The San Francisco Call. Newspaper, May 31, 1896, Page 27

r THE SAN FRANCEL SCO CALL, SUNDAY, MAY 31, 1896. 27 Out of the London Art Galleries. _LONDON, Exc., May 12.—London is the city of contrasts. Nowhere is the modern and the old, the somber and the brilliant, the hideous and the beautiful so sharply or so abruptly interchanged. To come from one of the outlying suburbs into the heart of the town is to run up and down the whole scale of human development. Could anything be more dreary, more sordid than the streets of so many of the smaller districts, the tall, narrow, smoke- begrimed house fronts, only to be distin- guished by the number and the variety of the dressmaking and boatding-house ad- vertisements. The streets are deserted as those of a village and as silent—now and then the ubiquitous organ-grinder reso- lutely turns out his haunting memories of ftalian opera or the music-hall—a sounding and grotesque echo of other joys and other possibilities. And this within hali an hour of the Marble Arch or Hyde Park corner. On one side the imposing dignity and reserve of Park Lane and Mayfair; the windows at this season crowded with blossoms; carriages with monumental footmen waiting at the doors; the street a living stream, the horses plunging heavily between strings of hansoms and cabs and carts and drays; riders on horse- back, and the bicycle here and the bicycle there and the bicycle everywhere. Where the crowd parts the people pass into Hyde Park, where the flower-beds glow among the shadowy trees like the ward- robe of & queen spread out for the world to gaze upon—crocus beds, gold and red; | hyacinths and tulips of every size'and every degree of gorgeousness. They blaze like the shop-windows in Bond or Regent streets, where the bright, round guinea rules and the shilling is forgot. It costs but 1 shilling, however, to enter the galleries—galleries upon galleries, which it is 1he solemn duty of every Eng- lishman or matron, youth or maiden to | visit. The academy, the new galiery, the English Art Club, the Grafton, the Water Colorists and a dozen others, all within a | radius of a few miles, in Regent street or | Piccadilly or Pali Mall. Alwaysa new one | to be founded as a public educator, and always more pictures to be painted and lost sight of. And every picture exhibi- tion is crowded with eager people, culti- vating arduously their intcrest in art. | In America the exhibition is a matter | of moment on opening day, then nothing could be more undisturbedly peaceful than the big rooms full of paintings; the artist himself is but a poor creature to be en- couraged, to be patronized, tobe protected. | In the popular mind he is along-haired individual, with a velveteen coat, an ex- pression of genius concealed about his person, and eccentric ideas about the sup- port the world owes him. Here in England—or in London rather— be is an exotic, to be kept in a hothouse | atmosphere of respect and adulation; to be assiduously cultivated and cared for and exhibited like his own works, and his correctness of shirt front and collar and | polished boot is a model for the vulgar and | ignorant. In the new gallery we have the choice of | schools, with again the same questions of modern and old, hung apparently so as to bring the contrastinto the mosi vivid relief. A very entertaining relief for the humor-loving, but a keen anguish to the soul of the dilettante with a respect for Lis own sensations of delight. The gallery in itself is a joy, and should | touch to an ecstacy of emulation any | | & beautiful studio—built from his own de- | His pictures, in spite of all this against right-minded millionaire of California, if he be not lost to all sense of public duty. Three rooms, with admirable lighting, around a central court, in which a foun- tain splashes, in which there gre restful chairs and divans, in which the sculptures and miniatures are seen against a charm- ing background of cool green palms and waving ferns. An upper gallery runsall around the central court and here are the smaller landscapes and figures in oil or water color or pastel. Commencing in the south room we are carried to Windsor, to Norfolk, to Algiers with bewildering rapidity. Wesee strange females from old legends, emaciated an- gels, personages from Greek and Northern myths, symbolic representations of death and time and judgment, modern ladies in or out of modern clothes, and painted gen- tlemen in or out of robes of office. We have sunset evenings and moonlit even- ings and mild nights and summer even- ings and showery evenings, davs 1n mild | and wild weather, but in all this choice and various collection there are but few pictures worthy of their carefully selected titles. Graham Robertson, whose claims upon fame have been hitherto largely repre- sented by a portrait of himself, painted last year by John Sargent, has bloomed out from a pictare-lover to a picture- painter. He is young, he is rich, he has signs, looking out upon Holland Park. him, are very promising. He has taken Burne Jones and Dicksee as his tutelary saints—only he has departed from the ascetic grace of the former and has en- dowed his Queen of Samothrace with an ample charm. Iam the Queen of Samothrace, God making roses made my face. And it is a goodly face to look upon, sufficiently well drawn and very well | colored, with that clear and unshadowed flat modeling so much affected by modern men. A very poetic canvas is that called “The | Page,” by Mrs. Marianne Stokes. Itisan illustration of Heine's most touching little song: Es war ein alter Konlg, Sein Herz war schwer, Seln Haupt war grau; Der arme, alte Konig, Der nahm eine junge Frau. The poor little Queen, moving dreamily through a charmingly suggested landscape, | 1s a slim figure with a face modeled as the early Florentine painters loved to do. She has a little thin white cap drawn over her fine hair that has a faint glint of gold, and her long, green robe seems all too heavy for such a slender creature. The page holds the gold-embroidered silken train, | with his young, delicate face uplifted un- | der a cloud of blond hair, yearning toward | the pale Queen. Mrs. Stokes has made eifective use of actual gold. and silver in the decorations of the dress. The fig- ure of the page is a little overbalanced. by his great sleeves, on which the mixture of | paint and silver gives an actual feeling of | & rich silver-threaded material. Mrs. H. M. Stanley (Dorothy Tennant) | | bas two pictures not remarkable in any way. ““His First Offense” is a rather well- drawn figure of a boy, in which the | face and ragged clothes are all done with | rather too much of pathetic appeal; the | | other canvas is a nude, conspicuous only | by the name of Stanley. A really beautiful portrait is that of Lady L Some of the Striking Portraits in the London Art Galleries. FREDERIC J HARR1son Esq I\ @75:; DAUGHTER oF Sig Josepr SPERRMAN, Big By FRevericYares p 1/’/' / | }t\ll m J‘N Y W W. OuLess R.R don. the dukes and duchesses. Sargent while century. No two men could see a model Mappin by J. J. Shannon. Shannon and | not ahove painting the aristocracy prefers | with greater difference—their point of Sargent are the portrait painters of Lon- V the singers, the writers, the actors and view is as far apart as that of Franz Hals Shannon paints more frequently | actresses, the remarkable peovle of the | and Van Dyck. Shannon has proceeded along the beaten | has lingered too long upon it, sacrificed | mourntul experience upon the soft, old | moutn, | first thing to be considered by the student, | himself. | gesture, a furtive look, a significant smile | the head. BShe is tall, slender to thinness; | | amusement and intelligence. .| curious, slightly ecornful smile. The new- Some of the " English Color Masters. track, soberly, conscientiously, with a delicate and very often s delicious sense of character and color.” There is not a care- less touch in his- reserved and dignified portraits. How beautifully the old hands of Lady Mappin are suggested under her old-fashioned mits; the fur coat hanging over tke edge of the chair isa picture in itself. If the head separates from the fig- ure and occupies a different position in regard to the background it is because he too much to it—this fine, grave, old face, with a touch of weariness upon the heavy- lidded eyes and a touch of the appeal of ‘With Mr. Sargent the technique is the the last apparently to occupy the painter He is a pitiless reader of charac- ter—the momentary confession of a quick he seizes upon, and holas for all time as the smile, the look, the characteristic ges- tare. It isalmost demoralizing to come suddenly in the north room upon his por- trait of Countess Plary Aldingen. If the lady herself.were to walk into the gallery, full of self-constituted critics in tailor- made gowns and ‘“‘smart’” hats, in her white satin gown, with her bare neck and -arms, the effect could hardly be more startling. The lady has risen abruptly from a sofa of rose satin, the folds of her dress still clinging to it, her fan is crushed in one band, the other is almost to be extended in a greeting—a marvelous, thin hand, as characteristic as her uplifted head is thin, too, and as frankly ugly as it is alive with animation, Her eyes are bright and hard, her lips openina comer may certainly expect a not entirely amiable witticism. Llewellyn’s large por- trait of Mrs. Cosmo Beran, which balances the Sargent on either side of a large, decorative picture, suffers all things by the | contrast. The woman is a lay figure, the painting is of the watery sweet order, the | pose is absolutely conventional—a woman | in white satin also, holding back a por- tiere. Between these two portraits is a whirl of color, “The Garden of Dances,” by Herbert Olivier. In the confusion of | figures the one of Folly, throwing back a head like a Greek faun, is delightfully gay and graceful. | The large allegorical and the illustrative picture, once eacred to the academy, has evidently taken root in the new gallery and blooms profusely as any weed—and always with an explanatory line of prose or poetry. So there is “The Theft of the Princess’ Swan Skin’’ by Colliers Smithers, (The land east of the sun and west of the moon.) Burne Jones’ dream of Launcelot at the Chapel of the San Grael. - (Right 50 he heard a voice, etc.) “The Game of Life and Death’ is by Philip Burne Jones, son of the great Sir Edward, and he has ‘taken a number of lines: Her lips were red, her 100ks were free— &5 e i gt gl gt gl g The nightmare Life in Death was she. And the painter has not limited his rep- resentation of a “Nightmare Life in Death” to this picture. The landscape men are not remarkable this year, with the exception of George Wetherbee, ‘whose beautiful rich and delicate imagina- tion makes a poem of every blade of grass. At Burlington House it is almost impossi- ble to see the pictures. On the 4th of May was the official opening and the crowds move in masses through the great door- ways. On Monday evening the great din- ner at Greenwich for the new and old members of the academy was held, a din- ner saddened by the recent death of the president, Sir Frederick Leighton. The last canvas to be comvleted by the former president of the society is exhibited for the first time. The 'COlytie’’ is drawn with the ease and dignity of the master— the classic period dies hard, but at least it has always had one recommendation to the sincere lovers of art—its careful draw- ing and the lack of any of that delightfnl license that makes impressionism, so called, an excuse for so much bad painting and drawing. In the academy the moderns have an ample field for all forms of eccentricity; the ancients for all forms of classicism; and if we must have bad let us have the bad art that is frankly bad, not a mysteri- ous darkness on a salad of every color in the rainbow. Bituminous art has also developed in proportions which are becoming really alarming. I have seen, or rather I have endeavored to distinguish, asphalt lovers embracing under a cart-grease wall. These phantasmagorias in the ‘“‘note noire’’ will very shortly, unless something is done, suppress the solar system. White upon white is extremely hard to paint, but black upon black—nothing is easier. These are fantastic ideas, devoid of sin- cerity; where there is no sincerity there is no painting. Modern art is unquestion- ably menaced by serious dangers. Im- pressionists have been told that they were feeiing their way. It must be admitted that they have not yet found it. In fact, if the plunging of figures in a fog more or less dense is true art then the art of Rubens, of Rembrandt, of Theodore Roussean, of Corot, is false art. As a whole the exhibition at the acad- emy is a shade better than it has been for some years. The academy picture, the classic and time-worn allegory, the por- trait against a stormy and impossible background, all these are still the charac- teristic wall decorations, but George Weth- erbee has four or five delicate landscapes, Alfred Parsons two or three rawner too sweet but beautifully painted, Walter Os- borne three or four exquisite portraits, one of a woman in gray against gray, with a violet sash and violet eyes. Sargent has four portraits. One of Jos- eph Chamberlain, the Home Secretary, is only to be seen under the elbows or be- tween the heads of the people who sur- round it; one of Mrs. Ian Hamilton, which is unusually charitabiy handled— the woman is sweet and has a winning and unaffected smile. The slender figure is hidden under folds of chiffon so lightly painted it seems impossible to believe the same hand can have managed the broad sweep of the satin folds. The other portraits are not distinguished. Frederic Yates, a one-time San Fran- ciscan, has two portraits, of which one— the Daunghter of 8ir Joseph Spearman, Bart.—is by far the more charming. Mr. Yates has a very happy . touch in painting children, Nothing could be more delicate than the childish gown, the big white col- lar, the flowers in the little hands, all in a luminous shadow. The portrait of Frederic Harrison, by W. W. Vuless, is a powerful piece of paint- ing, interesting from every standpoint, that of the painter and that of the student of character. VAN Dyc Browx. One Ride in A Horseless Carriage. The era of the horseless carriage is com- ing as sure as the era of gzood country roads. The champions of the horse may poohpooh the idea and assert that pleasure- loving man will never surrendcer the steed of fleshund blood to a mere piece of twen- tieth century mechanism; they may claim that there is a lack of enjoyment, and ab- sence of thrill of the delightful sort, and no end of danger in riding on a machine ran by electricity and gasoline, but they can only rank as special pleaders on one side of the controversy. The steam car was once just as much of a curiosity, and was viewed with eyes as ekeptical as the horseless carnage is to- day. Not a hundred years has gone by since steam was first harnessed to the pad- dle-wheels of boats and the flywheels of trains, and yet steam isbeing replaced here and there by electricity and doubting Thomases are soon made firm believers in the beneficial results of new discoveries. It is hardly a dozen years ago since neople declared that the electric streetcar would never be a success. Now it is in universal use. Men in general didn’t think that Edi- son’s electric light would set the world of night afire; but it did, and it was not very long in doing it. A short time ago the telephone was a curious thing. Now everybody uses the telephone. And it will be the same old story with the horse- less carriage. The subject of good roads is being agitatéd from one end of the State to the other. Down in Los Angeles County it is proposed to make the roads question a locel campaign issue, and other counties may follow the example. With the dawning of the day of good roads in the West will come the rising of the sun of the horseless carriage. Manufacturers will cut down the prices as the demand grows, and ultimately we shall be able to buy an electric-motor buggy for about the cost of an ordinary roadhorse. “But how does it feel to_ride in one of those electric carriages?’ somebody is bound to ask. *‘Does the thing shake you up and deafen you with noises that keep your nerves on edge? Isit hard to ategr? Don’t you have serious trouble turning corners? Aren’t you constantly in fear of colliding with some vehicle or other, or of getting upset by running into a chuck- hole?” : All such questions may be speedily ane swered by the experience of a CAPL man who yesterday made a special trip ina horseless carriage for the very purpose of describing all the relative sensations. He was accompanied by J. M. Ough of the is then thrown off, and away starts the carriage at any rate of speed desired. When well under way the noise is hardly noticeable. It is remarkable with what smoothness the carriage travels. Itspeeds along at the rate of fifteen to twenty miles an hour, and no vehicle ever turned sharp corners more prettily than does this horse- less carriage. Just ahead of us is acountry woman driving a horse which shows signs of fear. The woman is curious, and is paying more attention to the object of her wonderment than to the animal she isdriving. The horseless carriage turns properly to the right. The woman somewhat nervously jerks the wrong line, and the horse moves toward the side on which the machine of mystery is speeding. But there is no col- lision. The horseless carriage is guided to the opposite side of the street in a twinkling; and, had it been necessary, the brake could have been applied and the wheels brought to an aimostimmediate standstill. Horses haven’t gotused to the horseless carriage yet, and they shy as it passes almost invariably. Tied to a stake along the roadside in the country back of the encinal was a horse which sprang up and sniffed as his modern enemy appeared, and as the thing of unseen power rolled by the horse jumped with such force as to break his rope, and then fled away supposedly filled with all the terror that pursued Tam o’ Shanter’s Meg. No wonder the horse gets maddened at this new invention. It appears that it was not enough to crowd him out of many of his old-accustomed places with the bike and the tandem; but the genius of man must even take the shafts out of vhe carriages, and then whirl over the land without the aid of any horse at all. A farmer and his wife drive up to a fence on the roadside to let the machine go by. They are both staring at it with eyes that tell a tale of astonishment. Their mouths are wide open. One might imagine that farmer turning to his spouse and declar- ing, as the strange conveyance disap- peared in the distance, “That’sthe darned- est concern I ever set eyeson, Jerushy. I'd jest Hke to got & squint at the insides of it. By gum, they’re getting things down fine as silk nowadays. Next thing some city cuss’ll come to visit our Sally ina flying machine. These are mighty fast days. Things that were impossible when we was young is jest child’s-play now. I'm be- ginning to believe almost anything I hear. Gosh! how that infernal wagon does get over the ground! Jerushy, if we had one California Gas Engine Company, who is planning to build a number of horseless carriages. The vebicle in which the trip was made is the one belonging to Charley Fair, being the first of its kind west of the Rockies. The route taken was through the principal streets of Alameda and over country roads in the vicinity of Oakland. Comfortably seated in the attractive look- ing carriage, a button under the seat is . pressed, an electric spark ignites the gaso- line, and the engine operates with a noise plmost like that made by a railway loco- motive in starting, but more subdued, of course, and with the exeoptign of the buz- zing gound of the electricity. The brake, of them businesses we’d stock it with grub and go deuce knows where with it, jest to show off. It'sgreat!” i Twenty miles an houron a good, smooth road is a very rapid rate of speed. A horse may make a spurt for a moment that will put the horseless carriage in the rear; but the monster of electric power is tire- less, and the horse soon succumbs to ex- baustion. - With the electric carriage you may ride all day and all night, and itis destined to be a most valtable thin.lin an mergency that requires quick trayel over :lonr:. di?m and where trains are not available. A RIDE 1IN R A RS of Alameda, the children are attracted by the horseless carriage. They run alongside of it, and a couple of barefoot boys strive to keep up with the big vehicle for a few yards. Some of the boys make bold to hang on behind, but the strong odor of gasoline cures them of such a notion. The little fellows laugh and shout as the odd contrivance rus| away from them. Near the beach a halt is made and an immense crowd gathers in short order. The ques- tions with reference to the various parts of the horseless carrisage come pouring in from all directions. One almost regrets that he hasn’t a bushel or two of pamph- lets explanatory of everything for free dis- tribution among the crowd. We toot a warning signal and escape from the thoroughly interested but too jiaquisitive throng. Along the beach the horseless carriage is a drawing card. The rosy-cheeked, ruby-lipped, blue-eyed and golden-haired summer girl is there, and she waves her dainty lace parasol at the vehicle, whose occupants are getting. the full benefit of the fresh breezes on the wing as it were. The summer-girl would like nothing bet- ter than such a ride on & warm Junetime day. The bathers in the water turn and gaze at the horseless carriage. It is such & curious affair to them that most of them laugh outright at first and then sober down to serious consideration. Undoubtedly, if all the comments that are made in regard to that carriage could be gathered and printed, they would make an amusing column. From the houses on the way people, young and old, run out and look after the horseless carriage. The occupants feel Riding along the beautiful wide avenues | that they are envied the luxury of such a CHARLEY FAIR'S HORSELESS CARRIAGE. ride. Itisaluxury,too. The travelingis 80 smooth, the carriage is so comfortable, the speed so brisk, the task of guiding so simple and easy, that a ride 1n a horseless carriage of the type owned by Charley Fair is delightful. There is practically no danger at all, and, despite the fact that this carriage has been operated on crowded streets, it has never been mixed up in any kind of an accident. An afternoon’s ride in a horseless carriage makes a person feel a longing to be the possessor of one. But as soon as the counties of California get together on the all-important subject of good roads, and ss soon as our highways are as well graded and paved as they should be, just so soon shall we behold a multitude of horselelss carriages in the West. Tien the stab e-keevers will invest in them and the bicycle will have a stroni holiday rival in these pleasant vehicles, of which at present there is only a sample or forerunner in the Golden State. RUNNING TO SEED. “'Lizabeth,” said Farmer Cornroe of “Var- mount,” laying aside his weekly paper, “is there more fly leaves in the Bible?"* “Yes “An’ is all that pokeberry ink gone?” “Not quite.” “Got "er goose quill "bout the house?" “I think so; what are you goin' ter do?” “Goin’ to write to New York for a peck o that'new kind o’ Mardi Gras seed that the pa- pers is talkin’ so much erbout; want ter try it in the lower bottom field for early pasture,” ———— THE OLDEST INHABITANT. “Is this hot enough for you?” asked Satan. “Purty warm,” admitted the newly arrived oldest inhabitant, ‘‘but I remember soms fifty years ago, when it was s0 durn hot tha P The attendant imps, at signal, seized him and shoved him down seven stories nearer the bottom which isn’t there.—Indianapolis Jour- nal. ——— Now LeT HER Go. Steadily the water gained on the pumps. It was now six feet deep in the hold. The ship was sinking. Preparations were made to abandon the doomed vessel and take to the boats. With a firm hand the captain wrote & brief account of the disaster, giving his reckoning of the Iatitude and longitude and the direction in which he expected to navigate the boats. Then he called for a bottle. It was brought. He removed the cork, rolled up the man- useript, and was about to insert it when one of the passengers, a tall Missouri colonel, hastily spoke up. “Captain,” he said, pale, but with the. ring of iron resolution in his voice, “I see they’s a few draps left in that flask. Hand it here anq I'll empty it. * * * Thanks.. Now let 'er go 5 —————————— His FATHER'S FAULT. ‘Willle (studying his lessons)—Say, ps, where does the Hudson rise? - Pa (hesitatingly)—I don’t know exactly. ‘Willie—You don’t! Just think of it—to-mor- row the teacher'll scold me like blazes on account of your ignorance.—Truth, B So SHE Courp FLy. “Grandmas, when I am an angel will T have wings?" 3 “I hope so, dear, Why do you ask?” " “'Cause I think I'd rather have a bicycle.”— Life. | . ——————— Is Tuis TRUE? Little boy—The preacher says there is no marrying in heaven. 3 Little girl—Of course not. There wouldn’t be enough men to go ’round.—La Crosse “The Man Who Could Raise the Dead. He was a doctor who knew a vast deal about his profession, because he was alwaysstudying, but at Cucugnano, where he had been established for two years, no one had any faith in him. The reason was not far to find. Meeting him always with a book in his hand, the pecple of Cucug- nano said: “This doctor knows absolutely nothing; he reads, and reads without stopping. If he has to study so much he must be badly in need of learning, and if he has no learn- ing he is an ignorant fellow.” And so it came about that they had no faith in him. A doctor without patients is like a lamp without oil. All the same, he had to find some way of eking ouc an existence, for during his two years at Cucugnano the poor wretch had not made enough to pay for the water he drank. Things could not go on in this way any longer. He had to think of some way of ending it. One day the news was spread through Cucugnano that the doctor’s science was so great and potent and sublime that he could not only cure a sick person, which was quite an ordinary thing to do, but that he could also bring to life the dead, which was a miracle. Yes, he could bring to life a man who had been buried, make him rise out of the earth in open daylight in the middle of the cemetery, coram popolo. There were very few people who lent any credence to this report. The incredulous said: ‘“We must put him to the proof, see him at work; by their works ye shall know them. But it is possible that he may suc- ceed, he has read so much, and they are making new discoveries every day.” At last it was agreed that the next Sun- day, just as noon had struck, the docwr, in the middle of the cemetery of Cucag- nano, should raise a dead man—two, three, some people said as many as nine or ten. Thus it came to pass that the next Sunday at noon the cemetery was as crowded as the church on Easter day. As the second stroke of the hour sounded the doctor ar- rived, faithfal to his promise, and he had to use his elbows to force a passage through the crowd. The people saluted him, mocked at him and laughed in his face. “Friends,” said he, I have promised to raise up a dead man, and I will keep my word. Keep silence and listen, It will cost me nothing to give you back Giacomo or Giovanmi, Nannina or Bet‘ta, Amedeo or Simon.. Would you like me to raise S8imon—ab, what was his name—Simon Capannaro—he died of pleurisy hardly a year ago?” “Excuse me, doctor,” said Catherine, the widow of poor Simon. “He was a good man and made me very happy. I almost cried my eyes out for him; but you won’t raise him up, because, you see, toward -the end of the month, to please my relations, I am going to marry Pas- qualone, and the banns have already been published.” " “You did well to tell me, Catherine,” said the doctor. “Then we will bring back Nina Carota, who was buried last Candlemass.” “For pity’s sake, doctor!” cried Gia- como Carota, *Nina was my wife. We lived together ten years—ten years of pur- gatory, as all Cucugnano knows. Let us \ remain as we are, both for the peace of- her soul and for that of mine. I could say a good deal more, but—" “Very well, I see that it would be a martyrdom for you to have two wives. But whom shall T raise up then, good peo- ple, for I have zot to give you back some on:. Ah! there's old man Pietro.” “Pietro di Massovecchio?”’ said Felice Buonpugno. “The same.”” *Poor old father. Heaven will reward you, doctor. He was certainly a good man, but don’t bring him back because it would throw our affairs into such a tangle that we should all fall to quarreling, and that would break his heart for he always liked to see us at peace. After a long law- suit we have divided up his property; there are six of us, and though we are not exactly in want, none of us are too well off."” . *Then you don’t want him ?” “Kxcuse me. You see, doctor, if you brought him back we should all have to give him a pension, and the crops have been so bad this year you know that the vines will bring in next to nothing and the olives are mildewed.” “We will let old man Pietro sleep. whom do you want?”’ “Ghita, wake my Ghita,” exclaimed an elderly woman, weeping like a Maddalena. “No, doctor, don’t bring her back,” cried a young girl. '‘She did well to die. She left me the dress she was to have worn at her wedding, and the man who loved ber has fled with another.” “Poor, poor Ghita! I am beginning to get tired. To put an end to this I will wake up Gringaletto, who was choked eating larks not a month age.” “I won’t have it, I won't,’” cried Louise Gringaletto, raising her arms. ‘‘For ten years I have supported him and he never earned a cent. Npw I am beginning to pay up our debts, and it would not be just, doctor.” “How many excuses! Do you see that little cross of wood there? Itis the grave of a poor baby, scarcely ten months old. It would perhaps be @ sin to raise it, but if you say the word—"" “Doctor,” said a poor woman, weeping, “the little one is ours, alas! and Iam the grandmother. . My daughter buried it, and if you had seen how beautiful it was! Bug heaven takes with one hand and gives with the other. Now my daughter has another. We could not take care of them both, and we are not rich enough to put one out to nurse.” Then the doctor exclaimed: “Enough for to-day. Since you do not want me to work the miracle I will do it another time: but I beg you to agree beforehand on the person that you wish me to bring back.” And he went off. From that memorable Sunday the doc- tor has wrought miracles at Cucugnano. It is true that he has not raised the dead, but be has saved the lives of the sick. Toe people have faith in him: **Because,” they say, ‘“af he did not keep his promise in the cemetery it was not his fault; to tell the truth the fault was ours, for we wished our dead 10 remain underground.” [Translated for Tie CALL from the provencal ofJ. Roumanille by MARIE EVELYN LISTER.] But