Philippe sent him word to
make it as little like his usual style as possible!

Among Delacroix's critics Ingres, with all the force of his
convictions, was the foremost. He to whom a sky had always served as
a simple background was not created to understand the almost purple
canopy of azure stretching far above the heads of the Crusaders; nor
to find barbaric delight in the rich trappings of horses and men,
since to him a drapery was simply a textureless covering adjusted to
accentuate the form beneath. Delacroix, whose intelligence was of a
higher order and who said of himself that he was "more rebellious than
revolutionary," treated Ingres when they met on official occasions,
as at the meetings of the Institute (where finally Delacroix had
penetrated), with a high and distant courtesy which his sturdy
adversary, strong in his pious devotion to classicism, hardly
returned. Delacroix had by far the most brilliant following,
reinforced as it was by the landscape painters, who from 1830 onwards
gave to this century its most notable school of painting. Added to
this was a fair measure of appreciation on the part of collectors.

Delacroix's genius found expression in many small pictures, all of
them characterized by a gem-like coloration (which is more than mere
color, however, for in it lies the secret of a powerful and direct
expression of sentiment) and by a vivid realization of movement. Proud
by nature, delicate in health, his life was far from happy; he never
ceased to feel the sting of adverse criticism. "For more than thirty
years I have been given over to the wild beasts," he said once. He
had warm friends, who have left many records of his sweetness of
disposition when the outer barrier of haughty reserve was broken
through; but they were few in number. He never married; painting,
he said, was his only mistress, and his passion for his art is felt
through all his work. His death occurred at Champrosay near Paris,
where he had a modest country house, on August 13, 1863; and four
years later, January 14, 1867, his great adversary, Ingres, followed
him.

CY AND I.

BY EUGENE FIELD.

As I went moseyin' down th' street,
My Denver friend I chanced t' meet.
"Hello!" says I,
"Where have you been so long a time
That we have missed your soothin' rhyme?"
"New York," says Cy.
"Gee whiz!" says I.

"You must have seen some wonders down
In that historic, splendid town;"