What is man that thou art mindful of him?

Into Thy stillness, oh God,

I yearningly pour out my soul's anguished longing

To be touched by Thy truth, and to know.

Dominion and power o'er all things created

Man has, so says Thy Holy Word;
But when we look about us man ever
seems crushed to the ground
By care and by sickness o'ercome.

Can any work be called unworthy
If thro' and over it the light of love
does shine

To beautify but first to rectify
Each sordid place, unclean?

Within the frail life of the babe
Is found God's perfect likeness.
Can man decree that in the building

of that statue

Till it reach what men call fullness, Aught can enter which can kill or mutilate God's image?

Not more than cloud can kill the sun, Or rain and snow put out its fires.

But if the earth babe only digs and delves in earth things,

He then must feel and know the hurt Of bruised, bleeding fingers,

Eyes dimmed by searching in the blackness,

Back bent, and garments soiled and tattered

Till hope at last takes flight,
And man gives up his life,
Falling upon the very spot where all
about him lies the thing he sought
And found it not; because
Forgetful that man's birthright is
Divine;

And he, if he but look upon his father's face,

May borrow and reflect light Powerful enough to burn up all the dross,

And leave him free to shape and mold,

After a pattern of God's own, the precious gold.

Who shall say these fleeting temporal things are common?

For if we will but use the light revealed

We see in every act the tiny sparkle of the perfect ore

Which, once we see it, does so grow and fill our vision,

That its earth mold is no more. We even say it never was.

M

ISS MARY L. MACOMBER exhibits at the Guild of Boston Artists, Newbury Street, Boston, a number of canvases typical of her very earnest and interesting endeavor to carry forward the pre-Raphaelitist inspiration. Nor is it without significance that the seed sown by Rosetti and Burne Jones should spring up at this date in distant New England.

There have been many evidences, among our artists, of revolt from the brutal realism of modernity. Few have been misled into the vagaries that characterize the recent revolt of the younger Parisians; but the restiveness has been very apparent. Of this there could be no more cogent witness than the strong leaning toward landscape work. The landscape offers the realist his most ready door of escape from the trammels of his own method; it makes up by its intrinsic mystery the hardness of his "paint what you see" dictum.

Miss Macomber, however, goes directly to subjective experience for her inspiration, and deliberately seeks to suggest (not to depict) the "light that never was on land or sea." The method is quite simple and depends in no small degree on tradition and the mental suggestion of the title given to the picture. That which is most important to its effect must lie wholly within the mind of the beholder; it is not in the canvas, nor can be. Angels, disembodied souls, antique musical instruments, cups of "water of life," flowers like the sacrificial wreaths of ancient mysteries, these are the trappings of her art. Then there must be the image of the subject of the experience depicted as wholly absorbed with the inward vision.

We have then, in a typical canvas of this school, a figure, or group, whose expression reveals at once the depth and completeness of their introspection. By sympathy with these principals, the observer must also look within his own soul. To guide the direction of his introspection, and suggest images for it, we have the traditional symbols, angels and accessories, and, of no slight importance, the title of the picture. The whole must be composed into a picture with its own color and decorative vitality.

Considering it from the strictly artistic standpoint, one has only to ask, is it beautiful, decorative, and does it convey its message?

As to the first point, Miss Macomber's pictures while they show differing degrees of merit, are unquestionably lovely. They carry at once a feeling of beauty. The artist, in this group of pictures, has chosen to make use of the very difficult, ancient medium of tempera. In doing so she has gained in luminosity and lost in depth and richness. The pictures need to be elevated, to be seen to best advantage. They hang too low in the Guild exhibition room. They need to be up so high that they pass for windows-the light must seem to come through them, not to play upon them.

As to their message, that is all as it may be. To many of our people the most simple symbols of religion are a long closed book, or if they know of them, it is quite unsympathetically. To some the message is immediate and spontaneous. The real question is as to the artist's sincerity. Given that, it is not harmful, on the other hand it is quite educational, that nine out of every ten

should merely look and wonder. A home in which one of Miss Macomber's pictures is well hung, can

scarcely fail to have an atmosphere that its inmates, and especially the children, will come to feel.

for the very crustiest roll, and by letting him send out to the panaderia for some little cakes, and by letting him order in some guava jelly, is beyond computing.

Doña Ceferina, too, was her own simple self at last, beaming and capable. So we sat and munched together, sipping the hot, sweet, fragrant stuff in our cups, and looking down into the sunny street below us. It was the same street of little shops where we had wandered in the dark the night before.

Some way along it, in its middle distance, I should say, was a flock of goats, a troop of plaintively bleating nannies following one aggressively masculine and silent, with something impressive in the cock of his head and the jerky activity of his tail. He might have been the hero of our almost adventure at the plaza corner, I suggested to Don Feliciano.

Doña Ceferina leaped into speech. "That reminds me," she said quite logically, as if some such memorandum had been needed to bring the fact of a last night before her mind at all, "that reminds me; last night one of my maids ran away with one of the laborers from your plantation, Escalante. What do you think of that?"

She shot the question at Don Feliciano with upraised hands and a face denoting utmost horror,-holy horror, I think I have heard it called, -and sat there waiting for his answer. It was really an impressive

pose.

But Don Feliciano merely finished his chocolate and gave the cup to the muchacho to be refilled.

"What," demanded Doña Ceferina again, becoming a bit unsteady in the pose and losing some of the impressiveness, "what are you going to do about it?"

Don Feliciano took his full cup from the muchacho and tasted it appreciatively, one small sip after another, till sheer heaviness brought Doña Ceferina's hands down to her tradition of a lap. The pious disgust on her face gave way to unaffected impatience.

"What," Don Feliciano asked her then, "what can I do about it?"

"You can send and catch them," cried his energetic wife.

"To be sure," Don Feliciano agreed. "I can send and catch them." He took up his cup and sipped again, as if the matter were ended.

"And you can put the man in jail," said Doña Ceferina, horror growing again in her face.

Don Feliciano set his cup down with an old man's minute precision. "Ceferina," he said, "you are neither a nun nor a young girl. The gentleman who honors us with his company is not a nun or a young girl, either. So I think I may ask what would be gained by putting the man in jail?"

His tone was very serious and courteously enquiring, and his eyes were grave. But there seemed to be just the faintest gleam of amusement in them. "They ran away last night, you say? Under the circumstances I should think a priest, not an alcalde, would be the craftsman to-to put HumptyDumpty together again."

Doña Ceferina rose then, rather majestically all things considered. "Escalante," she said, "I must beg you not to make a jest of such a thing before me. The girl is a shameless, wanton hussy. After all the hours I've spent telling her about the deceitfulness of men, and all the hours Father Isidro has talked to all of them, and after she went to the Mass only last Sunday-" Doña Ceferina retired, all her chins in air, and almost banged a door behind her.

Don Feliciano looked after her, still thoughtful. Then he turned to me. "Do you," he asked me gravely, "see any gain in putting the man in jail?"

"No real gain," I answered.

The old man's eyes grew suddenly soft and tender. "They are so very young," he said apologetically. "They hardly knew what they were doing. But it's done. Don't you think," he asked a little wistfully, "that under the circumstances it would be better to get them married? Then they could have a house and some children, and it would be pleasanter for everybody than a jail would be. I don't like jails very well."

"Much pleasanter," I "But as a punishment-"

agreed.

Don Feliciano looked downcast again. "I wasn't thinking of punishments," he admitted. "The fact is," he said suddenly, with the hangdog air of one beginning a confession

"Escalante," Doña Ceferina called, opening her door a crack and shooting her words into the room, it must be distinctly understood-distintamente entendido-that under no circumstances does that girl return to this house. After telling her all I have, and teaching her the Rosary of the Blessed Virgin till she could say it backwards-"

"If you'd rather," Don Feliciano suggested mildly, "they could live at the plantation after they are married. Perhaps it would be pleasanter-"

"If I'd rather!" cried the unseen lady. "Thank God, Escalante, it's no affair of mine. Besides, you ought to know that all the houses at the plantation are occupied."

"Well," said Don Feliciano, still suggestively, "since you feel they'd better go to the plantation, we can build them a house. Perhaps it is better. The man works there. Building a house is very little bother, and as you feel it would be pleasanter-"

"As I feel!" Doña Ceferina spluttered. "I feel jail for both of them. But of course if you feel 'pleasanter,' that ends it. I'm tired of 'pleasanters.' I don't believe in encouraging such doings and building houses for them, but no es cosa mia. The girl is a shameless one. I wash my hands of her. Pleasanter! I wash my hands of that!" Doña Ceferina's door closed with an emphasis SO convincing that even through the wall I fancied I could hear her splashing imaginary water.

I might have been even a little less at ease as an onlooker at this small domestic squall had not Don Feliciano been so very much at ease himself.

"I'm so glad," he murmured, "to find that you both agree with me. Now we'll have them married at once."

"Having first," I suggested, "taken your errant bride and bridegroom into custody."

"That," said he, "will not be necessary. The fact is," he added, his hangdog air returning, "the-the man sent up the first thing this morning to ask if I'd advance him the cost of a wedding out of his year-afternext's wages. He's a bit in debt. 'And-and the fact is, I said I would."

"Then," said I, "they didn't really run away at all."

"That's about it," said Don Feliciano. "The fact is," he added again, rising, "I shall have to ask you to permit my absence for half an hour.

The girl wouldn't stop crying till I'd said I would forgive them and give the bride away. The fact is," he added still again, shaking my hands formally and looking about for a hat which lay in plain sight before him, "the fact is, they are waiting for me at the foot of the stairway. So if you won't be offended at my brief absence-"

Doña Ceferina's door opened. "Escalante," she said imperiously, "I've been making up a bundle of that hussy's clothes. She left them all here, just as if she expected me to save them for her! And here's

a mantilla. You understand, I wash my hands of her, and I still think jail is the place. But if she is to be married, I won't have one of my maids married looking like a ragamuffin. So I've put in a mantilla. It's an old one; she can keep it. I never want to touch the thing again. But every girl ought to be married in a mantilla."

"I will send a muchacho for the things," Don Feliciano answered. "You are very thoughtful. As you say "

Doña Ceferina's door closed abruptly, and her husband turned to me. "She is," he said, "the most thoughtful and kind-hearted person I have known. And now, if you are sure you will forgive me-" With that he spied the hat and pressed my hands again.

Presently I saw a little procession pass along the grassy street of little shops. Don Feliciano, very erect in his frail, quiet dignity, walked first. Close behind him came the two culprits. But somehow they seemed very young and unashamed and quite too happy to be culprits. The man, dressed in his best of shapeless cotton with his work-hardened feet

thrust into huge chinelas of purple velvet, and the girl, bright in her gaudy finery and with the soft lace of Doña Ceferina's gift thrown over her glossy hair, walked hand in hand for all the world to see. And all the world swarmed out of the little shops and flung good wishes at them.

Last of all, closing the procession, pranced an impish muchacho, much delighted by the event and the prominence it brought him. He was carrying dot and trousseau together, tied up in a big red handkerchief.

Altogether it all seemed ever so much pleasanter for everybody than jails. The only discordant note about it was the velvet slippers. They were magenta purple, and they screamed.

Sitting there, gazing down the sunny street long after the bridal party had vanished, I fell to brooding on Don Feliciano's apologetic words. They were so young. Το them so much must be forgiven for impulsiveness, short-sightedness, impatience.

I'm afraid I grew rather wistful. "If only I'd had some fairy godfather," I complained.

"Master," said the friendly muchacho, arriving at that moment, "your boatman Pedro asks to see you."

"Pedro?" said I. I had forgotten

him.

"Well," said I, "let him come in," and I waited for his coming with no great willingness, remembering a bit too tardily for my comfort that I was a sojourner in Felicidad,that my home was a prau which this Pedro, who was coming in, steered aimlessly up and down the empty

seas.

(To be continued)