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An artist is speaking:

A person may be a true artist, who has never made a stroke with a brush.
Any one who can blend colors harmoniously or produce effective contrasts
in dress, or even in so trivial a thing as fancy work, is an artist.
Again, one may _paint_ for years without the slightest knowledge of, or
taste for true art. In painting a portrait, something more is required
than the mere likeness, something besides pink and white prettiness.
Perhaps in two or three centuries an artist is born, one who in painting
a portrait produces almost a living, breathing creature; and is able by
his magic touch, to paint in the thoughts which flit through the brain;
the feelings which move the heart, and is able to read almost the very
soul.

Many years ago a poor struggling painter in an Italian studio, conceived
the idea of painting a picture of the Madonna. He shut his doors to
visitors in order to give full play to his imagination. Days and nights
were spent in dreaming and working, until he lost consciousness of the
outer world and only lived for his work, for this picture, he was sure
would make him famous. Days rolled into weeks and weeks into months, and
still the realization of his dream seemed as far off as when he first
began. The figure was standing with hands clasped and head bent in
humble submission to the Divine will; the graceful, easy repose of the
limbs, every curve and line was perfect. But the face! It seemed at
times as if he had accomplished the great task, yet the expression
always eluded his most earnest efforts, the heavenly expression of the
Divine mother was wanting. At last, after many failures and vain
efforts, it occurred to him to open his doors to visitors and perchance
he could catch the longed-for expression from the faces of the women who
might visit him. As soon as it was announced that the artist had opened
his doors, people came from neighboring towns and cities, attracted as
much by the desire to see the strange person whom they thought a
monomaniac, as by the wish to see the picture. Women of rank and fashion
arrived daily, and it was a curious study to watch the intent gaze which
he fixed upon them, hoping, praying, in each one to find the desired
expression. Occasionally he would request some beautiful woman to remain
standing in a certain attitude, when he fancied he had caught the look
for which he was striving, but it a