"And Strange to tell, among that Earthen Lot.

Some could articulate, while others not; And suddenly one more impatient cried 'Who is the Potter, pray, and who the Pot?'"--Omar Khayyam.

It was evident that this Harrington exhibition of sculpture was rather momentous in the artistic world. Visitors wandered about regarding the pieces with that half-lethargic curiosity usually accorded the great; and several, ruminatively twisting their printed guides into cones or corkscrews, paid particular homage to a work consisting of a girl, finely poised on her toss and with slender arms flung high.

A woman stood near, her eyes sad and wise with maturity. It had been years ago, and yet she almost felt again that agonizing fatigue, endured silently, as she had balanced with upstretched arms. Panting and trembling, she had stood until the walls swayed toward her.

"That's your masterpiece, Harrington," said a voice behind her. "Yes," came the satisfied answer. "But the anguish it cost me. I tell you the creation of a good work drains your soul . . . that terrible straining to convey a flash you've had of something . . . something . . ."

There was silence.

"By the way, who was your model," asked the first voice.

"Strange, but I've forgotten completely," returned the artist absently.

The woman in front of him slipped away.

This morning at 12 the Vagabond will listen to Professor Post lecture on the art of Mantegna in the Fogg Small Room.

Almost any afternoon in that rainy fall of 1771 you might have seen Oliver Goldsmith wandering out along the lanes of Hendon and Edgeware. From his aimless gait and the doleful expression on his face you would scarcely have guessed that he was busy concocting a new farce-comedy. But that's what he was doing. As yet it had no name, and the chances of its ever seeing the lights of London were none too good. Especially since Goldsmith got along so poorly with the theatre managers--Garrick of the Drury Lane, and Coleman of the Covent Garden.

Two years later Johnson was writing: "Dr. Goldsmith has a new comedy in rehearsal at Covent Garden to which the manager predicts ill success." "She Stoops to Conquer," had at last been hit on as a name, and the opening was set for the night of March 15th, 1773. But the rehearsals dragged badly. Colman's pessimism was contagious. The actors walked through their parts like sulky children. At the last minute the male lead quit, and an erstwhile Harlequin had to take over the part.

Came the night of March 15th. The theatre was packed. In a side box, seated conspicuously in full view of the house, sat Dr. Johnson. As the curtain went up on the first act, Goldsmith sneaked out the stage exit into the Mall where he walked for some time in an agony of apprehension. Coming back at the beginning of the fifth act, he reached the wings just in time to hear a hiss from the audience. He was dropping with alarms at this when the hard-boiled manager came up and said, "Psha, Doctor! don't be afraid of a squib, when we have been sitting these two hours on a barrel of gunpowder!"

That was a lie which Goldsmith never forgave. His successful play became a triumph when, ten nights later, there was a command performance for the King.

And the play's been running ever since.

This afternoon at two o'clock Professor Greenough will lecture on the dramatic career of Oliver Goldsmith. (Sever 11).