--- title: Improvement Era description: Monthly periodical of the Mormon church, 1897 onward. This library holds the issues of November 1897 to December 1930. authors: - W. J. Sloan collections: - periodicals tags: - magazine - improvement-era periodical: Improvement Era volume: 6 number: 8 published: 1903-06 publisher: Young Men’s Mutual Improvement Associations publisher_place: Salt Lake City language: en type: magazine reference: 'W. J. Sloan, "The Artist," *Improvement Era* 6, no. 8 (June 1903): 575–581.' source: url: https://archive.org/details/improvementera0608unse transcription: Transcribed from the Internet Archive scan of each issue (the item for each issue is named in the issue's own source); unnumbered advertising leaves are omitted, printed page numbers are kept as page markers. identifier: improvementera0608unse start_page: 575 end_page: 581 rights: status: public-domain basis: US publication 1930 or earlier (published 1903-06) source: https://archive.org/details/improvementera0608unse publication_year: 1903 note: The Internet Archive item metadata carries a blanket "© Copyright by Intellectual Reserve, Inc." notice. The library owner judged it inapplicable because this issue was published in 1903, before 1931; a scan-level notice does not restore copyright. --- # The Artist THE ARTIST. BY W. J. SLOAN. In May, 189 — Edward W , , a young man of twenty-three, graduated from the high school of his native city. The following September, he went to one of the great colleges to finish his edu- cation. Here he spent the next three and a-half years. No visit was paid to the old home, vacations being passed with an uncle in the Green Mountain State. Having finished tha course at the University, he returned home, where he was received with open arms of welcome. At the close of the first day at home, the son found the father on the broad veranda, reading, "Well, father, what's the book?" "The book of books, my boy." "By which I suppose you refer to the Bible?" "Not much trouble to guess that, my son." "Father, you have been very kind to me, and have given me the best that it was possible for me to obtain in the way of an education." "I have tried to." "And you have done it. You are older than I; have learned much from experience. I dislike to shake your tradition or faith, yet candor compels me to say, you are wasting your time reading the book you hold in your hand, unless you read to pass time." "I read for the good this book does me, and the faith it teaches me in the Great God." "Father, I am surprised, but then, you are not to blame, living as you do, away from the centers of education and modern knowl- 676 IMPROVEMENT ERA. edge! If you were familiar with the trend of science and knowledge, you would no longer waste time reading that book." "Why?" "Because you would know that what it tells is but a myth; a fable which learned men no longer accept as anything else. Of course, there is good reading in it, but it is only the imagination of poetic minds, and should be read the same as the works of any poet; cer- tainly its teachings ought not to be accepted as truth." "You used to read it, Edward." "Of course, I did, and believed its stories, just as thousands of others read and believe it today. But that was before I knew better." "And do you never read it now?" "Not since the first month at school. Why, nobody reads it there; or, at least, if they do, they don't let any one know it. Why should they? Learned men have proved that it is what I say, a myth, a fable. That the God idea is but a creation of hope which some men have, without reason or fact to support it." "But millions still hold to the idea." "Only beeause they know no better, father; only because they do not know of the discoveries made by modern science, and of the reasoning of great men." "Tills book says, 'The fool in his heart has said, there is no God.'" 'If the writer of that had left off the first part of his sen- tence, wise men could agree with the latter." "By which you mean, there is no God?" "Spencer, Huxley, Darwin —master minds of modern thought — while disagreeing on minor points, agree that the creation and God, as taught by the book you have in your hand, are but mjths." "Is that one of the things you have learned at school?" "Yes, father, and while I know that it will be hard for you to change the faith and ideas of a life, yet I shall prove to you that your life-long beliefs are wrong, on this point, at least. But the story is a long one, and, as it is getting late, we will not commence it tonight. We will have plenty of time; and as I am a little tired, I will go to my old room, and to bed. Good night, father." "Yes, there will be plenty of time. Good night, my boy." THE ARTIST. 577 As the son went into the house, the father slowly remarked to himself: "Sometimes those who undertake to prove, prove too much, and thereby prove nothing. I have paid for a part of your learning, my boy, that you will have to unlearn, either here, or hereafter." Family payers were held that night, as usual, but the father did not ask the son to be present. On the afternoon of the next day, father and son took a stroll through the city; the latter wished to renew old acquaintances, and to note the changes that had taken place in the past three and a-half years. Towards the close of the day, they turned their steps to the western part of the city, where recently had been erected an institution of learning, the gift of a noted philanthro- pist to the city. As they neared the building, Edward exclaimed: "What a magnificent building! The city has every reason to be proud of it. You did not tell me of the beauties of this building in your letters; you only said that a home for the advancement of the mind had been erected; but what a beauty it is! I know little of its history and completion, and so you must tell me, father. But first, as I stand on the outside and view its huge, yet perfect dimensions, I must ask, who was the architect? His was a master hand." "I will tell you later," said the father. Together, father and son entered the building; at the head of the stairs, leading to the second floor, they stood before a creation in marble, white as snoiv; after a moment of silence, Edward re- marked: "A master sculptor chiseled that marble into the form we now see; you, father, living here in touch with all that goes on, must know something of its history. Who is the author of this beautiful creation?" "Yes, I know; I will tell yoii later." Passing through the hall, father and son entered a lecture room, on the east wall of which hung a large picture, the gift of one of the wealthy men of the city. A hasty glance about the room, and then the eyes of the younger man rested on the picture. Looking at the older man, he said: "You have seen it before, I have not, yet know it to be the work of one of the old masters. I A grand, a great picture! I do not know the painter, and at this , 678 IMPROVEMENI ERA. distance cannot read the name in the lower corner. Great pictures are best viewed at a distance. I shall not go nearer to read the name, though I know it is a great one, but you shall tell me." "Yes, my boy, I will tell you, later." "Later! that is what you have said to my last three questions. Why not now?" "There is no hurry. I will answer your questions before we leave the building. Come !" Together they walked across the hall to a west room, the father raised the blind, threw open a window, turned to his son, and said: "My son, come here. Open your eyes, open them wide; look straight ahead, look to the right and to the left, miss nothing that your eyes can reach; do this for me, for I think it is a great picture. Let me describe it, you follow with your eyes. First: far in the distance, the mountains, (in the west they call them hills, for I am told that there their mountains are covered with eternal snow, while here we see the white mantle only for a few weeks in the year.) You see that the hills are covered with pine; note well the stately growth; the oak, not one or two, but many, and of different kinds, as you know from your boyhood tramps through those same hills. Beneath those trees are ferns and flowers, also of many kinds; we cannot see them at this distance, but you know that they are there, for you have seen them in bygone days." "I see them all in memory, father." "They are there now, as they were then. Nature goes on and changes, yet never changes. I need not remind you of the stream which flows through those hills, and past the farm on which you were born and spent your childhood. Rather, let me ask you to turn your eyes to the right, where you can see field after field of wheat, whose golden heads bow to the gentle breeze which we feel as it fans our faces. Close by is the old home of Squire — who still lives, and who will greet you with the same welcome as he did in your childhood days. You have not forgotten the double row of magnolias that lead from the gate to the house; you can see them now, with their great load of cream-white blossoms, and, if your nose is as keen as mine, you can smell their perfume, too." "My sense of smell is not dead, father, the perfume comes to me as a sweet memory of bygone days." — THE ARTIST. 579 "Turn your eyes to the left, my boy, for there are other things to see, and night will soon come and shut out the picture until the dawn. Here are fields of corn and cotton; they grow better on the south side of the valley than on the north, and man has learned to profit by the lesson nature has taught him. Look at the corn, not that in the far distance, though it is the same, but that which is close bv, which we may see best; note the tall, green stalks, with wide blades, and tassels of yellow and gold, which gleam, one, two, or three from a stalk. You see them? Good! Now look at the cotton field, the one close to us. You have seen a cotton field before? I know it, but look at this one closely, note the colors white, cream, pink, red, green — many colors in a field. The flowers which bloom this morning are cream-colored ; tomorrow, they will be pink; the next day, red; then they die. The bowl forms in from ten days to two weeks, it breaks, and a ball of white takes its place, the stalk remaining green until the frost turns it brown. Now look close to the building, to the grounds near the side on which we stand. Here are trees and shrubs of many kinds, some of them green all the year, some of them turn their colors as the seasons change. Flowers of every color of the rainbow, and a hundred others, yet each breathe forth, to those who will receive, beauty or perfume. From the foundation of this building to the distant hills, to the right and left, as far as the eye can reach — as far as it can reach, no matter where you stand, is a picture. You have asked me three questions, I will answer them, and then I will ask you one; three for one, is that fair?" "I think so, father." "As we stood outside the building, you asked me the name of the architect who planned it. His name is —— of New . . , York, a man who, I understand, is at the head of his craft in this country. To your second question, as we stood before the marble figure, on the floor below, it is the work of a master sculptor, Sig. , a man of Italy. The picture, which you saw across the hall, is the ^work of Raphael, a man who, I am told, was one of the world's great painters. I have answered your questions, Edward, I have told you the name of the architect, the sculptor, the painter; and now I want you to answer my question. Take your time, there is no hurry, look from the window again, look in " 580 IMPROVEMENl ERA. a month, look in six months, the color and the present effect of the picture may be changed, but it will still be worth looking at;yetno matter what may be its condition, it will ask you, in silence, what I ask you now: "Who, in the past, placed those hills where they stand; who planted the pine, the oak, the sycamore, the birch, the cedar, the holly, through which you roamed when a boy, and which still stand on those hills? Who caused that clear, crystal stream to flow through those hills, where there is no place for man to build his home, to a place where he could live and enjoy its cooling draughts? My question may have many parts, yet it is all one. Why is it that the grains of wheat, thrown to the ground, grow and come to the golden heads which we now see? Why is it that the magnolia trees in Squire 's place have a great white bloom with a sweet smell, while the pine trees in the hills, yonder, have only a hard cone; the oak, an acorn; the holly, only a berry? Why does the corn in yonder field have a long ear with a tassel of gold, while the cotton has a flower which changes color each day of its life, its place,after death, turning to a ball of snowy white? Why do some of the shrubs in these grounds keep green the year round, while others drop their leaves and stand for months as dead, only to come to life again? Why do not all the flowers, which we see before us, have one color, one shape, one perfume, instead of many? "Look at the hills again, my boy, the sun is sinking behind them, and, if you will look from the window at my left, you will see another light rising; a lamp dimmed, a lamp lighted. Who causes the one to sink, the other to rise, to rise and sink again in an endless course? I am through, my son, though I have shown you but a small part of the picture, which covers the earth; it may change according to the part you may be in, yet is always worth your study: Who is the artist? You may tell me that it is all according to the laws of nature. Should that be your answer, I ask you: Who is the author and ruler of the laws of nature? But, perhaps, 'the story is a long one, and as it is getting late, we will not commence it tonight.' And the father turned from the window. There was a mo- ment of silence, in which the son looked from the window; then^ — " THE ARTIST. 581 turning to his father, he said: "No, father, the story is not a long one; you have shown me a picture; there is an artist. You are rght; I was wrong. The book you read, last night, is right; the men I have looked to are wrong. There is a God! Arm in arm, father and son left the building. That night the son knelt at family prayers. CHARACTER ENDURES. "The only riches worth while are in the character. Use your abundant possessions to help build the kingdom of God, as the workman uses his tools to construct a wall or to build a bridge. So shall your dollars be transformed into character, and your intel- lectual achievements minister to ethical attainments. "Learn to face prosperity by continually acknowledging that what you seem to possess you do not really possess at all. You are only a trustee of a portion of the estate which belongs to God. I possess so many golden dollars. How beautiful they are, how substantial, how enduring. See me clutch them. They are mine. I will hold them. Nothing shall rob me of them. Nothing? Wait. Shortly this hand of mine which clutches so firmly shall be palsied in death, and later crumble to dust. The grasp upon the gold shall be loosened. Mine? It was never mine. Out of God's earth it came. In God's earth no human power can prevent its ultimately returning. 'Naked came I into the world, and naked shall I depart thither.' How absurd, then, to talk of my posess- ing wealth. "But there is one possession which we shall keep, and which shall endure as long as we endure. Character shall endure, be- cause my character is myself. If one has learned love, that shall abide. Purity of heart, honesty of purpose, kindness of life shall endure, for these belong to the immortal soul of man. Said Jesus, 'The man who in the spirit of love ministers to the sick, clothes the naked, feeds the hungry, visits the prisoners, he and he alone shall hear the voice of Him who sitteth upon the throne, saying, Come ye blessed, inherit the kingdom prepared for you from the foundation of the world.' " Frank Oliver Hall.