l."

"Eternal is scarcely the proper word," remarked Wolston: "the
celebrated fresco of Leonardo da Vinci, in the refectory of the
Dominicans at Milan, is nothing but a confused mass of colors and
figures."

"I answer that by saying that the painting in question is only a
fresco. Besides, I use the word eternal in a modified or relative
sense. A painting is preserved from generation to generation, whilst
its successive races of admirers are mingled with the dust. Then
suppose a painter in his studio; he cannot look around him without
awakening some memory of the past. He can associate with those he
loves when they are absent, nay, even when they are dead, and they
always remain young and beautiful as when he first delineated them."

"Take care," cried Ernest, pushing back his seat, "if you go on at
that rate you will take fire."

"No fear of that, brother, unless you have a star or a comet in your
pocket, in which case you are not far enough away yet."

These occasional bickerings between Ernest and Jack were always given
and taken in good part, and had only the effect of raising a
good-humored laugh.

"Let the painter," he continued, "fall in with a spot that pleases
him, he can take it with him and have it always before his eyes. The
hand of God or of man may alter the original, the forest may lose its
trees, the old castle may be destroyed by fire or time, the green
meadow may be converted into a dismal swamp, but to him the landscape
always retains its pristine freshness, the same butterfly still
flutters about the same bush, the same bee still sucks at the same
flower."

"Really," said Mrs. Wolston, "it is a pity, after all, that you did
not achieve your second verse."

"And yet," continued Jack, "that is only a copy. How much more sublime
when we regard the painter as a creator! If there is in the past or
present a heroic deed--if there is in the infinity of his life one
moment more blessed than another, like Pygmalion he breathes into it
the breath of life, and it becomes imperishable. Who would think a
century or two hence of the victories of Fritz, unless the skill of
the painter be called in to immortalize them!"

"I agree with you in thinking that the arts you name are the source of
beautiful and legitimate emotions. But generally it is better to view
them as a recreation or pastime, rather than a profession. They have
doubtless made a few men live in posterity, but, on the other hand,
they have