cow went into the mud to drink, and came out with a
splendid Spanish old gold coin of the time of the Armada
stuck in her hoof. Nothing more was discovered, but as
the river was tidal it was a curious confirmation of the
old tradition. On our way South we could not help
noticing how far more beautiful Scotland is than Norway.
The Heather was unusually fine this year. We stayed a
night in Edinburgh, which gave me an opportunity of
seeing the pictures in the National Gallery. I wonder if
many tourists visit it? The morning I was there I
did not see two people in the gallery. Besides the
Eaeburns, which are of world-wide fame, several pictures
stand out with peculiar interest, especially the life-sized
Gainsborough of the young Mrs. Grahame. She sat for
this picture as a bride, but before it came home she was
dead and her husband had gone to the wars. When he
came back, he never had the courage to open the case
which contained his young wife's portrait. On his deathr
many long years after it was painted, it was opened by
his heirs, and inside the case was the little white slipper
she had left with the painter to help him to finish his
picture. The portrait was given to the Edinburgh
Gallery, and the slipper was kept by the family. It is
worth noting that an oil picture should have remained
so long shut up and apparently not deteriorated in any
way. There is a lovely Greuze, one of the prettiest I
have ever seen, a child of about fourteen crying over a
dead canary; an exquisite little Boucher of Mme. de
Pompadour; a large picture by the eighteenth-century
Venetian painter Tiepolo, whose works are rarely seen
out of Venice. The picture gives one more impression of
his power and cleverness than it delights one with its
beauty. The expression, character, and sex are described
by the power of the brush as completely as by the word-
painting of a Paul Bourget novel. What added to my
AUGUST 157
interest in Tiepolo was the revival of admiration his works
have lately had among young French painters. I was
immensely pleased at seeing a portrait of the painter
Martin, by himself — a red-haired youth, with the cold
dreamy eyes of the artistic temperament, a mouth rather
sensual than passionate, a fine brow, and a slightly receding
chin, which gave a touch of weakness to the face. All my
life I have so admired his wildly imaginative illustrations
of the Bible, Milton, &c. The impression given by the
portrait is of a touching, interesting face, with that look
of sorrow which so appeals to one, especially in the young.
The gods do not always remember that those whom they
love should die young. Poor Martin did not die till middle
life, and went mad, I believe.
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cow went into the mud to drink, and came out with a
splendid Spanish old gold coin of the time of the Armada
stuck in her hoof. Nothing more was discovered, but as
the river was tidal it was a curious confirmation of the
old tradition. On our way South we could not help
noticing how far more beautiful Scotland is than Norway.
The Heather was unusually fine this year. We stayed a
night in Edinburgh, which gave me an opportunity of
seeing the pictures in the National Gallery. I wonder if
many tourists visit it? The morning I was there I
did not see two people in the gallery. Besides the
Eaeburns, which are of world-wide fame, several pictures
stand out with peculiar interest, especially the life-sized
Gainsborough of the young Mrs. Grahame. She sat for
this picture as a bride, but before it came home she was
dead and her husband had gone to the wars. When he
came back, he never had the courage to open the case
which contained his young wife's portrait. On his deathr
many long years after it was painted, it was opened by
his heirs, and inside the case was the little white slipper
she had left with the painter to help him to finish his
picture. The portrait was given to the Edinburgh
Gallery, and the slipper was kept by the family. It is
worth noting that an oil picture should have remained
so long shut up and apparently not deteriorated in any
way. There is a lovely Greuze, one of the prettiest I
have ever seen, a child of about fourteen crying over a
dead canary; an exquisite little Boucher of Mme. de
Pompadour; a large picture by the eighteenth-century
Venetian painter Tiepolo, whose works are rarely seen
out of Venice. The picture gives one more impression of
his power and cleverness than it delights one with its
beauty. The expression, character, and sex are described
by the power of the brush as completely as by the word-
painting of a Paul Bourget novel. What added to my
AUGUST 157
interest in Tiepolo was the revival of admiration his works
have lately had among young French painters. I was
immensely pleased at seeing a portrait of the painter
Martin, by himself — a red-haired youth, with the cold
dreamy eyes of the artistic temperament, a mouth rather
sensual than passionate, a fine brow, and a slightly receding
chin, which gave a touch of weakness to the face. All my
life I have so admired his wildly imaginative illustrations
of the Bible, Milton, &c. The impression given by the
portrait is of a touching, interesting face, with that look
of sorrow which so appeals to one, especially in the young.
The gods do not always remember that those whom they
love should die young. Poor Martin did not die till middle
life, and went mad, I believe.