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The second act, which paints the intrigues and loves of depraved women, by means of which the conspiracy was brought to light, treads closely on comedy; the last three acts contain a history in dialogue, developed with much good sense, but little poetical elevation. It is to be lamented that Jonson gave only his own text of Sejanus without communicating Shakspeare's alterations.
Have I done anything you didn't like?" demanded Mary Allen, as she extricated her thumb from the hole of a palette on which oil paints proved that she had forsaken for the moment her love of water colors. "Why why I don't understand!" exclaimed Jimmy, helplessly. "Don't understand? I thought you promised to write?"
One indeed feels sub-consciously that they are detestable not a whit better than the angry friar paints them. One sympathizes intellectually with his fierce denunciation and pities the land that is exposed to such a scourge. And yet such is the poetic glamour thrown over them feelings of this kind never become dominant.
There is a story told of an artist's apprentice, who made a considerable sum of money by selling the washings of his master's brushes when the latter was using a great quantity of ultramarine; and that shows the costliness of mere paints at that time.
"A tailor who builds a palace to live in," said she, "is a vulgar tailor, and an artist who paints the tailor and his palace as though he were painting a doge of Venice, is a vulgar artist." "But, Mrs. Dyer," replied her hostess coldly, "I don't believe there was any real difference between a doge of Venice and a doge of New York.
To these, nevertheless, there must be added another scarcely less important, namely, that the early Italians were ignorant of the use of what we now call oil paints, and worked entirely in tempera that is to say, there was no admixture of oil or varnish with their pigments.
The genealogy of the whole family is confirmed by the general term which includes them all: in English, Zany; in Italian, Zanni; in the Latin, Sannio; and a passage in "Cicero De Oratore," paints Harlequin and his brother gesticulators after the life; the perpetual trembling motion of their limbs, their ludicrous and flexible gestures, and all the mimicry of their faces: "Quid enim potest tam ridiculum quam Sannio esse?
Mildew has got into the canvas. The paints I used had some wretched mineral poison in them. I tell you the thing is impossible." "Ah, what is impossible?" murmured the young man, going over to the window and leaning his forehead against the cold, mist-stained glass. "You told me you had destroyed it." "I was wrong. It has destroyed me." "I don't believe it is my picture."
It was all right, because H. O.'s paint-box is the French kind, with Couleurs non Veneneuses on it. This means you may suck your brushes if you want to, or even your paints if you are a very little boy. It was rather jolly while Noel had that cold.
Macdonald paints a lurid picture of the conspirators at work of Diderot penning his false and malignant instructions, of Madame d'Epinay's half-unwilling hand putting the last touches to the fraud, of Grimm, rushing back to Paris at the time of the Revolution, and risking his life in order to make quite certain that the result of all these efforts should reach posterity.
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