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ever since he began serious work. He has always avoided the localities frequented by painters, finding his own fields of congenial work, and enjoying the society of a few intimate friends, though often quite isolated. It has always been his habit to see more of nature than of art, a habit which has had much to do with the development of his individuality.

Honors have not been wanting. He received the Prize Fund gold medal of the American Art Association in 1886, and in the following year one of his pictures took the $2,000 prize and became the property of the Union League Club of New York. Then came an honorable mention at the Salon of 1887 for a picture called "The Last Rays." Next came a silver medal at the Paris Exposition of 1889, which made the artist hors concours at the Salon. In 1890 the $500 Potter Palmer prize was awarded to him for the best landscape at the Chicago Institute exhibition; and at about the same time a gold medal was awarded to him at the Mechanics' Fair in Boston; from the same source he has had also a silver medal. A grand gold medal was awarded to him at Atlanta; medals from the World's Fair at Chicago, the Pan-American Exposition Buffalo, and the last Paris International Exposition were added to the list; and in 1901 he received the $300 prize for the best landscape ("Summer Clouds") at the Penn

sylvania Academy in Philadelphia. He is an associate of the National Academy, a member of the Society of American Artists, an artist member of the Lotos Club, New York, and vice-president of the Copley Society of Boston. He is repre

sented in the Metropolitan Museum of Art, New York, by a picture called "Evening"; in the permanent collection of the Pennsylvania Academy, Philadelphia, by “The Brook"; in the Corcoran Gallery of Art, Washington, by "The Deepening Shadows," a work which, on the occasion of its appearance at the National Academy exhibition in New York, was so much admired by Inness and Wyant, who were on the hanging committee, that they tried (in vain) to have it hung in the chief place of honor. This picture was bought by Thomas B. Clarke, with three others by Davis, and was purchased by the Corcoran Gallery at the Clarke sale. Davis is also represented in the Chicago Art Institute, and in public collections at Omaha and Hartford.

Much of his best work is owned in or near Boston. His first really ambitious effort and fairly large canvas, his second Salon picture, which he named "La Plaine," was bought by a Boston lady, in whose home it still hangs. One of his very best pictures, called "A Winter Evening," is owned by the well-known Washington collector, Thomas Waggaman, who recently loaned it to the Corcoran Gallery.

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What though our life-work great or small may be,

Grant us some spark of thy divinity,

That we may make a soul's sweet symphony.

Teach us to live.


The Ship that Saw a Ghost

By Frank Norris

ERY much of this story must remain untold, for the reason that if it were definitely known what business I had aboard the tramp steamfreighter Glarus, three hundred miles off the South American coast on a certain summer's day some few years ago, I should very likely be obliged to answer a great many personal and direct questions put by fussy and impertinent experts in maritime law, who are paid to be inquisitive. Also, I would get "Ally Bazan," Strokher and Hardenberg into trouble.

Suppose, on that certain summer's day, you had asked of Lloyd's agency where the Glarus was, and what was her destination and cargo. You would have been told that she was twenty days out from Callao, bound north to San Francisco in ballast; that she had been spoken by the bark Medea and the steamer Benevento; that she was reported to have blown out a cylinder head, but being manageable, was proceeding on her way under sail.

That is what Lloyd's would have answered.

If you know something of the ways of ships and what is expected of them, you will understand that the Glarus to be some half a dozen hundred miles south of where Lloyd's would have her, and to

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be still going south, under full steam, was a scandal that would have made her brothers and sisters ostracize her finally and forever.

And that is curious, too. Humans may indulge in vagaries innumerable, and may go far afield in the way of lying; but a ship may not so much as quibble without suspicion. The least lapse of “regularity," the least difficulty in squaring performance with intuition, and behold she is on the black list and her captain, owners, officers, agents and consignors, and even supercargoes are asked to explain.

And the Glarus was already on the black list. From the beginning her stars had been malign. As the Breda, she had first lost her reputation, seduced into filibustering escapades down the South American coasts, where in the end a plainclothes United States detectivethat is to say a revenue cutterarrested her off Buenos Ayres and brought her home, a prodigal daughter, besmirched graced.

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wards built a clubhouse out of what she earned.

And after that we got her.

We got her, I say, through Ryder's South Pacific Exploitation Company. The "president" had picked out a lovely, lively little deal for Hardenberg, Strokher and Ally Bazan (the Three Black Crows), which he swore would make them "independent rich" the rest of their respective lives. It is a promising deal (B. 300 it is on Ryder's map), and if you want to know more about it you may write to ask Ryder what B. 300 is. If he chooses to tell you that is his affair.

For B. 300-let us confess it-is, as Hardenberg puts it, as crooked as a dog's hind leg. It is as risky as barratry. If you pull it off


may after paying Ryder his share divide sixty-five, or possibly sixty-seven, thousand dollars betwixt you and your associates. If you fail, and you are perilously like to fail, you will be sure to have a man or two of your companions shot, maybe yourself obliged to pistol certain people, and in the end fetch up at Tahiti, prisoner in a French patrol boat.

Observe that B. 300 is spoken of as still open. It is so, for the rea

son that the Three Black Crows did not pull it off. It still stands. marked up in red ink on the map that hangs over Ryder's desk in the San Francisco office; and any one can have a chance at it who will meet Cyrus Ryder's terms. Only he can't get the Glarus for the attempt.

For the trip to the island after B. 300 was the last occasion on which

the Glarus will smell blue water or taste the trades. She will never clear again. She is lumber.

And yet the Glarus on this very blessed day of 1902 is riding to her buoys off Sausalito in San Francisco bay, complete in every detail (bar a broken propeller shaft), not a rope missing, not a screw loose, not a plank started-a perfectly equipped steam-freighter.

But you may go along the Front in San Francisco from Fisherman's Wharf to the China steamships' docks and shake your dollars under the seamen's noses, and if you so much as whisper Glarus they will edge suddenly off and look at you with scared suspicion, and then, as like as not, walk away without another word. No pilot will take the Glarus out; no captain will navigate her; no stoker will feed her fires; no sailor will walk her decks. The Glarus is suspect. She has seen a ghost.

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It happened on our voyage to the island after this same B. 300. We had stood well off from shore for day after day, and Hardenberg had shaped our course so far from the track of navigation that since the Benevento had hulled down and vanished over the horizon, no stitch of canvas nor smudge of smoke had we seen. We had passed the equator long since, and would fetch a long circuit to the sout'ard, and bear up against the island by a circuitous route. This to avoid being spoken. It was tremendously essential that the Glarus should not be spoken. I suppose, no doubt, that it was the knowledge of our

isolation that impressed me with the dreadful remoteness of our position. Certainly the sea in itself looks no different at a thousand than at a hundred miles from shore. But as day after day I came out on deck, at noon, after ascertaining our position on the chart (a mere pin point in a reach of empty paper), the sight of the ocean weighed down. upon me with an infinitely great awesomeness-and I was no new hand to the high seas even then.

the impression of such empty immensity only once before, in my younger days, when I lay on my back on a treeless, bushless mountain side, and stared up into the sky for the better part of an hour. You probably know the trick. If you do not, you must understand that if you look up at the blue long enough, steadily enough, the flatness of the thing begins little by little to expand, to give here and there; and the eye travels on and on and up and up, till at length (well for you that it lasts but the fraction of a second), you all at once see space. You generally stop there and cry out, and-your hands over your eyes-are only too glad to grovel close to the good old solid earth again. Just as I, so often on that short voyage, was glad to wrench my eyes away from that horrid vacancy, to fasten them upon our sailless masts and stack, or to lay my grip upon the sooty smudged. taffrail of the only thing that stood between me and the Outer Dark.

But at such times the Glarus seemed to me to be threading a loneliness beyond all words and beyond all conception desolate. Even in more populous waters, when no sail notches the line of the horizon, the propinquity of one's kind is nevertheless a thing understood, and, to an unappreciated degree, comforting. Here, however, I knew we were out, far out in the desert. Never a keel for years upon years before us had parted these waters, never a sail had bellied to these winds. Perfunctorily, day in and day out we turned our eyes through long habit towards the horizons. But we knew, before the look, that the searching would be bootless. Forever and forever, under the pitiless sun and cold blue sky stretched the indigo of the ocean floor. The ether between the planets can be no less empty, no less void. I never, till that moment, could have so much as conceived the imagination of such loneliness, such utter stag nant abomination of desolation. In an open boat, bereft of comrades, I should have gone mad in thirty minutes. I remember to have approximated untouched by any known wind,

For we had come at last to that region of the Great Seas where no ship goes, the silent sea of Coleridge and the Ancient One, the unplumbed, untracked, uncharted Dreadfulness, primordial, hushed, and we were as much alone as a grain of star dust whirling in the empty space beyond Uranus and the ken of the greater telescopes.

So the Glarus plodded and churned. her way onward. Every day and all day the same pale blue sky and unwinking sun bent over that moving speck. Every day and all day same black-blue water-world,


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