"It is noble, great," said Mac, in those deep tones that spoke how he was
moved, "and men shall call you Artist when it is finished."
Finished! what more did it want? what more could be done to this so
perfect composition?
"Ah, Mac," said Clarian, enthusiastically seizing my chum's hands, "such
recognition as yours is what I have yearned for, and yet--'tis you who have
chiefly mocked me. It _shall_ be finished, Mac, and worthily! Do you not
think I have prayed for the inspiration, that I might bestow that final,
life-giving touch? Two months ago it was as near complete as it is
now,--but not until this very night have I felt the power of it. Now,
however, my soul is full of it, and it shall wax into a poem. This is why I
sought you, dear friends, to-night; for I am too gloriously happy to be
selfish, and I want you to share my happiness with me. Yes, Mac, it has
come at last, the warm Promethean fire, and at last I can proclaim, '_Anch'
io son pittore_!'"
I gazed at the lad as he raised his voice with these last words, and was
almost awed by his singular beauty. It seemed almost as if a halo should
encircle his brow. There was a delicate rose-flush on his cheek that
rivalled in strange loveliness the hectic color of the young mother when
her first-born nestles close and fondly to her thrilled bosom, and his eyes
glowed with a rare lambent light that touched one with the eloquence of a
beautiful dream. Mac eyed him with equal wonder and delight, but said,
teasingly,--
"Hey! so you have come at last to the 'true and the living,' have you? Art
regenerate? I hope thou hast also undergone that true baphometic
fire-baptism, whereof the worthy Diogenes Teufelsdroeckh hath discoursed so
appetizingly, causing us to long after it, none the less that he hath
scrupulously refrained from expounding whatever it is.
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