-called spiritual subjects that I see portrayed in these churches."

But the past is so crowded with vituperation that it is difficult to
select--besides that, we do not wish to--but let us take a sample of
arrogance from yesterday to prove our point, and then drop the theme for
something pleasanter.

Pew and pulpit have fallen over each other for the privilege of hitting
Darwin; a Bishop warns his congregation that Emerson is "dangerous";
Spurgeon calls Shelley a sensualist; Doctor Buckley speaks of Susan B.
Anthony as the leader of "the short-haired"; Talmage cracks jokes about
evolution, referring feelingly to "monkey ancestry"; and a prominent
divine of England writes the World's Congress of Religions down as "pious
waxworks." These things being true, and all the sentiments quoted coming
from "good" but blindly zealous men, is it a wonder that the Artist is
not understood?

A brilliant picture, called "Cologne--Evening," attracted much attention
at the Academy Exhibition of Eighteen Hundred Twenty-six. One day the
people who so often collected around Turner's work were shocked to see
that the beautiful canvas had lost its brilliancy, and evidently had been
tampered with by some miscreant. A friend ran to inform Turner of the bad
news. "Don't say anything. I only smirched it with lampblack. It was
spoiling the effect of Laurence's picture that hung next to it. The black
will all wash off after the Exhibition."

And his tender treatment of his aged father shows the gentle side of his
nature. The old barber, whose trembling hand could no longer hold a
razor, wished to remain under his son's roof in guise of a servant; but
the son said, "No; we fought the world together, and now that it seeks to
do me honor, you shall share all the benefits." And Turner never smiled
when the little, wizened, old man would whisper to some visitor, "Yes,
yes; Joseph is the greatest artist in England, and I am his father."

Turner had a way of sending ten-pound notes in blank envelopes to artists
in distress, and he did this so frequently that the news got out finally,
but never through Turner's telling, and then he had to adopt other
methods of doing good by stealth.

I do not contend that Turner's character was immaculate, but still it is
very probable that worldlings do not appreciate what a small part of this
great genius touched the mire.

To prove the sordidness of the man, one critic tells, with visage awfully
solemn, how Tur