the lake, is immense. The scene, from its vastness, seems to include your littleness within it, and you breathe its difficult air. A glimpse of the lake on the right, under the trees that line the high bank, is very fine. On the same side, under an enormous tree, blending with its shadow, you may perceive a group; a most goddess-like Diana, and graceful nymphs. Their symmetrical shapes, and free, elastic limbs, breathe the spirit of shady woods and high mountains. The hounds at the feet of the huntress-queen, looking up in her face, are full of motion and graceful life.

The American Scenery,' is farther described in the catalogue, as 'Afternoon, with a South-west Haze.' Nothing is more remarkable in all these landscapes, than the fine discrimination of time, marking, as Claude is said to have done, the very hour of the day. The foreground of this landscape shows us a quiet, clear stream, backed, on the centre and left, by light, twinkling woods, from which cattle are leisurely descending into the still water. On the right, rose-colored clouds hang in the sky, that bends over a soft, hazy distance, and gleam above and beyond the trees; the whole reminding me a good deal of the Views on the Rondout.'

The Coast Scene on the Mediterranean' is a sun-piece, and very similar in general effect to many compositions in the Liber Veritatis.' The sun is low, and his upward-darting rays break squarely through the battalions of clouds that cover the sky; while those that meet the eye, come in a glittering column across the sea, whose waves roll, dark but luminous, on either side, and spreading upon the pier, cast elongated shadows from the figures, wagon-wheels, and other objects grouped upon it. An extension of the pier, I think, shuts in the picture on the right; on the left, the hulls, sails, and rigging of two heavy-looking vessels are blackly relieved against the sea and sky. The tone is deep and low, yet the effect is dazzling.

A 'Moonlight' struck me as the truest representation of that effect I had ever seen; the white night-clouds, in particular, seemed perfect, both in form and color.

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But my favorite is a landscape, which, as they are catalogued 'Landscape, No. So-and-so,' I cannot identify with its number. It forcibly reminded me of the splendid description in Ezekiel, of all the trees by the waters that exalt themselves for their height; that shoot their tops among the thick boughs; the trees that drink water, and stand up in their height. In most landscapes that we see, the trees appear to be put in, and to have no peculiar relation to the spot where they are placed. Not so in this. In the fore-ground, on the right, is water, backed and overhung by trees; on the left, the moist brown earth slopes almost imperceptibly to the roots of the high trees, in whose shadow it lies; the solid trunks rise through dusky air, and seem fit to bear aloft the vast weight of the thick boughs. Betwixt these, we have glimpses of an evening-lighted distance, with a dewy atmosphere, and flickering sky. Allston's landscapes are quite free from mannerism. They differ in composition and in particular effects; they exhibit cool, gray, silvery, rosy, and golden tones; the leafing is sometimes massive, sometimes delicate, sometimes, but more seldom, softly luxuriant.

I now come to a class of pictures in which we have a most cha

racteristic expression of Allston's genius. These are the pictures of sentiment, of which there are two classes : First, those in which the sentiment is of a simple, outward character, expressible, in part, by attitude, and capable of being reflected and sustained by external nature. These find an appropriate form, in pictures of the cabinet size, with landscapes, and containing the whole figure. SECOND, tbose in which the shade of sentiment is more delicate and complex, requiring the greatest subtlety of expression, and which, emerging from the depths of the soul, isolates it, and admits no more of the outward than may suffice to show that abstraction : these demand the life size, and exclude the greater part of the figure, with all but the simplest accessaries. To the first class, belong. The Spanish Maid,' The Evening Hymn,' The Tuscan Girl,' Jessica and Lorenzo,' and The Troubadour.' To the second belong Rosalie,' Beatrice,' '

· • and · The Valentine.'

And now let us see what is Allston's own idea of the Spanish Girl,' as expressed in his beautiful ballad :

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The foe is slain. His sable charger,

All flecked with foam, comes bounding on >
The wild Morena rings anon,

And on its brow the gallant Don
And gallant steed grow larger, larger.

And now he nears the mountain hollow;

The flowery bank and little lake
Now on his startled vision break;

And Inez there! He's not awake -
Yet how he'll love this dream to-morrow!

But no — he surely is not dreaming,

Another minute makes it clear:
A scream, a rush, a burning tear
From Inez' cheek, dispel the fear
That bliss like his is only seeming.

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The scene is the very bank, the flowery bank, described in the ballad ; and Inez sits upon its edge, in shadow, with her back to the little lake,' her graceful figure and finely-shaped head relieved against the bright, picturesque back-ground of the wild Morena. That bright mountainous back-ground is suffused with a purple haze, that passes into a brilliant sky, with colored clouds. Inez bends a little forward, leaning slightly on the palm of the left hand, close to her side; the right is raised but drooping, unconscious of the just plucked flower. A certain simple tenderness is seen in the very contour of the head; the eyes are dreamy and swimming; a faint smile of delight, subduing sadness, is on the lips : it is the exact moment when her tender memories passed into bright anticipation.

The scene of the · Evening Hymn' is a ruined Italian castle, the vast area filled with water, that floats among the columns which enclose it on either side. The line of building on the right is dark; that on the left is bathed in the sunset. Every where, the creeping vegetation has won its moist and verdant way; the more distant mass of building is covered with it, and sweeps round like a natural hill. · The fore-ground is a moss-grown causeway, with an arch, choked with the fragments of ruin that fill the ravine it crosses. Alceste (so I call her) is seated upon the edge of this causeway, in the shadow of an unseen part of the castle. Her robe is dark, and of nun-like simplicity; but she wears a scarf of blue, and on her breast a star-like jewel. One knee is naturally raised to support a guitar, on which her hands are placed as if about to play. Her sweet impassioned face is turned to heaven. When I saw this picture in the gallery, I thought the ornament on the breast out of keeping with the rest; it seemed to me to render the sentiment of the picture, as · The Evening Hymn,' dubious; I thought it should have been a cross. I remember I persuaded that excellent to be of my opinion. But on reflection, I see clearly that I was wrong. • Alceste' is not a religieuse, but a pure and gentle girl, with a cultivated sensibility, impressible, imaginative. She has come hither to delight and elevate herself with sweet music, in this beautiful ruin; and the soft sun-set, and the lulling drip of the water in those desolate halls, and the images of glorified decay, have passed into her heart, and exalted it to religious enthusiasm. In a moment it will break forth in a hymn. To have marked her in any way as religious, by

temperament or profession, would have destroyed that beautiful nexus between the outward scene and the feelings that reflect it, and with it the significancy of the picture. So Allston was right, after all.

'Jessica and Lorenzo' is a charming composition, but difficult to describe, and I shall not attempt it. For the same reason, I shall pass over 'The Troubadour,' and 'The Tuscan Girl;' though the recollection of that pure, young face of 'Ursulina' would tempt me into a description of the latter, if Allston had not already put one into a single stanza :

'How pleasant and how sad the turning tide
Of human life, when, side by side,
The child and youth together glide

Along the vale of years;

The pure twin-being for a little space,
With lightsome heart, and yet a graver face,
Too young for wo, though not for tears!'

'Rosalie,' 'Beatrice,' and the lady reading 'The Valentine,' must be dismissed with a few words. Rosalie,' you will understand, is the first half-comprehended and unalarming throb of tenderness in a virgin heart. Can you imagine, (for Allston has painted) an expression, which says:

'Он, рour upon my soul again

That sad, unearthly strain,

That seems from other worlds to 'plain;
Thus falling, falling from afar,
As if some melancholy star
Had mingled with her light her sighs,
And dropped them from the skies.

No; never came from aught below
This melody of wo,

That makes my heart to overflow,
As from a thousand gushing springs
Unknown before; that with it brings
This nameless light, if light it be,

That veils the world I see.

For all I see around me wears
The hue of other spheres ;

And something blent of smiles and tears
Comes from the very air I breathe:
Oh! nothing, sure, the stars beneath,
Can mould a sadness like to this,

So like angelic bliss!'

So, at that dreamy hour of day,
When the last lingering ray
Stops at the highest cloud to play,
So thought the gentle Rosalie,
As on her maiden reverie

First fell the strain of him who stole
In music to her soul.

The light, the soft, dream-light; the look of gentle wonder and entreaty; the position of the arm across the breast, of the fingers in the neck, touching it with a slight, sweet pressure, as if to assist the softest of unconscious sighs; even the peculiar vest, moulding itself, to the bosom, concealing its color, not its shape, and which could not hide its gentlest swelling, all breathe young and innocent desire.

Very different is the lady reading The Valentine.' Her interest is perhaps deeper than that of Rosalie, but she comprehends it, and it is consciously controlled. How suggestive of the delicate reserve expressed in her face, is the close dress, with long sleeves, covering the arms, and a ruffle in the neck!

'Beatrice,' again, is distinguished from both. She is self-resigned to her affection; her heart is calm, because it is full. I have heard it said that her features want intelligence. Not so; they want apparent will. Volition, in her, has become a choice, and so she is swayed. Her hand is remarkably beautiful; the fingers, carelessly entwined in a chain, show the nature of the feeling which occupies her mind;

ongrossing but tranquil. It is noteworthy, that all these pictures of sentiment have been the work of Allston's maturer age; the greater part have been produced within a few years.

•The Mother IVatching her Sleeping Child' is a 'gem of purest ray serene.' The child, in his little purple cloak, and with his beautiful countenance, on the marble table, if such it be, looks like an infant emperor; and his lofty mother, with her rare beauty, and the stateliness of her attitude, seems not less than a queen. Her seat is thronelike, and her footstool also is regal. Her look and action express tender watching, but they express it with a certain habitual retenue. The statuesque folds of her rich drapery add to the effect; the architecture sustains it, by a character of chaste simplicity; a Tuscan column, near which she is seated, conveys the feeling that the apartment is ample and lofty, and seems an emblem of that dignified lady. The coloring of this picture is deserving of careful study. The flesh, throughout, is delicately fair, yet it is deep-toned ; the purity and tenderness of the tints, and the luminous transparency of the whole, are such as I at least have never seen before. You would enjoy the sweetly-accurate pencilling.

I shall mention three other pictures, which appear to fall into a class by themselves, as pictures of action. And if those compositions which embody an idea, may be called epic, and those which give expression to a feeling, lyrical paintings, then these, of which the interest depends chiefly upon an action, may be termed dramatic pictures.

• The Sisters' is full of sweet animation. One sister, fair, and with golden hair, is imitated from • Titian's Daughter;' the other, a bru. nette, is original. The latter stands with her back to us; her right hand behind her, on the hip, the palm outwards. We see very little of her face, but that little is so spirited, as to give us the liveliest conception of her features and expression. The expression on the face of the fairer sister is very arch and affectionate; they half embrace, and it seems as if it would require but a note of music, to set them whirling in a waltz.

The Flight of Florimel.' Do you remember the story in Spenser !

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'All suddenly out of the thickest bush,
Upon a milk-white palfrey all alone,
A goodly lady did foreby them rush,
Whose face did seem as cleare as christall stone,
And eke, through fear, as white as whale's bone !
Her garments all were wrought of beaten gold,
And all her steed with tinsel trappings shone,

Which fied so fast that nothing might him hold,
And scarce them leisure gave her passing to behold.

Sullas she fled, her eve she backward threw,
As fearing evil that pursued her fast;
And her fair yellow locks behind her flew,
Loosely dispersed with puff of every blast;
All as a blazing star doth far out-cast
His hairy beams and flowing locks dispread.'

The picture tells the story well. Of course there is a thick wood; the lady has just rushed in from the right. A little rivulet comes down from the trees right across her path, and her milk-white palfrey has reared, preparatory to a leap over it. This attitude is most judicious, because it is the point of rest between successive movements.