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ture of Jephthah meeting his daughter, which hung opposite. Jephthah, in a very plumy helmet, starting back on very strong legs, I thought very expressive of a father's feelings. His tall daughter, arrayed in a lilac mantle, and pink dress with a long train, immediately became my ideal of unattainable female beauty. The attendant damsel, with her willowy figure and white dress, I thought extremely pretty also; I knew a slender little girl who wore a white dress and blue sash to church, whom she looked very much like.

The next day I made a fine drawing of this picture on our barn door. Jephthah was drawn in a black tunic, with red chalk legs. The daughter's mantle was stained lilac with iris-petals, her train pink with rose ditto. The maiden was drawn

in white chalk with bewitching grace. I could not make Jephthah stand very firmly on his legs, and start back at the same time; but Miss Jephthah's train gave great steadiness and composure to her figure. This spirited sketch was the admiration of all the neighboring boys, and they came every day for me to draw them in warlike positions, to represent Jephthah's army standing around him. One day I made a hasty sketch of my dog, Skyblue, in his favorite attitude, and, stepping back to mark the effect, found he was biting the heels of Jephthah. How the boys laughed! I made a new drawing of the anguished father, and greatly improved upon the hands, spreading them out like Mr. Flamdown's, when he was giving the parting blessing to his congregation, only opening the fingers wider to express consternation.

One day one of the boys brought an artist, who was boarding at his house, to look at my frescoes. He laughed, and told me if I would come to his room, he would paint Jephthah for me. With a feeling approaching awe I watched him conjuring into life the well-known forms. Yet I was not wholly satisfied with the result. I thought Jephthah's figure was not thrown back enough to express his emotion with sufficient force, and that the daughter had lost much of her queenliness with her train. The damsel who followed was no longer white, and did not look in the least like Fanny Ann.

Mr. Ochre went away the next day, but left me a few paints and brushes, and told me if I would come to New-York in the winter, he would teach me something. This now became the height of my ambition; and I tried to devise schemes by which I could earn a little money to pay

my board there. "I could live out at some farmer's, and earn good wages by my labor," I told my mother,-I was just twelve years old.

She smiled, and told me they would only give me my clothes.

I can draw, and sell my drawings."
She smiled again.

"Well, then, after I have improved a little, I can take portraits, and be paid for them."

She smiled approvingly this time, and I felt that my way lay open before me.

I wished to run directly to Fanny Ann's house-into which I had never yet entered-and ask her to sit to me; but I felt a little timid about it. I might not take a good likeness, and she would laugh at me-girls did laugh so! I had better take private sketches of her at church in the hymn-books, I thought, and practise upon my mother first, who immediately proposed putting on her black silk dress, which she had worn for the last ten years on state occasions; but her everyday short-gown would be more picturesque, I thought. She could not be quite reconciled to this. The villagers were accustomed to the black silk, and she thought it due to them and to me that she should be taken in it. However, the portrait was painted in the short-gown; but the villagers never saw much of it. It was not considered a very good likeness, for somehow I got a dark frown about the eyes, and a very dejected expression about the mouth. My mother never frowned, and looked particularly smiling while I was painting her.

I had a hard time of it that winter: so many brave designs launched forth upon the tide of hope, and run aground upon unknown bars. In the summer Mr. Ochre came again and taught me how to steer my way better. He told me that faces should not appear to be pasted flat to the canvas, and that a dark outline all round them was not perfectly true to nature; that lips were not exactly vermilion, nor cheeks pure lake; and eyes were not made of stone; that shadows were not a distinct feature of the face; and lights did not consist entirely of white paint. I learned a wonderful deal from him in a few weeks; and having painted many portraits of the worthy people about me, which sold for two dollars a piece, and scraped together a little money, I went to New-York in the winter with a bounding heart-perfectly conscious that I was the great American genius.

The first thing I did in New-York, after settling nyself in the little attic

room Mr. Ochre had engaged for me, was to find my way to a picture gallery. I neither shouted nor jumped when I entered; but was certainly very much dazzled. It was partly the picture frames, I thought -they were so very bright. I immediately saw the importance of gilt frames, and that without one no painting could be of any value. I wondered how much they cost, and whether I could afford to buy one for my portrait of Fanny Ann, which I had brought to the city with me. I knew at once there was no painting in the gallery equal to that; and walked along with the proud consciousness that I was the creator of that gem, which only needed a fine frame to be instantly brought down from my attic, into the public gaze, for the delight of every one. However, I did pause a moment before one little head -the head of a child with a smile in her eyes, and life upon her lips. I looked into the catalogue to be sure that it was good. It was by Copley. "An oldfashioned painter," I thought. "I shall do better things soon."

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Then I came to a young lady in a green dress and black waist, turning her head towards the spectator, and stepping into a brook. "Excellent!" I exclaimed. "That looks a little like Jephthah's daughter, only she is not quite so tall." Then came a very puzzling head: I could not tell to what race it belonged-"Indian, I suppose." It was named, "Portrait of Judge G." He could not have been an Indian; it must be the shadows. What infatuated young artist could have sent that here?" Then came two little girls holding a kitten between them. Sweet little innocents! That looked like one of my own pictures, and I looked for the name: "Infancy, by P. Pinkall.”

"I

shall certainly make Mr. Pinkall's acquaintance," I thought. Then came a young lady looking over her shoulder in the loveliest manner. Such golden hairsuch blue veins-such a rose-tint on the cheek-such heavenly eyes! Such a transparent creature altogether! I stood enraptured: that was better than Fanny Ann. "Fancy head, by T. Sully," I found it to be. "Oh, what a fancy!" Î exclaimed, in boyish enthusiasm, "That I can never surpass."

A young man was copying it, and I immediately resolved that I would do the same. Mr. Ochre came into the gallery at that moment, and I hastened to meet him. "I have found the most exquisite painting!" I exclaimed, leading him eagerly towards it, "and I know you will approve of my copying it."

"What, that waxy little thing," he said. "My dear child, do you not know better than that, after all my instructions?" and he took me back to the head by Copley, and told me I might copy that if I could. "But you had better not copy any thing," he added-"draw from nature, my boy. Go on as you have begun, only do not make your faces pink and white, and get Fanny Ann out of your mind as fast as you can." I wondered how he knew that I thought about Fanny Ann; I had never mentioned her name but twice in his presence, and then almost in a whisper.

So I went to Mr. Ochre's studio every day and Irish boys were hired from the street to sit for me and the other pupils. Very unfit subjects for my brush I thought them, until I chanced to see a picture of a beggar boy by Murillo, and then they rose in my esteem. I had heard that Murillo was a very great genius, and if he painted beggar boys, why should not I?

Well, I painted Irish boys and German boys, until I knew I had learned all I could from Mr. Ochre, and that it was time for me to set up my own studio, and patronize American ladies-immortalize them as only a genius can. "R. Gumbo, Portrait Painter," was the golden name upon the sign that decked one corner of a doorway, which led to a flight of stairs, which led to another flight of stairs, and so on to the fourth story, where I sat in state, awaiting my unknown visitors. My studio was furnished with a skylight, an easel, an old shawl with a very effective border, covering a table on which stood a torso, a small Venus, a chair for the sitter, and two for friends, a lay figure, six new, suggestive canvases, and my paint brushes. "Now, I am ready!" I exclaimed, wielding my maul-stick and making a thrust at the portrait of an Irish boy eating an apple. "My dear little fellow, you will soon see what beauty and grace will appear." I had gone to my studio at nine o'clock-I stayed until dark: I ate two crackers for dinner, and an apple, like the Irish boy, and nobody came. I wondered at it very much. Two of my best portraits were in the Exhibition, and I thought the public were dying to be taken. "But they cannot know I am here," I meditated. little sign in a city full of signs attracts no attention. I ought to advertise my number; but advertising is so expensive. I wish some one would buy my pictures in the Exhibition; but there is no love for art in this country. Rosewood and buhl

"One

are more valued than genius. Oh Italy!" I sighed, and locked my door, and went home to my attic.

I thought my pictures might have sold, if the subjects had been of more general interest. "No one wants portraits except relations, and the relations of these cannot afford to purchase such luxuries," I said. "If I paint a composition, it will find a ready sale,what shall it be?" My imagination was filled with the remembrance of Jephthah and his daughter; but I did not care to attempt the warrior, and the daughter alone would hardly suffice; so I determined to paint Iphigenia as priestess at Aulis.

I draped my lay figure with a sheet, and commenced. The treatment was purely classical. The garment fell in dignified folds to the feet, broken only by an invisible girdle at the waist: it was fastened on each shoulder by a burning gem, -I painted them from two brass brooches, set with crimson glass, which I bought for the occasion. One hand rested lightly upon an altar, represented by my table and the bordered shawl-the other was pressed upon her breast. The arms were very white, and one of them quite round. The face was raised, and the expression of pious resignation was very well given. The hair was beautifully dishevelled. The blue Mediterranean in the distance led the eye to the horizon, and the mind to revery. The figure was half-size, and I was a whole week painting it. I worked quite steadily, fearing visitors might come if I went out. Occasionally, exhausted by the inspiration of my subject, I took a short walk; but always pinned up a paper to say that I should return immediately, and placed a chair outside my door, thinking ladies would be out of breath coming up so many stairs, and would wait longer if they found a resting-place. When I returned, I always felt quite sure that some one had called during my absence, and I regretted that I had been out.

When my painting was finished, I doubted whether I had better ask Mr. Ochre to come and look at it, or not. I knew there was great jealousy among artists, and feared he might not be pleased to find his pupil had become his rival; but I told him in an off-hand way, one day, that I had a picture on my easel he might like to step in and look at some time when he was passing; and he came.

I saw a smile quivering upon his lips as he stood before it. He walked about my studio, looked at the torso, praised my Venus, asked me where I bought my paints, approached the priestess, and

burst into a loud laugh. "I can't stand it, Gumbo," he exclaimed: "It is too good!"

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I knew it was good myself, but its merits had a very different effect upon me. I was astonished at his laughing; I had intended that the painting should produce exalted emotions, mingled with sorrow. "How did you make the folds of that drapery so straight?" he said, "you must have ruled them, and there are no limbs under them. The arms are like chop-sticks; they are half so good as those of little Patrick Mahone, you painted six months ago. The head is stuck on with a skewer, is it not? Nothing else could keep it up so. And the figure does not stand-a breath of air would puff it all away. No, no; this will never do. You must keep to real life; your fancy pictures are absolutely good for nothing." And he turned to me with what he intended for a goodnatured smile, I suppose; but I saw that jealous look in the corner of his eye.

The public shall judge between us," I said, quite grandly.

He looked at me as if he would laugh again; but laying his hand on my shoulder, said "Come, my boy, I see how it is. You think you have done something very good, and that I am envious of you. I assure you by all I know of art that the whole thing is ridiculous. Place it in the exhibition, and you will see that it is so considered; but send it anonymously, I beg of you. I should not like to have your name laughed at."

Yes," thought I; "he wishes to have the credit of it himself; and it is a little in his style, certainly."

"And now I will tell you what I will do for you," he continued. "A little cousin of mine wishes me to paint her before her father's birth-day; but I have too much on my hands just at present. You shall do it. You can sometimes hit upon a likeness, and if you do not satisfy her, why, I will paint her afterwards. She is rich, and can afford to pay for two pictures, and ought to encourage young artists, she has a fancy for these things herself. She has some beauty, and if you treat the subject artistically, you can make a pretty picture of it. I will make the proposal to her this evening, and let you know her answer, if you will call upon me to-morrow." And taking my half-reluctant hand, he bade me good morning.

"Very patronizing!" I thought. "He will paint her himself if I do not succeed! I will have nothing to do with it. But,

young, and beautiful, and fond of these things-it is a temptation. I will make up my mind what to do in the morning." Meantime I considered the style in which I should paint her. "I succeed so well in heads looking up," I thought, glancing at Iphigenia. "But I should not like to have two pictures alike even if they were both very good. I might have the face looking down, and a blue mantle on the head, and the hands folded. Ochre would certainly call that treating the subject artistically, so many old pictures are painted in that style. She probably has pretty hands,if not, I can make them so.

The next day, while I was yet hesitating whether to go to Ochre's or not, I heard ladies' voices and a gentle knock at my door. I flew round to arrange my studio; threw a cloth over the Priestess, to give her a mysterious effect-only a few folds of her robe and a sandalled foot were visible; placed a sketch on my easel, and opening the door made a low bow to the ladies, with my palette and stick in my hand. I flattered myself that effect was artistic.

The elder lady introduced herself as Mrs. Beljay, who had brought her daughter to sit to me. Actually there-my first sitter! She was soon seated in the chair with a blue mantle thrown over her. I asked her to incline her head slightly and to fold her hands-they were very pretty ones. "Do I not look like a wounded dove?" she asked her mother, and they began to laugh.

I begged her to keep her face still, and going across the room for something, carelessly brushed the cloth from Iphigenia, hoping the sight of that sorrowful countenance would give a more subdued expression to hers, but they both laughed very much, although evidently trying not to do so. They made little jokes and pretended they were laughing at those. Miss Beljay said she thought she could maintain the expression I wished if she had knitting with her, and other silly things; but a wild fear shot through me that they were laughing at Iphigenia, and I suddenly took it away. Then they became very quiet, and I made an excellent sketch. They wished to see it, but I could not permit them to, so soon. Mrs. Beljay said she did not think it could be like, for Fanny had never been so still in her life before. I started at the name. also is Fanny!" I thought, "but not my Fanny Ann."

"She

When they were going away Mrs. Beljay told me they were to have a little party in the evening, and she hoped I

would come with her nephew, Mr. Ochre.

There was an opening into society! I had a nice dress coat and light vest that had belonged to my father, and had been made over for me by my mother, two years before. I bought a new cravat, and spent two hours trying to brush the curls out of my hair and make it look as smooth as that of the young gentlemen I had seen in Broadway. I went to call for Mr. Ochre, very well pleased with myself; I certainly looked much better than he did.

Upon entering the room I was at first dazzled, as I had been by the gilt frames at the Exhibition. There was a great crowd of people, a great deal of noise, and light, and bewilderment. I withdrew into a corner to regain my composure; taking care, however, to stand where Í could observe Miss Beljay, for even in the confusion of making my bow, I had seen at a glance that she greatly resembled Jephthah's daughter. I had thought so a little in the morning, but now I was sure of it; she was so tall and dignified when she was standing, and had on a pink dress too, very long and flowing,-nothing was wanting but the blue mantle.

While I was thus gazing in silence she brought her father and introduced me to him. They conversed with me some time, and were evidently much pleased with me, for they invited me to dine with them the next day.

I was invited there very often during the three weeks Miss Beljay was sitting, much to my own satisfaction. On my way thither one evening with Ochre, he said to me, "It is a good thing to visit in the family of a sitter, you have so many chances of studying your subject. It was on this account that I advised Mrs. Beljay to invite you to her house."

To him, then, I owed all my invitations and not to my own attractions. I had a great mind not to accept any more, but such opportunities of seeing Miss Beljay were not to be resisted.

At length I announced that the portrait was finished, and Mr. Ochre came with the ladies to see it. He looked from the painting to Miss Beljay and back again to the painting, smiling a little because she smiled, as young ladies often will when looked at. "The mantle is pretty good," he said, at length, "and the mouth is a little like."

I believe I should have made some very fierce reply if the ladies had not been there. As it was I turned with great calmness to Mrs. Beljay, and asked her what she thought of it. "It is a little like her,"

she answered, "only much more pensive."

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Fanny, will you please to sit in the chair and hold your head down," said Ochre. "Now let me see. You have made the nose too straight; Fanny's, although a very good one, is not Grecian." There she fairly laughed. "You must have been thinking of some ideal of yours. Neither do her lids droop so heavily; you should have opened the eyes with a more sunny expression. The mouth is a little like, as I told you before, and so is the outline of the face. The mantle hides the fine turn of the head and the beautiful hair. The hands are well enough, only they have not the usual allowance of joints. As for the coloring-it is like plaster of Paris, but that is because you wished to paint her pale, à la Magdalen, perhaps. You must have chosen this style before you had seen her, I think." (I felt a guilty consciousness that I had done so.) "Let me show you how I think she should be drawn."

He sketched in a head, lightly set on the throat, and turning with an arch expression as the figure moved away.

The

hair, softly waving on the forehead was knotted behind, and a flower fell gracefully on one side. The whole figure was airy and elegant.

"There, that is my cousin Fanny as I know her. What do you say, Aunt Julia ?"

"It is Fanny herself-nothing could be better!"

I could not but admire the sketch, so free, so characteristic, so lovely, so like the beautiful form which had been before me day after day, and had been hidden from me beneath the mantle of my own misconception. After they had gone away I looked at my poor head, so weak, so spiritless, and turned it with its face to the wall. "All, all wrong!" I exclaimed, and hiding my face in my hands I should have wept if I had been a boy-but I was eighteen years old, and could not indulge in that. I remembered all the happy, hopeful days I had passed in painting it, all the apparent kindness that had been bestowed upon me, and now they had gone and would never think of me again, or only laugh at my foolish endeavor. Í almost vowed that I would never touch a brush again, and going out wandered about the streets all the evening, with the saddest heart.

The next day I could not return to my studio. I walked down Broadway and round about the Battery. The waves were breaking against the stones, and I

I walked up

thought I would go to sea. Broadway and went into the Exhibition; I saw my two portraits and wished I could shoot them. I looked at every picture in the room, to see if there were any as bad as mine, and found there were many, but was not encouraged by them. My eyes seemed opened by magic. I saw how poor most of them were even in promise, and appreciated the good ones as I had never done before, remembering many things Ochre had said about them, which I had scarcely noticed at the time. I saw that difficulties had been conquered of which I had never dreamed, and that all I had hitherto done was mere child's play. I went toward Ochre's studio, and thought I would go in and ask him to take me as a pupil again, but feared he would not think it worth while. While I paced to and fro on the side-walk, Miss Beljay and her mother came down the steps. I knew she had been sitting to Ochre, but they did not tell me so. They shook hands with me, and Mrs. Beljay said I must send home the picture as soon as it was ready; remarked that it was a pleasant day, &c.; hoped I would be at her reception in the evening; I must come every Thursday, she said, when I was not otherwise engaged.

How the sun shone-how very pleasant the day had become! I ran up into Ochre's room and asked him to take me back. "Gumbo," he said, "you know I would not for the world extinguish the least spark of genius in you or in any one, but think for yourself. You have been painting three or four years, and what does it amount to? You cannot paint a picture that begins to be good. I know you have some talent, but many have as much who do not think of painting as a profession, because they know not to excel in it is to fail. I know I am not a good painter myself," and he looked sadly round his studio, "but will you ever be even so good a one? If not, to devote yourself to Art will be to throw yourself into a sea in which you cannot swim. Would it not be wiser to choose an occupation in which you will be master of your faculties, than one in which you will be the victim of endless hopes, delusions, and disappointments. Think of your mother, too, who can ill spare the money she sends you. For her sake, as well as for your own, I advise you to accept an offer which Mr. Beljay is about to make you. He has occasion, he says, to employ an honest, intelligent young man in his business, and thinks you are such a one as he wants. You will still have some

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