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He's exceedingly clever, a man made to be distinguished; but, as I tell you, you exhaust the description when you say he's Mr. Osmond who lives tout betement in Italy. No career, no name, no position, no fortune, no past, no future, no anything. Oh yes, he paints, if you please paints in water-colours; like me, only better than I. His painting's pretty bad; on the whole I'm rather glad of that.

The poet of the 'Inferno' wrote of his friend: ......... Cimabue thought To lord it over painting's field; and now The cry is Giotto's, and his name eclipsed. Petrarch bequeathed in his will a Madonna by Giotto and mentioned it as a rare treasure of art.

"Sometimes I want Mike to help me we're awfully short of hands just now I mean, for hands that you can absolutely trust, so if you get into the thing you could do some of Mike's work and let him off." "I'd love to, and you know my capability as well as anyone, so if you think I could I'll do my best." "You'll soon know as much as Mike did when he came here, and your painting's all right."

Filled with an undue sense of his own importance, he buttonholed the master and pointing to one picture said: "That's good, first-rate, a lovely bit of colour; but that, you know," he went on, jerking his finger over his shoulder at another picture, "that's bad, drawing all wrong . . . bad!" "My dear fellow," cried Whistler, "you must never say that this painting's good or that bad, never!

Painting's a trade; and not rightly to be understood by them that's not larned it, nor to be picked up by all as can scrawl a line here and a line there, as the whim takes 'em. Take oak-graining," and here Master Linseed paused again, with a fine sense of effect, "who'd ever think of taking a comb to it as didn't know?

At length, her spirits were entirely overcome, and she retired to her room. Can Music's voice, can Beauty's eye, Can Painting's glowing hand supply A charm so suited to my mind, As blows this hollow gust of wind? As drops this little weeping rill, Soft tinkling down the moss-grown hill; While, through the west, where sinks the crimson day, Meek Twilight slowly sails, and waves her banners gray?

All these experiences may be most likely will be his, and yet he will find in the exercise of his art, both in preparation and performance such a pleasure, and such a sense of mental exaltation, as nothing else can bring. A born artist loves to paint for painting's sake; to such an one there is something almost sacramental in the very mixing of the colours.

"I was thinking how little Cimabue then thought that this poor, ignorant shepherd-boy would ever cause these lines to be written: "Cimabue thought to lord it over painting's field: But now the cry is Giotto, and his name's eclipsed." "Yes, indeed!

"Then what may it be, makin' so bold?" "I'll tell ye when the painting's done." "A couple of strokes, and it's finished," said the artist, cocking his head on one side and screwing up his blue eyes. "There, I'll tell you plainly, friend, that my skill is but a seven-and-sixpenny matter, or a trifle beyond.

Filled with an undue sense of his own importance, he buttonholed the master and pointing to one picture said: "That's good, first-rate, a lovely bit of colour; but that, you know," he went on, jerking his finger over his shoulder at another picture, "that's bad, drawing all wrong ... bad!" "My dear fellow," cried Whistler, "you must never say that this painting's good or that bad, never!