Thirty-six years! That goes a long way to redeem even three thousand pounds of all their cumulative vulgarity.
«The Pitcher» is now in the National Gallery, with that other canvas by the same hand, «The Moon-Dial.» There they hang together for all who care to see them, his first and his last—the blossom and the fruit.
He had not long to live himself, and it was his good-fortune, so rare among those whose work is destined to live forever, that he succeeded at his first go-off.
And his success was of the best and most flattering kind.
It began high up, where it should, among the masters of his own craft. But his fame filtered quickly down to those immediately beneath, and through these to wider circles. And there was quite enough of opposition and vilification and coarse abuse of him to
