PREFACE. 
 
 N no country are the works of Meyer von Bremen more 
 thoroughly appreciated than they are in America; in proof 
 of which is the fact that the greater number of his best 
 originals are possessed by her connoisseurs. But, prolific 
 though the painter is, and there is no living artist more so, his ability to 
 create cannot keep pace with the growing desire of collectors everywhere 
 to have examples of his surpassing skill as a colourist, and of his genius 
 as a story-teller who has no living rival. 
 
 Recognising this great demand and the natural limit of the supply, the 
 Compilers of this work believe that they gratify a popular desire in offering 
 it to the public, since they thus place before them all that is most excellent 
 in the originals, in truth of line, and light and shadow —facsimiles indeed 
 of the paintings in the nicest sense, telling their beautiful stories no less 
 truthfully than forcibly. Colour alone is wanting, and even this is more 
 than half suggested, so subtle are the gradations of light and shade, and 
 so faithful in form and texture to the things themselves are these beautiful 
 shadows! 
 
CONTENTS. 
 
 PREFACE. 
 
 THE SICK DARLING. 
 
 BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH. 
 
 TWILIGHT. 
 
 LOVE’S YOUNG DREAM. 
 
 THE SHEPHERDESS. 
 
 LOVE’S MESSENGER. 
 
 THE FISHERMAN’S WIFE. 
 
 RETURNING FROM THE WOOD. 
 
 THE SURPRISE. 
 
 SIMPLE DEVOTION. 
 
 JEALOUSY. 
 
 EXPECTANT. 
 
 BO-PEEP. 
 
 “YOU DON’T MEAN IT, DO YOU?" 
 
 AT THE CRADLE. 
 
 THE DECLARATION. 
 
 THE FIRST LESSON. 
 
 AT THE FOUNTAIN. 
 
 BLIND MAN’S BUFF. 
 
 b 
 
BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH. 
 
 1 ANN GEORG MEYER,-better known as "Meyer 
 from Bremen,” so called after his native city,—was born on 
 the 28th of October, 1813. Like most great artists, in his 
 earliest youth he gave evidence of the love of the Beautiful, 
 and of his ability to suggest his love and his imaginings to others. As a 
 boy he preferred to give his leisure hours, when his companions were at 
 play, to study drawing under the direction of his parents. This precocious 
 application to Art gained him many friends and admirers; nor was he 
 less faithful to other studies, his teachers pointing to him as a model for his 
 schoolfellows. On festival or examination days he distinguished himself in 
 all the branches of learning which he studied, gaining additional laurels 
 by his remarkable talent as a young draughtsman, and by the merit of the 
 poems of his composition. 
 
 But, for a time, his love was a divided one, Religion claiming her share 
 of his thoughts and of his vivid imagination. She supplied his enthusiasm 
 with food more promptly than slow-growing Art, and his day-dream took 
 shape in the desire to become a Missionary, to visit distant lands and win 
 the heathen to the joys and beauties of Christianity. Indeed, so absorbing 
 did this thought become, that his Art studies were given up, and his whole 
 soul surrendered to the passion—for it was all of this—for the adventure 
 and the trials of a Missionary s life with the crown of martyrdom as its reward. 
 There came a turning-point, however: In conversation one day with a 
 
celebrated orthodox minister, then a visitor at his parents home, he was told 
 that “Art was an invention of the Devil,” and that “religious pictures should 
 be thrown into the sea where it is the deepest.” Young as he was, and enthu¬ 
 siastic in religious feeling, this was more than Meyer could hear patiently of 
 his beloved Art, and a reaction followed. He could not bear to doubt the 
 Divine inspiration of the great Masters, to think that all their glorious work 
 was false and worse than profitless, and he abandoned the idea of pursuing 
 a calling, the professions of which so jarred upon his feelings, so marred 
 the beauty of his early dreams. From that day he gave himself up exclu¬ 
 sively to the study of the Fine Arts. Soon after this, misfortune visited his 
 family; his parents came to want almost, but Meyer’s talent was soon made 
 profitable, and so successful was he in portrait drawing, that he not only helped 
 his people manfully, but saved sufficient from his earnings to enable him to 
 enter the celebrated Academy of Dusseldorf in 1834. His motto was, “Make 
 the best use of your time; it never returnsand this he wrote upon the walls 
 of his studio, and followed its teaching so faithfully, that in but a few years, 
 comparatively, he passed through all the classes of the Academy with honour. 
 He was first under the teaching of the justly celebrated Professor Sohn; but 
 finally graduated under the personal supervision of the Principal of the Academy, 
 Herr von Schadow. Still animated by strong religious feeling, the first sub¬ 
 jects of his pencil were in illustration of Bible History. His first Academy 
 picture was completed in 1837, the result of indomitable perseverance and 
 close and earnest study. The subject was “ Elias in the Desert fed by the 
 Angel. This first painting was an evidence of his peculiar power, since so 
 nobly developed, in concentrating his light effect; and for which he has been 
 often named “ the later Rembrandt.” Of his many other religious compositions 
 he finished but two—“ Lot and his Family at the Destruction of Sodom and 
 Gomorrah,” and “Christ prophesying the Destruction of Jerusalem.” 
 
During the Academical vacation of 1840, Meyer, more for recreation 
 than for a specific object, painted a small “genre" picture, “Mother and 
 Child,” which created such a sensation, that he decided thereafter to cul¬ 
 tivate this branch of Art exclusively. From this date forward he sought 
 the subjects of his pencil in the household, and among the familiar scenes 
 of every-day life. 
 
 His subjects are invariably genial, and laden with generous feeling towards 
 his fellow men. Sometimes they are instinct with religious feeling, if not strictly 
 religious in character. Others, again, are replete with quiet humour—but a 
 humour that never descends to caricature, and rarely affects the satirical; and 
 all are bright and beautiful, laden with thought, masterly in composition and 
 drawing, and brilliant to abandon in colour. 
 
 His amiable disposition, and purity of character, generally, are expressed 
 in his works, and confirmed by the fact that his life is one long ovation from 
 his myriads of friends and admirers. His daily intercourse is with congenial 
 spirits, among whom he finds renewed inspiration, and, as we have said, his 
 fancy is as inexhaustible as the sea—he is limited in production only by his 
 humanity. 
 
 Meyer von Bremen married a lady in Dusseldorf in 1851. From this 
 place he moved, that same year, to Berlin, where he has since resided. His 
 own happy family circle has furnished him with many of his most successful 
 subjects. His love for children is, as might readily be supposed, a passion 
 with him almost; much of his leisure is given to them, and still more of his 
 many hours of study. The ardour and love of truth with which he works at 
 his selected subject, the spirited expression which he never fails to secure, his 
 marvellous plastic execution, vivid effects of light, and that faultless technique 
 which recalls the best cabinet pictures of the old Dutch school,—all these great 
 qualifications, some of them peculiar to himself, have made him the worthy 
 favourite which he is with Art lovers on both sides of the Atlantic. 
 
LOVE’S YOUNG DREAM. 
 
LOVE’S YOUNG DREAM. 
 
 ’HERE is probably no living artist whose works have a greater 
 human interest than those of Meyer von Bremen; none 
 whose subjects are less dependent on charm of colour or 
 skilfulness of technique. It is no marvel then, that since 
 they have these in addition to their greater interest, they 
 should be amongst the most popular of the creations of modern art. Good 
 drawing, skilful chiaro oscuro, pleasing colour, and the rare ability with which 
 the thorough artist secures true suggestion of the quality of things, must 
 always receive the admiration of the judicious, even when the subject is but 
 common-place. But if the artist is to touch the popular heart to be 
 beloved as well as admired—he must appeal to the emotions rather than to 
 the senses. 
 
 And herein precisely is the secret of this great artists power. Each 
 picture from his easel is a story—an episode in a life so simply and so 
 touchingly pourtrayed, that, be it glad or sorrowful, we are stirred to sudden 
 sympathy with the subject, and to added admiration for the genius of the 
 maker. 
 
 Nor could we begin our volume with a better illustration of the artist’s 
 story-telling power than with this—his repetition of the “old old story," 
 which is ever new. What poet but has sung of the tender passion ; what 
 novel can find readers in which the lover’s fears and hopes are not depicted; 
 what human life is complete without the memory of a scene like this ? 
 
 O happy love! where love like this is found! 
 
 O heartfelt raptures! bliss beyond compare ! 
 
 I've paced much this weary, mortal round, 
 
 And sage experience bids me this declare— 
 
 ‘ If Heaven a draught of heavenly pleasure spare, 
 
 One cordial in this melancholy vale, 
 
 'Tis when a youthful, loving, modest pair, 
 
 In other’s arms breathe out the tender tale 
 
 Beneath the milk-white thorn that scents the 
 evening gale ! ’ ” 
 
It is the happy spring-time of their lives. The trees are in the fulness 
 of their leaf, and the glad sunshine glorifies the familiar things about them. 
 Is it chance, this meeting; or has he watched and followed after, unable to 
 carry his love-burden longer unshared by her ? The rose which he has 
 gathered proclaims design, and the expression of her fair and lovely face 
 suggests that the avowal is neither unexpected nor unwelcome. What sturdy 
 manliness of character his form proclaims! How satisfactorily his expressive 
 face suggests that he awaits the sweet response which is to decide his fate 
 and hers! And who can doubt the sequel? “Yes” trembles on her parting 
 lips ; another moment and the fateful word is spoken! 
 
 And yet not only have we the story of “ Love’s Young Dream ” told 
 here with that peculiar grace which touches us in the most tender place; 
 but we have our admiration appealed to on every side by charming compo¬ 
 sition, by a masterly arrangement of light and shadow, and a perfect harmony 
 between the place and the actors in it. The form of the maiden is a picture 
 in itself. How graceful the pose! With what subtle skill the arms and 
 feet are modelled! How simple yet how beautiful the disposition of each 
 line and fold of drapery! Above all, how fair and wonderfully suggestive is 
 her face ! And when we turn to the happy hero of the scene, how well his 
 healthy figure and thoughtful earnestness satisfy our wish for her! Who 
 doubts her safety in such keeping? How noble and how natural is his 
 pose too; the simplicity of his dress heightening rather than lessening the 
 effect. It is as if he said to her : “ Even as I am, from day to day, do I 
 present myself; a life of love and labour is the fulness of my promise.” 
 
•4> •;? £ v 'i v 4’ -i? i‘ ■ 
 
LOVE’S MESSENGER. 
 
 HE “Messenger" has been justly pronounced to be one of 
 the most pleasing of genre pictures ever painted, and in 
 every particular a brilliant example of the best qualities of 
 Meyer von Bremen’s genius. The scene is doubtless the 
 home of the village miller, a personage of no mean importance amongst his 
 fellows, and one who, if he have a pretty daughter, had need be watchful of 
 his charge. In illustration of this, we have this early visitor beneath the 
 window, with the bouquet and the letter; nor did the god of Love himself 
 ever put on a more appealing glance than she, as, with upraised, sun-lit face 
 and beckoning finger, she awaits the coming of the lady-love. How skilfully 
 the artist tells his story;—the broken wheel against the gable, and the distant 
 gate, from which the watchful kitten has just issued to note the little stranger, 
 are all that is needed to tell of the neighbouring mill; whilst the nicely ordered 
 yard, the bright and sunny house-side, and the well-kept flowers upon the 
 window-sill, tell of the thrift and taste of those within. But it is less to the 
 suggested story than to the charming treatment of the figure of the messenger 
 that the painting owes its peculiar interest. There is grace in the scanty 
 
 dress, and both face and form gain beauty by judicious contrast. 
 
“ It is the miller’s daughter, 
 
 And she is grown so dear, so dear, 
 That I would be the jewel 
 That trembles at her ear; 
 
 For, hid in ringlets day and night, 
 
 I’d touch her neck so warm and white. 
 
 And I would be the girdle 
 
 About her dainty, dainty waist, 
 
 And her heart would beat against me 
 In sorrow and in rest; 
 
 And I should know if it beat right, 
 
 I’d clasp it round so close and tight. 
 
 A nd I would be the necklace, 
 
 And all day long to fall and rise 
 Upon her balmy bosom 
 
 With her laughter or her sighs ; 
 
 And I would lie so light, so light, 
 
 I scarce should be unclasped at night.” 
 
 T ENNYSON. 
 
RETURNING FROM THE WOOD 
 
RETURNING 
 
 FROM THE WOOD. 
 
 N “Returning from the Wood” we have another illustration 
 of the artist’s close observance of the habits, pursuits, and 
 processes of thought peculiar to the class among whom 
 he has found most material for his prolific pencil. The 
 subject is not a new one. There are but few genre painters who have not 
 painted in their time the little messenger returning from the field, to which 
 she had carried her father’s mid-day meal; but which of them has so drawn 
 and placed his figure, so arranged his light, and so composed his picture 
 generally, that it will bear the close analysis which this delightful little 
 picture does ? How perfectly balanced the figure is; how suggestive of the 
 weary, up-hill effort of the overburdened child. How tired she looks, and 
 yet how patient. Poor little straggler, how she stirs our heart to longing 
 that some good traveller may overtake her and release her of her burden. 
 
 In colour this is one of the most brilliant of Meyer von Bremen’s 
 works, while the light is so admirably managed as to produce the most 
 effective results. 
 
 The day is cloudless, each object in the bright line of light is suffused 
 with it; whilst the forms in shadow gain force by contrast. How effectively 
 this tells on the dark dress of the child, opposed to the luminous background ; 
 
and on the projected shadows of the foreground, making still more bright 
 the pathway through the wood. How the flowers and grasses, sweet scented, 
 sparkle in her lap. How skilfully articulated each stem in the bundle of 
 brambles which she carries. 
 
 And yet, here again, we pass from analysis of the picture as a work 
 of art, to dwell with still greater pleasure upon the expressive face of the 
 child, and to permit our imagination to make a history for her, and 
 prominent therein, the dear mother who will meet her at the door, and with 
 a loving kiss wipe out the memoiy of the weary, lonely walk, “ returning 
 from the wood.” 
 
 “ Come back, come back together, 
 
 All ye fancies of the past, 
 
 Ye days of April weather, 
 
 Ye shadows that are cast 
 
 By the haunted hours before! 
 
 Come back, come back, my childhood; 
 
 Thou art summoned by a spell 
 From the green leaves of the wild wood, 
 From beside the charmed well. 
 
 The fields were covered over 
 With colours as she went; 
 
 Daisy, buttercup, and clover 
 Below her footsteps bent: 
 
 Summer shed its shining store; 
 
 She was happy as she pressed them 
 Beneath her little feet; 
 
 She plucked them and caressed them; 
 
 They were so very sweet, 
 
 They had never seemed so sweet before. 
 
 How the heart of childhood dances 
 Upon a sunny day! 
 
 It has its own romances, 
 
 And a wide, wide world have they ! 
 A world where Phantasie is king, 
 Made all of eager dreaming; 
 
 When once grown up and tall— 
 Now is the time for scheming— 
 
 Then we shall do them all! 
 
 Do such pleasant fancies spring. 
 
 Too long in the meadow staying, 
 Where the cowslip bends, 
 
 With the buttercups delaying 
 As with early friends, 
 
 Did the little maiden stay. 
 Sorrowful the tale for us; 
 
 We, too, loiter mid life’s flowers, 
 
 A little while so glorious, 
 
 So soon lost in darker hours. 
 
 All love lingering on their way.” 
 

 SIMPLE DEVOTION. 
 
 MONG the picturesque features of German landscape there 
 are none more so than the stone crosses and shrines to be 
 found along the roadsides almost everywhere, but especially 
 numerous in those portions of the empire where the Catholic 
 religion most prevails. The shrines, one of which is here depicted, are objects 
 of great respect and veneration. Before them the peasants kneel and ask a 
 blessing as they pass. The niche contains a clay or a wooden figure of the 
 Madonna, or some other patron saint; and to this, as a symbol of the saintly 
 one, the appeal is made. In illustration of this beautiful superstition we have 
 
 before us here the figure of a young girl on her way to market, her basket on 
 her arm, who stops at the shrine to make her offering of flowers, and to solicit 
 in return a good and lucky day. 
 
 The statuesque grace of the little figure is pleasing in the extreme, and 
 her simple costume eminently picturesque. Although the face is but in profile, 
 so admirably managed is the play of reflected light upon it that we find no 
 difficulty in catching the expression—one of mingled awe and admiration— 
 sought to be conveyed. And there is also the suggestion of childish fear 
 in the hesitating step and in the upraised impatient foot—a fear so natural 
 in the lonely place, the scene, no doubt, of many miracles of sight and 
 sound. 
 
 4 
 

 mum 
 
 “ Prayer is the soul’s sincere desire, 
 
 Uttered or unexpressed— 
 
 The motion of a hidden fire 
 That trembles in the breast. 
 
 Prayer is the burthen of a sigh, 
 
 The falling of a tear— 
 
 The upward glancing of an eye 
 When none but God is near. 
 
 Prayer is the simplest form of speech 
 That infant lips can try— 
 
 Prayer the sublimest strains that reach 
 The Majesty on high. 
 
 Prayer is the contrite sinner’s voice 
 Returning from his ways, 
 
 While angels in their songs rejoice, 
 
 And cry, ‘ Behold he prays! ’ 
 
 Prayer is the Christian’s vital breath— 
 
 The Christian’s native air— 
 
 His watchword at the gates of death;— 
 
 He enters heaven with prayer. 
 
 The saints in prayer appear as one 
 In word, and deed, and mind, 
 
 While with the Father and the Son 
 Sweet fellowship they find. 
 
 Nor prayer is made by man alone— 
 
 The Holy Spirit pleads, 
 
 And Jesus, on the eternal throne, 
 
 For sinners intercedes. 
 
 O Thou by whom we come to God— 
 
 The Life, the Truth, the Way! 
 
 The path of prayer Thyself hast trod; 
 
 Lord, teach us how to pray! ” 
 
 James Montgomery. 
 
EXPECTANT. 
 
EXPECTANT. 
 
 FAIR young wife, late on a bright afternoon, sits alone, 
 engaged in mending the scanty linen of the household. 
 She hears, perhaps, the barking of a distant watch-dog, or 
 the rumbling of a carriage—some sound which suggests to 
 her the coming of one who is never out of her thoughts. 
 Softly she parts the curtain which keeps out the full tide of sunlight, and, 
 leaning forward, looks intently through the little quaint window-pane. 
 
 The attitude is to be noted. There is a perfect poise of the figure ; she 
 is intently listening, while eagerly looking, and the story is well told without 
 an accessory. Her young married life is a morning unclouded. Could happi¬ 
 ness be better depicted than in the pure sweet face, of which we get but a side 
 view ? The subject is a most interesting one, as no doubt a portrait from 
 the life—a cleft in a cottage; one of those scenes of which, doubtless, there 
 are many, but of which the great, busy, noisy world knows so little. The 
 artist makes humble life beautiful. There is no exaggeration, no inappropriate 
 introduction of things; it is a true picture in every particular, and yet no scene 
 laid in a palace amid the most costly surroundings could be made to speak 
 more eloquently of rest and happiness. 
 
 There is a little pot of flowers on the rude table, one also on the window 
 sill, placed naturally and carelessly, and we seem almost to inhale the fra¬ 
 grance. Coming down between them is a broad passage of light. Here 
 again is seen the artist’s power. The golden light brings out the sentiment 
 which he desires to express, for it is this that invests the homely room with 
 such a glory. 
 
 5 
 
Mark, too, how carefully the light is distributed. At the right hand it 
 is reflected on the spotless table-cloth, where we find a suggestion—only by 
 looking for it, however, and our interest in the subject increases as we gain 
 the information—that probably supper is in waiting. Note, also, the trans¬ 
 parency and depth of shadow. 
 
 May life be long and sweet in this quaint cottage, which tells of the glo¬ 
 rious summer time, where we seem to hear the singing of birds and scent the 
 fragrance of roses, and to which many of us look backward, not as a dream, 
 but as a reality in our individual life; some of us for whom is reserved only 
 an existence devoid of poetry and sentiment. 
 
 “ Not as all other women are 
 
 Is she that to my soul is dear; 
 
 Her glorious fancies come from far, 
 
 Beneath the silver evening-star; 
 
 And yet her heart is ever near. 
 
 Great feelings hath she of her own, 
 
 Which lesser souls may never know ; 
 
 God giveth them to her alone, 
 
 And sweet they are as any tone 
 
 Wherewith the wind may choose to blow. 
 
 Yet in herself she dwelleth not, 
 
 Although no home were half so fair; 
 
 No simplest duty is forgot; 
 
 Life hath no dim and lowly spot 
 
 That does not in her sunshine share. 
 
 She doeth little kindnesses, 
 
 Which most leave undone, or despise; 
 
 For nought that sets one heart at ease, 
 
 And giveth happiness or peace, 
 
 Is low-esteemed in her eyes. 
 
 She hath no scorn of common things ; 
 
 And, though she seem of other birth. 
 Round us her heart entwines and clings, 
 
 And patiently she folds her wings 
 
 To tread the humble paths of earth.” 
 
 J. R. Lowell. 
 
YOU DON’T MEAN IT, DO YOU?” 
 
 tRE are few artists who can make so much that is truly 
 pictorial of the simple figure as Meyer von Bremen. With 
 the genius and skill of the painter, he possesses the ability 
 of the sculptor to so pose his figure that it needs no accessory 
 to accent it, but is a thing of perfect beauty in itself. And 
 of just this character is the picture before us. Rogers, the genre sculptor of 
 America, could not better place his model for statuesque effect than the painter 
 has this sweet-faced maiden who coquettes with us. And what a sweet face he 
 gives us! How delicate the features, how expressive the eyes and mouth, how 
 graceful the outline of the head, and how nicely fashioned the nervous ear, 
 with its bit of pendent jewelry. What is she about, we wonder? Is this 
 the morning after the village festival, and a late riser she ? Has her faithful 
 swain made an early call upon her; said something eloquently gallant, to 
 which she replies with coquettish glance: “You don’t mean it, do you?” 
 Alas ! poor youth, with what havoc to young hearts are such meaning glances 
 laden ! 
 
 This painting of the fair coquette is also another illustration of the artist’s 
 courage in the management of light and shadow. The face and figure where 
 the light falls are brilliant. So skilfully managed are the deep shadows of 
 the room, that we take for granted that there is something more than colour 
 merely: that it is sunlight itself that plays with the outline of the figure, 
 lights up the well-rounded forehead, with its crown of golden hair, floods the 
 arm and shoulder, and falls upon the open book upon her lap. 
 
 6 
 

 “I fill this cup to one made up 
 Of loveliness alone, 
 
 A woman, of her gentle sex 
 The seeming paragon; 
 
 To whom the better elements 
 And kindly stars have given 
 A form so fair, that, like the air, 
 
 ’Tis less of earth than heaven. 
 
 Her every tone is music’s own, 
 
 Like those of morning birds, 
 
 And something more than melody 
 Dwells ever in her words ; 
 
 The coinage of her heart are they, 
 
 And from her lips each flows 
 As one may see the burdened bee 
 Forth issue from the rose. 
 
 Affections are as thoughts to her, 
 
 The measures of her hours ; 
 
 Her feelings have the fragrancy, 
 
 The freshness of young flowers; 
 
 And lovely passions, changing oft, 
 
 So fill her, she appears 
 The image of themselves by turns,— 
 
 The idol of past years! 
 
 Of her bright face one glance will trace 
 A picture on the brain, 
 
 And of her voice in echoing hearts 
 A sound must long remain ; 
 
 But memory, such as mine of her, 
 
 So very much endears, 
 
 When death is nigh, my latest sigh 
 Will not be life’s, but hers. 
 
 I fill this cup to one made up 
 Of loveliness alone, 
 
 A woman, of her gentle sex 
 The seeming paragon— 
 
 Her health ! and would on earth there stood 
 Some more of such a frame, 
 
 That life might be all poetry, 
 
 And weariness a name.” 
 
 Edward Coote Pinkney. 
 
THE DECLARATION. 
 
 r- 
 
 —-A 
 
 T 
 
 ji y ; 
 
 _ 
 
 
 
 
 
 HE “Declaration of Love” is a fine example of the artist’s 
 success in the production of works which rival those of 
 Rembrandt in their startling effects of light and shade. 
 Indeed, so fond is Meyer of such effects, that it is charged 
 against him, and with some justice too, that he makes his 
 light do out-of-the-way things sometimes for the effects he thus secures. As, 
 for example, it is difficult to realize, in the picture before us, where the flood 
 of light comes from that illumines the faces of the young women, seeing that 
 their backs are turned to the window, the only source apparent. We are to 
 presume that it is to the rays reflected from the latter that this luminousness 
 of face is due; but brilliant as the composition may have been, and white the 
 sheet of paper, it is difficult to accept that they reflect so much light as is 
 here attributed to them. Yet who will quarrel with a licence to which we 
 owe so much? It is that liberty to which the work of Turner so often owes 
 its force, and by which the most successful mountain pictures of Bierstadt 
 are made poetically beautiful. 
 
 The story of this charming genre is not difficult to translate. The nearer 
 figure is doubtless that of a young wife, who, while preparing the evening 
 meal, is pleasantly interrupted by a companion and friend of her girlhood, 
 who has called to unbosom herself of a most delicious secret. She has re¬ 
 ceived a declaration of love, and her mind, already more than half made up, 
 seeks counsel, if not approval, of her intent to take the writer at his word. 
 Nor has she waited long to tell her errand. The young wife has had sufficient 
 time only to turn from the table and her cabbage-cutting, when the eventful 
 
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letter is in her hands. How critically she peruses it; the experience of the 
 matron, suggested by the half serious expression of her face, well pleased 
 withal with what she reads! How unqualified the delight of the other; how 
 she drinks in every tender word of it as her companion reads aloud! 
 
 With how little material a successful picture can be made when Genius 
 holds the pencil! Here we have but the simply clad figures of two peasant 
 girls, unaided by surroundings, to symbolize the great epoch of human life— 
 that moment when young Love stands beneath the gateway leading from 
 the peaceful pursuits of Youth to the new land and its struggles that lie 
 beyond. 
 
 “ Ah, how sweet it is to love ! 
 
 Ah, how gay is young desire! 
 
 And what pleasing pains we prove 
 When we first approach love’s fire! 
 Pains of love be sweeter far 
 Than all other pleasures are. 
 
 Sighs, which’are from lovers blown, 
 
 Do but gently heave the heart; 
 
 E’en the tears they shed alone, 
 
 Cure, like trickling balm, their smart. 
 Lovers, when they lose their breath, 
 Bleed away in easy death. 
 
 Love and time with reverence use; 
 Treat them like a parting friend, 
 
 Nor the golden gifts refuse 
 Which in youth sincere they send; 
 
 For each year their price is more, 
 And they less simple than before. 
 
 Love, like spring-tides, full and high, 
 Swells in every youthful vein; 
 
 But each tide does less supply, 
 
 Till they quite shrink in again; 
 
 If a flow in age appear, 
 
 ’Tis but rain, and runs not clear.” 
 
 John Dryden. 
 
&*&$&*«* » tr : 'tntn»r't * 
 
AT THE FOUNTAIN. 
 
 HY the fountain, time out of mind, should be the favourite 
 trysting place for lovers, it is difficult to determine, though 
 many good and, to them, sufficient reasons have been sug- 
 | gested by novelists and poets. The picturesque beauty of 
 the places generally is said to have something to do with it, for all lovers 
 are true poets. And we might well be satisfied with this solution, as we 
 look upon the charming scene before us. For what spot more happily 
 fashioned, by nature or by art, than this, wherein to breathe the tender tale 
 or listen to it,—this shady nook, so thoroughly suggestive of an interchange 
 of sweet thoughts, interrupted only by the musical babble of falling 
 waters. But is this a tryst, or a surprise ? Did she expect to meet him 
 
 here, or is his coming purely accidental ? Surely there is something more 
 than accident in the meeting which is near, and something more than mere 
 acquaintance between the peasant youth, who, shading the sunlight from his 
 eyes, approaches through the wood, and her whose trembling hand ill guides 
 the pitcher to the stream. 
 
 Of the illustrations of this book there is none possessed of more perfect 
 beauty than this painting of the meeting “At the Fountain. The figure is 
 drawn and posed with the utmost grace—a model of female beauty. The 
 
 8 
 
face and head are classic in their outlines, and the quiet joy of sweet expec¬ 
 tancy illumines every feature of the lovely woman. How delicately fashioned 
 are the naked arms and feet! With what unstudied grace she stands, uncon¬ 
 scious, yet beautiful as a Naiad ! 
 
 “I love thee—I love thee ! 
 
 ’Tis all that I can say ; 
 
 It is my vision in the night, 
 
 My dreaming in the day; 
 
 The very echo of my heart, 
 
 The blessing when I pray : 
 
 I love thee—I love thee ! 
 
 Is all that I can say. 
 
 I love thee—I love thee! 
 
 Is ever on my tongue; 
 
 In all my proudest poesy 
 That chorus still is sung; 
 
 It is the verdict of my eyes, 
 
 Amidst the gay and young : 
 
 I love thee—I love thee! 
 
 A thousand maids among. 
 
 I love thee—I love thee! 
 
 Thy bright and hazel glance, 
 
 The mellow lute upon those lips, 
 
 Whose tender tones entrance; 
 
 But most, dear heart of hearts, thy proofs 
 That still these words enhance, 
 
 I love thee—I love thee! 
 
 Whatever be thy chance.” 
 
 Hood. 
 
THE SICK DARLING. 
 
 “The air is full of farewells for the dying 
 And mournings for the dead ; 
 
 The heart of Rachel for her children crying 
 Will not be comforted. 
 
 Let us be patient; these severe afflictions 
 Not from the ground arise, 
 
 But oftentimes celestial benedictions 
 Assume this dark disguise.” 
 
 wrote America’s great poet, from whose happy home Death 
 had ruthlessly borne the sweet flowers of childhood, leaving 
 him desolate. Here a Christian mother watches beside the 
 cradle of her sick darling, under the conviction that the worst 
 possible is about to befall her. She is weary with long nights 
 and days of anxiety. At length the hour approaches that is to decide the fate 
 of the little one, and, while he is said to be past hope, her woman’s instincts 
 seem to say, It shall not be; yet plainly the countenance indicates that if it 
 must be she will seek to bear her load of grief by looking to her God. 
 
 1 he countenance expresses all a mother’s tenderness with a Christian’s 
 faith. It is an interesting face, plaintive, sad, and indicating the burden of a 
 great agony. How unconsciously the muscles of her hands contract by reason 
 of her anguish. And yet how placid is the countenance! She has opened 
 the Book from which so many have been comforted in sorrow, and reads 
 abstractedly. There is an air of deep silence in the picture. Looking at 
 it intently, you fancy you see the breathing of the little sufferer, and wonder 
 if the worst must come to him. 
 
 9 
 
Here is masterly drawing. Evidently the artist must have had personal 
 knowledge of some such scene, it is rendered with so much power. 
 
 The accessories are simple, yet painted with characteristic care. A candle, 
 partially burned, stands on the plain dresser, just as it was left at daybreak. 
 A broad patch of light falls on the table where the steam comes off a bowl 
 of gruel, placed on a little furnace. 
 
 Let us hope that the little one shall live, and that the rosy light of cheer¬ 
 fulness may yet rest on the pale face now watching through the long days and 
 nights so anxiously. 
 
 “ A host of angels flying, 
 
 Through cloudless skies impelled, 
 Upon the earth beheld 
 A pearl of beauty lying, 
 
 Worthy to glitter bright 
 In heaven’s vast hall of light. 
 
 They saw, with glances tender, 
 
 An infant newly born, 
 
 O’er whom life’s earliest morn 
 J ust cast its opening splendour ; 
 Virtue it could not know, 
 
 Nor vice, nor joy, nor woe. 
 
 The blest angelic legion 
 Greeted its birth above, 
 
 And came, with looks of love, 
 From heaven’s enchanting region; 
 Bending their winged way 
 To where the infant lay. 
 
 They spread their pinions o’er it,— 
 That little pearl which shone 
 With lustre all its own,— 
 
 And then on high they bore it, 
 Where glory has its birth ;— 
 
 But left the shell on earth.” 
 
 W. Wordsworth. 
 
TWILIGHT. 
 
4 , W«'V ! r 
 
TWILIGHT. 
 
 is not often that our artist selects the shady side of life 
 for subjects for his pencil; but when he does it is to teach 
 some wholesome moral, or to stir our sympathy to some 
 good purpose. In the painting before us, appropriately entitled “ Twilight,” 
 we have a touching story told—the story of the wife left desolate to 
 struggle with the world for bread. How admirably the sentiment of the 
 picture is enhanced by the gloomy sky, and gloomier sea beneath! What 
 sad thoughts are hers, as, weary with coarse labour, for which she is ill- 
 fashioned, she rests upon the cold, grey, weather-beaten wall, to watch the 
 daylight dying in the west, as hope dies in her heart. Does she think 
 of the past too; and is there pleasure or pain for her in the retrospection ? 
 Is he dead, or unfaithful only, if unfaithfulness be less than death in the 
 bitterness it leaves behind it ? 
 
 “ Whom first we love, you know, we seldom wed. 
 
 Time rules us all, and life, indeed, is not 
 
 The thing we planned it out ere hope was dead. 
 And then, we women cannot choose our lot. 
 
Much must be borne which it is hard to bear; 
 
 Much given away which it were sweet to keep. 
 
 God help us all! who need, indeed, His care. 
 
 And yet, I know the Shepherd loves His sheep. 
 
 My little boy begins to babble now 
 
 Upon my knee his earliest infant prayer: 
 
 He has his father’s eager eyes, I know; 
 
 And, they say, too, his mother's sunny hair. 
 
 But when he sleeps and smiles upon my knee, 
 
 And I can feel his light breath come and go, 
 
 I think of one (Heaven help and pity me!) 
 
 Who loved me, and whom I loved long ago; 
 
 Who might have been ... ah! what I dare not think! 
 
 We are all changed. God judges for us best. 
 
 God help us do our duty, and not shrink, 
 
 And trust in Heaven humbly for the rest. 
 
 But blame us women not, if some appear 
 
 Too cold at times, and some too gay and light; 
 Some griefs gnaw deep, some woes are hard to bear. 
 Who knows the past ? and who can judge us right ? 
 
 Are we judged by what we might have been, 
 
 And not by what we are—too apt to fall! 
 
 My little child—he sleeps and smiles between 
 
 These thoughts and me; in heaven we shall know all! ” 
 
 Robert Bulwer Lytton. 
 
THE SHEPHERDESS. 
 
 J U RELY this picture of a mountain maiden is no mere studio 
 study, though this may be suggested by the well-cut features 
 and hands of faultless shape, and fairly fashioned limbs. 
 No, there is a pose which is unmistakeable, a modesty and 
 daring expressed in the open countenance which could be 
 
 counterfeited by no city model. Possibly the artist, in winding around a 
 
 mountain path, came in view of her, and, half concealing himself behind a 
 
 rock, began to sketch. She sees him, but does not know what he is about. 
 
 Certainly there is an inquiring look, an expression of simple wonder, and it 
 is very sweet. 
 
 How little, after all, is needed the aid of rich and costly dress for the 
 enhancement of true beauty. Here behold a child of nature, a dweller amid 
 the fastnesses of the eternal rocks, clad in simple peasant garb, yet royal as a 
 queen. Her form suggests the strength as well as the grace of the mountain. 
 Of apparently light mould, she is, nevertheless, an athlete, as indicated by the 
 full arm below the shoulder. A study of the quiet face reveals a will and 
 purpose—a hardihood born amid the storms. Only the artist who sees such 
 a subject, and who possesses a memory upon which he can call for every 
 detail of outline, light and shadow, thus giving us the real story, could so 
 nobly treat a subject of this character. 
 
 It is a courageous essay, for the interest of the picture is wholly dependent 
 on the treatment of the figure. The pose is perfect, original, and charming. 
 Note how gracefully the finely-moulded foot touches the rock below, how 
 
 
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 the expressive face is improved by the simple head-dress; how the breeze, 
 playing with her flaxen hair, gives added lines of grace; how skilfully the 
 rocks are suggested, while the flock, a portion of which is seen to the right of 
 the figure, helps to verify the story. 
 
 This is indeed a pleasing picture, and one that calls us away to the pure 
 moral atmosphere of mountain life ; for the purity expressed by it is its most 
 inviting characteristic. These pastoral scenes, when properly rendered, are 
 never tiresome. They suggest to us that neither beauty nor contentment woo 
 the haunts of wealth exclusively, but that in the solitary places of the earth 
 are to be found those things which men covet most. 
 
 1 Come live with me, and be my love, 
 
 And we will all the pleasures prove 
 That valleys, groves, and hills and fields, 
 Woods or steepy mountains yields. 
 
 There will we sit upon the rocks, 
 
 Seeing the shepherds feed their flocks 
 By shallow rivers, to whose falls 
 Melodious* birds sing madrigals. 
 
 There will I make thee beds of roses 
 With a thousand fragrant posies; 
 
 A cup of flowers, and a kirtle, 
 
 Embroidered all with leaves of myrtle; 
 
 A gown made of the finest wool, 
 
 Which from our pretty lambs we pull; 
 Fair-lined slippers for the cold, 
 
 With buckles of the purest gold; 
 
 A belt of straw, and ivy buds, 
 
 With coral clasps and amber studs : 
 
 And if these pleasures may thee move, 
 
 Come live with me, and be my love. 
 
 The shepherd swains shall dance and sing 
 For thy delight each May morning; 
 
 If these delights thy mind may move, 
 
 Then live with me, and be my love.” 
 
 Christopher Marlowe. 
 
THE FISHERMAN’S WIFE. 
 
 =# HERE is no duty of life the performance of which awakens 
 such variety and intensity of emotion as that of the manner. 
 Adventurous, dangerous, and self-sacrificing always, it has 
 afforded more themes for the poet, and more subjects for 
 the painter, than has any other calling. In the painting 
 before us, we have but another version of the “old, old story,’ the story 
 of the pain that waits on love. The fisherman is out at sea; his young 
 wife, weary, waiting for the sound of his footstep near their cottage door, and 
 the cheery voice whose rude music makes her heart throb as no other music 
 can, has gone to the beach and out to a quiet spot upon the rocks to catch 
 the’first “limpse of the expected sail. The luminous horizon, the play of light 
 upon the & rocks, and the drapery of the ficpire, tell of the approach of evening 
 and suggest the wherefore of the somewhat anxious expression of her face. 
 And how wonderfully expressive this face is; how beautiful in its pensiveness. 
 For while the profile is not that of a beauty, there is that in its graceful lines, 
 and in the far-searching look of the eye, and in the sensitively tremulous mouth, 
 which stirs our sympathy much more readily than mere beauty could, however 
 dramatically posed. In this, as in most of his works, the great merit is in the 
 apparent truthfulness of each detail. For here the face and form, if idealized 
 at all do not in the least degree violate the probabilities. Many a fishermans 
 bride there has been, and is, as fair as she who here awaits the coming of her 
 lover. The pose of the figure, while surpassingly graceful-statuesque, indeed 
 in its grace-is simply natural, and one familiar to those who have watcher 
 the unstudied attitudes of girls and women, where they have not ceased to e 
 womanly at the bidding of their milliners. ^ 
 
In only one particular, it seems to us, has the artist taken undue licence, 
 and in doing so somewhat disturbed the sentiment which his picture, as a 
 whole, is well calculated to inspire. Surely there is no good reason that his 
 heroine should be out at elbows. The answer would be that he wanted 
 that “ bit of dark ’’ where the arm curves ; that by using it he might accent 
 the light upon the broken sleeve, and yet keep its form distinct from the 
 apron upon which it rests. Doubtless such was the reason ; and yet, surely 
 it was within the compass of his genius to effect his purpose in some better 
 fashion, since in this way he suggests the unthrifty wife, not such a one as 
 would look most lovely in her. husband’s eyes. 
 
 “We sat by the fisher’s cottage, 
 
 And looked at the stormy tide; 
 
 The evening mist came rising, 
 
 And floating far and wide. 
 
 One by one in the light-house 
 The lamps shone out on high ; 
 
 And far on the dim horizon 
 A ship went sailing by. 
 
 We spoke of storm and shipwreck— 
 
 Of sailors and how they live ; 
 
 Of journeys ’twixt sky and water, 
 
 And the sorrows and joys they give. 
 
 We spoke of distant countries, 
 
 In regions strange and fair, 
 
 And of the wondrous beings 
 And curious customs there ; 
 
 Of perfumed lamps on the Ganges, 
 
 Which are launched in the twilight hour, 
 
 And the dark and silent Brahmins, 
 
 Who worship the lotus flower; 
 
 Of the wretched dwarfs of Lapland— 
 
 Broad-headed, wide-mouthed and small— 
 
 Who crouch round their oil fires, cookino-, 
 
 And chatter and scream and bawl. 
 
 And the maidens earnestly listened, 
 
 Till at last we spoke no more; 
 
 The ship like a shadow had vanished, 
 
 And darkness fell deep on the shore.” 
 
 Henry Heine. 
 
THE SURPRISE. 
 
THE SURPRISE. 
 
 HILST Meyer von Bremen has but few living rivals as a 
 colourist, and none more skilful in composition, it is less to 
 his great technical ability than to his remarkable story-telling 
 power that he owes his popularity—the popularity which is 
 akin to that of the poet, whose songs make homes for them¬ 
 selves in the hearts of the people in sympathy with whom they have been 
 written. And, like the songs of Beranger or Burns, the painted poem of 
 Meyer von Bremen never fails to awaken a responsive echo ; for he speaks a 
 language which is universal, even in his pictures of humble life, appealing to 
 human nature generally rather than to the individual class whose loves and 
 fears, and hopes and joys, he typifies. 
 
 In this reproduction of his painting of the “Surprise,” we have a touching 
 expression of the beauty and simplicity of the peasant life which he has studied 
 to such advantage. The return of the peasant, whilst the sun is yet well above 
 the horizon, suggests that his labour has been on some distant farm, and 
 that, this complete, he is returning to his home after an absence of several 
 days. All unconscious that he is watched, he trudges along, weary in body 
 yet light in soul, happy in the anticipation of the welcome and the rest that 
 wait for him, and singing as he comes. The young wife, who has been to 
 the village for her marketing, and who has sat down to rest herself for a 
 moment, hears his voice and recognizes him. In childlike playfulness, she 
 hides, that she may startle him with her presence when he comes nearer. 
 The simple naturalness of her position is to the last degree pleasing. Her 
 left hand, resting against the tree, supports her as she leans forward; her 
 
right keeps back the obtruding folds of her dress, which, unrestrained, might 
 attract, too soon, the attention of him she hides from, thus telling the story 
 of her whereabouts. Her face is charmingly expressive of repressed delight, 
 and of the eagerness of one who contemplates the sudden motion which is 
 to startle and surprise. We can fancy that she retains her breath, so eager 
 does she look; and we wait, ourselves, expectant, to note the forward spring, 
 the glad cry of welcome, and the fond embrace of these two loving hearts, 
 upon whose pathway home the sunlight falls so happily, suggesting the summer 
 of their lives. 
 
 “ Not theirs the vows of such as plight 
 Their troth in sunny weather, 
 
 While leaves are green, and skies are bright, 
 To walk on flowers together; 
 
 But they have loved as those who tread 
 The thorny path of sorrow, 
 
 With clouds above, and cause to dread 
 Yet deeper gloom to-morrow. 
 
 That thorny path, those stormy skies, 
 
 Have drawn their spirits nearer; 
 
 And rendered them, by sorrow’s ties, 
 
 Each to the other dearer. 
 
 Love born in hours of joy and mirth, 
 
 With mirth and joy may perish ; 
 
 That to which darker hours gave birth 
 Still more and more they cherish; 
 
 It looks beyond the cloud of time, 
 
 And through Death’s shadowy portal; 
 
 Made by adversity sublime, 
 
 By faith and hope immortal.” 
 
 Bernard Barton. 
 
JEALOUSY. 
 
 HE admirable picture of which this is a reproduction was 
 painted in 1871. It ranks high, and deservedly, amongst 
 the most effective of the artist’s works. Eminently interest¬ 
 ing in subject, simple and graceful in composition, and bril¬ 
 liant in colour, it at once enlists our sympathy and wins our admiration. In 
 the photograph, the brilliancy of colour is forcibly suggested by the luminous 
 distance, by the light effects on the nearer foliage on the pathway, and where 
 the glow of the sunset is caught by the projecting elms and the gnarled branches 
 of the great forest-trees. The story of the picture is not difficult to read. 
 It is one of misplaced affection. The blonde beauty, with face so exquisite, so 
 expressive, who stands in the shadow of the tree, has doubtless gone out into 
 the wood with the twofold purpose of gathering sweet herbs and meeting 
 with her lover returning from the hay-field. Her task being done, she listens 
 for his footfall, her purpose to surprise him by stepping out of the shadow of 
 the tree into the bright sunlight in his presence. He comes ; she hears his 
 step, his voice; but alas! the music that it makes is not for her. His leady 
 tongue shapes words for another’s ear. A village belle has been overtaken 
 on the way, and to her the artless youth is but too generous of his pleasantries 
 and admiration. How graceful the unconscious beauty lies posed in shadow ! 
 
 A 
 
How admirably balanced the figure ! How expressive the raised finger at the 
 lip ! How pitiful, how touching, the sad, sweet face of her whose pride alone 
 restrains the sudden burst of anguish! 
 
 “ And wilt thou leave me thus ? 
 
 Say nay ! say nay ! for shame! 
 
 To save thee from the blame 
 Of all my grief and grame. 
 
 And wilt thou leave me thus ? 
 
 Say nay ! say nay! 
 
 And wilt thou leave me thus, 
 
 That hath loved thee so long, 
 
 In wealth and woe among ? 
 
 And is thy heart so strong 
 As for to leave me thus ? 
 
 Say nay ! say nay! 
 
 And wilt thou leave me thus, 
 
 That hath given thee my heart, 
 
 Never for to depart, 
 
 N either for pain nor smart ? 
 
 And wilt thou leave me thus ? 
 
 Say nay! say nay ! 
 
 And wilt thou leave me thus, 
 
 And have no more pity 
 Of one that loveth thee ? 
 
 Alas ! thy cruelty ! 
 
 And wilt thou leave me thus ? 
 
 Say nay ! say nay!” 
 
 Sir Thomas Wyat. 
 
BO-PEEP. 
 
 HE subject here reproduced is pronounced one of the happiest 
 of the artist’s impersonations, and one of the most brilliant 
 of his works in colour. The young mother, returning from 
 market, rests for a moment on the stone bench by the road 
 side near her house. Her little boy, long watching for her coming, has 
 started out to meet her, and, his welcoming caress done, would now enlist 
 her in his play. Nothing loth, to humour him, she affects the tyrant mother, 
 striking at his merry face, as, like a ray of sunlight, it sparkles here and there 
 among the bushes. The faces of the happy pair are eminently expressive; 
 hers, of that fond mother-love that passeth understanding; his, of the 
 health and happiness of childhood and of the challenge to the battle. That 
 face, with its frame of sparkling leaves, is itself an artistic triumph, yet only 
 a degree more attractive than the sweet one of the mother in the shadow of 
 the overhanging branches. In the position of her figure repose is admirably 
 suggested, and the simplicity of the dress, so graceful in its lines, lends 
 beauty to the face and head, which kerchief-crowned is classic in its perfect 
 outline. 
 
 “ When the corn-fields and meadows 
 Are pearled with the dew, 
 
 With the first sunny shadow 
 Walks little Boy Blue. 
 
Oh the Nymphs and the Graces 
 Still gleam on his eyes, 
 
 And the kind fairy faces 
 
 Look down from the skies; 
 
 And a secret revealing 
 Of life within life, 
 
 When feeling meets feeling 
 In musical strife; 
 
 A winding and weaving 
 In flowers and in trees, 
 
 A floating and heaving 
 In sunlight and breeze; 
 
 A striving and soaring, 
 
 A gladness and grace, 
 
 Make him kneel half-adoring 
 The God in the place. 
 
 Then amid the live shadows 
 Of lambs at their play, 
 
 Where the kine scent the meadows 
 With breath like the May, 
 
 He stands in the splendour 
 That waits on the morn, 
 
 And a music more tender 
 Distils from his horn ; 
 
 And he weeps, he rejoices, 
 
 He prays; nor in vain, 
 
 For soft loving voices 
 Will answer again ; 
 
 And the Nymphs and the Graces 
 Still gleam through the dew. 
 
 And kind fairy faces 
 
 Watch little Boy Blue.” 
 
 Anonymous. 
 
AT THE CRADLE. 
 
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AT THE CRADLE. 
 
 HE painting to which we are indebted for this picture is one 
 of the latest of the artist’s works, having been finished 
 but a few months, as the date mark shows. It gives no 
 evidence of declining power; on the contrary, it must be 
 pronounced one of his most successful paintings. Nor can 
 it be charged against this quiet interior, that the artist has resorted to any 
 peculiar disposition of his light to give undue emphasis to any portion of the 
 work. 11 is a picture of perfect repose; the sparkling bit of sunlight only 
 that touches the cradle edge attracting the glance to the central point of 
 interest. It is the story of the loving mother’s watchfulness by the bedside 
 of her darling. Weary with play, the little babe has gone to rest, cuddling 
 her dolly in her arms. The father is doubtless on his way home from his 
 daily labour ; for the light that comes through the low window of the cottage 
 tells that the sun is low. Of him, and her, her pretty babe, the mother 
 sits and dreams. What a rosy future does she paint for both ! Blessing it 
 all, with her ever present patience and affection. This mothers face is wonder¬ 
 fully expressive. All that is sweet and good in woman s nature is here sug¬ 
 gested, while the figure itself is posed with the utmost grace and naturalness. 
 Yet where the eye rests with the greatest satisfaction is upon the sweet 
 face of the sleeping little one, so wonderfully baby-like it is, so suggestive of 
 childhood’s peaceful rest. How admirably the face is drawn and modelled; 
 so round and plump it is, that we feel as if the canvas must yield like flesh to 
 the fingers’ pressure. 
 
 In this picture of sweet content, where the surroundings, if not of the 
 rudest, are at best but of the humblest kind, there is this moral plainly written: 
 that our happiness owes less to circumstance or position in this life than to 
 
 the spirit with which we accept and follow the fate allotted to us. W hat 
 
 16 
 
mother, in her nursery, with her baby laid on silken couch, knows happiness 
 more unalloyed than that suggested to us here, as in the possession of 
 this young peasant wife ? How few there are who seek to know her simple 
 joy! 
 
 “ Art thou a thing of mortal birth, 
 
 Whose happy home is on our earth ? 
 
 Does human blood with life imbue 
 Those wandering veins of heavenly blue 
 That stray along that forehead fair, 
 
 Lost ’mid a gleam of golden hair ? 
 
 Oh! can that light and airy breath 
 Steal from a being doomed to death ; 
 
 Those features to the grave be sent 
 In sleep thus mutely eloquent; 
 
 Or, art thou, what thy form would seem, 
 
 A phantom of a blessed dream ? 
 
 A human shape I feel thou art— 
 
 I feel it at my beating heart, 
 
 Those tremors both of soul and sense 
 Awoke by infant innocence ! 
 
 Though dear the forms by Fancy wove, 
 
 We love them with a transient love ; 
 
 Thoughts from the living world intrude 
 Even on her deepest solitude. 
 
 But, lovely child! thy magic stole 
 At once into my inmost soul 
 With feelings as thy beauty fair, 
 
 And left no other vision there. 
 
 O vision fair! that I could be 
 Again as young, as pure, as thee! 
 
 Vain wish! the rainbow’s radiant form 
 May view, but cannot brave, the storm; 
 
 Years can bedim the gorgeous dyes 
 That paint the bird of Paradise; 
 
 And years, so Fate hath ordered, roll 
 Clouds o’er the summer of the soul. 
 
 Yet, sometimes, sudden sights of grace, 
 
 Such as the gladness of thy face, 
 
 O sinless babe, by God are given 
 To charm the wanderer back to heaven.” 
 
 John Wilson. 
 
THE FIRST LESSON. 
 
 
*». ' 
 
THE FIRST LESSON. 
 
 HE “First Lesson” is also one of our artist’s latest pictures, 
 and in colour, as in composition, one of the most effective. 
 In it we have another phase of the happy side of German 
 peasant life. The morning meal over, the young mother 
 has sat down to her sewing, and pauses in her work to help her baby 
 daughter over the first difficulties of the scholar. The little one has pushed 
 cup and saucer to one side for the mysteries of the spelling-book. The full 
 flood of the morning light falls upon the child’s figure, on the book, and 
 on the linen in the mother’s lap. The cloth and utensils of the table catch 
 the bright light and lend brilliancy and cheerfulness to the interior. There 
 is an air of thrift about the place, in keeping with the story sought to be 
 conveyed. The tidy arrangement of the cups and saucers on the shelf, and 
 the pitcher and books laid carefully in the alcove, with an almanac pendent 
 from the mirror, and the other accessories of the room, tell of that carefulness 
 in small things characteristic of the German people. And what a quaint 
 charm to us, who know only of the rigid lines and frailty of modern furniture, 
 there is in those old-fashioned chairs, and in that rude but thoroughly reliable 
 
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breakfast table! And what homely comfort there is in the simple dress of 
 the young housewife herself. There is evidence of subtle skill, too, in the 
 pose of either figure of that of the mother, who pauses in her work, her 
 needle in her fingers, as in that of the child, who looks up inquiringly as she 
 holds the puzzling page before her. 
 
 “ Three years she grew in sun and shower; 
 Then Nature said: ‘A lovelier flower 
 On earth was never sown; 
 
 This child I to myself will take; 
 
 She shall be mine, and I will make 
 A lady of my own. 
 
 ‘ Myself will to my darling be 
 Both law and impulse; and with me 
 The girl, in rock and plain, 
 
 In earth and heaven, in glade and bower, 
 Shall feel an overseeing power, 
 
 To kindle or restrain. 
 
 ‘ She shall be sportive as the fawn 
 That wild with glee across the lawn 
 Or up the mountain springs; 
 
 And hers shall be the breathing balm, 
 
 And hers the silence and the calm 
 Of mute insensate things. 
 
 The floating clouds their state shall lend 
 To her; for her the willow bend: 
 
 Nor shall she fail to see, 
 
 Even in the motions of the storm, 
 
 Grace that shall mould the maiden’s form 
 By silent sympathy. 
 
 The stars of midnight shall be dear 
 To her; and she shall lean her ear 
 In many a secret place, 
 
 Where rivulets dance their wayward round, 
 And beauty born of murmuring sound 
 Shall pass into her face.’ ” 
 
 W ORDSWORTH. 
 
BLIND MAN’S BUFF. 
 
 E can well believe the stories told of Meyer von Bremen’s 
 surpassing love for children, and of the delight he takes in 
 amusing them, when we look upon this happy picture en¬ 
 titled “ Blind Man’s Buff.” No person but he who has 
 entered into the game with the children themselves, and, 
 with true childish abandon, could so well convey its spirit. Had Wilkie not 
 known, and moved, in the life of the humblest, and had he not participated in 
 the rollicking merriment of the kitchen, his picture of this same title had 
 not been painted. It is amongst his most famous pictures, and it is the truth 
 of it which gives it immortality. As ■ much may be said for the work of 
 Meyer, so ably reproduced before us. If the artist is not seen in the picture, 
 we know that he was there. This grouping of the figures is no mere studio 
 business, but the result of sketches made at the happiest moment of the play. 
 Nor does it lie with the composer to arrange the forms of a picture so 
 harmoniously, aided only by his imagination or by his memory. 
 
 Here we have the result, doubtless, of the sketch made when the subject 
 was first suggested, and of the evident painstaking labour when each individual 
 figure was made an especial study of. What a happy sunny scene it is ! 
 Who can look upon it and not wish for childhood days again ? What a 
 cunning-looking rogue the hero is—a perfect picture of himself; as, impatient 
 at the delay imposed upon him and at the shutting out of daylight, he raises 
 the handkerchief to get a peep at his persecutors—a better peep we should 
 say, for it is evident that he knew something of his whereabouts, since he has 
 chosen the moment when the pump is between him and his playfellows to 
 take the forbidden glance. And how graceful in its playfulness is the kneeling 
 
girl, as with the upraised branch she prepares to strike the water with the 
 
 rod, to the discomfiture of her play-fellow. So, also, with the figure of the 
 
 oldest of the group, who, with pointed finger, restrains the others till the 
 
 fitting moment comes, and with her other hand controls the little ones, who 
 
 would spoil the fun with their impulsiveness. 
 
 What innocent merriment is in the face of each ! How simply 
 truthful it all is! How admirably in keeping the little actors with the 
 scene itself. 
 
 And when leaving the happy group, one eye embracing the accessories of 
 the picture, we recognize the evidence of the artist’s breadth of power and of 
 the completeness of his work. What landscape painter can show us in his 
 sketch-book a more perfect, pleasing scene than this ? The comfortable quaint 
 old farm-house, with its wealth of surrounding foliage, and, suggested rather 
 than seen, the figure of the young mother with her baby and the grandmother 
 at her knitting. How the distance between the group of the foreground and 
 the house is suggested, and to the left how dreamily beautiful the distant field 
 and foliage, suggested by the heavenward-pointing spire; beyond this the river, 
 on its course seaward through the valley! Faithful portraiture, all of it; 
 even to the painting of the pitchers, the baby cart, and the queer old 
 trough and pump and the shrine above them, with its half-hidden figure of 
 the Madonna. 
 
 “ I love to look on a scene like this, 
 
 Of wild and careless play, 
 
 And persuade myself that I am not old, 
 
 And my locks are not yet grey; 
 
 For it stirs the blood in the old man’s heart, 
 And makes his pulses fly, 
 
 To catch the thrill of a happy voice, 
 
 And the light of a pleasant eye. 
 
 I have walked the world for fourscore years, 
 And they say that I am old— 
 
 That my heart is ripe for the reaper Death, 
 And my years are well-nigh told. 
 
 It is very true!—it is very true— 
 
 I am old, and I ‘ bide my time; ’ 
 
 But my heart will leap at a scene like this, 
 And I half renew my prime. 
 
 Play on! play on ! I am with you there, 
 
 In the midst of your merry ring; 
 
 I can feel the thrill of the daring jump, 
 
 And the rush of the breathless swing. 
 
 I hide with you in the fragrant hay, 
 
 And I whoop the smothered call, 
 
 And my feet slip up on the seedy floor, 
 
 And I care not for the fall. 
 
 I am willing to die when my time shall come, 
 And I shall be glad to go— 
 
 For the world, at best, is a weary place, 
 
 And my pulse is getting low; 
 
 But the grave is dark, and the heart will fail 
 In treading its gloomy way; 
 
 And it wiles my heart from its dreariness 
 To see the young so gay.” 
 
 N. P. Willis. ,