IN the fresh morning dawn， in the rosy airgleams a GREat Star， the brightest Star of themorning. His rays tremble on the white wall， as ifhe wished to write down on it what he can tell， whathe has seen there and elsewhere during thousandsof years in our rolling world. Let us hear one of hisstories.
“A short time ago”—the Star's “short time ago”is called among men “centuries ago”—“my rays followed a young artist. It was in the city of thePopes， in the world-city， Rome. Much has been changed there in the course of time， but thechanges have not come so quickly as the change from youth to old age. Then already the palaceof the Caesars was a ruin， as it is now; fig trees and laurels GREw among the fallen marblecolumns， and in the desolate bathing-halls， where the gilding still clings to the wall; theColiseum was a gigantic ruin; the church bells sounded， the incense sent up its fragrantcloud， and through the streets marched processions with flaming tapers and glowingcanopies. Holy Church was there， and art was held as a high and holy thing. In Rome lived thegreatest painter in the world， Raphael; there also dwelt the first of sculptors， MichaelAngelo. Even the Pope paid homage to these two， and honored them with a visit. Art wasrecognized and honored， and was rewarded also. But， for all that， everything great andsplendid was not seen and known.
“In a narrow lane stood an old house. Once it had been a temple; a young sculptor nowdwelt there. He was young and quite unknown. He certainly had friends， young artists， likehimself， young in spirit， young in hopes and thoughts; they told him he was rich in talent，and an artist， but that he was foolish for having no faith in his own power; for he alwaysbroke what he had fashioned out of clay， and never completed anything; and a work must becompleted if it is to be seen and to bring money.
“'You are a dreamer，' they went on to say to him， 'and that's your misfortune. But thereason of this is， that you have never lived， you have never tasted life， you have neverenjoyed it in GREat wholesome draughts， as it ought to be enjoyed. In youth one mustmingle one's own personality with life， that they may become one. Look at the great masterRaphael， whom the Pope honors and the world admires. He's no despiser of wine and bread.'
“'And he even appreciates the baker's daughter， the pretty Fornarina，' added Angelo，one of the merriest of the young friends.
“Yes， they said a good many things of the kind， according to their age and their reason.They wanted to draw the young artist out with them into the merry wild life， the mad life as itmight also be called; and at certain times he felt an inclination for it. He had warm blood， astrong imagination， and could take part in the merry chat， and laugh aloud with the rest;but what they called 'Raphael's merry life' disappeared before him like a vapor when he saw thedivine radiance that beamed forth from the pictures of the GREat master; and when he stoodin the Vatican， before the forms of beauty which the masters had hewn out of marblethousands of years since， his breast swelled， and he felt within himself something high，something holy， something elevating， great and good， and he wished that he couldproduce similar forms from the blocks of marble. He wished to make a picture of that whichwas within him， stirring upward from his heart to the realms of the Infinite; but how， and inwhat form The soft clay was fashioned under his fingers into forms of beauty， but the nextday he broke what he had fashioned， according to his wont.
“One day he walked past one of those rich palaces of which Rome has many to show. Hestopped before the GREat open portal， and beheld a garden surrounded by cloistered walks.The garden bloomed with a goodly show of the fairest roses. Great white lilies with green juicyleaves shot upward from the marble basin in which the clear water was splashing; and a formglided past， the daughter of the princely house， graceful， delicate， and wonderfully fair.Such a form of female loveliness he had never before beheld—yet stay： he had seen it，painted by Raphael， painted as a Psyche， in one of the Roman palaces. Yes， there it hadbeen painted; but here it passed by him in living reality.
“the remembrance lived in his thoughts， in his heart. He went home to his humbleroom， and modelled a Psyche of clay. It was the rich young Roman girl， the noble maiden;and for the first time he looked at his work with satisfaction. It had a meaning for him， for itwas she. And the friends who saw his work shouted aloud for joy; they declared that this workwas a manifestation of his artistic power， of which they had long been aware， and that nowthe world should be made aware of it too.
“the clay figure was lifelike and beautiful， but it had not the whiteness or the durabilityof marble. So they declared that the Psyche must henceforth live in marble. He alreadypossessed a costly block of that stone. It had been lying for years， the property of hisparents， in the courtyard. Fragments of glass， climbing weeds， and remains of artichokeshad gathered about it and sullied its purity; but under the surface the block was as white asthe mountain snow; and from this block the Psyche was to arise.”
Now， it happened one morning—the bright Star tells nothing about this， but we know itoccurred—that a noble Roman company came into the narrow lane. The carriage stopped at thetop of the lane， and the company proceeded on foot towards the house， to inspect theyoung sculptor's work， for they had heard him spoken of by chance. And who were thesedistinguished guests Poor young man! or fortunate young man he might be called. Thenoble young lady stood in the room and smiled radiantly when her father said to her， “It isyour living image.” That smile could not be copied， any more than the look could bereproduced， the wonderful look which she cast upon the young artist. It was a fiery look，that seemed at once to elevate and to crush him.