ved for many years. With tastes such as his came the habit, or
rather the fixed determination, never to paint or engrave any but sacred
subjects. Puffs and cliques are his abomination. His ideal is the archaic
rendered by modern methods. An artist of this type can but obtain the
half-grudging esteem of his own profession, and of the few critics who
really understand something about art. Gladly, and with absolute disdain,
he leaves to others the applause of the mob, the gilded patronage of
American purchasers, and the right to wear lace cuffs. In short, in an
age when the artist is often half a manufacturer and half a charlatan, he
is an artist only.

Now and then he is rich, but never for long. Half of his earnings goes in
alms; half into the pockets of his mendicant brethren. They hear the gold
jingle before it is counted, and run with outstretched palms. Each is in
the depths of misfortune; on the eve of ascending the fatal slope; lost,
unless the helpful hand of Lampron will provide, saved if he will lend
wherewithal to buy a block of marble, to pay a model, to dine that
evening. He lends--I should say gives; the words mean the same in many
societies. Of all that he has gained, fame alone remains, and even this
he tries to do without--modest, retiring, shunning all entertainments. I
believe he would often be without the wherewithal to live were it not for
his mother, whom he supports, and who does him the kindness to need
something to live on. Madame Lampron does not hoard; she only fills the
place of those dams of cut turf which the peasants build in the channels
of the Berry in spring; the water passes over them, beneath them, even
through them, but still a little is left for the great droughts.

I love my friend Lampron, though fully aware of his superiority. His
energy sets me up, his advice strengthens me, he peoples for me the vast
solitude of Paris.

Suppose I go to see him? A lonely watch to-night would be gloomier than
usual. The death of the year brings gloomy thoughts, the thirty-first of
December, St. Sylvester's day--St. Sylvester! Why, that is his birthday!
Ungrateful friend, to give no thought to it! Quick! my coat, my stick, my
hat, and let me run to see these two early birds before they seek their
roost.

When I entered the studio, Lampron was so deep in his work that he did
not hear me. The large room, lighted only in one corner, looked weird
enough. Around me, and among the medley of pictures an