"The General is represented on horseback, bare-headed, checking his fiery steed, on the crest of a hill. The painting of the black Andalusian barb is as fine as anything ever done in equestrian portraiture. Behind the principal figure a tumultuous crowd rush onward impetuously, waving standards and brandishing guns and swords. The whole composition constitutes rather an historical picture than a portrait. It is full of life and movement, and

painted with extraordinary vigor and daring. The likeness of the Spanish lady forms a complete contrast to the storm and strength of the former. On a light background is portrayed, with the utmost delicacy and refinement, a lovely woman's face, finished like a miniature.

The majesty of the one, and grace of the other, is surprising when one remembers they are executed by the same hand."

Although the public, as a whole, could not be said to be equally enthusiastic, and some were rather troubled and perturbed at the audacity of the youthful genius who had appeared in their midst, still none showed indifference to the display of such manifest talent; and for a few weeks Henri Regnault's name was in every mouth, and his pictures the great topic of conversation in every Parisian drawing-room.

Mean time where was the artist, object of all this attention and discussion? Far away in the sunny South, revelling in the beauties of the Eternal City, utterly indifferent to the world's praise or blame. He thus writes to his friend M. Cayalis on the 31st May, 1869:

"You say I am not working enough! Wretch! Think you that what I show is all I have accomplished during the year? Do you imagine that my own art education, all the notes I take right and left, all the studies and experiments I make, are got through while I am asleep? You are afraid, then, that I shall be spoiled by my success! No, I don't think I am any longer of an age to feel vapid satis

faction at a mere newspaper article or letter of congratulation. I trust that M. Henri Regthe future, Come, old boy, I am pleased with nault, my master, will say to me some day in you at last.' And, between ourselves, I cannot help hoping that same day is far distant, for I know I shall infallibly deteriorate from the moment I am satisfied with my own productions. I long to be in Morocco, Algiers, or Tunis. I am rusting here. Rome gives me the impression now of a dark room lit by a night-light. I long for more sun. Why do you gainsay me? Well, I suppose we must not allow ourselves to think about it just now! I vow, however, that one of these days you and I shall embrace on the Pyramids, or in some Indian temple at the top of one of those marble staircases, leading through tropical plants and heavily scented flowers to the sacred waters."

Henri Regnault, the second son of* Victor Regnault (a distinguished member of the Academy of Sciences, and for twenty-five years director of the manufactory of Sèvres), was born in Paris on the 30th October, 1843. From infancy he showed signs of the artistic talent that distinguished him in later life. Everything he saw around him he transferred to paper, refusing invariably to copy either from a drawing or a print. He thus acquired the power, exercised so remarkably afterward, of portraying the movements and positions of almost every animal with the greatest accuracy and fidelity. As he grew older he spent all his holidays, and periods of convalescence from any childish illness, executing large sketches for finished pictures ; those done at the age of twelve of the battles of Issus, Arbelles, and Rocroi, which were shown at the Ecole des Beaux-Arts, indicate an astonishing daring in composition and power of drawing.

After distinguishing himself and taking a high degree for proficiency in classical studies, he left college in 1859, and was then free to follow the bent of his artistic genius. His father put him to work in the studio of a former pupil of Ingres, M. Lamothe. Here the facility he displayed with his pencil was so great that he soon was permitted to paint in oils, and even admitted in May, 1862, to compete for the "Prix de Rome." The subject he chose was "The Mother of Coriolanus entreating him to spare

Rome.' It did not gain the prize, but created a very favorable impression on the jury, who presented him with a special medal. He then undertook a large religious picture of the Entombment. He thus writes to a friend on the subject, showing that even at twenty years of age he comprehended artistic aims and aspirations :

"I am going to begin my great painting of the Entombment, of which you have seen the sketch. I have made all the studies for it from nature, and will have my canvas in two or three days. I am undertaking a gigantic performance, but think I shall be able to attain my end; the ardor and energy I feel ought to enable me to cope with Herculean difficulties. I see my picture in imagination, and it is superb.

"I will not exhibit it to the public unless fully convinced it is good. The best rule to make is, never to submit a work to hostile criticism unless you are satisfied with it yourself. As long as faults can be detected they must be rectified until the result realizes one's best ideal. I will not be in a hurry, so that my judgment may have time to mature and lead the way, for it is the head and not the hand that ought to direct, and I feel sure it is impossible to make any progress in art unless the painter's conceptions far surpass his mechanical power. I live a constant struggle against time, and, sad to say, am generally

beaten.

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"I work away like a slave," he says in another letter, never stopping in spite of the fogs and darkness round me. If poets love winter and dreams by the fireside, we artists abhor all that is not light, blessed light! Beautiful sun! glorious heat which permits us to work in shirt-sleeves and slippers. We cannot paint with our feet on a 'chaufferette.' We must have freedom of movement and a clear sky. Perhaps at some future time in my wanderings I may be able to find a more equable climate than ours, where the vault of heaven will be always blue above me. 'Haine au gris!' will henceforward be my war-cry,"

At this period of his career began that crisis which all natures of any originality and strength have to undergo, when the leaven of young life, working within them, induces them to throw off the fetters of ancient habit and routine that have hitherto bound down their genius, and give it scope to respond to the impulse leading toward realism and life.

"I know not," he writes to a friend, "if I am beginning to understand the rich and infinite language of art better, but I seem to hear it spoken all round me, and by everybody. I see beauty in a country road, or in a hillside standing out against the sky, even in the blue of heaven reflected in the stream that runs beside a dirty Parisian street. Why can

I not therefore find the same elevated, divine sensations when my eyes are shut and not looking at what is round them? Then I only see prosaic stiffness and want of symmetry. Artists and poets ought to be given abodes above the clouds, where (while their rhapsodies last) they might forget everything and lose their identity in the pure ether around them. No disturbing influence from the world should be allowed to enter, not a curl of earthly smoke should cloud their sky, only the faintest sound of church bells might penetrate at rare intervals amid the harmonies of the infinite depths of blue. Why can one not from time to time cast off this tenement of clay, and be enabled to experience those sensations that are too delicate and subtle to pierce through the mortality that envelopes us! Yes, I endeavor to make progress, but I think I am going through a period of great mental sterility. I have no doubt you have felt the same. Entire worlds, before hidden, are revealing themselves; the heavy clouds that hid the mountain tops are clearing away, illumining the shadows of the abyss. I feel as if I were being initiated into profound mysteries, which open vast horizons in art, and transport me into so pure and rarefied an atmosphere that I am almost suffocated, and my eyes blinded by the unaccustomed light. Still I believe I am expanding and advancing."

From this moment we see him continually at the Louvre, studying the works of Titian or Paul Veronese, and forming the project of copying the "Marriage in Cana of Galilee" the size of the original. The Venetian painter's splendor and stateliness had a peculiar fascination for him.

In 1866 he again competed for the "Prix de Rome," choosing as the subject of his picture "Thetis bringing Achilles the arms forged by Vulcan. He could not carry out the idea he had formed for the goddess, and, utterly discouraged, felt inclined to lay down his palette and brush and give up the contest in despair. The day of the decision was fast approaching, when the desponding artist, on going to spend an evening at the house of a friend, met a girl there whose expressive face and graceful appearance immediately inspired him. He hurriedly made a sketch of her, went home, and in twelve days the picture was repainted, sent in, and obtained the prize, Thetis being represented by the young lady. Having thus obtained what he had striven for during three years in vain, he allowed himself a holiday, and went for a tour in Brittany, whence he brought back some powerful sketches. But the wild scenery of that rock-bound

coast was not adapted for the development of his genius.

"How can one be strong," he laments, "in the face of such a waste of waters, under the influence of this terrible raging sea, beating against the rocks that have dared to defy the ocean, by opposing a dark and serried line to its tumultuous raging."

His soul hankered after the orange groves and soft breezes of the South, and these he was soon destined to enjoy, for, according to the Academy rules, having gained the Prix de Rome he was sent free of expense to the Eternal City. So, in the spring of the year 1867, we see him on his way, expressing his delight and describing his impressions in a series. of fresh and brilliant letters, dashed off to his father and intimate friends at spare moments snatched from his work. They, in fact, constitute the sole information we possess of his artistic life and aims at this period.

Rome disappointed him : his dreams had surpassed the reality; he found the

Forum small and contracted.

"How could those conquerors, those giant heroes, find room to pass under such triumphal arches without crushing against the walls the trophies and troops of slaves attached to their chariots. Think of the battlements of Nineveh, where twenty-five chariots could go abreast, and those ancient Indian temples, piled up fifteen stories high, with their hundreds of steps and bands of priests, where whole populations came to worship. I cannot imagine Cæsar or Marius ascending to the Capitol by the narrow, unimposing road we are told is the Via Sacra."

Even St. Peter's did not console him, or seem grand enough when seen near. But there was one artistic achievement which certainly realized his highest cunceptions the roof of the Sistine Chapel.

"It is a marvel of marvels," he exclaims. "In general disposition and arrangement it is prodigious! In tone it is soft, harmonious, and powerful, but has almost the effect of a nightmare on one's senses. It gives a shock like falling from a great height. It is too magnificent! After having seen it, a feeling of exhaustion came over me, instead of the joy and pleasure intercourse with the great masters generally gives."

"For me," he says elsewhere, "Michael Angelo is a god one dreads to touch, for fear fire should come out of him and burn one up."

But what he enjoyed most were his

walks and rides in the country round Rome. He thus describes a sunset seen from the heights of Tusculum :

The Campagna,' stretched away in front of us, with Rome in the distance. A little to the left shone the sea; then came Monte Cavo, with the picturesque village of Rocca di Papa, clambering in tiers one above the other up the mountain side; still farther to the left stretched the Albanian hills, while to the right lay the Sabine range, with their splendid outline firm and accentuated as steel. As the sun got nearer the horizon the trees covering the sides of Monte Cavo took the color almost of crimson velvet, the plain was bathed in roseate light, and the portion of the mountains in shadow turned a brilliant sapphire blue. The sea glowed as if on fire, and great clouds loomed heavy overhead. It was superb! I now understand why the theatres of the ancients were so devoid of decoration. What could man do in the face of this wonderful nature but lay down his brush and make the landscape his background."

of a friend, who had sent him one of his He pays a visit to Liszt at the request compositions to submit to the criticising eye of the great musician, and thus

writes of him :

"He received me with the most charming amiability. I rather trembled as I rang the bell, and although under the protection of a friend, who had already been presented to him, being ushered into a dentist's consulting-room. my heart beat as if I were on the point of I began stuttering and stammering-Monseigneur, Monsignor, Monsieur l'Abbé, Maestro, etc., etc., but he immediately put me at my ease by the dignity and simplicity of his manner. I ceased to tremble, and soon saw in the ferocious black-haired individual nothing but an enthusiastic, real artist, and a devoted friend of Camilles. He spoke to me of him with an admiration that seemed thoroughly genuine. read over the Veni Creator' while I was there, stopping every now and then to praise it. He then played, with all his fantastic power and energy, some bits from his own symphonies of Dante and St. Francis, and invited me to come and see him any Friday I liked. I had always imagined he was a 'poseur,' but have changed my opinion, and was, on the contrary, profoundly impressed by his genius, charm, and good looks.'

He

Mean time our young artist was heaping up stores of knowledge and experience, though not actually doing any work. He writes accounts to his father and grandmother of expeditions to Tivoli, luncheons eaten in the ancient Temple of the Sibyl, visits to the villas outside Rome, with their "beautiful woods and fountains," all described with a vitality and grace impossible to

give an idea of in short extracts. Hearing there is a possibility of an eruption

of Vesuvius he rushes off with a friend to Naples, where he is completely fascinated by the beauties around him. He writes from Sorrento :

"I am in Paradise! What mornings, what days, and, above all, what nights! If you only could see the Bay of Naples reflecting the moon and stars, with the outline of Vesuvius in the distance ! The calm the silence! only broken every now and then by the sighing of the sea, which runs up, and dies in a ripple at our feet."

If he goes on an expedition to Ostia duck-shooting, he misses all his birds, he is so absorbed by the natural charms around him.

"The lakes stretch a great distance in the midst of vast plains, bounded on the horizon by the Sabine and Albanian hills, and nearer at hand by forests of stone pines that skirt the sea-shore. Nothing is finer than the effect of these sombre, giant masses mirrored in calm,

clear water, which reflects also the blue of heaven, giving it the brilliancy of precious stones. Never did I feel farther removed from civilization, or more isolated than in the midst of the reeds which encircle the banks like a ring of gold. The primitive appearance of our little boats, the wild and woe-begone expression of our oarsmen, added to the illusion. It was one of those days that will long remain imprinted on my memory."

In the middle of December, 1867, after a flying visit to Paris, he returned to Rome, and set to work on his picture of Judith and Holofernes. But his health broke down, and after struggling in vain against malaria and weakness, he was at last obliged to accept the doctor's verdict, and leave the fever-weighted air of the ancient city.

He immediately turned his steps toward Spain, the country of his dreams, and his abode (with the exception of the short interval spent at Tangiers) for the short space of life still left him. Here he for the first time was destined to make acquaintance with the works of Velasquez and Murillo, who exercised a less overwhelming effect on his mind than Michael Angelo, and led him to the true cultivation of his powers.

"There are pictures all round us," he cries, "in this enchanted land. In the cathedral at Burgos we saw some admirable groups of beggars. Oh, Velasquez! you are omnipresent here! your tones of color, in all their purity and clearness, abound in every corner and street! What a painter! Dio mio! No one ever accomplished anything before his

What

time except Titian and Tintoretto. color! what charm! what originality and facility of execution! What a pity he did not devote his marvellous talent and astounding power to more elevating themes! The impression would be incredible of a dramatic or pathetic subject painted with the same truth and simplicity in attitude and color, devoid of forced effects, apparent sacrifices or any of the wire-pulling which has become traditional, and which is supposed to be the curriculum all art students must undergo. May I be executed if I do not make leagues of progress at Madrid! I have begun a copy of one of the great master's pictures. If we wait for political events to settle down before we start on our travels, it is more than probable I shall have plenty of time to do other work. We paint every day from half past eight in the morning to six in the evening, for Signor Madrazo permits us to come before the museum opens, and we do not leave until it shuts."

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On the morning of the 29th of September, after going, as was their wont, to the gallery, and working quietly for about two hours, they observed a young artist, deadly pale, whispering something to one of his companions, and suddenly every one shut his paint-box. The custodians took off their uniforms and appeared in plain clothes. In a few moments there was not a creature left in the place. They went down to the concierge," the doors were shut, Madrid was in a state of revolution. The young artists hastened home to leave their painting materials, and then sallied out to watch the course of events. For a few days they were thrown into the midst of the insurrection which deprived Isabella of her throne, and sent the Bourbons for some years out of Spain. The friends did not waste their opportunities. "We make sketches on every side," writes Henri. Madrid is full of superb pictures, with its mixture of squalor and splendor, tapestries and flags.'

A little farther on he tells his father:

interesting work. He is the man just now in "I am to do a portrait of Prim; it will be Spain. Wanted-a king. Do you know of one by chance? If so, despatch him here. He must be stupid, ugly, and have no political opinions or intelligence. Existence in Spain is delightful, and is not nearly appreciated at its real value. It is a mine of wealth for a painter, putting out of the question the country and its inhabitants. The old Spanish masters seem more useful from an instructive point of view than unapproachable giants like Michael Angelo or Raphael. They admit you into their intimacy; they show you nature in all her simplicity and dignity; they do not at

tempt to hide the means they use, and ask nothing better than to initiate the tyro into the mysteries of art, and allow him to worship without crushing his soul with their sublime contempt. They have used the every-day light of the world, and thought beggars as well as kings worthy of their brush. Cripples, dwarfs, children, everything is useful, nothing rejected as vile or coarse. You have only to take your choice out of what they offer. There is no one-sided or distorted view of nature imparted, and their work might have been done today, and no one would say it was out of date or old-fashioned.

"Our_great_difficulty has been to persuade the gypsies to sit to us. For a long time they would only consent to tell our fortunes, and then went away, but yesterday at last we in duced three to pass the day at the atelier.' We made a study of them; they are splendid. One of them is expecting to become a mother. I am to be godfather to the baby, which is to come into the world in the month of January. I should like to assist at a gypsy festival now I am one of the family. Our three friends of today promised to bring two more to-morrow. I hope they will give us letters of introduction to their relations in Andalusia, so that we may be well received there next year."

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"We went," he says farther on, a day or two ago to see the future mother, under the guidance of the honest fellow her husband, who showed us the way to the little suburb outside Madrid inhabited exclusively by gypsies. It was night. We entered a long one-storied house divided into several compartments; each family occupies one. A charcoal fire was lit

On

on the floor in the middle of the room. one side were the mattresses on which they sleep. All the occupants sat in a circle warming themselves, the children perfectly naked. The donkeys passed freely backward and forward, eating the straw that was scattered about."

Thus we find him making experience of every phase and form of life. Leav ing his gypsy surroundings, he enters into all the fashionable gaieties of the Carnival. He describes some of the scenes they were spectators of with a graphic pen.

"One afternoon, all the Prado, on the side of the Retiro and close to the Alcala gate, was covered with rows of chairs, the occupants of

which could only be compared to a brilliant flower-bed, with their parasols clustered together. Under each of these many-hued mushrooms glowed a pair of bright black eyes, however plain the rest of the face might be. There are very few women in Madrid also who as a

rule do not boast a clear olive complexion that

harmonizes with a surrounding of divers colors. Still nothing is so admirable a set-off as the mantilla, and, thanks be to goodness, they are coquettish enough not entirely to forsake this for the artificial flowers and humming-birds of your Parisian hats. This is a country of strong contrasts. As the crowd were returning from

the Carnival the sound of a bell was heard coming down the 'Carrera San Geromimo '; it was the last sacrament being carried by the priest to a dying man. Immediately, according to Spanish custom, all the populace went down on their knees, and nothing could be imagined more grotesque than to see the masks, with their camel's heads, monkey faces, and devil's tails, cast themselves piously on the earth. But let me take you away from all the gay crowd at about eleven o'clock at night into one of the wine-shops in the Calle de Toledo, little dens frequented by the common people and torreros.' Sit down with us, and take what these courteous fellows, with their brightcolored handkerchiefs and embroidered jackets, offer so hospitably. They pass their glasses, and after you have done them the honor of drinking, they will put it to their lips too. Listen to Lola while she sings with her soft mellow contralto one or two gypsy dirges, or a love song, with its long-drawn sighs and monotonous rhythm, to which the guitar makes such an exquisite accompaniment. 'hóla! hóla! hóla!' they jump up, clapping their hands. A handsome picador' begins to dance, showing his white teeth, and throwing himself from side to side, while he holds the silk scarf tied round his loins. And when that is over, to bed! for we have work to do tomorrow.

Then

It is curious how, amid this life of amusement and occupation, one continually recurring thought comes back with sad persistence, as though a presentiment of his fate hung over him.

"What I would give to read the future, and find written there the certainty of accomplishing what I want to do! If I could say to myself, ' In two or three years' time you will return laden with materials, you will have acquired plenty of knowledge, and you will of them. Ah! then all would be well; but to have twenty-five years given you to make use die on the road! never to reach the goal! that is what weighs on me like lead."

Reg

A sudden stop was put to his enjoyment in the brilliant Spanish capital by the discourteous way in which Prim treated him on the subject of his portrait, which he came to see, and declared, in a haughty, brusque manner, was not a good likeness, or to his taste. nault, in consequence, left Madrid in disgust, taking the portrait with him. "I travelled third-class," he exclaims, in the bitterness of his heart. "If there had been a sixth-class compartment on the railway I would have taken it, so humiliated did I feel." After shaking the his mind at last to carry out his project dust of Madrid off his feet, he made up of visiting the ancient palace of the Moors; and on the 12th of September,