Jean Paul Richter, 'And so the Sun stands
at the border of the Earth, and looks back on his stately Spring,
whose robe-folds are valleys, whose breast-bouquet is gardens, whose
blush is a vernal evening, and who, when she rises, will be Summer.'
Still it was vague, and eluded me, until I found somewhere in my most
desultory reading, an account of '_Espendermad_,' one of the six
angels of Ormuzd, to whom was entrusted the guardianship of the earth.
That night I dreamed that I stood under a vine at Schiraz, gathering
golden-tinted grapes, when a voice arrested me, and, looking over my
shoulder, I saw that face peeping at me across a hedge of crimson
roses. Next day I sketched the features as they had appeared in my
dream, but I was not fully satisfied, and waited and pondered.
Finally, I read 'Madonna Mia,' and then all was as you see it now,
startlingly distinct and palpable."

"Why did you not select some dusky-haired, dusky-eyed, olive-tinted
oriental type, instead of a blonde who might safely venture into
Valhalla as a genuine Celtic Iduna?"

"With the exception of the yellow locks, I suspect the face of my
'_Espendermad_' might easily be matched among the maidens of the
Caucasus, who furnish the most perfect types of Circassian beauty. You
know there is a tradition that when Leonardo da Vinci chanced to meet
a man with an expression of character that he wished to make use of in
his work, he followed him until he was able to delineate the face on
canvas; but, on the contrary, the countenances I paint present
themselves to my imagination, and pursue me inexorably until I put
them into pigment. I do not possess ideals,--they seize and possess
me, teasing me for form and color, and forcing me to object them on
canvas. Such is the _modus operandi_ of whims that give me my
'_Espendermad_' praying to the Sun for benisons on the Earth, which
she is appointed to guard. Ah, if like the lambkins and birds, I, too,
could creep to the starry border of her azure robe, and lay my weary
head down and find repose. Some day, if my mind ever grows calm
enough, I want to paint a picture of Rest, that I can hang on my wall
and look upon when I am worn out in body and soul, when, indeed,--

'My feet are wearied, and my hands are tired,
My heart oppressed,
And I desire, what I long desired,
Rest,--only Rest.'"

"My dear madam, unless you speedily change your present mode of life,
you will not paint that contem