dicted himself to the study of the
immortal Raphael; like a student of letters, who, after reading and
rereading the works of a multitude of authors, at last confines himself
to the writings of one whom he conceives to unite the chief beauties of
all the others, superadding graces none of them possess. After many
years of persevering application and gradual progress, the artist left
the schools, possessing pure and elevated ideas of composition, great
powers of conception, and an execution that charmed alike by its
delicacy and force. But, with the modesty of true genius, he still
allowed a considerable time to elapse before he ventured to submit a
picture to the verdict of his countrymen.

On entering the exhibition-room, Tchartkoff found it thronged with
visitors, grouped before the painting. Silence, such as is rarely met
with amongst a numerous collection of amateurs, reigned throughout the
crowd. Assuming the knowing and supercilious look of an acknowledged
connoisseur, he approached the picture, prepared to cavil and find
fault, or, at best, to damn with faint praise. But the canting phrase of
conventional criticism died away upon his lips at the sight he there
beheld. Faultless, pure, gracious, and beautiful as some fair and virgin
bride was the noble production of genius that met his astonished gaze.
With wonder and admiration he recognised the work of a pencil that
revived the glories of ancient art. A profound study of Raphael was
manifest in the noble elevation of the attitudes; there was a something
Correggian in the skilful handling and careful finish. But there was no
servile imitation of any painter; the artist had sought and found in his
own soul the divine spark that gave life to his creation. Not an object
in the picture, however trifling, but had been the subject of a profound
study; the law of its constitution had been analysed, and its internal
organism investigated. And the painter had caught that flowing roundness
of line which pervades all nature, but which no eye ever sees save that
of the creator-artist--that roundness which the mere copyist degrades
into points and angles. He had poetised, whilst faithfully representing,
the commonest objects of external nature. A feeling of awe mingled with
the admiration that kept the crowd profoundly silent. Not a whisper was
heard, not a rustle or a sound, for some time after the arrival of
Tchartkoff. All were absorbed in contemplation of the masterpiece;