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hibited in the Salon of 1851. It was very badly placed, being in the first hall near the staircase. Everybody passed without giving it a glance. "One day, Corot, seeing that no one noticed it, said to himself: Men are like flies; if one lights on a plate, others will follow immediately. Perhaps if I stand here and seem to be interested, it will make some one else stop, too.' So it proved. Very soon a young couple approached the picture. The gentleman said: "That is not bad; seems to me there is something in it.' But his wife, with a languid glance, drew him away, saying, 'It is frightful; let us go.' 'Now,' said Corot to himself, 'are you satisfied? You wanted to know the opinion of the public, and you have it! So much the worse if you don't like it.' After hanging on the wall of my atelier for several years, without notice, this same picture was bought one day by a courageous individual, who gave me seven hundred francs. Afterward he sold it at public sale for twelve thousand, and the purchaser was so delighted with his bargain that he gave a dinner, and I was invited and overwhelmed with kindness. Yet it was the very picture that once no one wanted. I am doing the same things now; only, after forty years of work, they run after them. It is not I who have changed; it is the triumph of my principles, and I swim in happiness."

This constancy to principles he unceasingly preached to his pupils, and to all young artists. To him the first duty was sincerity, to render the truth. "It is not at once that the artist comes into possession of the means to do this, of the instruments necessary to transmit the thought; but it can be gained little by little each day, and in the course of life sooner or later his object will be attained; but it is only by working without ceasing, studying always to make progress. Can you make a sky, a tree, or the water? No! We but seek the ap

pearance; we must try to imitate them by an artifice that can always be improved. Movement is nearly impossible to render, and yet we ought to give an idea of it. If I paint a wheel, the spokes of which I see in rapid motion without being able to distinguish them, I ought to show in some way that it is turning. As to the sky, it is profound and changeable, full of vibrations, and this effect is not easy to give. This is why, knowing our weak points, I am always trying to go farther, to learn more. Some have said to me, 'There is no need of your studying more.' It is not that; one must be always learning. Ah!" said he, pointing to his easel, "all my happiness is there. I have followed my way without changing, and for a long time without success; but it came at last, the compensation for a neglected youth, and I am the happiest man in the world!"

At another time, in talking of certain things generally considered essential, he said: "There are but four principal points: form, by drawing; color, which results from truth in 'values;' sentiment, from which comes expression; and last, execution, to render the whole complete. As to myself, I believe I have sentiment—that is to say, a little poetry in my soul-which shows me how to express in a certain way that which I see; but I do not always have color, and of drawing I have but the elements. My execution, also, is faulty. This is why. I still work, and say to the young, 'Seek above all that which you feel you lack; try to perfect your drawing, for it is of the first importance, but above all obey your instincts in your manner of seeing

it is what I call sincerity—and do not trouble yourself with the rest.' It is the same with a head. For a portrait, the artist ought to study the model, see him in his joy or sadness, his anger, or when some other sentiment touches him; and the brush should indicate all this. It

should not be a gay man, or a sad one, but the complete man, the entire' physiognomy of this mobile being; not for one moment-photography gives us that -but a portrait of all times, each moment." All this is very simple and just, and is what the "masters" have succeeded in doing.

The pictures which he exhibited in 1859 were remarkable. His horizon seemed to extend, and embraced not only the tender and poetic side of nature, but touched the grand epics of Dante and the drama of Shakspeare. His fertile imagination had need of the aliment he found in the creations of the poets, and he lent a willing ear to their songs. He abandoned the open air, the running brook, and the broad prairie, to follow Dante into the obscure and murky forests of the poet's hell. Struck with the grandeur of the opening of the "Divine Comedy," Corot represented Dante and Virgil at the entrance of hell, when Virgil says to his companion, "It is better that you should follow me; I will be your guide." They are placed before a sombre mass of trees and rocks, which occupy the right of the picture. Near them are the lion and panther. At the left, where the light streams in, is seen the she-wolf which so frightened Dante, and which is admirably expressed in his attitude. Virgil is calm, and with a simple gesture indicates the way. This is a faithful translation of the Florentine poet. The general effect of the picture is grand. The expression of the figures is noble and just, showing to advantage the serious side of the artist's nature.

In another picture, still following the supernatural, he represents "The appearance of the three witches to Macbeth and Banquo," who arrive on horseback, and find themselves confronted by the spectres, who have scarcely a corporeal substance and will soon disappear in the air. The painter has understood the poet. The sky in greater part is full

of light, but banded with sombre clouds, seemingly full of flashing lightning. The effect is startling.

During the last war, Corot, foreseeing the siege of Paris, returned in August, and remained in the city during those trying times. Speaking of those days, he said: "I took refuge in painting, working hard; without that I should have gone crazy." He added very severe things against those who caused the war, and set folk to cutting each other's throats. This sensitive and delicate nature had a horror of this remnant of barbarism; he even found it "beastly." "Is it not inconceivable that there are men who would be proud to destroy the Louvre, and put cannon, petroleum, and dead bodies in its place?" While busy with his work he did not forget the wounded and their dire necessities, but visited them and comforted them by his sympathy and presence, allowing nothing to be wanting for their comfort that it was possible to procure. Corot opened his purse so willingly, that he had clients who did not seem to realize how frequent their calls were. He would go simply to the drawer and take out what was asked for, and give it to the solicitor as a matter of course. One of his friends, who saw this, said: "What a generous heart!" "Not at all," he replied "it is nothing. It is my temperament and my happiness. I can earn it again so soon, just in making a little branch. All I do costs me nothing, and I work better with a heart at ease. At one time I gave 1,000 francs from my little hoard. It was a great deal; but the next day I sold a picture for 6,000. You see that made me happy. It is always so."

Corot scarcely felt the weight of years; his faculties remained in their integrity, and he knew nothing of the usual indifference of the old, when everything has lost its power to charm, and life becomes a tale that is told.

His picture for the Salon of 1874 was very beautiful, but did not bring him the grand medal of honor, much to the surprise of everybody. When the decision of the jury became known, a reunion of his friends took place, and a letter was addressed to him expressing the warmest admiration of his work and regret at the decision of the jury. This was the general feeling, and proved the germ of a movement which spread in the artistic world, and which culminated in offering him a gold medal, to be procured by subscription.

About this time his heretofore excellent health began to fail; and the death of the sister he so dearly loved, who was near his own age and with whom he had always lived, was accepted as a warning of his own approaching end. It was at this time he made the rule to receive but one or two visitors to his atelier at the same time; by doing this he could talk and work, too, without too much fatigue. The 29th of December, 1874, a fête was given in his honor at the Grand Hotel. There were between three and four hundred persons present. At nine o'clock Corot entered, leaning on the arm of M. Marcotte; he was warmly received, and when quiet was restored, and the old man seated at the end of the hall, near a table on which was a small jewel-case, the president of the committee on subscription said, very simply: "Gentlemen, there will be no speech. There is too much to say of the man and the artist! This medal will speak for us!" It was enough-in perfect taste, and also in harmony with the character of him for whom the gift was intended. The medal is nearly nine centimetres in diameter. Upon one side is a profile-portrait of Corot, surrounded by the legend:

"A. COROT.

"Ses confrères et ses admirateurs.
Juin, 1874."

On the reverse, the emblems of the ar

tist

—a palette and brushes in a wreath of laurel. When his health was drank he was heard to say, in a low voice, "What happiness to be so loved!" Soon after this his health failed rapidly, but still he finished the pictures intended for the Salon of 1875. They were his last work, for even before he had signed them he had ceased to go to the atelier, and they were brought to his bed-side to receive his name—the last touch of his brush. After the effort he said: "That is all; I have finished." His disease proved to be dropsy, and beyond the reach of medicine. When he saw the end approaching, he said: "I am almost resigned. It is not easy to say. I have worked a long time, but I do not complain. Far from it; I have had the best of health for seventy-eight years; love for nature, painting, and work. My relatives are good people. I have had good friends, and have tried to do no evil. My lot in life has been excellent, and, far from repining, I am grateful. I must go. I don't want to believe it, and I have yet a little hope."

During his last days his mind still dwelt on his pictures, and, with fingers disposed as if holding a brush, he traced imaginary lines on the wall, exclaiming: "How beautiful! Never have I seen such an admirable landscape!"* After this he desired to see the Curé de Coubron, whom he greatly esteemed. "My father died thus; I wish to do as he did!" was his only explanation for a wish so unexpected. His desire was gratified. There is nothing to be said. Matters of conscience ought to be absolutely respected. According to the teachings of the Bible, he was good, loving, and charitable; what would you have more? Creeds have but a relative value. Wisdom is the object, and there are many examples, Socrates among others. Corot loved the poetic symbols by which the ancients had Troyon in his delirium did the same.

written their ideas and hopes, and he has, under the influence of such feelings, rendered homage to the godsthe friends of the arts, venerated in Greece. One time, "the third day of the month, which was in Rome that of the great ides of April, he took part with his comrades in the inauguration of the antique head of Jupiter Phillios, protector of friendship, father of the ingenious Minerva, the laughing Venus of Apollo, the adorable Muses, who was a tolerant god, worshiped by Pythagoras and Phidias, as well as Homer and Orpheus. An eloquent invocation was pronounced by one of the posterity of those who built the temples. Two torches were held near the venerable image-one by M. Barye, the other by Corot, the author of the 'Dance of the Nymphs."

The crowd which filled the main body of the church was in some respects peculiar, and from a certain style of dress and manner of wearing the hair, the artistic element could be very readily discovered as being in the majority. The services were impressive and touching, and bore witness to the esteem and regret felt for the loss of a good man and a great artist.

Unhappily an incident occurred to mar the solemnity of the occasion. Much to everyone's surprise-for it is not customary there to pronounce funeral discourses in the church-the priest in attendance mounted the pulpit and began to address the people. After having announced that Corot had confessed and received the communion some days before his death, he added: "I ran over all the journals printed in Paris yesterday, and in the concert of praises given to the artist and the man, one alone de

The scene which is thus recalled was simply an act of respect toward tradition, and in one way a salutation addressed by the artists to their ancestors-the civ-clared that the deceased was a spiritu ilizers, par excellence. Corot was of their race, and belonged to those elevated spirits who are an honor to humanity. His rôle, in a time when there was little place for the ideal, was to draw us to nature, make us understand her charms, dream of her mysteries of eternity.

Corot died in Paris the 23d day of February, 1875. His funeral took place on the 25th, at the Church of St. Eugene, and was attended by an immense crowd. Carriages were forced into the adjoining streets by the swaying mass. From the Rue du Faubourg - Poissonniére to the door of the church the sidewalks were crowded by a public full of emotion, and desiring to show their respect. The coffin was covered with fresh flowers, and the gold medal struck in his honor reposed on a velvet cushion by the side of his cross of officer of the Legion of Honor. In a few moments the three aisles of the church were filled. The sides had been occupied in advance by ladies dressed in mourning.

alist; it did not dare to say that he died a Christian! Look at the signs of the times! Mark the degradation of the soul" Here he was interrupted by murmurs and a storm of hisses; but he continued in a bitter exasperating tone, until another incident put an end to the shameful disorder produced by the harangue. A poor woman, said to be an imbecile, excited by the tumult, jumped upon a seat, and with piercing cries attracted the attention of the assembly. The curé concluded then to allow the service to proceed. The requiem sung by Faure did not succeed in calming the excitement. After the mass was concluded, the same crowd followed the funeral-car to the cemetery, where M. Chennevières, Director of the Beaux Arts, pronounced a very touching and eloquent address.

As to the place Corot will occupy as an artist in the future, it is too soon to judge. It is impossible to form an impartial and correct estimate of a man's

influence on the art of his time, while still the magnetism of his presence is round us, and the sound of his voice is in our ears. That it is a marked one none will deny. A life-work of fifty years of unceasing industry, with one aim kept constantly in view, can not fail of leaving its impress on the next generation of painters. Indeed, it is al

ready seen in the works of D'Aubigny, Francais, and many other prominent names. Corot's work carefully avoids all that is meretricious in treatment and color, and appeals only to the most elevated sentiments. An artist of whom this can be said surely merits a high place upon the roll of contemporary painters.

AM

A BARBARIC YAWP.

MONG the many graceful affectations which haunt the newly-built walls of what we may call the structure of American intellect, there is none more beautiful and harmless than that which expresses a full apprehension and comprehension of the motives, emotions, objects, and convictions which impressed Shakspeare, while he was writing his great plays for the London stage. To stand as a demonstrator of the anatomy of the Shakspearean intellect is a proud position. Except that of preaching the gospel, there is no more exalted position; nor, we might add, a position more practically useless or purely ornamental. Yet, if Shakspeare wrote under the pressure which commonly weighs upon authors who write to live, there can be no doubt that the object he had in view might be expressed thus: £ s. d.-and the only questions he put to himself were: "Will these characters draw crowds to the 'Globe?'" "Do these parts fit the men of our company?" and "Can Dick Burbage, as chief actor, bring down the house and raise the groundlings with these round sentences of full-chested English?"

If the character and convictions of authors, in matters about which they are not writing, are to be found in the general tone of what they do write about, then it were easy to follow the care and

caution through which minute truth is pursued in the Baconian books of philosophy, and triumphantly conclude that Francis Bacon loved the truth in all things, and was a most honorable upright man; yet we know, if biography knows anything, that Francis Bacon was a moral snob, a social sepulchre, a character black to rottenness with the gangrene of official corruption. And yet, withal, Bacon had an architectural, Gothic-like, solemnly high-arched veneration for the beauty of sacred things! And here, by the by, we may make a sporadic jump, and break out in a new place, to observe that great veneration for sacred things is often the high ideal accompaniment of a petty-larceny character; and that a gushing holy devotion and an eloquent pious ardor sometimes walk up the short church stair-way hand in hand with a moist-lipped lechery.

That the dyer's hand may be temporarily the color of his dye-stuff is true; but you can not tell, by looking into his dye-pots and measuring his yarn, what manner of man he was, particularly after he is dead, and you have read his epitaph written by the village curate, and the scrivener's chronic verbiage in his last will.

That Shakspeare was absorbed in his art-determined to live by it and die

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