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have seldom been college-bred. Napoleon ever regretted the lack of
instruction in his early years; and in the minds of such men as Abraham
Lincoln and Ernest Meissonier there usually lingers the suspicion that
they have dropped something out of their lives.

"I'm not a college man--ask Seward," said Lincoln, when some one
questioned him as to the population of Alaska. The remark was merry jest,
of course, but as in all jest there lurks a grain of truth, so did there
here.

At the height of Meissonier's success, when a canvas from his hand
commanded a larger price than the work of any other living artist, he
exclaimed, "Oh, if only I had been given the advantages of a college
training!"

If he had, it is quite probable that he never would have painted better
than his teacher. Discipline might have reduced his daring genius to
neutral salts, and taken all that fine audacity from his brush.

He was a natural artist: he saw things clearly and in detail; he had the
heart to feel, and he longed for the skill to express that which he saw
and felt. And when the desire is strong enough it brings the thing--and
thus is prayer answered.

Meissonier while but a child set to work making pictures--he declared he
would be an artist. And in spite of his father's attempts to shame him
out of his whim, and to starve him into a more practical career, his
resolution stuck.

He worked in a drugstore and drew on the wrapping-paper; then with this
artist a few days, and then with that. He tried illustrating, and finally
a bold stand was made and a little community formed that decided on
storming the Salon.

There is something pathetic in that brotherhood of six young men, binding
themselves together, swearing they would stand together and aid each
other in producing great art.

The dead seriousness of the scheme has a peculiar sophomore quality.
There were Steinheil, Trimolet, Daumier, Daubigny, Deschaumaes and
Meissonier, all aged about twenty, strong, sturdy, sincere and innocently
ignorant--all bound they would be artists.

Two of these young men were sign-painters, the others did odd jobs
illustrating, and filled in the time at anything which chance offered.
When one got an invitation out to dinner he would go, and furtively drop
biscuit and slices of meat into his lap, and then slyly transfer them to
his waistcoat-pockets, so as to take them to his less fortunate brethren.

They haunted the galleries, made themselves famil