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They mislead readers on important issues, and they are not so interesting as the masterpieces of Macaulay and Froude. Yet they have their uses. They give a superficial knowledge of great characters to those who will not read history. The field of history is too vast for ordinary people, who have no time for extensive reading even if they have the inclination.
Every day between nine and five Louis and Mike assemble in the basement of the Art Institute. The masterpieces arrive by the bushel, the truckload, the basketful. Louis unwraps them. Mike stacks them up. Louis then calls off their names and the names of geniuses responsible for them. Mike writes this vital information down in a book. Art is a contagious business.
"The face is lovely, and the portrait is considered one of Lely's rarest masterpieces. It used to hang over the chimney-piece in the drawing-room. My father had it placed here many years ago." "Perhaps because he discovered it was not a family portrait?" "On the contrary, because it grieves him to think it is a family portrait. Hush!
His friends protest against this judgment, and attribute it, ad nauseam, to "malevolence" and "envy." He is "teeming with noble thoughts," and these will put his work "on a level with the masterpieces of the Italian masters of the sixteenth century."
From the practical or literary point of view the one sign we have given in this country so far, that the stuff of masterpieces is in us and that we are capable of a great literature, is that America is bored by its own books. We let a French parson write a book for us on the simple life.
Although no visit to Orvieto is recorded by his biographers, the fame of these masterpieces by a man whose work at Florence had already influenced his youthful genius must certainly have attracted him to a city which lay on the direct route from Tuscany to the Campagna.
Franz Liszt passed away August 1, 1886, in the house of his friend, Herr Frohlich, near Wagner's Villa Wahnfried, Bayreuth, at the age of seventy-five. As was his custom every summer, Liszt was in Bayreuth, assisting in the production of Wagner's masterpieces, when he succumbed to pneumonia. Thus passed a great composer, a world famous piano virtuoso, and a noble and kindly spirit.
They have been married less than two years. He is 68 and she 28, so you see it was what they call a December and May union. It was worse. He is a bank president and his god is money his diversion sitting in his elegant library and reading de luxe editions of the world's literary masterpieces. She is young, and beautiful, and craves society, attention, admiration.
You shall take all my arias with you. Only let me go. But, good God! I shall not hear them my divine masterpieces! Oh! let me go, Signor Nicolo." "No," cried Nicolo, still on his knees, and tightly pressing the old gentleman's thin spindle-shanks together, "no, Signor Pasquale, I will not let you go until you give me your word that you will be present in my theatre the night after to-morrow.
It was my remembrance of the effect of his readings that caused me to urge, at a public address at Yale in 1903, the establishment not only of professorships but of readerships in English literature in all our greater institutions, urging especially that the readers thus called should every day present, with little if any note or comment, the masterpieces of our literature.
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