1869, we find him and his brother in art, George Clairin, revelling in the artistic and natural beauties of Granada. Everything he had seen up to that time seemed effaced from his memory; the Alhambra completely fascinated his imagination. He passed days amid its enchantments, working incessantly, as he tells his friends. He is absorbed painting water-colors of fantastic difficulty. "I wish I could put into words what I think of Granada, queen of cities, with its turquoise sky, rose-color towers, and its golden, silver, and jewelled Alhambra. For several days I could not do a stroke of work. I saw nothing but fire round me. What artists these Moors were !

We are living close to the palace. A stately avenue of trees leads from us to it. All around us is perfect in foliage, climate, and color; in a word, a dream of happiness! an Arabian Night's tale! Since our arrival there has not been the smallest cloud on our horizon, not even a mist between us and the intense blue of heaven. The Alhambra is certainly magnificent. I spend hours every day deciphering the translations of the verses of the Koran that are written in all directions on the walls."

The news referring to the success of his picture of Judith and Holofernes reached him faintly from Paris. He could not understand the enthusiasm, so emphatically expressed by the Parisians, for his productions. In the midst In the midst of such natural and artistic beauties the

favorable opinion of his fellow-citizens, which it had once been his highest ambition to obtain, seemed of no account. The view from the Alhambra, the panorama of mountains round, and the immense plain of the Vega stretching away in the blue distance, were all-sufficing.

"Life was too short," as he says, "to read stupid papers. One must keep all one's eye

sight for art. In our beautiful enchanted palace up here, where we are so tranquil and happy, no rumor of revolution even troubles

us.

We allow discussion and fighting to go on in the world, while we do homage to the genius of these old Moors, discovering every day new splendors and greater wonders and beauty of design. Divine Alhambra! whose walls in the morning are emerald, by day pearl, and at sunset amethyst and gold. We wait every evening until the moon comes out, and after she has lit up the delicate tracery work, and put to sleep the genii and phantoms who haunt this marvellous fairy palace, we take our leave, regretfully turning round at every step, unable to take our eyes off the rosecolor marble columns that at certain moments take the mother-of-pearl flesh tint of a lovely goddess."

The only interest the two friends took in the revolution then going on in Spain arose from the fact of its delaying the arrival of their luggage, containing oil paints and canvas, and thus preventing the execution of all the wonderful pictures they saw in imagination. Little did they then foresee the political events that were destined to wake them rudely out of their bliss, touching all nearest and dearest to their hearts, and dissipating the radiant visions around them with the icy breath of sadness and despair. Well might they say they could discern no cloud on the bright blue sky of Spain; but there was one looming on the northern horizon, no bigger than a man's hand, that was destined ere long to overshadow the heavens, chasing the brightness and sunshine out of their lives.

With the restlessness and energy of his nature, Henri, now that he had become acquainted with the works of the Moors in Spain, felt impelled to study them also in Africa. So his next letters are dated from Tangiers, where the festival of Rhamadan was in course of celebration; and he soon saw enough to convince him that a lengthened residence in the old African town would be of great advantage artistically. His pockets were full of money, as he had just sold his picture of "Salôme" to a dealer for £560. He therefore took a studio, and wrote to his friend, George Clairin, to Granada, telling him that he must come

over.

And there they set up house together, decorating the interior in the style of their beloved Alhambra, painting the walls themselves.

"I shall certainly do my work for the Exhibition here. I am twenty times better and happier than in Rome, with its oppressive atmosphere and theatrical-looking models. Our rooms are covered, couches and floor, with Eastern carpets. We have become quite Moorish in our habits and customs; always leave our slippers at the door. No chairs are allowed in the establishment; all European ugliness is strictly prohibited. Our domestics consist of Lagraine, my servant, who superintends the preparation of colors and canvas, photography and carpentry; Nana, our cook, and Ali Pata, my groom, a small, shrivelledup monstrosity of fifty, as ugly as he is intelligent. Besides these we have an Arab boy who does all the marketing and out-door work, and, to complete the establishment, a lovely Moorish girl, who not only 'poses' to us herself, but brings her friends too. Imagine the

picture we have around us when we ascend to the balcony at the top of our abode, the snowwhite town, descending in terraces to the sea, like a staircase of marble steps. All the flat roofs covered with groups of Moorish women and negresses, seated on carpets or standing about, hanging out their washing on cords stretched across. The combination made by their yellow turbans, silver embroidered petticoats, and rose-color or green handkerchiefs, is wonderful. At last, in truth, we see the East. I will so impregnate myself with beauty and light that I need not be afraid of returning to our dull, every-day world, and forgetting the experiences I have made here. When I live in Paris again I shall only have to shut my eyes to summon up Moors, fellahs, Hindoos, enchanted palaces, golden plains, azure lakes, in fact all the East. Oh, blessed, thrice blessed light! They tell me it is better to intrust the Salôme (which I am sending off) to a cockle-shell of a sailing vessel than to a Spanish railway. I forget the story: look it up for

me.

The moment is chosen immediately after Salôme has danced before Herod, which will explain the tossed hair and short dress."

The appearance of this work in the Paris salon was the artistic event of the year. The idea was an entirely new one. There was no composition, no story told; it simply depended on extraordinary execution for the effect produced. The charge of sensuality was brought against it, and here certainly we think Regnault must plead guilty; but was it not the fault of the age in which he lived, and the people for whom he painted? Both the artist and his countrymen required purifying of the great national sin of materialism in a fire such as no country ever went through before. He was destined, alas ! to succumb, carrying with him all the unfulfilled promises of his youth, and all the possibilities his admirers prophesied for him. Of the charge of seeking to startle by selecting original and bizarre subjects, he defends himself indignantly

"I have no intention of revolutionizing or dazzling the public mind. It would be a blunder to attempt it, and I hope you do not believe me capable of such want of enlightenment. I paint whatever comes into my head, and appears to me simple and natural. critics profess to think I try to ape eccentricity, I cannot prevent their doing so. Remem

If my

ber, I am left to my own inspirations here, I

see no other artistic work, and follow, uninfluenced, my personal sentiment and manner of seeing things. I dare say, however, it is true that I do not give sufficient solidity and depth of tone. The fact is, I paint in the midst of brilliant sunshine, and am accustomed to see figures on a background of dead white, which most likely has induced me to use

a wrong key-note in the pervading color. I have no doubt I am off the right path altogether. Do write to me, and say sincerely what you think of the picture I now send."

He had a magic power of putting the sunshine amid which he lived upon his canvas. Can we not all of us remember turning in from the murky atmosphere of the London streets to a small dark gallery in Bond Street, and standing astonished opposite the "Execution without Judgment," dazzled by the light and luminousness of the sky, and sunlit marble steps, at the foot of which lay the decapitated figure, the red blood running down and staining the whiteness of the staircase? It was the work of a young Titian, playing with the gifts the gods had bestowed upon him.

The announcement of the declaration of war fell like a thunderbolt from a cloudless sky upon the two friends, shivering their bright dreams into fragments; destroying the peace and happiness of the life they were leading amid the picturesque and artistic surroundings of their African home. Like the rest of their countrymen, they at umph and victory; all the more cruel first expected to hear of nothing but tritherefore was their disappointment and grief when the news of the disasters and misfortunes that befell the French arms reached them. They had no longer any heart to paint, and spent their whole time awaiting the arrival of the steamer from Gibraltar with the last papers and telegrams, or rushing off to official headquarters to learn more accurate information. When the news got very bad they made up their minds to hasten to the aid of their unfortunate country. Regnault writes: "We are off, father. must return home and learn to handle heavier tools than the palette and brush ; France has need of all her sons to aid her in her vast distress."

Toward the middle of September he and his friend Clairin reached Paris, trembling lest they should find it already invested, and all possibility of

entrance cut off. Those who had known Regnault before were struck by the difference that three years had wrought in him. Their memory was that of an enthusiastic young student, full of charm but reckless and wild. They found the same enthusiasm restrained and kept in

tain was Henri Regnault. His comrades had seen him lingering behind, and implored him to come on with them. "I only want to fire off my last cartridges, and will join you directly," answered the brave young voice through the smoke and twilight. It was the last ever seen or heard of him. The news of his disappearance was known that night in Paris. All, however, were unwilling to believe he was killed. George Clairin set himself at dawn next day to seek his friend on the field of battle, but in vain, and it was only on the 22d of January that the body was recognized among the dead brought to the cemetery of Pèrela-Chaise for burial. The effect the confirmation of his sad fate caused in Paris was most remarkable. Although suffering under the humiliation of a vast national disaster, there were tears left to shed for the loss of him who had died so bravely fighting in her cause. The fu neral service was read on the eve of the capitulation of the capital, the solemn silence being only broken at rare intervals by the boom of the cannon on the distant ramparts.

Henri's family were absent, ignorant even of his sad fate; but a wreath of white lilac that lay on his coffin testified there was one who mourned more deeply and hopelessly than even father, brother, or sisters. All the artistic and literary world were present also to do their young comrade honor; for in those cultivated circles, where art reigns supreme and is a portion of the national life and pride, they felt a ray of brightness had departed, and that the angel of death had indeed dealt them a cruel blow. Although he had only exhibited a few works, all had felt, with the appreciative sensibility of their race, that there was the promise of a great artist in the brave bright spirit that had been snatched from among them. And so, during the cruel sad months that followed, the great city shed many a tear on his grave, chanted many a poem in his honor, and enshrined his memory forever in her great beating heart, among those of her best-loved and most gifted children.-Temple Bar.

Is there any one awake and listening -perhaps with a tremor of the heart for the calling out of "White Dove, ahoy!" from the shore? Once the ordinary loud noises of the morning are over -the brief working of the pump, the washing down of the decks-silence reigns once more throughout the yacht. One can only hear a whispering of the rain above.

Then, in the distance, there is the muffled sound of the paddles of a steamer; and that becomes fainter and fainter, while the White Dove gradually loses the motion caused by the passing waves. Again there is an absolute stillness, with only that whispering of the rain.

But this sudden sound of oars? and the slight shock against the side of the vessel? The only person on board the yacht who is presentable whips a shawl

over her head, darts up the companion. way, and boldy emerges into the moist and dismal morning.

"Oh, Angus!" she cries to this streaming black figure that has just stepped on deck, what a day you have brought with you!"

66

Oh, it is nothing!" says a cheerful voice from out of the dripping mackintosh-perhaps it is this shining black garment that makes the wet face and whiskers and hair glow redder than ever, and makes the blue eyes look even bluer. "Nothing at all! John and I have agreed it is going to clear. But this is a fine place to be in, with a falling glass! If you get a squall down from Glencoe, you won't forget it."

"A squall!" she says, looking around in amazement. Well might she exclaim; for the day is still and gray and sombre; the mountains are swathed in mist; the smooth sea troubled only by the constant rain.