looked
into his, for he died just three hundred years before I was born." But
how natural was this question from this bright, country girl! She had
been examining a lot of photographs of the Sistine Chapel, and had seen
pictures of "Il Penseroso," the "Night" and "Morning," the "Moses"; and
then she had seen on my desk a bronze cast of the hand of the
"David"--that imperial hand with the gently curved wrist.

These things lured her--the splendid strength and suggestion of power in
it all, had caught her fancy, and the heroic spirit of the Master seemed
very near to her. It all meant pulsating life and hope that was
deathless; and the thought that the man who did the work had turned to
dust three centuries ago, never occurred to this naive, budding soul.

"Did you see Michelangelo while you were in Rome?" No, dear girl, no.
But I saw Saint Peter's that he planned, and I saw the result of his
efforts--things worked out and materialized by his hands--hands that
surely were just like this hand of the "David."

The artist gives us his best--gives it to us forever, for our very own.
He grows aweary and lies down to sleep--to sleep and wake no more,
deeding to us the mintage of his love. And as love does not grow old,
neither does Art. Fashions change, but hope, aspiration and love are as
old as Fate who sits and spins the web of life. The Artist is one who is
educated in the three H's--head heart and hand. He is God's child--no
less are we--and he has done for us the things we would have liked to do
ourselves.

The classic is that which does not grow old--the classic is the
eternally true.

"Did you meet Michelangelo in Rome?" Why, it is the most natural
question in the world! At Stratford I expected to see Shakespeare; at
Weimar I was sure to meet Goethe; Rubens just eluded me at Antwerp; at
Amsterdam I caught a glimpse of Rembrandt; in the dim cloisters of Saint
Mark's at Florence I saw Savonarola in cowl and robe; over Whitehall in
London I beheld the hovering smoke of martyr-fires, and knew that just
beyond the walls Ridley and Latimer were burned; and only a little way
outside of Jerusalem a sign greets the disappointed traveler, thus: "He
is risen--He is not here!"

* * * * *

In one of his delightful talks--talks that are as fine as his feats of
leadership--Walter Damrosch has referred to Handel as a contemporary.
Surely the expression is fitting, for in the realm of truth time i