-Reliance is
very excellent, but as for independence, there is no
such thing. We are a part of the great Universal Life;
and as one must win approval from himself, so he
must receive corroboration from others: having this
approval from the Elect Few, the opinions of the
many matter little.
How little we know of the aspirations that wither un-
expressed, and of the hopes that perish for the want of
the right word spoken at the right time ! Out in the
orchard, as I write, I see thousands and thousands of
beautiful blossoms that will never become fruit for lack
of vitalization—they die because they are alone.
Thoughts materialize into deeds only when Some One
vitalizes by approval. Every good thing is loved into life.
GIGreat men have ever come in groups, and the Mutual
Admiration Society always figures largely. To enum-
erate instances would be to inflict good folks with
triteness and truism. I do not wish to rob my reader
of his rights—think it out for yourself, beginning with
Concord and Cambridge, working backward a-down
the centuries.
VV H IS T L E R I35
HERE are two Whistlers. One
tender as a woman, sensitive as a
child,—thirsting for love, friend-
ship and appreciation—a dreamer
of dreams, seeing visions and
mounting to the heavens on the
wings of his soaring fancy. This is
the real Whistler. And there has
always been a small Mutual Ad-
miration Society that has appreciated, applauded and
loved this Whistler; to them he has always been
“Jimmy.”
The other Whistler is the jaunty little man in the
funny, straight brimmed high hat—cousin to the hat
John D. Long wore for twenty years. This man in the
long black coat, carrying a bamboo wand, who adjusts
his monocle and throws off an epigram, who con-
founds the critics, befogs the lawyers, affronts mil-
lionaires from Colorado, and plays pitch and toss
with words, is the Whistler known to newspaper-
dom. And Grub Street calls him “Jimmy,” too, but
the voice of Grub Street is guttural and in it is no
tender cadence—it is tone that tells, not the mere
word: I have been addressed by an endearing phrase
when the words stabbed. Grub Street sees only the
one man and goes straightway after him with a
Snickersnee. To use the language of Judge Gaynor,
“This artistic Jacques of the second part protects the
great and tender soul of the party of the first part.”

I36 W H IS T L E R
(I. That is it—his name is Jacques: Whistler is a fool.
The fools were the wisest men at court. Shakespeare,
who dearly loved a fool, belonging to the breed him-
self, placed his wisest sayings into the mouths of men
who wore the motley. When he adorned a man with
cap and bells, it was as though he had given bonds
for both that man’s humanity and intelligence.
Neither Shakespeare nor any other writer of good books
ever dared depart so violently from truth as to picture
a fool whose heart was filled with pretense and perfidy.
The fool is not malicious. Stupid people may think
he is, because his language is charged with the light-
ning’s flash; but these be the people who do not know
the difference between an incubator and an egg plant.
CI Touchstone, with unfailing loyalty, follows his
master with quip and quirk into exile. When all, even
his daughters, had forsaken King Lear, the fool bares
himself to the storm and covers the shaking old man
with his own cloak, and when in our day we meet the
avatars of Trinculo, Costard, Mercutio and Jacques,
we find they are men of tender susceptibilities, gener-
ous hearts and lavish soul.
Whistler shakes his cap, flourishes his bauble, tosses
that fine head, and with tongue in cheek, asks ques-
tions and propounds conundrums that pedantry can
never answer. Hence the ink-bottle, with its mark
on the walls at Eisenach, and Coniston.
VV H IS T L E R I37
VERY man of worth is two men
—sometimes many. In fact, Dr.
George Vincent, the psychologist,
says, “We never treat two per-
sons in exactly the same manner.”
If this is so, and I suspect it is,
the person we are with dictates
our mental process and thus con-
trols our manners—he calls out
the man he wishes to see. Certain sides of our nature
are revealed only to certain persons. And I can under-
stand, too, how there can be a Holy of Holies, closed
and barred forever against all except the One. And in
the absence of this One, I can also understand how
the person can go through life, and father, mother,
brothers, sisters, friends and companions never guess
the latent excellence that lies concealed. We defend
and protect this Holy of Holies from the vulgar gaze.
GI. There are two ways to guard and keep alive the
sacred fires; one is to flee to convent, monastery or
mountain and there live alone with God; the other is
to mix and mingle with men and wear a coat of mail
in way of manner.
Women whose hearts are well nigh bursting with
grief will often be the gayest of the gay; men whose
souls are corroding with care —weighted down with
sorrow too great for speech—are often those who set
the table in a roar.
The assumed manner, continued, evolves into a pose.

138 W H IS T L E R
Pose means position, and the pose is usually a posi-
tion of defense.
All great people are posers.
Men pose so as to keep the mob back while they can
do their work. Without the pose, the garden of a
poet’s fancy would look like McKinley's front yard at
Canton in the fall of ’96. That is to say, without the
pose the poet would have no garden, no fancy, no
nothing—and there would be no poet. Yet I am quite
willing to admit that a man might assume a pose and
yet have nothing to protect; but I stoutly maintain
that pose in such an one is transparent to every one
as the poles that support a scare-crow, simply be-
cause the pose never becomes habitual.
With the great man pose becomes a habit—and then
it is not a pose. When a man lies and admits he lies,
he tells the truth.
Whistler has been called the greatest poser of his day;
and yet he is the most sincere and truthful of men
—the very antithesis of hypocrisy and sham. No man
ever hated pretence more.
Whistler is an artist, and the soul of the man is re-
vealed in his work—not in his hat, nor yet his bam-
boo cane, nor his long black coat, much less the
language which he uses, Talleyrand-like, to conceal
his thought. Art has been his wife, his children and
his religion. Art has said to him, “Thou shalt have
no other gods before me,” and he has obeyed the
mandate.
W H IS T L E R I39
That picture of his mother in the Luxembourg is the
most serious thing in the whole collection—so gentle,
so modest, so charged with tenderness. It is classed
by the most competent critics of today along with the
greatest works of the old masters. We find upon the
official roster of the fine arts of France this tribute
opposite the name of Whistler, “Portrait of the
mother of the author, a masterpiece destined for the
eternal admiration of future generations, combining
in its tone power and magnificence, the qualities of a
Rembrandt, a Titian, a Velasquez.” The picture does
not challenge you—you have to hunt it out, and you
have to bring something to it, else 'twill not reveal
itself. There is no decrepitude in the woman’s face
and form, but someway you read into the picture the
story of a great and tender love and a long life of use-
ful effort. And now as the evening shadows gather,
about to fade off into gloom, the old mother sits there
alone, poised, serene: husband gone, children gone—
her work is done. Twilight comes. She thinks of the
past in gratitude, and gazes wistfully out into the
future, unafraid. It is the tribute that every well-born
son would like to pay to the mother who loved him
into being, whose body nourished him, whose loving
arms sustained him, whose unfaltering faith and ap-
preciation encouraged him to do and to become. She
was his wisest critic, his best friend—his mother!
I40 VV H IS T L E R
AJOR GEORGE WASHINGTON
WHISTLER, the father of Whis-
tler the artist, was a graduate of
West Point, and a member of the
United States Corps of Engineers.
He was an active, practical and
useful man—a skillful draughts-
man, mathematician and a man
of affairs who could undertake a
difficult task and carry it through to completion.
Such men are always needed, in the army and out of
it. Responsibility gravitates to the man who can
shoulder it. Such men as Major Whistler are not tied
to a post—they go where they are needed.
When George Washington Whistler was a cadet at
West Point, there came to visit the place Dr. Swift
and his beautiful young daughter, Mary. She took the
Military School by storm, at least, held captives the
hearts of all the young men there—so they said. And
in very truth the heart of one young man was prison-
er, for Major Whistler married Miss Swift soon after.
GI. To them were born Deborah, the Major's only
daughter, who married Dr. Seymour Hayden of Lon-
don, a famous surgeon and still more famous etcher:
George, who became an engineer and railway mana-
ger: and two years later, Joseph.
And when Joe was two years old, this beautiful
wife, aged twenty-three, passed away, and young
Major Whistler and his three babies were left alone.

W H IS T L E R I4I
CIAt West Point Whistler had a friend named Mc-
Neill, son of Dr. C. D. McNeill, of Wilmington, N. C.
—a classmate—with whom he had been closely asso-
ciated since graduation. McNeill had a sister, Anna
Matilda, a great soul, serious and strong. At length
Whistler took his motherless brood—including him-
self—to her and she accepted them all. I bow my
head to the step-mother who loves into manhood and
womanhood children whom another has loved into
life. She must have a great heart already expanded
by love to do this. Naturally the mother-love grows
with the child—that is what children are for, to en-
large the souls of the parents. But at the beginning
of womanhood, Anna Matilda McNeill was great
enough to enfold in her heart and arms the children
of the man she loved and make them hers.
In the year 1834, Major Whistler and his wife were
living in Lowell, Massachusetts, where the Major
was superintending the construction of the first of
those wonderful waterways that tirelessly turn ten
thousand spindles.
And fate would have it so, that here at Lowell, in a
little house on Worthing Street, was born the first of
the five sons of Major Whistler and his wife, Anna
Matilda. And they called the name of the child James
Abbott McNeill Whistler—an awful big name for a
very small baby.
About the time this peevish little pigmy was put into
short dresses, his father resigned his position in the
I42 W H IS T L E R
United States Army to accept a like position with the
Czar of Russia. The first railroad constructed in Rus-
sia, from Moscow to St. Petersburg, was built under
the superintendence of Major Whistler, who also de-
signed various bridges, viaducts, tunnels and other
engineering feats for Adam Zad, who walks like a
man, and who paid him princely sums for his services.
GLAmericans not only fill the teeth of royalty, but we
furnish the Old World machinery, ideas and men.
For every twenty-five thousand men they supply us,
we send them back one, and the one we send them is
worth more than the twenty-five thousand they send
us. Schenectady is today furnishing the engines and
supplying engineers to teach engineers for the trans-
continental Siberian railway. When you take “The
Flying Scotchman” from London to Edinburgh you
ride in a Pullman car, with all the appurtenances, even
to a Gould coupler, a Westinghouse air-brake, and a
dusky George from North Carolina, who will hit you
three times with the butt of a brush broom and ex-
pect a bob as recompense. You feel quite at home.
GI. Then when you see the Metropolitan Railway of
London is managed by a man from Chicago, and that
all trains of “the underground” are being equipped
with the Edison incandescent light; and you note
further that a New York man has morganized the
trans-Atlantic steamship lines, you agree with Mr.
William T. Stead that, “America may be raw and
crude, but she is producing a race of men—men of
W H IS T L E R I43
power, who can think and act.” (I Coupled with the
Englishman’s remarkable book, “The Americaniza-
tion of the World,” there is an art criticism by Bernard
Shaw, who comes from a race that will not pay rent,
strangely enough living in London, content, with no
political aspirations, who says, “The three greatest
painters of the time are of American parentage—
Abbey, Sargent and Whistler; and of these, Whistler
has had greater influence on the artists of today than
any man of his time.”
But let us swing back and take a look at the Whistlers
in Russia. Little Jimmy never had a childhood: the
nearest he came to it was when his parents camped
one summer with the “construction gang.” That
summer with the workers and toilers, among the
horses, living out of doors—eating at the campfire
and sleeping under the sky—was the boy’s one glimpse
of paradise. “My ambition then was to be the fore-
man of a construction gang—and it is yet,” said the
artist in describing that brief, happy time to a friend.
GI. The child of well-to-do parents, but homeless, liv-
ing in hotels and boarding-houses, is awfully handi-
capped. Children are only little animals and travel is
their bane and scourge. They belong on the ground,
among the leaves and flowers and tall grass—in the
trees or digging in sand piles. Hotel hallways, table
d’hote dinners and the clash of travel, are all terrible
perversions of nature’s intent.
Yet the boy survived—eager, nervous, energetic. He
I44 * W H IS T L E R
acquired the Russian language, of course, and then
he learned to speak French as all good Russians must.
“He speaks French like a Russ,” is the highest com-
pliment a Parisian can pay you.
The boy’s mother was his tutor, companion, playmate.
They read together, drew pictures together and played
the piano, four hands.
Honors came to the hard-working engineer—decora-
tions, ribbons, medals, money—and more work. The
poor man was worked to death. The Czar paid every
honor to the living and dead that royalty can give. He
ordered his private carriage to take the family to the
boat as they left St. Petersburg, bringing with them
the body of the loved one. And honors awaited the
dead here. A monument in the cemetery at Stoning-
ton, Connecticut, erected by the Society of American
Engineers marks the spot where he sleeps.
The stricken mother was back in America, and James
was duly entered at West Point. The mother's ideal
was her husband—in his life she had lived and moved
—and that James should do what he had done, become
the manly man that he had become, was her highest
wish ºr sºr
The boy was already an acceptable draughtsman, and
under the tutelage of Professor Robert Weir he made
progress. West Point does not teach such a soft and
feminine thing as picture painting—it draws plans of
redoubts and fortifications, makes maps and figures
on desirability of tunnels, pontoons and hidden mines.

D0 your Work as well as you can—and be kind.
######
WHETHER Elbert Hubbard is a great orator or
not is still debatable, but the fact remains that
he has drawn bigger audiences, at bigger prices
this year, in New York and Chicago, than any
other lecturer you can name. And the public
speaker who can attract and hold two thousand
people for two hours without stereopticon pic-
tures, must be a hypnotist, or else have some-
thing to say that is worth while.
Then as to literary prowess, Hubbard’s Mes-
sage to Garcia wipes out all literary records
since the world began: it has been translated
into nine languages and reprinted over sixteen
million times, all within the space of three
years.-Chicago Chronicle.
{H}{H}{}
The test of the true faith should be its power
to charm and Command the Soul, as the laws
of nature control the activity of the hands.
This faith should blend with the light of rising
and of Setting Suns, With the flying Cloud, the
singing bird, the breath of flowers.-Emerson.
&
—t

LITTLE Jour NEYs
By E L B E R T H U B B A R D F O R
I 9 O 3 w I L L B E To Ho M ES O F
E M IN E N T O R A TO RS
SUBJECTS AS FOLLOWS:
I Pericles 7 Mirabeau
2 Mark Antony 8 Robert Ingersoll
3 Savonarola 9 John Randolph
4 Martin Luther Io Thomas Starr King
5 Edmund Burke II Henry Ward Beecher
6 William Pitt 12 Wendell Phillips
It seems to us that as a writer of biography Elbert
Hubbard has to-day only one living equal, and that
is Anatole France. “Fra Elbertus” has wit, keen
insight and a masterly use of brief, sharp and epi-
grammatic English. He knows the human heart, and
through his recognition of the best he inspires young
and old to nobler purpose. He is an educator, a seer
and a prophet.—Editorial in Decatur (Ill.) Review.
# * The Philistine, $1.00 a year.
Regular 1&ates { Little Journeys, $3.00 a year.
SPECIAL ONE DOLLAR FOR BOTH
|
IF JU18.5'CRIPTION I.J. J.E.NT
BEFORE FEBRUARY FIRJ'T.
THE PHILISTINE, East Aurora, N. Y.
Enclosed is One Dollar, and I request you to
send me THE PHILISTINE Magazine for one year
and LITTLE JOURNEYS for 1903, as proposed.
Date
This advertisement will mot appear again neither will the offer be repeated.

§ %22%; **-*-ºs---ºrs sºsºsºs ressess
£º
ſº it is only by labor that thought can be º
* ...I. \ * * . .
º; made bealtby, and only by thought that º
º labor can be made bappy.---Ruskin. º
§ ... '
sº - e - -
º
W H IS T L E R I45
Robert Weir taught all these things, and on Satur-
days painted pictures for his own amusement. In the
rotunda of the Capitol at Washington is a taste of his
quality, the large panel entitled “The Departure of
the Pilgrims.”
Tradition has it that young Whistler assisted his
teacher on this work.
Weir succeeded in getting his pupil heartily sick of
the idea of grim visaged war as a business. He hated
the thought of doing things on order, especially killing
men when told. “The soldier's profession is only one
remove from the business of Jack Ketch who hangs
men and then salves his conscience with the plea that
some one told him to do it,” said Whistler. If he re-
mained at West Point he would become an army offi-
cer and Uncle Sam or the Czar would own him and
order him to do things.
Weir declared he was absurd, but the Post Surgeon
said he was nervous and needed a change. In truth
West Point disliked Jimmy as much as he disliked
West Point, and he was recommended for discharge.
Mother and son sailed away for London, intending to
come back in time for the next term.
The young man took one souvenir from West Point
that was to stand by him. In a sham battle, during a
charge, his horse went down, and the cavalcade be-
hind went right over horse and rider. When picked
up and carried out of the scrimmage, Cadet Whistler
was unconscious, and the doctors said his skull was
I46 W H IS T L E R
fractured. However, his whip-cord vitality showed
itself in a quick recovery; but a white lock of hair
soon appeared to mark the injured spot, to be a badge
of distinction and a delight to the caricaturist forever.
In London the mother and son found lodgings out to-
wards Chelsea. No doubt the literary traditions at-
tracted them. Only a few squares away lived Rossetti,
with a wonderful collection of blue china, giving les-
sons in painting. There were weekly receptions in his
house, where came Burne-Jones, William Morris,
Madox Brown and many other excellent people.
Down a narrow street nearby, lived a grumpy Scotch-
man, by the name of Carlyle, whose portrait Whistler
was later to paint, and although Carlyle had no use
for Rossetti, yet Mrs. Whistler and her boy liked them
both. It came time to return to America if the young
man was to graduate at West Point. But they decided
to go over to Paris so James could study art for a
few months. QI. They never came back to America.

W H IS T L E R I47
-
Ruskin haled before the tribunal
briskly told of men, women and
ual taste.
cough)—but that is your affair.”
and demanded a thousand pounds
as salve for his injured feelings
because the author of “Stones of
Venice,” was color-blind, lacking
things he did not especially admire.
The case was tried, and the jury decided for Whistler,
giving him one farthing damages. But this was suc-
cess—it threw the costs on Ruskin, and called the
Whistler was once asked by a fellow artist to criti-
cise a wondrous chromatic combination that the man
had thrown off in an idle hour. Jimmy adjusted his
monocle and gazed long. “And what do you think of
Whistler painted the “Nocturne,” and that was his
affair. If Ruskin did not think it beautiful that was his
affair; but when Ruskin went one step further and
accused the painter of trying to hoodwink the world
C Nº- - HISTLER, the coxcomb, had
$:
sº-ºp Lºº
ZP tº ºp tº - tº
in imagination, and possessed of
a small magazine wherein he
attention of the world to the absurdity of condemning
things that are, at the last, a mere matter of individ-
it?” asked the painter standing by. “Oh, just a little
more green, a little more green—(pause and slight
for a matter of guineas, attacking the man’s motives,
he exceeded the legitimate limits of criticism, and his


I48 W H IS T L E R
public rebuke was deserved. In matter of 'strictest
justice, however, it may be as well to say that Whis-
tler was quite as blind to the beauty of Ruskin’s
efforts for the betterment of humanity as Ruskin was
to the excellence of Whistler's pictures. And if Rus-
kin had been in the humor for litigation he might have
sued Whistler and got a shilling damages because
Whistler once averred “The Society of St. George is
a scheme for badgering the unfortunate, and should
be put down by the police. God knows the poor suffer
enough without being patronized l’’
Mr. Whistler was once summoned as a witness in a
certain suit where the purchaser of a picture had re-
fused to pay for it. The cross-examination ran some-
thing like this:
“You are a painter of pictures?”
• * Yes.”
“And know the value of pictures?”
“Oh, no.”
“At least you have your own ideas about values?”
“Certainly.”
“And you recommended the defendant to buy this
picture for two hundred pounds?”
“I did.”
“Mr. Whistler, it is reported that you received a
goodly sum for this recommendation—is there any-
thing in that?”
“Oh, nothing I assure you”—(yawning) “nothing but
the indelicacy of the suggestion.”
W H IS T L E R I49
The critics found much joy, several years ago, in trac-
ing out the fact that Whistler spent a year at Madrid
copying Velasquez. That he, like Sargent, has been
benefited and inspired by the sublime art of the Span-
iard there is no doubt, but there is nothing in the
charge that he is an imitator of Velasquez, save the
indelicacy of the suggestion.
It was a comparison of Velasquez and Whistler and a
warm assurance that his name would live with that
of the great Spaniard that led Whistler to launch that
little question, now a classic, “Why drag in Velas-
quez P” (I The great lesson that Whistler has taught
the world is to observe; and this he got from the Japa-
nese. Lafcadio Hearn has said that the average citizen
of Japan detects tints and shades that are absolutely
unseen by western eyes. Livingston found tribes in
Africa that had never seen pictures of any kind, and
he had great difficulty in making them perceive that
the figure of a man, drawn on a piece of paper a foot
square, really was designed for a man.
“Man big—paper little—no good!” was the criticism
of a chief. The chief wanted to hear the voice of the
man before he would believe it was meant for a man.
This savage chief was a great person, no doubt, in
his own bailiwick, but he lacked imagination to bridge
the gap between a real man and the repeated strokes
of a pencil on a bit of paper.
The Japanese—any Japanese—would have been de-
lighted by Whistler’s “Nocturne.” Ruskin was n’t.
I5o W H IS T L E R
He had never seen the night, and therefore, he de-
clared that Whistler had “flung a pot of paint in the
face of the public.”
That men should dogmatize concerning things where
the senses alone supply the evidence, is only another
proof of man’s limitations. We live in a peewee world
which our senses create and declare that outside of
what we see, smell, taste and hear there is nothing.
QI. It is twenty-five thousand miles around the world
—stellar space is uncomputable; and man can walk
in a day about thirty miles. Above the ground he can
jump about four feet. In a city his unaided ear can
hear his friend call about two hundred feet. As for
smell, he really has almost lost the sense; and taste,
through the use of stimulants and condiments, has
likewise nearly gone. Man can see and recognize
another man a quarter of a mile away, but at the same
distance is practically color-blind.
Yet we were all quite willing to set ourselves up as
standards until science came with spectroscope, tele-
phone, microscope and Roentgen ray to force upon us
the fact that we are tiny, undeveloped and insignifi-
cant creatures, with sense quite unreliable and totally
unfit for final decisions.
Whistler sees more than other men. He has taught us
to observe, and he has taught the art world to select.
GI Oratory does not consist in telling it all—you select
the truth you wish to drive home; in literature, in
order to make your point, you must leave things out;
W H IS T L E R I5I
and in painting you must omit. Selection is the vital
thing ºf sº
The Japanese see one single lily stalk swaying in the
breeze and the hazy, luminous gray of the atmosphere
in which it is bathed—just these two things. They
give us these, and we are amazed and delighted.
Whistler has given us the night—not the black, inky,
meaningless void which has always stood for evil:
not the darkness, the mere absence of light, the
prophet had in mind when he said, “And there shall
be no night there”—not that. The prophet thought
the night was objectionable, but we know that the
continual glare of the sun would quickly destroy all ani-
mal or vegetable life. In fact, without the night there
would be no animal or vegetable life, and no prophet
would have existed to suggest the abolition of night
as a betterment. In the night there are flowers that
shed their finest perfume, lifting up their hearts in
gladness, and all nature is renewed for the work of the
coming day. We need the night for rest, for dreams,
for forgetfulness. Whistler saw the night, this great
transparent, dark-blue fold that tucks us in for one-
half our time. The jaded, the weary and the heavy-
laden at last find peace—the day is done, the grateful
night is here.
Turner said you could not paint a picture and leave
man out. Whistler very seldom leaves man out,
although I believe there is one “Nocturne” wherein
only the stars and the faint rim of the silver moon
I52 W H IS T L E R
keep guard. But usually we see the dim suggestion of
the bridge’s arch, the ghostly steeples, lights lost in
the enfolding fog, vague purple barges on the river
and ships rocking solemnly in the offing—all strangely
mellow with peace, and subtle thoughts of stillness,
rest, dreams and sleep.
HE critics have all shied their
missiles at Whistler, and he has
gathered up the most curious and
placed them on exhibition in a
catalogue entitled “Etching and
Dry Points.” This document gives
a list of fifty-one of his best known
productions, and beneath each
item is a testimonial or two from
certain worthies who thought the thing rubbish and
said so sº sº."
If you want to see a copy of the catalogue you can
examine it in the “treasure room” of most any of the
big public libraries; or should you wish to own one, a
chance collector in need of funds might be willing to
disengage himself from a copy for some such trifle as
twenty-five dollars or so.
Whistler's book “The Gentle Art” contains just one
good thing, although the touch of genius is revealed
in the title which is as follows: “The Gentle Art of
Making Enemies, as pleasingly exemplified in many
instances wherein the serious ones of this earth, care-

W H IS T L E R I53
fully exasperated, have been prettily spurred on to
unseemliness and indiscretion, while overcome by an
undue sense of right.”
The dedication runs thus: “To the rare Few who early
in life have rid themselves of the Friendship of the
Many, these pathetic papers are inscribed.”
The one excellent thing in the book is the “Ten
O’Clock” lecture. It is a classic, revealing such a dis-
tinct literary style that one is quite sure its author
could have evolved symphonies in words, as well as
color, had he chose. However, this lecture is a
sequence, leaping hot from the heart, and would not
have been written had the author not been “carefully
exasperated and prettily spurred on, while overcome
by an undue sense of right.” Let us all give thanks to
the enemy who exasperated him. There is a great
temptation to produce the lecture entire, but this
would be to invite a lawsuit, so we will have to be
content with a few scrapings from the palette:
Listen! There never was an artistic period.
There never was an Art-loving nation.
In the beginning, men went forth each day—some to
do battle, some to the chase; others, again, to dig and
to delve in the field—all that they might gain and
live, or lose and die. Until there was found among
them one, differing from the rest, whose pursuits at-
tracted him not, and so he stayed by the tents with
the women, and traced strange devices with a burnt
stick upon a gourd.
This man, who took no joy in the way of his brethren
—who cared not for conquest, and fretted in the field
I54 VV H IS T L E R
—this designer of quaint patterns—this deviser of the
beautiful—who perceived in Nature about him curious
curvings, as faces are seen in the fire —this dreamer
apart was the first artist.
And when, from the field and afar, there came back the
people, they took the gourd—and drank from out of it.
GLAnd presently there came to this man another—and,
in time, others—of like nature, chosen by the gods—
and so they worked together; and soon they fashioned,
from the moistened earth, forms resembling the gourd.
And with the power of creation, the heirloom of the
artist, presently they went beyond the slovenly sug-
gestion of Nature, and the first vase was born, in
beautiful proportion.
# $ # # # # # # # $
And the Amateur was unknown—and the Dilettante
undreamed of.
And history wrote on, and conquest accompanied
civilization, and Art spread, or rather its products
were carried by the victors among the vanquished
from one country to another. And the customs of cul-
tivation covered the face of the earth, so that all peo-
ples continued to use what the artist alone produced.
CI.And centuries passed in this using, and the world
was flooded with all that was beautiful, until there
arose a new class, who discovered the cheap, and
foresaw a fortune in the facture of the sham.
Then sprang into existence the tawdry, the common,
the gewgaw.
The taste of the tradesman supplanted the science of
the artist, and what was born of the million went
back to them, and charmed them, for it was after
their own heart; and the great and the small, the
statesman and the slave, took to themselves the
abomination that was tendered, and preferred it—and
VV H IS T L E R I55
have lived with it ever since. (L.And the artist’s occu-
pation was gone, and the manufacturer and the huck-
ster took his place.
And now the heroes filled from the jugs and drank from
the bowls—with understanding—noting the glare
of their new bravery, and taking pride in its worth.
GLAnd the people—this time—had much to say in the
matter—and all were satisfied. And Birmingham and
Manchester arose in their might, and Art was rele-
gated to the curiosity shop.
# # # $ # # # # # #
Nature contains the elements, in colour and form, of
all pictures, as the keyboard contains the notes of all
music.
# # # 3% # # # $ $ #
The artist is born to pick, and choose, and group with
science these elements, that the result may be beau-
tiful—as the musician gathers his notes, and forms
his chords, until he bring forth from chaos glorious
harmony.
To say to the painter, that Nature is to be taken as
she is, is to say to the player, that he may sit on the
piano sº sº -
That Nature is always right, is an assertion, artistic-
ally, as untrue, as it is one whose truth is universally
taken for granted. Nature is very rarely right, to such
an extent even, that it might almost be said that Na-
ture is usually wrong: that is to say, the condition of
things that shall bring about the perfection of har-
mony worthy a picture is rare, and not common at all.
# # $ $ $ $ # # # #
The sun blares, the wind blows from the east, the sky
is bereft of cloud, and without, all is of iron. The win-
dows of the Crystal Palace are seen from all points of
London. The holiday-maker rejoices in the glorious
I56 W H IS T L E R
day, and the painter turns aside to shut his eyes.
QI. How little this is understood, and how dutifully the
casual in Nature is accepted as sublime, may be gath-
ered from the unlimited admiration daily produced by
a very foolish sunset.
The dignity of the snow-capped mountain is lost in
distinctness, but the joy of the tourist is to recognize
the traveller on the top. The desire to see, for the
sake of seeing, is, with the mass alone, the one to be
gratified, hence the delight in detail.
But when the evening mist clothes the riverside with
poetry, as with a veil, and the poor buildings lose
themselves in the dim sky, and the tall chimneys be-
come campanili, and the warehouses are palaces in
the night, and the whole city hangs in the heavens,
and fairy-land is before us—then the wayfarer hast-
ens home; the workingman and the cultured one, the
wise man and the one of pleasure, cease to under-
stand, as they have ceased to see, and Nature, who
for once, has sung in tune, sings her exquisite song to
the artist alone,—her son and her master—her son
in that he loves her, her master in that he knows her.
QI.To him her secrets are unfolded, to him her lessons
have become gradually clear. He looks at the flower,
not with the enlarging lens, that he may gather facts
for the botanist, but with the light of the one who
sees in her choice selection of brilliant tones and del-
icate tints, suggestions of infinite harmonies.
He does not confine himself to purposeless copying,
without thought, each blade of grass, as commended
by the inconsequent, but in the long curve of the nar-
row leaf, corrected by the straight tall stem, he learns
how grace is wedded to dignity, how strength en-
hances sweetness, that elegance shall be the result.
QI. In the citron wing of the pale butterfly, with its
W H IS T L E R I57
dainty spots of orange, he sees before him the stately
halls of fair gold, with their slender saffron pillars,
and is taught how the delicate drawing high upon the
walls shall be traced in tender tones of orpiment, and
repeated by the base in notes of graver hue.
In all that is dainty and lovable he finds hints for his
own combinations, and thus is Nature ever his re-
source and always at his service, and to him is naught
refused.
Through his brain, as through the last alembic, is dis-
tilled the refined essence of that thought which began
with the Gods, and which they left him to carry out.
QL Set apart by them to complete their works, he pro-
duces that wondrous thing called the masterpiece,
which surpasses in perfection all that they have con-
trived in what is called Nature; and the Gods stand
by and marvel, and perceive how far away more beau-
tiful is the Venus of Melos than was their own Eve.
# # # # # # # # # #
And now from their midst the Dilettante stalks abroad.
The Amateur is loosed. The voice of the AEsthete is
heard in the land, and catastrophe is upon us.
$ # # # $ # # # & #
Where the Artist is, there Art appears, and remains
with him—loving and fruitful—turning never aside in
moments of hope deferred—of insult—and of ribald
misunderstanding; and when he dies she sadly takes
her flight: though loitering yet in the land, from fond
association, but refusing to be consoled.
With the man, then, and not with the multitude, are
her intimacies; and in the book of her life the names
inscribed are few—scant, indeed, the list of those
who have helped to write her story of love and beauty.
QI From the sunny morning, when, with her glorious
Greek relenting, she yielded up the secret of repeated
158 W H IS T L E R
line, as with his hand in hers, together they marked
in marble, the measured rhyme of lovely limb and
draperies flowing in unison, to the day when she
dipped the Spaniard’s brush in light and air, and made
his people live within their frames, that all nobility
and sweetness, and tenderness, and magnificence
should be theirs by right, ages had gone by, and few
had been her choice.
3% 3% 3% 3% 3$ 3% # 3% 3% #
Therefore have we cause to be merry!—and to cast
away all care—resolved that all is well—as it ever
was—and that it is not meet that we should be cried
at, and urged to take measures.
Enough have we endured of dullness! Surely are we
weary of weeping, and our tears have been cozened
from us falsely, for they have called us woel when
there was no grief—and where all is fair!
We have then but to wait—until, with the mark of
the gods upon him—there come among us again the
chosen—who shall continue what has gone before.
Satisfied that, even were he never to appear, the story
of the beautiful is already complete—hewn in the
marbles of the Parthenon, and broidered, with the
birds, upon the fan of Hokusai, at the foot of Fusiyama.

so HERE ENDETH THE LITTLE JOURNEY TO THE HOME
OF WHISTLER, AS WRITTEN BY ELBERT HUBBARD :
THE TITLE PAGE AND INITIALs BEING DESIGNED
BY SAMUEL WARNER & THE WHOLE DONE INTO A
PRINTED BOOK BY THE ROYCROFTERS AT THEIR
SHOP, WHICH IS IN EAST AURORA, ERIE COUNTY, NEW
YORK, IN DECEMBER, OF THE YEAR MCMII sºr sºr sºr sºr
M. O. R. R. I. S. C. H. A. I. R.
Being a close replica of the original chair made by William Morris.
Cushioned complete. The price is Fifty Dollars.
THE ROYCROFTERs, EAST AURORA, N. Y.
_ _


IT WAS LOVE
That sent them here, and they brought love
with them, and the more love you give them now the
more you have º is a magazine
left hº Little Folks . ºf chil-
dren, edited by people who have not forgotten they were
once children themselves—they know the child-heart,"
*sº and the needs of the child. “Feed the mind of a child
and you feed both body and soul,” said Froebel. Write for free sample
copy, and mention Little Journeys. Address ; " ... -
S. E. CASSINO, " Publisher Little Folks, SALEM, MASS.
- E HAVE A FEW SETS OF
* W 15 or croft gºot to e8, SPEC-.
IALLY ILLUMINED AND MOUNT-
ED ON OAK PANELS, MAKING
THEM VERY BEAUTIFUL AND
ATTRACTIVE." REFER TO THE
REGULAR LIST OF MOTTOES AND
LET's KNOW WHICH YOU WANT
Price for the set of eighteen, $15.oo
Singly, say, I.oo
the liopcrofterg, East Aurora, N. Y.


------------------------------------>
ſº
º cº
* , , A Désº
*x. (2
ºf 2 s - ºn G
ºğº
$ºš-><ilbert Hubbard
E.--- *-ºº:
** sºlºssº-sºssmºº
º %5 §: Tº ſº a o
ºš
&


#####################g
A LIFE MEMBERSHIP
IN THE *
Qmeritan atantmp
of ſmmortals
;
*
*
;
sº
-
3.
#*
**--
§
Cogtſ (Len Dollarg—No further dues #
or assessments, and no liabilities. Your.
duties consist in living up to your Ideal
(as nearly as possible) and attending ;
the Annual Dinner (if convenient). §
:
(1) The membership entitles you to one copy of the Philistine maga- +
zine for ninety-nine years, but no longer. .*, ,
(2) All the back bound volumes of “The Philistine” we have on hand.
(3) “Little Journeys,” beginning with current numbers, and all that
shall be issued in future. %. º -
(4) Such other books, pamphlets, addresses and documents as the
Roycrofters may elect to send you Every Little While, •ºt
(5) Success, Health and Love Vibrations, sent daily by the Pastor or
Ali Baba. -
ADDRESS THE BURSAR, EAST AURORA, NEw York