The average man sees things in the mass, and therefore sees nothing; everything, to his vision, is run together in hopeless jumble:  all is discord, confusion—­inextricable confusion worse confounded.

But the artist who is also a scientist (whether he knows it or not) discovers that in the seeming confusion, order, method and law yet reign supreme.  And to prove his point he lifts from the tangle of things one simple, single scene and shows this, and this alone, in all its full and rounded completeness—­beautiful as a snow-crystal on the slide of a microscope.

All art consists in this:  to show the harmony of a part.  And having seen the harmony of a part we pass on to a point where we can guess the harmony of the whole.  Whether you be painter, sculptor, musician or writer, all your endeavors are toward lifting from the mass of things a scene, a form, a harmony, a truth, and, relieving it from all that distracts, catch it in immortal amber.

The writer merely unearths truth:  truth has always existed:  he lifts it out of the mass, and holding it up where others can see it, the discerning cry, “Yes, yes—­we recognize it!” The musician takes the sound he needs from the winds blowing through the forest branches, constructs a harp strung with Apollo’s golden hair, and behold, we have a symphony!  The wrongs of a race in bondage never touched the hearts of men until a woman lifted out a single, solitary black man and showed us the stripes upon the quivering back of Uncle Tom.  One human being nailed to a cross reveals the concentrated woes of earth; and as we gaze upon the picture, into our hard hearts there comes creeping a desire to lessen the sorrows of the world by an increased love; and a gentleness and sympathy are ours such as we have never before known.

Fortuny is king of the modern school of Spanish painters.  His genius made an epoch, and worked a revolution in the art of his country—­and, some have said, in the art of the time.

As a nation it may be that Spain is crumbling into dust, but her rotting ruins will yet fertilize many a bank of violets.  Certain it is that no modern art surpasses the art of Spain; and for once Italy must go to Spain for her pattern.

ARY SCHEFFER

The artistic tastes of the Princess, the lofty range of her understanding, her liberality, and the sterling benevolence of her mind all combined to engender a coldness and lack of sympathy between herself and the persons composing the Court.

In the heart of the Princess dwelt a deep religious faith, such as becomes a noble, womanly heart.  Nevertheless, her ardent mind sought to penetrate every mystery, so she was often accused of being a doubter—­when the reverse was really true.

    —­Ary Scheffer to His Brother Arnola

[Illustration:  Ary Scheffer]