together a
number of blocks and planks, and a lofty scaffold was soon raised
within the screen.

"Now hand up quickly," cried Berthold, as he ascended.

I was astonished at the rapidity with which Berthold made a large copy
of the drawing; he drew his lines boldly, and always clearly and
correctly, without a single fault. Having been accustomed to such
matters in my early youth, I was of good service to him, for standing,
now above him, now below him, I fixed the long rulers at the points he
indicated, and held them fast, pointed the charcoal, and handed it to
him, and so on.

"You are a capital assistant," cried Berthold, quite delighted.

"And you," I retorted, "are one of the best architectural painters
possible. But tell me, have you applied your bold, ready hand to no
sort of painting but this?--Pardon the question."

"What do you mean?" said Berthold.

"Why, I mean," replied I, "that you are fit for something better than
painting church walls with marble pillars. Architectural painting is,
after all, something subordinate; the historical painter, the landscape
painter, stands infinitely higher. With them, mind and fancy, no
longer confined to the narrow limits of geometrical lines, take a
higher flight. Even the only fantastic part of your painting, that
perspective, which deceives the senses, depends upon accurate
calculation, and the result therefore is the product not of genius, but
of mathematical speculation." While I was speaking thus, the painter
laid aside his pencil, and rested his head on his hand.

"Friend stranger," he began, in a solemn, indistinct voice, "thou
speakest profanely, when thou endeavourest to arrange the different
branches of art according to rank, like the vassals of some proud king.
And still more profane is it, when thou only esteemest those
presumptuous fools who, being deaf to the clang of the fetters that
enslave them, and being without feeling for the pressure of the earthy,
wish to think themselves free--yea, even to be gods--and to rule light
and life after their own fashion. Dost thou know the fable of
Prometheus, who wished to be a creator, and stole fire from heaven to
animate his lifeless figures? He succeeded; the forms stalked living
along, and from their eyes beamed forth that heavenly fire that burned
within them; but the impious being, who had dared to attempt the
divine, was condemned to fearful, endless torment, without redemption.
The heart which had