er and glory the envy of the earth. There is the promise made to Jacob that he shall rule. We look for the fulfilment of this promise in the bestowal of greater strength and glory than the nation has ever known."

"And yet," said the Roman, a touch of disdain in his voice, "a power only dreamed of when these promises were made, usurps the throne and the sceptre of David and grinds Israel under his iron hoof."

"And worse still," rejoined the Jew, "we see this cruel rule enforced by the hand of the Idumean Herod. And we of Israel have not dreamed that Jacob would ever be subject to the brother who sold his birthright."

He was thoughtful again for a moment. Then he slowly added, “I am of the tribe of Judah, of the house of David; and hold the promise that from this kingly tribe the sceptre will not pass nor a ruler from between his feet, until Shiloh come. Is it any wonder, Marcus, that the royal blood flowing in my veins sometimes cries out at the oppression of my people? Dost thou wonder that often, when proving my oath of fealty to the rule of Rome, I hear their cry for deliverance and am tempted for a moment to forsake my allegiance? But perhaps I should not speak of this to one who "

"Fear me not, friend," answered the other. "Thy words are safe with me, especially as I know they are but the expression of a momentary feeling. The cross, my Joseph, is a potent argument.".

Both men shuddered at the recollection of cruel executions they had witnessed, and for a while they were silent. "I have thought of the past history of my people," mused Joseph at length, "and have remembered how victorious they were in

war; how the wisdom of proverbs and the beauty and wealth of epic and lyric poured forth as a flood from the mouths of our inspired men; how the prophets of our people looked into the future and saw heathen kingdoms rise and fall. I have dreamed of a time when our vanished glory would come back to us; when aother Moses would arise to renew the law; another Joshua to lead our armies; another Elijah, or the first one, to give us strength and fire; another David to unite the people; another Solomon to blazon our glory to the world."

He paused a moment, and then passionately exclaimed, "Has God deserted His people? Are we given forever to our enemies? Must Japheth reign over Shem? Must Edom rule Israel? I have looked for the nation to awake like Samson from sleep sleep and shake the locks of strength and be free from oppression. And yet I hardly dare speak these words in the ear of my best friend; they are so useless, so worse than futile."

The soft rustle of a robe caught the ears of the two men, and both turned to see a woman pass from the palace to the open roadway. She was about eighteen years old, and, like all young women in oriental countries, fully matured. She possessed the soft, languid, sensuous beauty typical of the east, with voluptuous face and well developed form. The men watched her as she passed, Marcus with but cursory interest, for he had seen her often, not so the Jew. He saw and marked every movement of her graceful figure, soft, insinuating, fascinating. Accustomed as he was to the more modest beauty of the women of his own people, she revealed to him a new element of feminine attractiveness. He was brought to himself by the casual remark of his companion,

A study of the old masters is always a lesson in optimism. In turning over the accounts of their accomplishments one forever sees new affinities between man the artist (that is man the worker) and man the Infinite Spark. Man the artist struggling to realize in himself the intrinsic principle of existence, groping for it as in the dark with hands outstretched pitiless to an ungrateful humanity, searching it in depths of sorrow, and bewailing the littleness of his own power-subjugating it, as it were, to the thought of superior laws or greater affirmations in the unknown mysterious phenomena revolving about him so intensely profound-and man the Infinite Spark, unconscious of his boundless possibilities, touching the heart of his brotherhood with such tender grace and extreme veneration that he becomes, all unbeknown to himself, a synonym for Infinity itself.

Such is the story of the Florentines. When the light of classic Greece dawned on their civilization they gazed into it as children gaze. They did not understand its intensity nor did they realize its exact meaning. Thev took it rather as a complementary quality to the deficiencies of their time. It seemed to make clearer the Universal enigma they were attempting to solve, and spreading over the nation steadily. and sure, it lighted the darkest corners and permeated the most brilliant courts. As a result a gigantic enthusiasm was born that swept the nation before it in huge strides. At this epoch Florence was following the dogmas of church piety. Since

According to the law of the survival of the fittest there stand out now but a few names-Polloinolo, Verrocchio, Botticelli, Barlotommeo, Andrea del Sarto, Shirlandsio, Leonardo da Vinci, Michael Angelo and others of less importance. Not many names to come down from such an art period and yet what they stood for-might we say-almost explains existence itself. It would be a serious loss indeed if we had not these stars to serve our modern development. We cannot measure their worth by words. Yet there were other masters among them (whose names we do not know) if not continually touching the sublime heights of Michael Angelo, at least felt the heart throb of the Immortal Muse long enough to leave us legacies of inestimable. worth. And here is the affinity between man the struggler and man the Infinite Spark.

The lives of such men are interesting to contemplate. When we think of them living in this tremendous civilization, surrounded by influences possessing innumerable forces, born aloft by all absorbing ambitions, restless, anxious to produce, willing to sacrifice everything

to inscribe their names with the Immortal Few, and dying finally, stung to death by the quick tongue of criticism, go down to their graves without a name and unknown. No doubt they went sadly from the worldand there must have been the fatality of their ambition. To have gone through life struggling to realize secrets that make existence and to have passed out with the goal far away and intangible. On the other hand we who come after see the consolation. They were infinitely closer to that goal than those who merely crept and crawled and died without feeling the divine impulse of doing. And perhaps, too, although their names are never known and their life struggle is never heard, to have felt, only for one brief moment of their lives, the inner light that makes souls beautiful, was quite recompense enough.

An example of this sort is furnished by the Louvre. In the Salle Carre, made famous by the works of the greatest masters, hangs the "Portrait of a Young Man," dated as a work of the sixteenth century from the Florentine school-and unsigned. Critics have theorized a great deal about it, but have found no master to whose name they might attribute it. The whirlwind force of Michael Angelo or the tactile vision of Leonardo are not there. The peculiar delicacy Fra Barlotommeo and Titianic attempts of Andrea del Sarto are

of

equally uncharacteristic. Its stamp is individual. The face looks out from the canvas symbolic of a master whose name we do not know. Whether the portrait is of a model or of a friend, or even of the artist himself we are equally uncertain. Suffice is to us that it speaks. That is its consolation. No higher honors need be asked. The master, whoever he was, knew his subject well. Though he might not have understood any more than did his contemporaries that his creation was a masterpiece, he nevertheless touched a tender heart string of our humanity, and so he lives now infinitely greater than he knew. There lies the grand motive for accomplishment.

Is not that a face well worth knowing, those firm set contemplative lips, those eyes fixed on you, looking through you and beyond you? This was a child of ambition-keen and under tension, modeled from the soul of one who died unknown, and living after him as a witness to the glory of effort. Is not that a lesson in optimism?

Yet how often we hear these remarks-"But isn't art rather a hazardous profession?" "And aren't artists generally poor?" "Isn't it hard to gain a reputation as an artist?" Poor dumb creatures who make such remarks! How this unknown artist would have smiled— smiled sorrowing for their incapacity!

-Milten.