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garden. The sunbeams burst into the picture through the trellised vine, covering the square pillars with chequered light and shade. The mass of poppy-colour has the red-brown of the lower part of the pillars for the background: the glorious yellow sunflowers are against a yellow background. The picture has a special interest as a charming group of portraits: Mrs. Alma Tadema and her two daughters having evidently allowed themselves to be placed amid the beautiful surrounding of this ancient domestic scene; and the dog who careers around the poppybed is as evidently a portrait of Mr. Alma Tadema's own little favourite. The picture is one of this artist's gems, and will be preferred by many of his admirers to the larger "Down to the River."

Mrs. Alma Tadema, who so often is to be recognised in her husband's pictures, is herself a very charming artist, and has exhibited her work in the Royal Academy Exhibition and the Salon.

The "Pomona Festival," hung also in the last Academy Exhibition, is one of those delicious bits of perfect art which fulfil the beneficent aim of the artist, and give joy to the beholder. If you pause and allow yourself to enter the picture you can feel the gaiety of the dancers; see how light their movements are, how light the dust about their feet; how real and glowing is the life in the picture, from the warm dancers to the full hyacinth flowers which surround their charmed circle.

Mr. Alma Tadema's belief is well expressed by a favourite motto of his, which he has had written upon the ceiling of his studio, just over the window: "As the sun colours flowers, so art colours life." It is the mission of the artist, as he sees it, to give beauty to the world, and gladden men's eyes and hearts. "I will find beauty," he says, 66 even if I have to go back to Greece and Rome for it." In the remote past, amid the remains of gigantic dead civilisations, he finds materials for beauty, which it would be difficult to discover in the present, where imperfect and discordant individualities perpetually destroy the idyllic pictures which the painter loves. Mr. Tadema has produced a temple of beauty in his own house, where treasures of ancient and modern art and workmanship are gathered together as only an artist can gather them. In most people's hands a houseful of rare and lovely things becomes a museum: in Mr. Tadema's it becomes a place in which the beautiful is worshipped, and where he himself is the high priest of that delicate religion. Everything beautiful affords him the keen delight which only the initiated, the open-eyed can ever obtain. It is said of him that on one occasion, being in the billiard room of his club, alone with another gentleman late in the afternoon, he was struck with the effect that was produced by the billiard room remaining unlit, and cool, while the next room was brilliantly lighted. "How charming the effect is," he presently remarked to his companion, who turned and stared at him; "Well," he replied, “you have an advantage over the rest of us."

That is how the artist finds his reward: he is the interpreter of beauty to other men, and in the beauty itself he finds his delight and his life. In his work there does not lie the great reward: because no real artist is ever satisfied with his work, however beautiful he knows it to be: his ideal is always so far ahead of it. But in his deep, passionate sense of the beautiful, in the enthusiasm to follow after it which possesses his soul, in the incessant contemplation of it, comes his ineffable happiness. And when he can find strength to interpret it to us, with the perfect art of a master, he stands aside, with the poets, an elder brother of the

race.

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There is a rock, dripping with springs, out of the sea, men say,
There from the hanging cliffs and high
Spring-water wells perpetually,

Fresh for the draught so that the pitchers there may be dipped alway.
I had a friend who to the fount carried her purple gear,

Wetted it in the welling pool,

Washed it in water pure and cool,

Out on the rocks, broad-backed and sunny, laid it to dry and clear.

Ant. a.

I from my friend heard of the news women had whispered there,
How in her chamber tarrieth

Phædra the Queen, and sick to death,

Hides under thin folds of the mantle all of her golden hair,
Lies on her bed hiding the grief cankering heart and soul;
It is to-day the third day,

Now that she starves and thirsts, they say;
Death is her choice, urged by her sorrows, on to that wretched goal.

St. B.

Hast thou, O sister, a god in the breast?

Is it far-shooting Hecate, fear-bringing Pan

Or the swift Corybantes that hunt thee from rest,
Or the mother of mountains that sends thee a ban?
Or for altars neglected and victims gone free,
Is it hunting Dictynna that makes thee to pine,

And how shalt thou flee her that roams thro' the sea,
Through the desolate places, through eddying brine?

Ant. B.

Or haply it may be thy ruler and spouse,
The King of Erectheus' sons, and the head

Is beguiled by some love hid away in the house,
A secret from marriage, apart from thy bed;

Or the wind may have blown us, from over the foam,
Some sea-faring Cretan to harbourage here,

And he brings to the Queen evil tidings from home,
And she dies of the heart-break of them that are dear.

EPODE.

And bitter to wives that marriage mates not wholly
The helpless bewilderment, the vague, unhappy ill
Of child-bearing travail, of vain desire and folly,

Ah, Queen, thro' our bosoms there shook the self-same thrill;
But fear not, for ever when we were near to dying,
Artemis, huntress, the helper of our need,

That hearkened in Heaven the clamours of our crying,

Came down and saved us, longed for and loved indeed.

But, here comes Phædra from her room,

Her old nurse leads her out-of-doors
With brows that cloud with gathering gloom.
To know her sorrow my soul implores.

If we could learn, or she would say,

What agony has tooth so keen
In such a while to waste away
The altered body of the Queen!

Nurse.

O sickness, hatefullest of human ills!

What must I now, child? or what leave undone ?
Here's the clear sky thou wast so fain to see,
And here the open air that, safe in bed,

Sore didst thou ail to breathe; for there in sooth
Thy every wish and word was coming here
That soon as earnest thou wilt be to quit

And hasten towards thy room. Since no long while
Thine errors take in proving; surely thee
Nought pleases long, the present least of all,
Though dearer seems the distant unattained.
Ah well, to ail is better than to watch;
Sickness is simple, but the watcher joins
Labour of hands to grief o' the aching heart.
And all this life of ours is full of trouble
With nowhere any rest, for if there be
Another state more worth desire than this,
Darkness that veils it hides it in a cloud.
And thus we grow too much in love with life

That shines out being on earth, the while we know
Nothing of other worlds we have not tried;
And so we are borne about by idle stories.

Phædra.

Lift up my body and straighten my head;

My sinews are loosened, O friends, thro' my pains
Raise up, O maidens, my arms and my hands;
Loosen, I pray you, my hair from its bands,

Free let the curls on my shoulders be spread,
For heavy to bear is the veil that restrains.

Nurse.

Take courage, child; lie still. How dost thou toss,
To get no ease, I think, with all thy turning.
Pain borne in silence is less hard to bear.
Being noble, thou must show a nobler spirit,
For suffering is natural to all.

Ah me!

Phædra.

Would that out of the dewy-dripping
Little well I could draw me a draught
Of water clearer than ever I quaffed!
Fain would I lie in the shade of the poplar,
Out where the field is grassy-tress'd

Would I lie and slumber and take my rest!

Nurse.

Peace, dear, be still; Oh, child, what ails thee now?
Babble not thus with strangers by to heed

Thy random words that hit the mark of madness.

Phædra.

Away to the mountain! For I will take my stand
Near the pine trees in the wood where the hunters go.
Before them run the hounds a-chasing thro' the land
The tawny-hided deer and the dappled doe.

By all the gods I long to sound the view-hallo!
And pointing aloft as I poise it in the hand

The hunting-spear of Thessaly shall quiver till I throw.
And just miss the quarry (that who shall strike, I know).

Nurse.

Oh, child, what things are these that vex thine heart?
What, would'st thou go a-hunting like a man?

And dost thou long for spring water? There lies
Close to thy castle walls a hill with springs

Where thou mayest quench thy thirst, if so thou wilt.

Phædra.

Artemis! Lady of sea-bordered Limna

Loud with the tramp of the well-trained horses.

Would I were out on those open courses

Taming Henetian steeds to the yoke!

Nurse.

Alas! what dost thou rave, out of thy mind?
A moment past, off to the hills thou wert-
Heart-eager for the chase; yet now no care
Hast thou for aught but games and horse-racing

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