a thing which our excellent friend, the doctor, seemed to repudiate, but could not regret; because it had been the accidental occasion of a great benefit, and an expected pleasure. They would have a speedy opportunity of explaining in person. They had themselves brought the letter to Glen-Sambach. They were in search of lodgings near. Glen-Sambach and Loch-Diomhair were (they found) the very place-the precise kind of locality-for which Mrs. Blythe had been longing. They were near me, in short-and to-morrow they would do themselves the satisfaction, &c. Any friends of mine, and so on, would be an accession to their modest circle, in that sequestered scene, so well depicted by my enthusiastic correspondent, whom they hoped soon to number among their acquaintances.

This was an emergency indeed requiring the utmost vigour and tact, with unflagging resolution, to disentangle ourselves from it once more; nay, if promptly taken, to render it the outlet of a complete and trackless escape. Not that I myself hesitated for a moment; since it was no other than the Blythe and M'Killop connection I now fled fromwhile Glen-Sambach and Loch-Diomhair, shared with them, became as the suburbs of that public which the Daily Tribune sways, bringing all its odious issues after. Like the gold-diggings of Kennebec or Bendigo would soon be our fancied El Dorado; the greater its charm, the sweeter its secresy and solitude, the more speedily to be gone for

ever.

Happily, it was evident that they knew nothing yet of Ickerson's continuance with me. Fortunately, too, Moir did not need to fear their subsequent displeasure. All that I had to overcome was the sudden vividness of anticipation they had both conceived, the latter especially, from the cordial proffer of young St. Clair. It was a glowing vision for me to break yet; if I did not break it, how much more painfully would it be dissipated by the claim on our society, with all its advantages and openings, which Trellington Blythe would amiably No. 7.-VOL. II.

employ, and M'Killop firmly expectnay, enforce. To me the prospect lost every tint when thus re-touched; yet if they cared to try it, to fail me and remain behind, they were welcome, I said, -so revealing the whole direness of the

case.

Had it not been for Ickerson's dread of the editor, before mentioned, I suspect he would now have shown defection; nay, even then, but for the said acquaintance with the courteous St. Clairs, which, if they two remained, he must now cultivate. He has no repugnance like mine, I suspect, for the Blythe circle. As for Frank Moir, he is an eager sportsman, otherwise a mere man of the world; and he swears by Ickerson in higher matters. The influence possessed by Ickerson over him and others of the same stamp is curious to me. Ickerson did not reason on the matter; he did not even trouble himself to paint M'Killop giving but one significant shrug of his vast shoulders, one expressive grimace, then taking up his staff and plaid to follow me. Then Moir, shouldering his portmanteau for the first boy that could be found at hand, gave in a reluctant adhesion, and came with him; while I obscurely accounted for the change to our host, the intelligent but simple-minded pedagogue of the Macdonochies.

It was a misty moonrise, through which, as we silently set forth, we were soon lost to the most prying eyes in the clachan. Instead of suffering our friend's portmanteau to be delivered to any gillie whatever, I was ready for the burden myself. Whither we were going I did not say, not even knowing: only taking the way which led likeliest to some ultimate coach-road; while truly it may be said, that, for a time, I had two silent, unsupporting followers-one sullen, the other wrapt in most unsociable meditation-till the moon rose bright upon our rugged path, the lake shimmering along beneath us through dreamy haze, silence lying behind upon the unseen glen. A new valley was opening up through the mountains, where the high road to the grand route lay plainly

D

marked, as a turnpike bar reassured me soon. The milestones to Campbelltown pledged our security thenceforward.

"Ickerson," I said then, "I am will ing to give up this leadership. Observe, I confess my past oversights. I own that, but for me, this would not have occurred. There are other spots than Loch-Diomhair, doubtless, where we may escape, to realise jointly what we have severally at heart. Henceforth, nevertheless, I relinquish all ambiguity or subterfuge to your utmost desire. I will eschew short cuts. Let us go with the common stream, if you will, and take our unpurposed pleasure as we find it. Let us even visit, under your guidance, the tomb of Highland Mary, and inscribe our initials, if there is room for them, on the walls of the birth-place of Burns. Or, if Moir inclines, let him head us to the glorious sport of the Sutherland lochs, and the favourite

Findhorn of St. John. I will gladly yield the burdensome post of command to either, who undertakes our common security from M'Killop and-and the Blythes."

How clear is that consciousness of superior will which alone enables us to lead onward! When I thus seemed to surrender it, neither Ickerson nor Moir felt capable of the function. They jointly confessed it by their looks, and successively repudiated the charge: which I then resolutely took again.

How I justified it, and how we spent the holiday-season in joyous companionship, refreshed for new work, is not to the point. Suffice it to say, that I had learnt how the Blythes avoid the common track, and the M'Killops follow them; thus, however, turning aside the vulgar current, and so leaving the old channels free.

ALL persons conversant with art matters of late have been aware that this distinguished artist has for five or six years past been engaged upon a work entitled as above, in executing which he had spared neither time, labour, study, nor expense, in order to put before the world a picture produced exactly in his own ideal-such a one indeed as should display those convictions respecting art which he is known to have made the rule of his life, and has followed out, notwithstanding difficulties and real dangers such as would have utterly defeated most men, or at least modified an ordinary strength of purpose.

Con

ceiving an idea of the great advantages that would result from painting any picture in the very locality where the incident chosen happened, and choosing a Scriptural theme such as this, Mr. Hunt was fortunate in the circumstantial immutability of character

and costume which has prevailed to a great extent in the East from the time of the Saviour until now. In the East traditions linger for ages such as in this more mutable West would have vanished long ago. By the light of this irregular history many customs have been elucidated, the comprehension of which is highly essential to the faithful and observant study of a subject relating to the life of Christ. That a picture to be duly honoured in execution should be painted on its own ground, so to speak, being the leading conviction of the artist's mind, there remained nothing for him but to proceed to Jerusalem when he decided upon this subject. Accordingly this was done, and during a stay of more than eighteen months Mr. Hunt's whole attention was devoted to the study of the material he required, to the getting together of accessorial matter, and actual execution of a consi

derable part of this picture. The greater portion of four succeeding years has been given to its completion, and the result is now before the world.

It will be right to premise that Mr. Hunt's opinions in art, which opinions were convictions, and, what is far more, convictions put into action, led him to journey to Jerusalem, not only to study the best existing examples of the physical aspect of the race he had to paint, but to obtain such material in the way of costume as could only be obtained there. To do this fully, he acquired before departing a sound knowledge of the very history he had to illustrate. Thus prepared, his journey was so far profitable that we believe there is not one single incident in the action of the picture, or single point of costume shown-from the very colour of the marble pavement of the Temple, the jewellery worn, or instruments carried by the personages represented-for which he has not actual or analogical authority. How deep this labour has gone will be best conceived when we say that the long-lost architecture of the second Temple has been brought to a new life in his work. Based upon the authorities existing, the whole of the architecture shown in the picture may be styled the artist's invention, not in any way a wild flight of imagination, but the result of thoughtful study, and the building up of part by part, founded upon the only true principle of beauty in such designs-that is, constructive fitness. The whole edifice is gilded or overlaid with plates of gold, the most minute ornaments are profoundly studied, extremely diversified, yet all in keeping with the characteristics of Eastern architecture, that derived its archetypes from an Oriental vegetation, and decoratively employed the forms of the palm, the vine, and pomegranate. But let it not be considered that these mere archæological matters have absorbed the artist beyond their due; so far from this is the case, that the design itself is not without a modern instance of applicability to the life of every man, and the "Wist ye not that I must be about my Father's busi

ness?" is as much an exhortation to us as it was a reply to the parents of Christ.

The unflinching devotion shown by the painter, and the inherent nobility of his principles of art, have then this great merit in them, that the result stands before us almost with the solemnity of a fact. It seems life that has been lived, and a potent teaching for us all, not only to show the way in which our labours should be performed-by that by which Mr. Hunt has executed his-but, by the vividness and vitality of his representation, the first step of Christ's mission produces a fresh, and, it may be, deeper impression upon the mind, than that which most men have to recall the memories of their youth to enter on. This he holds, and we also, to be the true result of art. Let us consider to what purpose he has applied these principles, and how the end of this long labour can be said to fulfil them.

The distinguishing executive character of the picture that strikes the eye at first, is luminous depth and intensity of colour, the perfect truth of chiaroscuro that gives relief and roundness to every part to which its solidity of handling aids potentially the whole truthful effect being enhanced, when, upon examination, we discern the minute and elaborate finish that has been given to the most trifling details. The whole has the roundness and substantiality of nature, utterly unmarred by that want of balance in parts observable in the productions of the less accomplished painters of the Pre-Raffaelite school, whose shortcomings in this respect have, notwithstanding the earnestness and energy displayed by many among them, rendered the title "Pre-Raffaelite" almost opprobrious. Let us now turn to the picture itself.

The Temple.-A brief vista of gilded columns closed at the end by a latticework screen of bronze open to the external air. The immediate locality, an outer chamber of the building, one valve of the entrance door put wide back, showing without the courtyard, with masons at work selecting a stone,

maybe the "stone of the corner;" over the wall the roofs of the city, and far off the hill country. Within, and seated upon a low dewân, scarcely raised from the floor, are the elders of the Temple, seven in number, arranged in a semicircle, one horn of which approaches the front of the picture. Behind them stand four musicians, whose grouping repeats the generally semicircular disposition of the figures. A flight of doves gambol in the air without; several have entered the building, and fly over the heads of the family of Christ, who stand by the doorway facing the priest and elders. Mary, who has just discovered her Son, tenderly embraces, and with trembling lips presses her mouth towards his face. Lovely is the eager yearning of her eyes, the lids dropped, the irides dilated and glittering with tearful dew that has gathered itself into a drop to run down her cheek. Her skin is fair and young, her features moulded appropriately on the pure Jewish type in its finest and tenderest character. The bold fine nose, the broad, low, straight forehead, straight eyebrows -a royal feature; wide-lidded eyes— reddish with anxiety; the pure finelined cheek a little hollowed, but a very little-and rounded, clear-cut chin, make a countenance as noble as it is beautiful. But far beyond the mere nobility of structural perfectness, the expression is the tenderest of the utmost outpouring of a heart that has yearned, and travailed, and hungered long. That long, long three days of searching has marked her cheek and sunk her eyes, and although the red blood of joy runs now to its surface, this does but show how pale it was before. Could I but tell you in my poor words how her mouth tells all this, how it quivers with a hungry love, arches itself a little over the teeth, its angles just retracted, ridging a faint line, that is too intense for a smile, upon the fair, sweet maternal cheek! Forward her head is thrust, the whole soul at the lips urgent to kiss. There is a spasm in the throat, and the nostrils breathe sharply, but all the joyful agony of the woman-the intensity

of the maternal storgé-seeks at the lips the cheek of her Son. For this the eyes sheathe themselves with levelled lidsfor this the body advances beyond the hasty feet. It is but to draw him nearer

that one eager hand clasps his removed shoulder, and the other eager hand raises that which the Son has put upon its wrist, pressing it against his mother's bosom.

The feet of all three are bared. Joseph stands looking down on both; Mary's shoes, held by the latchet, are slung over Joseph's shoulder by one hand; his other hand has been upon the arm of Jesus, until the eager, trembling fingers of the mother slid beneath, displacing it in her passionate haste. Christ has been standing before the elders when his parents entered, and then turned towards the front, so that we see his face full. It is an oval, broadened at the top by a noble, wide, high-arched forehead, surmounting abstracted, and far-off seeing eyes that round the eyelids open, wistfully and thoughtfully presaging, yet radiant with purpose, though mournful and earnest. They express the thought of his reply, "Wist ye not that I must be about my Father's business?" He is heedful of his mission-half abstracted from the embrace. The action of his right hand, drawing tighter the broad leathern girdle of his loins, and the almost passive way in which his fingers rest upon the wrist of Mary, express this, while the firmlyplanted feet, one advanced, although his body sways to his mother's breast, indicate one roused to his labour and ready to enter upon the journey of life. The beauty of the head of Christ takes the eye at once-not only through the totally original physical type the artist has adopted, but by the union of healthy physique with intellectual nobleness, fitting the body for the endurance of suffering. There is a marked difference between Hunt's idea of the corporeal appearance of our Lord and that usually chosen by the painters, who have shown him as a delicate valetudinary-for such is the character imparted by their allowing a certain feminine quality to overweigh the robustness required for

the simple performance of his labours. He is here a noble, beautiful boy of about twelve, broad-chested, wide-shouldered, active-limbed, and strong to bear and do. The head sustains this character, the forehead being as we have before said, the eyes blue, clear yet tender, with all their strength of purpose that does but recognise sorrow. The mouth, pure, sweet, small, yet pulpy and full, is compassionate and sympathising. The nostrils are full without breadth. The complexion fair, yet rich, and charged with healthy blood. If we give attention to the eyes, their beauty and nobility become distinct: the broad lids are lifted, so that the gaze is open and upon vacancy. From the forehead the hair springs like a flame gathered about the countenance, parted at the centre, and laid back to either side; the sunlight from without is caught amongst its tips, and breaks in a golden haze like a glory. So placed, this is ever the case with hair of that character. There remains for us to point out one exquisite subtlety of expression in this head it is this, the near warmth of the Virgin's face causes the side of Christ's countenance to flush a little, and one eyelid to droop and quiver, almost imperceptibly, but still plainly enough to be read.

Let us point out that this is no tender, smiling Virgin, like that of many of the old masters, blandly regarding a pretty infant-a theme of mere beauty-but a tearful, trembling, eager, earnest mother finding the lost Lamb and the devoted Son. Rightly has Mr. Hunt nationalized her features to the Jewish type. Nor is Christ like the emaciated student usually chosen for a model. Here the intensity of the artist's thought appears. He has

been penetrated with the idea of service, use, and duty; no making of a pretty picture has been his aim, but rather, in showing us how the noblest and most beautiful submitted to duty, he would teach us our own. This is Christ of the preaching, Christ of the crown of thorns, Christ of the cross, Christ of the resurrection and the life eternal, the soldier and the Son of God. Beau

tiful is the son of the King; he is dressed in the colours of royalty of the house of Judah; even his poor robe is a princely garment of stripes of pale crimson and blue-the ordained fringe is about its lower hem. The broad leathern belt that goes about his loins is of blood red, and marked with a cross in front, an ornament in common use in the East from time immemorial, being the symbol of life even with the ancient Egyptians; it is placed appropriately upon the girdle of Christ. These three form the principal group placed towards the left of the picture. Facing them are the rabbis and elders, to whom we now turn.

These are arranged in a sort of semicircle, as was said above, one of its horns retreating into the picture. The men are of various ages and characters; all the principal heads were painted at Jerusalem, from Jews whose countenances suggested to the artist the character he wished to represent. The eldest of the rabbis sits in front, whitebearded, blind, and decrepit; with his lean and feeble hands he holds the rolls of the Pentateuch against his shoulder; the silver ends of the staves on which this is rolled, with their rattling pendants and chains, rise beside his head; the crimson velvet case is embroidered with golden vine-wreaths and the mystic figure of the Tetragrammaton; over this case is an extra covering or mantle of light pink, striped with blue, intended to protect the embroidery. As all appurtenances of this holy roll of the law were held sacred and beneficent, there is placed a pretty little child at the feet of the rabbi, armed with a whisk to brush off the flies-that is, Beelzebub, from the cover of holy rolls. Behind stands an older boy, furtively invoking a blessing on himself by kissing the mantle of silk. Blind and half imbecile is the oldest rabbi; but he who sits next to him, a mild old man, with a gentle face of faith, holds a phylactery in his hand. Let us here explain that a phylactery is not at all one of those placards which it was the custom of the old painters to put over the foreheads of the Pharisees,