PETERSON’S MAGAZINE.
THE ARTIST AND THE ALTAR.
BY MRS. M. A. DENISOX.
"What ahull we do?" Such was the exclamation of a man who stood on the stage of a theatre, looking at the scenic representation, half finished.
Suddenly he resumed,
"It must be as much like an altar as pos sible—I have it! the old church where that picturesque white-headed fellow held forth yes terday."
"Shame!" exclaimed a young man—"the Tenerable minister spoke words that probed me to the heart, and though I am an actor—I can respect age and goodness."
"Oh! well—I rank them all long tongued hypocrites," replied the artist, sneeringly, pois ing his brush—"at any rate, be he saint or sinner, his pulpit is the very thing; I'll go up and sketch it."
A few minutes brought him to the venerable edifice, for it was not very distant from the theatre.
The old church stood back on the road, covered with ivy and surrounded with trees. It was a week day, but the hammer resounded there—workmen were in the belfry, mending the old stone tower.
But the stillness was broken below. Opening the venerable doors, the young man stood on the threshold.
He did not lift his hat, but gazed about with a careless look of admiration.
The stillness was most impressive; the sun came in, subdued by the deep-set windows with their stained dyes into a melancholy but sweet lustre, both deepened and dimmed by the thick circular plates of glass set round the wall at regular distances: and the whole interior was filled with a dark, clear glow.
But the solemnity of the scene produced no corresponding feelings in the artist. He glanced around, indeed, under the impulse of his naturally fine taste ; but he felt no veneration ; in fact, he began to whistle, as he walked up the aisle. To him that venerable edifice, thick with holy associations, was only a thing for polite mockery. "Yes, a fine old altar," he soliloquized, look ing at it professionally, "it will be just the thing—just the thing!" Throwing off his hat, as he spoke, he took his pencil and paper out and moved forward to begin the work. The light made a beautiful halo about his head—it was a noblo head—a glorious though slightly sensual face; and as he stood there, his countenance beaming with the exaltation of genius, he seemed a man inspired. The work grew rapidly beneath his hands. Already, in imagination, he saw it painted; heard the applauding shouts of the audience as the curtain drew up; received the compliments of the beautiful chief actress for the perfect character of the illusion. He dashed in the shadows here, and brought the light out there, with increased spirit. Never had he sketched, in his own opinion, so felicitously, or with such rapid ease. "There—a deuced good copy," he said, when he had finished, "now if that old white-haired saint would consent to be painted by a sinner, why " He never spoke again. An awful crash re sponded to his words—a stone, loosened from the tower, a mighty stone, came crushing through the roof—it fell upon his uuprotected head and buried him beneath it. It was a terrible spectacle. "He made sport of sacred things—and here his body lies—where is his soul?" It was the young actor who spoke. He looked upward to the disfigured ceiling, and then shudderingly at his friend. 305
