seized his palette and brushes, for hours and hours he
painted--the sunlight had long vanished from his studio floor, a chill
wind blew through the open window and played with his gray locks--and
when the brush at last glided from his hand he had accomplished his
lifelong aim--he had painted sunshine.

Slowly he sank back in his chair, the arms hanging limp at his sides,
and his chin falling on his chest, an attitude a painter might adopt
gazing at a masterpiece he had just accomplished--in this case old
Melville's painting hours were over for evermore, his eyes could no
longer see the colors of this world. Like a soldier he had died at his
post of duty, and serene happiness over this final victory lay on his
features. In every life some ideal happiness is hidden, which may be
found, and for which we should prospect all our days. Old Melville had
attained his little bit of sunshine rather late in life, but he had
called it his own, at least for however short a moment, while most of us
others, whom life treats less scurvily, blinded by foolish and selfish
desire, cannot even succeed in grasping material happiness, which
crosses our roads quite often enough and stands at times right near us,
without being recognized.

And the fate of old Melville's pictures? Who knows if they may not some
day, when their colors have mellowed, be discovered in some garret, and
re-enter the art world in a more dignified manner? True enough, they
will not set the world on fire, yet they may be at least appreciated as
the sincere efforts of a man who loved his art above all else, and,
despite deficiencies, had a keen understanding for nature and
considerable ability to express it. Whatever their future may be, his
work has not been in vain. It is the cruel law of human life that
hundreds of men must drudge their whole lives away in order that one may
succeed, not a bit better than they; in the same way in art, hundreds of
talents must struggle and suffer in vain that one may reach the
cloud-wrapped summit of popularity and fame. And that road is sure to
lead over many corpses, and many of the nobler altruistic qualities of
man have to be left far behind in the valley of unknown names.

Life was brutal to you, old Melville! But this way or that way, what is
the difference?

[Illustration]

There was a time when in the name of God and of true faith in Him men
were destroyed, tortured, executed, beaten in scores and hundreds of
thousands.