This historic book may have numerous typos and missing text. Purchasers can usually download a free scanned copy of the original book (without typos) from the publisher. Not indexed. Not illustrated. 1887 edition. Excerpt: ... fair white page there grew and spread designs of such marvellous grace and beauty, that even the fastidious Precentor owned them worthy of his chant, and the young artist forgot the weary smarting of his eyes in the delights of creation. He would not for worlds have owned, even to himself, the heavy ...
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This historic book may have numerous typos and missing text. Purchasers can usually download a free scanned copy of the original book (without typos) from the publisher. Not indexed. Not illustrated. 1887 edition. Excerpt: ... fair white page there grew and spread designs of such marvellous grace and beauty, that even the fastidious Precentor owned them worthy of his chant, and the young artist forgot the weary smarting of his eyes in the delights of creation. He would not for worlds have owned, even to himself, the heavy sense of fatigue that seemed always over him now. It was a frightfully hot summer, and the heat, combined with the overwork, were beginning to tell on him. It is needless to say that the Precentor's warning was absolutely unheeded, as Raymond ground at his lapis-lazuli till all flaws disappeared from the perfect blue, and hands and eyes alike ached for weariness; or burnished his gold till it shone again, and those tired eyes grew dim with fatigue. The strain told on his spirits too; he shrank further than ever behind his barrier of chill reserve, and even to De Berkynge he grew cold and irritable. Brother Martin noticed with sadness the change in this pupil he loved so well, and resolved to do his best to break through the crust of self-concentration which the boy's devotion to his art was forming round his character. Accordingly he came up to him one day in the Cloisters after dinner, as Raymond sat working away in his usual corner. Brother Roger's missal lay open before the boy, and the Master gazed at it for some moments in silence. Then he began: --"That is a beautiful page, my boy," he said, "and what on all the page, which part of the work conduces most, think you, to the beauty of the whole?" Raymond looked up in astonishment, and pointed mutely to the crimson. But the Master shook his head. "Not so, my son. The crimson is fair, I grant thee, very fair; but what would it be without the humble black line which...
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