should surely represent the highest poetical but feeble "Angel of and not the lowest aspect of a Death," a tall and misty female human countenance from which life figure, like so many allegorical has departed. Sometimes, as every- forms which we have seen before, body knows, nothing can be more stooping over and apparently majestic and beautiful than a dead stifling in her embrace a halfface. The same artist has a seen child from whose head she powerful picture called "Femmes seems to remove a golden circlet—— en Prière, a company of women a piece of symbolism which we before an altar the foremost are unable to follow. Whether figures kneeling, and all with an air of devotion expressed in different characteristics, but all natural, none irreverent. The colour is very low, the women wrapped in black cloaks, all but the foremost, who carries a candle in her hand; but notwithstanding this sobriety of tint, the picture is exceedingly interesting.

A very different picture, as light and bright as the others are subdued, is a "Gaslight Study," by H. H. La Thangue. A lady writing letters is represented under the light of a gas-burner, the glow of the shaded globe carried out from the face and hands of the lady to the most remote details of the room a daring try at a novel effect, and with considerable success. Not less artificial in fact, and much more in sentiment, is a won derful green canvas, in which everything, from the face of the worshippers to the marble of the pillars, is suffused with an emerald tint-which is Mr P. Burne Jones's idea of the prayer of a Roman family to the Penates. At the end of this room Mr Herkomer and Mr Holl hang opposite to each other, one with a strong and sober picture of Mr Alexander Macmillan, full of life and like ness-an admirable portrait; the other with an equally excellent and more luminous representation of a younger man, Mr R. R. Symon. Between these two powerful pieces of real life, so full of force and vitality, there has been hung, by some strange caprice, Mr Watts's

it was by intention or by chance
that the ideal in art, in its most
mystic embodiment, should thus
be framed in the strongest ex-
pressions of the Real, we cannot
tell; the fact is very curious and
instructive
.but on the wrong
side; for we fear there is little
comparison between the fading
tints and flaccid textures of the
poetical, and the noble livingness
and reality of the portraits.

Space permits us to say very little more; but we cannot pass over the line of contributions from Mr Alma Tadema which balances. Mr Burne Jones's contributions on the opposite wall. There are two

lily

portraits--one of a homely but delightful woman, with character and tenderness in every line of her face; the other, that of a banded, delicate-handed" popular preacher, whose picture is excellent, but less humanly attractive. The two little subject pictures, however, are both charming of their kind, and that kind is Mr Alma Tadema's most graceful style, one about which there can be few dissentients. The popular play of fanciful superstition, "He loves me, he loves me not," is here rendered in a new guise. Two Roman ladies on a couch, one half erect, one reclining, are thus trying their fate. the petals of a daisy, the other looks on with great interest, holding another flower in her hand, and doubtless waiting her own turn. The story of the picture is simple enough, but the ex

While one pulls

com

quisite delicacy of the execution mirable portraits (some of which and the painting of the accessories, are charming pictures as well-let which in a scientific definition of us instance, in passing, the pretty Alma Tadema would be described slim white figure, with tall and as the inseparable accidents, make feathery heads of the meadow"" "Venus and Mars,' it charming. sweet growing up at her feet a pretty little child hugging a and suggesting a pretty statuette, with a white marble cor- parison, of Miss Ethel Huxley, nice behind standing out against by Mr John Collier), many dea blue sea, bears the unmistak- lightful landscapes, a few pictures able mark of the same master. of fine meaning and human inA few words, however, are neces- terest, among the crowd of halfsary about the sketch for the good, indifferent, pretty, and vulAcademy picture. Most critics gar compositions, which, if we prefer it to the picture; but in would allow it, fill up every collecthis we venture to differ. The tion in the world, even the most roses perhaps are more on the fall, distinguished. That a great many but that is because an earlier of these are quite honest and not period of the joke is that which unlovely attempts to please the has first occurred to the artist; popular British taste, and will do the struggling guests are neither so not unworthily, is the very best so embarrassed nor so pretty; the thing that can be said anywhere. wonderful marble pillars are not of the abundant workers on the there, or only one of them; and lower levels of art. to crown all, the very genius of Alma Tadema's work is absent, by the closing in of the background, which is shut off by heavy curtains. Very likely his love of space and an open vista behind was one of the things which induced the painter to make the changes he has done in the completed picture.

The balcony, as it is called, or gilded gallery surrounding the hall (which would make so good a point of view should these HalléCarr-nassian halls ever serve for the reception we have been bold enough to suggest), contains probably some pictures worth looking at; but the narrow space and imperfect light make this prolongation of the spectator's studies less agreeable. On the whole the new gallery is very handsome, and contains some fine pictures; and, so far as we are able to judge, there is little more to be said.

The year's pictures altogether are above the average. There are an unusually large number of ad

The presence of a "distinguished stranger" in London in the person of M. Meissonier's great picture, now exhibiting in Messrs Tooth's gallery, should perhaps not be passed over without a word. In "1807" Napoleon is represented as at the height of his career. His cuirassiers have received the order to charge, and are passing in full career before the Emperor and his staff, with one shout from every throat, as they hurry along on their way to death or fortune. The splendid

force of their career, the characteristic faces, the evident energy and enthusiasm of a cheer which we can almost hear, are admirable.

But if we must confess the truth, we would not give one of M. Meissonier's small single figures, so small, so perfect, each in its unity of a single purpose, for this more ambitious work-which, nevertheless, is a great historical picture, and well worthy of all praise.

TYROLEAN SONNETS.

In the late summer or early autumn of 1887 it was my good fortune to be ordered to the Baths of Gastein in the Austrian Tyrol.

Rarely has traveller set forth in search of health less willingly, and never did traveller turn his steps homeward more reluctantly.

The calm grandeur of the scenery, the cordial and simple character of the peasantry, the glorious weather, all contributed to touch a heart already perhaps too sensitive to such influences-influences which are so vivid at the moment that one vainly hopes they may last for ever.

Of such impressions is the Sonnet composed-its intensity is only equalled by its brevity.

It would occupy too much space to indicate the peculiar characteristics of each Sonnet, but I venture to hope that they all possess the genius loci, the atmospheric surroundings, the local colouring, which in Poetry, as in Painting, can only be obtained by composition on the spot.

The first Sonnet was written in the railway carriage on the route it so inadequately describes. For thrilling and varied beauty-valley, lake, precipice, and mountain-there is surely no line of railway in Europe comparable to this. The second was written in the presence of the scene that it portrays. All visitors to Gastein will remember the splendid Waterfall, the chief feature of the little town; and in the third Sonnet I have again alluded to it. Sonnets four and five were composed during an excursion from Ischl. The last Sonnet depicts a country scene, the children gathering wild strawberries for the hotel tables, and the half-clad rough peasants making their fragrant hay, amid the wild flowers that abundantly decorate their meadows.

In closing this brief introduction, I must not forget a word of loving thanks to that dear Companion who, for nearly a quarter of a century, has added a fresh charm to every scene we have looked upon together.

I.

ON THE RAILWAY BETWEEN ZURICH AND INNSBRUCK.

What prescient mind devised these gradients? laid
These daring curves that seem to tempt the shock,
And through these gates of immemorial rock
Carved iron roads, and pleasant pathways made?
Not soft Romance-not Conquest; but sleek Trade !—
Trade that the words of Poesy loves to mock-
Trade-that on Fancy turns relentless lock-
Triumphed o'er Nature—with her own dear aid:
For day by day, unconsciously, there came

All beauty, grace of form, and dignity,
Peak above Peak, snowclad, or tender green,
Peeping through some sweet Vale without a name ;
Forest on Forest raising to the Sky,

And Rivulets rushing through the unrivalled scene.

INNSBRUCK, August 28, 1887.

II.

THE WATERFALL OF GASTEIN BY MOONLIGHT.

The shimmer of the Moon has lit the Vale
And tipt the fir-tops with a silvery light,
Herself invisible; the Landscape, bright
With the hidden ray, is wonderfully pale!
A spell seems cast around; some Ghostly tale
Of spectral glamour, or weird second-sight

Would well assist this Tyrolean night

To make strong hearts beat fast, and weak hearts quail.

The radiance deepens, as the Planet springs

Above the mountain, and the streams, aglow

With her sweet kisses, woo the Waterfall,

Which, for one kiss, ten thousand backward flings-
A Prodigal of love !-and mystic echoes throw
A deep resounding music over all.

GASTEIN, September 3, 1887.

III.

THE PRIEST AT GASTEIN.

If pleasure were the aim and end of all,
And Life, so called, to be the ultimate bound
Of my existence; then this thrilling sound-
Tumultuous music of the Waterfall

At play for ever with the rocks-might call
My days to Poesy, and this spangled ground,
Where Nature's fairest offerings abound,
Might be my Couch-and they, at last, my Pall.
But this all-yielding Earth is not my home,
Nor the dark Forest my abiding place;
These passing blooms but captivate the eye;
The closer Sanctuary needs me, and I come,
To guide a wayward and rebellious race,
To Him who bore His Cross to Calvary.

GASTEIN, September 4, 1887.

IV.

THE CHAMOIS.

High o'er the crag the poiséd eagle flies,
And croaking ravens to each other call:
Bloodscenters both! they see the Chamois fall,
And taste the banquet ere the victim dies.
They hear not the big tear that dews his eyes
Ere filmed by death,—the hunter's fatal ball
More kind than they,-revolting festival!
Yet Nature's voice to her dumb children cries.
The bullfinch, 'mid the fir-tree's odorous cones,
Whistles his happy song; the cautious hind,
Half hid among the heather, sniffs the air
Tainted by Man, and hides her little ones
In mossy dell, protected by the wind

That warns them of the foe who nears her lair.

October 2, 1887.

V.

ISCHL.

There is a noble beauty in this land,
Where Nature revels in contrasting grace,
For smile and frown change quickly on her face,
And tender touches soften the rough hand.
Gaunt precipice and rock, sublimely grand,
Melt into valley; and the tinkling trace
Of bell-clad herds, enlivens many a space
That spreads a carpet where grim mountains stand.
The plains are faint with cyclamen and thyme,
The gloomy pines their pungent fragrance lend,
The gentian robs the heaven of half its blue,
Light harebells-tuneful as the Poet's rhyme-
Nod in the breeze, and alpine roses blend,
Pink as the morn, to make one perfect hue.

ISCHL, October 3, 1887.