lf with the thought that "there is just as
good fish," etc. I will not quote Walt Whitman and say his feet were
tenoned and mortised in granite, but they were well planted on the
soil--and sometimes mired in clay.

Titian admired Giorgione; he admired him so much that he painted exactly
like him--or as nearly as he could.

Titian was a good-looking young man, but he was not handsome like
Giorgione. Yet Titian did his best; he patronized Giorgione's tailor,
imitated his dreamy, far-away look, used a brush with his left hand, and
painted with his thumb. His coloring was the same, and when he got a
commission to fresco the ceiling of a church he did it as nearly like
Giorgione frescoes as he could.

This kind of thing is not necessarily servile imitation--it is only
admiration tipped to t' other side. It is found everywhere in aspiring
youth and in every budding artist.

As in the animal kingdom, genius has its prototype. In the National
Gallery at London you will see in the Turner Room a "Claude Lorraine" and
a "Turner" hung side by side, as provided for in Turner's will. You would
swear, were the pictures not labeled, that one hand did them both. When
thirty, Turner admired Claude to a slavish degree; but we know there came
a time when he bravely set sail on a chartless sea, and left the great
Claude Lorraine far astern.

Titian loved Giorgione so well that he even imitated his faults. At first
this high compliment was pleasing to Giorgione; then he became
indifferent, and finally disgusted. The very sight of Titian gave him a
pain.

He avoided his society. He ceased to speak to him when they met, and
forbade his friends to mention the name "Titian" in his presence.

It was about this time that Giorgione's ladylove won fame by discarding
him in that foolish, fishwife fashion. He called his attendants and
instructed them thus: "Do not allow that painter from Cadore--never mind
his name--to attend my funeral--you understand?"

Then he turned his face to the wall and died.

In his studio were various pictures partly completed, for it seems to
have been his habit to get rest by turning from one piece of work to
another. His executors looked at these unfinished canvases in despair.
There was only one man in all Venice who could complete them, and that
was Titian.

Titian was sent for.

He came, completed the pictures, signed them with the dead man's name,
and gave them to the world.

"And," says the veracious