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the red mantle of Joy clasped with a golden anchor.

Upon her bosom, suspended below this emblem of Hope, is a Jet Cross-the Cross not of Faith only but also of self-denial and suffering.

The sky and ocean are symbolical of the storms of life, and upon the shore are strewn wrecks of earthly things.

CHRISTIAN CHARITY,

THE COMPANION PICTURE TO THE "ROCK OF AGES."

Taking the same scene of a storm-beaten Cross in the midst of a raging sea; a female clinging, but with a more assured grasp, shows her grateful appreciation by assisting a sister struggler, almost gone, who has just secured a feeble hold. A most beautiful exposition of that highest of charitiestrue Christian charity which cares for perishing souls around her.

CHAPTER VII.

Social life was not in any way neglected. Though spending most of his time in his studio, he made many friends and took an active interest in public matters. His music was kept up and he played his flute weekly with Dr. Gorham, who also played the flute, and Edwin Vose, pianist. He had with him at various times several pupils who came in as members of his family and as friends. Among these should be mentioned Miss Cornelia A. Conant and Miss Mary Gove, of New York, and Edward L. Hyde, of Mystic, Conn., afterward Rev. E. L. Hyde, of Boston, Mass. No more appreciative pupil or true and stanch friend ever blessed the "Master's" life than "Edward." Through all the years of life they were close friends and regular correspondents. The "Master" wrote to him as he did to no other, and from him always received sympathy and appreciation. When there came to the notice of "Edward" any idea or scheme by which it seemed possible the "Master" might benefit, he never failed to bring it forward and ever remained the same true friend and brother.

In 1902 the "Master" writes him thus:

"My Dear Friend of Many Years Ago: Indeed how long it has been since we lived and worked together in the Westerly studio! And how many

and varied have been the experiences of each of us! In truth, I sometimes, thinking back and trying to locate facts, have to unravel them like knotted thread to get at the proper sequence. But the essence, the vital parts, and the prominent personalities always stand out distinct in memory; and surely your name could never be effaced or remembered with diminished affection and interest."

The last letter the "Master" wrote was penned with trembling hand to this, his dearest friend, whose interest and love had never flagged. All the letters ever written to this friend by either the "Master" or his wife were preserved, and when he was informed that the compiling of a biography of Mr. Oertel was contemplated he gave them all to the latter's sons to be used in furthering the purpose. Many passages from these are quoted, and it is a matter of regret that some can not be given entire.

During the stay in Westerly Mr. Oertel formed a friendship with the Rev. John C. Middleton, who was then rector of the Episcopal Church in Mystic, Conn. Here also was one with whom he was in close sympathy and he was closely associated with him in later years when rector of St. Paul's parish, Glen Cove, L. I.

Though not a large man, weighing not over 165 lbs., Mr. Oertel was very powerful and very proud of his strength and willing at any time to exhibit it. On one occasion, at a gathering of friends when he was alluded to as "a small man" he walked to the center of the room, placed his hands on the floor, and invited two of the largest

men present to stand on them. Those who came forward weighed 220 and 236 pounds, respectively. When they had each placed a foot on one of his hands he rose with them, carried them across the room, and gave them a toss upward as he let them fall to the floor. He was a very rapid walker and never seemed to tire; his stride was like that of a thoroughbred horse, and this he maintained mile after mile with machine-like regularity. He would not "keep step" with a companion, nor moderate his speed; they must step with him and keep up with him or be left behind. Sometimes he walked over to Mystic, 6 miles distant, to see his friend Middleton, allowing himself one hour each way and always coming in on time.

Of his home life there is little to relate. His studio was his home, and his work hours there from 12 to 24, according to the exigencies of the case. He always had a couch or lounge in his room where he rested and slept either day or night when exhausted nature demanded. He came into the house to retire at any hour, from 10 o'clock p. m. to daylight-or not at all, as was often the case when engaged on important work.

The first call to meals was seldom heeded. When the bell had been rung for him the family took their places at table and waited. If he did not come in some minutes one of the children was sent to ask if he had heard the bell. Often he was so absorbed in his work that he had not; frequently he would say, rather impatiently, "Yes, I come," in which case there was nothing to do but wait, and continue to wait until he appeared. Often the dishes of food

were returned to the kitchen to be kept warm until it pleased him to come. A meal was never eaten without him, for at the table was about the only time the family were together and after it was over he would often remain for some time and talk.

Useless noise or chatter he could not endure and had little patience with the children at their play. Such a thing as a drum, horn, or any noise-making toy was a forbidden article in his household.

He had infinite patience to bestow on his work, but none at all with the petty annoyances of everyday life.

The bark of a dog or the continuous cackle of a hen would soon bring him from his room with the impatient ejaculation "March off, you beast, and stop your confounded noise."

He loved to talk of his work to any visitor who showed intelligence and appreciation or who seemed to have an honest desire for information, but he shut up like a clam in the presence of those who came out of mere idle curiosity and who presumed to know much and to criticize, or as if duty bound to express admiration.

At one time, when he had on the easel a fine marine-the setting sun throwing a flood of golden light over a rough sea-a lady visitor entered and with a glance at the canvas exclaimed "Oh, how pretty! a prairie on fire!" He used to tell this anecdote with great gusto, adding that the funniest part of it and the joke on him was that the lady left without changing her opinion.

In 1867 he took an important step which largely influenced his subsequent life. Having been for a

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