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Not only does Duerer insist on the necessity of a certain consonancy between the surrounding influences and the artist's capacity, which should be both called forth and relieved by the interchange of rivalry with instruction, of seclusion with music or society, but the process which Jesus made the central one of his religion is put forward as essential; he must form himself on a precedent example.

It was quite safe to go anywhere, to canter far along the road to Magnesia, or to stop and take coffee beside some cool spring in the shadow of the huge plane-trees, and watch the whole East pass by caravans from Diarbekir, half-wild Turcoman tribes, bashi-bazouks from the four corners of Asia, all of them worthy subjects for an artist's pencil, and I never stopped drawing them.

Another half hour's stroll and we find ourselves in an atmosphere of art, fashion and sociability. Only a mile either of woodland, field path or high road separates Bourron from its more populous and highly popular neighbour, Marlotte. Here every house has an artist's north window, the road is alive with motor cars, you can even buy a newspaper!

An actress improvising her part, she regulated every tone with perfect skill, with inspiration; the very attitude in which she seated herself was a triumph of the artist's felicity. 'I just said a word or two in my note, she resumed, 'that you might have replied if you thought nothing could be gained by my speaking to you. I couldn't explain fully what I had in mind.

Yet, in so far as they are rightly arts, they do not make imitation an object in itself. The grapes of Zeuxis at which birds pecked, the painted dog at which a cat's hair bristles if such grapes or such a dog were ever put on canvas are but evidences of the artist's skill, not of his faculty as artist.

Memba Sasa knew these things, and he performed them with the artist's love for details; and his keen eyes were always spying for new ways. At a certain time I shot an egret, and prepared to take the skin. Memba Sasa asked if he might watch me do it.

'I will do better than that, she said; 'I will get some friend of mine to take you to-morrow to "Les Trois Rats." 'What is "Les Trois Rats"? he asked, half wounded and half mystified. "Les Trois Rats," Monsieur, is an artist's cafe. It is famous, it is characteristic; if you are in search of local colour you must certainly go there.

"She has not been here," returned the officer, coolly. "Good God!" exclaimed the other, stunned and bewildered by the positive words. Blindly, he turned toward his horse. Brian Oakley, stepping forward, put his hand on the artist's shoulder. "Come, old man, pull yourself together and let a little light in on this matter," he said calmly. "Tell me what has happened.

On receiving Monsieur Gaston's letter, my first idea was to write to the sculptor and ask him to come and see me, but finding that he was not entirely recovered from his wound, I went, accompanied by my husband and Nais, to the artist's studio, which we found in a pleasant little house in the rue de l'Ouest, behind the garden of the Luxembourg, one of the most retired quarters of Paris.

She was, in truth, a little tired of Mrs. Davant, who was Keniston's latest worshipper, who ordered pictures recklessly, who paid for them regally in advance, and whose gallery was, figuratively speaking, crowded with the artist's unpainted masterpieces. Claudia's impatience was perhaps complicated by the uneasy sense that Mrs.