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THE STORY OF AN ARTIST'S LIFE 11663

From this time forward, I was all aglow with enthusiasm, working spare times between school hours, and its moon became the talk of the school--naturally helped on by my boasting--that I was going to be an artist. The taunt of some--"An artist! he is always poor and dies in a garret!"--had no depressing effect upon me. I was not going to be that kind of artist--not one of your "every day kind"; and off I was to my kingdom in the clouds. 

After school, I would often go down on Chestnut Street, to see the pictures in Earle's Galleries, or in the window of Bailey's jewelry store. How well I remember "A Foggy Morning," by Cowell--in whose studio I afterward worked; or "A Morning at Long Beach," by Senat; how much better the numerous "Storm at Sea," by Hamilton, and the still more numerous "Breezy Day off Dieppe," by Briscoe; how, after drinking my full of these art wonders, I would hurry home and paint what I had seen, and what fun it was!

It may be noted that all these, my idols, were marine painters. This was not a matter of chance, it was choice--caused by the fact that at this time (I was now thirteen years old) I had decided to become America's great marine painter. This decision has been prompted by an article I had seen in some art journal to the effects that the crying need of America was a great marine painter. I had never heard of Winslow Homer, but, even if I had, I am sure it would not have at all affected my determination. Afterward I met a young animal painter, J. N. Hess (now dead), and learned form him that animal painters were even less numerous than good marine painters, and that we were even less well represented in this field--so, in order that America should not always be in such a deplorable plight, I renounced the inviting field of marine painting to become an American Landseer.

During one of my school vacations, I had worked and saved fifty dollars. This was to be devoted to study. But with whom should I study? No man or boy to whom this country is a land of "equal chances" can realize what heartaches this question caused me, and with what trepidation and nervousness I made the round of the studios. The question was not, would the desired teacher have a boy who knew nothing and had little money, but would he have me, or would he keep me after he found out who I was? I went to Mr M---. He "had other pupils!" Finally, Mr. I. L. Williams agreed to take me for two dollars a lesson. I was so excited that I could hardly wait for the appointed day to arrive. What a wonderland his studio was to me! I was dazzled; dazed by the thought that I was at last to be the pupil of an artist; what astonishing progress I should make! How I should strive, in a few lessons, to overtake his one other pupil! I dreamed of it by night, and my day-dreams were not less vivid. 

The day or two of waiting did pass, and I was on hand long before the appointed hour. It seemed that nine o'clock would never come, and I spent the time walking up and down Chestnut Street. At last, trembling with suppressed excitement, I entered his studio, and met this most kindly old artist. His first question was, could I draw a straight line? I was like the man who was asked if he could play the violin. "He did not know, but if he could be given one, he would try and see." I tried and saw. For three hours, I drew, or tried to draw, simple straight lines, parallel horizontal lines, and parallel perpendicular lines. At the end of the time, dizzy and dejected, I paid my two dollars, and left completely disheartened--all my dreams of the morning smashed to smithereens. So this was art! So different from what I had imagined! But was it really art? Could it be? And, if so, could I ever become an artist? The chances seemed greatly reduced. 

It took a couple of days to restore somewhat my depressed spirits. One thing was decided. If I should have to learn to draw straight lines, I should have to do it myself. To pay this price would, it seemed to me, be likely to ruin even a Rothschild. Then, after this nightmare of straight lines had been settled, I would study art. 

So, I plodding along as best I could without instruction, and I must have made some little progress; for, the next school vacation, while at Atlantic City, a sketch of a wrecked schooner driven ashore during a great storm, seemed to have enough in it to attract the attention of Mr. X---, an amateur artist, spending the summer at this place. I found that he was a man of most generous impulses, as well as most erratic in his likes and dislikes, and it was very probably the last-named quality that was

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