Unlike Harriet Martineau, who always put down her trumpet when anyone dared to disagree with her opinions, he delighted in a friendly controversy with anyone worthy of his steel.  He fought with patience and persistence for the rights of women to have equal education with men, and at last gained his point, but died before Barnard College was in existence.  Every student of Barnard ought to realize her individual indebtedness to this great educator, regarding him as the champion of women and their patron saint.

[Illustration:  PRESIDENT BARNARD OF COLUMBIA COLLEGE]

He was blessed in his home life.  Mrs. Barnard was his shield, sunshine, and strength.

* * * * *

Studio, 1271 Broadway,
corner 32d Street. 
April 8, 1887.

DEAR MISS SANBORN: 

I send you “Ovis Montana” or Mountain Sheep, who never enjoyed the daily papers or devoured a scrap of poetry.  The only civilized thing he ever did was to give his life for a piece of cold lead and got swindled at that.

To be grafted in your Album is immortality.

Sincerely yours,
ALBERT BIERSTADT.

This gift was a big surprise to me.  I was then corresponding with two Boston papers and one in the West.  I thought it discourteous in the artists of the new Impressionist school, to sneer a little at Bierstadt’s great paintings, as if he could ever be set back as a bye-gone or a has-been.  And it gave me great pleasure to say so.  I sent several letters to him, and one day I received a card asking me to call at his studio to look over some sketches.  He said he wanted me to help him to select a sketch out of quite a pile on the table, as he wished to make a painting of one for a friend.  I assured him I did not know enough to do that, but he insisted he was so busy that I must tell him which I thought would be most effective.  I looked at every one, feeling quite important, and at last selected the Mountain Sheep poised on a high peak in a striking pose.  A rare sight then.

At Christmas that splendid picture painted by Bierstadt was sent to our apartment for me.  Never before had I received such appreciation for my amateur scribbling.

Ah, me!  I was both complimented and proud.  But my humiliation soon came.  When I called to thank the kind donor and speak of the fine frame the mountain big-horn was now in, I was surprised to have Mr. Bierstadt present to me a tall, distinguished-looking foreigner as Munkacsy, the well-known Hungarian artist.  He was most cordial, saying in French that he was glad to meet an American woman who could doubtless answer many questions he was anxious to ask.  I could only partially get his meaning, so Bierstadt translated it to me.  And I, who could read and translate French easily, had never found time to learn to chat freely in any language but my own.  I could have cried right there; it was so mortifying, and I was losing such a pleasure.  I had the same pathetic experience with a Russian artist, Verestchagin, whose immense picture, revealing the horrors of war, was then on exhibition in New York.