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Finally he was assisted by a French nobleman, who took compassion on him rather as a man than as a painter. Introducing him among his family, he allowed the unfortunate artist to teach his daughter the art of the brush. For this generosity the teacher rewarded his patron by falling desperately in love with his pupil. The daughter, at first perhaps through pity and then through love, did not discourage his advances. Her father, however, had already betrothed her to a gentleman, selected by himself, although most repulsive to his daughter. Persuaded by her lover as the time approached for the unwelcome ceremony, the girl left home on the night that the wedding was to have taken place. In the hurry of her flight she had not even been able to change her bridal robes, and was thus appropriately attired for her marriage with the poor painter.

"Outraged at such an unceremonious and improper union, the father, on his daughter's return, refused to grant his forgiveness.

"But the unfortunate lovers were not able to care for. themselves. The artist made no headway in his profession and sank gradually through want and despair, into a most feeble condition. His wife, brought up in luxury and accustomed to have everything done for her, could be of little help. She was only another for whom to provide. And it was for her that the poor man was chiefly anxious. He realized how miserable she would be when he was no longer there; he wondered who would give her even the poor support he thus far had struggled to obtain.

In one of the attics of Paris, among the other unsuccessful artists and actors, they tried to get a living. The wife, although despairing of her husband's recovery, made an effort to keep him cheerful, and as far as possible to save him from despondency. She talked to him of a future success in his art, and taught him to ignore his present troubles. One day while looking over with him the contents of an old chest, some valued relics that had not been sold, they came upon the wedding dress in which she as a bride had first left home. Her husband asked her to put it on and renew the old associations of those days when they

were so happy together, so hopeful for the future. At this she remonstrated; she could not bear to do it now! Those days were gone, and she, at least, knew that they could never be recalled. But persuaded at last by his entreaty, and fearing to anger him while in such a feeble condition, she unwillingly consented. The painter was strangely affected by her appearance. That sad face and the bridal gown came to him as a picture. She seemed the bride of death, sorrow clothed in the robes of joy. The idea struck him so forcibly that he felt an irresistible desire to paint it, to paint her, just as she was in that costume. His wife did her best to dissuade him; he was too weak and the effort would be dangerous! Her words were of no avail. He had never before felt so much the artist's impulse, and he could not resist. Besides, this was a last chance to provide for her. If the picture was a success, she would be independent, if a failure-it could be no worse than that!

"Thus they sat through the weary hours of the day, the wife forced to see her husband's strength gradually giving out, while she was posing in a position of enjoyment as though triumphing over his misery. The artist on the other hand was accomplishing a work which might save his wife from need, perhaps might even make himself famous. Nothing could stay the ardor of his purpose. From the first light of the morning until sunset, until both were exhausted by the strain, he toiled on. The picture was at last finished and the artist died." "And this is the portrait?" I remarked, understanding now the look of pain so noticeable at the first glance.

"It turned out to be a remarkably fine work," my friend continued, "and helped by the strange circumstances connected with it, created a great deal of interest. Finally it was bought at an enormous sum and probably by the Count de Verney."

"And what became of the artist's wife ?" I asked. "Did she recover from the effects of her husband's death ?"

"That I have not heard," was the answer. "Since the ast Salon I have not been in Paris. I imagine, however,

she is still living, and probably on what was obtained for her own portrait.”

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How long has that picture been here?" I enquired, turning to the old servant who had just returned to see us out.

"That! Oh, only a short time," was the reply. “That is the portrait of the New Countess deVerney."

Roger S. Baldwin.


Whisper, shy child of meditation,
Who with faltering step scarce

From the sheltering arms of Sister Silence dare advance,

'Tis thy sweet lot to nestle near the heart,

And learn to lisp in accents, tender, soft,

While yet thy tongue is but released from its mute infancy,
The first rare words of early, blushing Love.

William A. Moore.


THE election of the Board of Editors from the Junior Class will take place in 194 Old Chapel on the evening of Monday, the nineteenth of February at seven o'clock. It is not amiss to remind the members of the Junior Class that these elections are made by a strictly class vote, and that careful consideration of the qualifications and work of each man is not only just but necessary. The Board of Editors in office has the right to accept and approve or to reject the Board elected, if such elections are distinctly unworthy. But this veto power is a distasteful thing, and there is small chance of occasion for its use, if the Junior Class feels in this matter the interest which it demands.

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The Board of Editors announces the elections from the Senior Class to Chi Delta Theta of Thomas Frederick Davies of Detroit; Ralph Reed Lounsbury of Hartford, Warwick James Price of Cleveland and Richard H. Worthington of Baltimore.

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The LIT. medal has been awarded to Lindsay Denison of the Junior Class of Washington, for his essay "Ophelia and the Sons of Germania" which appears in this issue. Honorable mention is made of Chauncey Wetmore Wells of the Sophomore Class of Middletown, for his essay, "Hawthorne, The Unfinished Romances," and of Julian Ingersoll Chamberlain of the Junior Class of New York, for his essay "Emerson as a Literary and Spiritual Force."

The competition was unusually good, both in the number and quality of essays submitted. The thanks of the Board are offered to Professor Beers and Professor Reynolds who kindly consented to act on the Committee which read the essays.

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-A ruined Abbey, the stone walls covered with ivy, is in the foreground, while on all sides beyond is the great park of Ashleigh Elms. The ancient buildings, the peaceful rural scenery, the people themselves and the very sport for which they have come together, all form a scene that is British to the core, a scene that represents many of the most delightful elements of life in England. It is about eleven in the morning, and the Pytchley Hunt is having its annual meet at the manor house of Ashleigh. The hounds are in the center of the court, surrounded by the master and whips, the farmers of the neighborhood, innumerable red-coats and visitors, whom the picturesqueness of the place and the reputation of the neighboring coverts have brought out in holiday numbers. The grooms are busy getting their masters' hunters in trim condition, while noblemen and tenants alike are discussing the prospects of a good run with that delightful eagerness peculiar to true sportsmen.

When all is ready the master gives the signal to start, and with the huntsmen and hounds leads the way down the great avenue of Elms to draw at the Ashleigh woods. They are entered, the barking of forty hounds is heard; the horses become spirited, the riders excited, and within a few minutes the whole hunt is beyond the estate eagerly pursuing poor reynard.

A. P. S. JR.

-There is no proverb whose wisdom we disregard oftener than the one which declares our best things lie closest round our feet. We overlook what nature has laid at our doors, especially when we are searching for that attendant sprite of æstheticism, the picturesque. We have come to believe that it can be found nowhere save in an atmosphere of Old World traditions or in those parts where man has not yet spoiled God's own handiwork. And so we buy our tickets for the Italian Lakes or the Yosemite, forgetting to look at and admire what is near by, sometimes in our very midst. But the very fact that we are so intimate with the things about us closes our eyes to their beauties; that which a stranger might see and remark upon at first glance, we pass over as

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