d the romantic boy. But he
paused, convinced in a moment of the perfect futility of attempting to
convey an idea of the unsubstantial phantom to the old man's
intellect. Perhaps the old farmer was the better philosopher of the
two.

But Julian gained his point, and departed for the great city--the goal
of so many struggles, the grave of so many hopes. He was at first
dazzled by the splendors of the artificial life, into the heart of
which he plunged; and then, with a homesick feeling, he sighed for
that verdurous luxury of nature he had left. He missed the trees--for
he thought the shabby and rusty foliage of the Battery and Park hardly
worthy of that name. But, in time to save him from utter
disappointment and heart sickness, there opened on his vision the
glorious dawning of the world of art. He passed from gallery to
gallery, and from studio to studio, drinking in the beauties that
unfolded before him with the eyes of his body and his soul. He was
enraptured, dazzled, enchanted. Then he settled down to work in his
humble room, economizing the scanty funds he had brought with him to
the city. Like many young aspirants, he grasped, at first, at the most
difficult subjects. He constantly groped for a high ideal. He would
fly before he had learned to walk. With an imperfect knowledge of
architecture and anatomy, and a limited stock of information, he would
paint history--mythology. He sought to illustrate poetry, and dared
attempt scenes from the Bible, Shakspeare, and Milton. He failed,
though there were glimpses of grandeur and glory in his faulty
attempts.

Then he turned back, with a sickening feeling, to the elements of art,
distasteful as he found them. It was hard to pore over rectangles and
curves, bones and muscles, angles and measurements, after sporting
with irregular forms and fascinating colors. He tried portraiture, but
he had no feeling for the business. He could not transfigure the dull
and commonplace heads he was to copy. He had not the nice tact that
makes beauty of ugliness without the loss of identity. He could not
ennoble vulgarians. The sordid man bore the stamp of baseness on his
canvas. His pictures were too true; and truth is death to the portrait
painter.

He began to grow morbid in his feelings, and was fast verging to a
misanthrope. His clothes grew shabby, and looked shabbier for his
careless way of wearing them. He was often cold and hungry. There were
times when he viewed with envy an