Eusebe imparted his reflections to his new friend, Paul Buck, the painter. The artist smiled, and said,—

“Eusebe,—my friend Eusebe,—what pleasure your society affords me! Since I made your acquaintance, I have sought to understand the sympathy I feel for you, and I have hitherto been unable to comprehend the cause. Those who say such sentiments arise without cause are fools. I like you, and now I know why. You were born an artist; and it is, perhaps, for the best that your father, whom they accuse of having neglected to cultivate your intellect, did not spoil your nature by routine culture. You know nothing, barbarian that you are; but you have good instincts, since you have not fallen, as I feared you would, into admiration of the rengaines of the modern theatre.”

“Tell me, pray, what you mean by rengaines.”

“The rengaines, my dear fellow, are all the familiar commonplaces and vulgar and hackneyed sentiments. The narrow and plodding spirits have formed a museum, which they open, at a specified hour, to human stupidity. The crowd have visited the museum for centuries, and departed every evening, perfectly satisfied, without seeming to be aware that the spectacle always amounts to the same thing.”

“I believe I comprehend you. You do not wish me to share the opinion of the crowd.”

“I should pity you if you did. Observe: I am fortunate in having a feeling of the good, the true, and the just. The sentiment of the beautiful—which is the same thing—is born in some men: it cannot be acquired. Happy are those who possess it! They may be hooted and scorned; but they will live in a world of enchantment to which they alone have access. Their lives will be totally unlike the existence of those who rail at them; and, while the latter may be cast down by the petty trials of every-day life, the privileged ones soar into those regions where they revel in the perfection of the ideal,—the true.”

“Are you one of those favored ones, Paul Buck?”

“I am.”

“Well, then, by the affection you say you bear me, and by the love of my father, whose wisdom you admire, tell me where the true may be found.”

“In art:—nowhere else,” responded Paul Buck. And, lighting his pipe, he turned the conversation to other topics.