FOOTNOTES

lie down like a tired child,and weep away the life of carewhich he has borne and yet must bear:

lie down like a tired child,and weep away the life of carewhich he has borne and yet must bear:

lie down like a tired child,and weep away the life of carewhich he has borne and yet must bear:

lie down like a tired child,

and weep away the life of care

which he has borne and yet must bear:

but passion and yearning are still too strong in him for self-abandonment. Then he hears sounds—a strain of music and voices—the nuns or monks perhaps, singing an evening hymn to the blessèd Mary, mother of passion and of peace! He moves on slowly and softly, listening. His hopelessness, his weariness are soothed into rest: trust enters into him, trust in the aims of life, that general life in which his own is now merged, even as the yearning of passion is lost in the sweetness of peace....

When she had finished, there was a long pause, and then Gildea thanked her for the pleasure she had given him. Mrs. Medwin and Maddock began to speak of the piece, Maddock expressing his pleasure at it and his admiration for Miss Medwin’s playing.

“You are, then, a lover of this Chopin?” said Gildea to Miss Medwin. “But he is not your Master, as you would say?”

“No,” she answered, “he is not my Master.—I suppose you mean Beethoven by that?” she added, looking up at him. He assented.

“And yet,” she said, “I cannot somehow call even him Master. I do not love music as I ought to do—especially Beethoven and Wagner. They are great, these men, very great, but I cannot lose myself in their spirit as I should do. I often feel this.”

“It was one of Heine’s few fantastic sayings,” said Gildea, “that Chopin was the Raphael of the piano, and indeed a piece like this, or the stately opening of the Thirteenth Nocturne—You remember it?” (She assented)—“or the Marche Funèbre, help to see what he meant; but to call him a Raphael seems to me inapt. No Raphael, for instance, would have dreamed of so entirely giving himself up to the influence of his passion as Chopin does. Surely it is not inhisspirit that you can lose yourself?”

“No,” she said, “less than in Beethoven’s. But perhaps Heine only meant his expression about Chopin comparatively. Chopin, you remember, is the only great composer who devoted himself to the piano. Certainly he is a master of it,but his style of art is not like Raphael’s—at least so far as I know of Raphael.”

They came back talking into the other room, where Gildea, from a glance at Mrs. Medwin’s face, perceived that she now wished them to go down to the yacht. In a few minutes he brought the conversation round to the subject and, having asked and she having expressed her wish, the party was presently crossing the lawn on its way down to the small landing-stage, close to which the “Petrel” had now been brought in. Mrs. Medwin, between Maddock and Alcock, was some yards ahead of Gildea and Miss Medwin who were following them.

“You did not know,” Gildea was saying to her, “that Mr. Hawkesbury was a friend of mine? He has been having lunch with us, and only just went away before you arrived. He, and another friend of mine whom you perhaps have met in Melbourne, Mr. Fitzgerald—No?—were unable to stay.”

“So I supposed,” said Miss Medwin, “or something like that.—You do not perhaps know,” she added, “that my aunt has a dislike for him that really almost amounts to antipathy?”

“Yes,” said Gildea, “I was aware of it: his social opinions are too much for her, and Sydney Medwin annoys her by constantly mentioning both them and him. A meeting would have been awkward indeed, but I made my calculations carefully, and I should have regretted not giving my friend Fitzgerald the opportunity of making Hawkesbury’s acquaintance. In a few days one will be going due north and the other due south, but I hope they will meet again later on. Two more charming examples of the two species of enthusiast it would be hard to find.”

“What do you call the two species?”

“The enthusiast of heat and the enthusiast of light: both are to me equally beautiful, equally charming!”

“Mr. Hawkesbury, then,” she said, “is the enthusiast of heat? I have never known any man so much in earnest as he is. He seems to understand nothing but devotion or abhorrence; and yet how well he generally conceals this from those whom he thinks unworthy of the knowledge of it! His patience and courtesy have often astonished and filled me with admiration. I have heard him arguing with a stupid opponent, and I have heard him addressing a crowd. His self-restraint, his clearness, were simply wonderful. Has he ever spoken to you of his friend and Master, as he says,—James Holden?”

“No,” answered Gildea, “but I happen to have seen Holden myself.—But here we are!”

Alcock from the deck and Maddock from the shore had assisted Mrs. Medwin over the plank into the “Petrel,” and now Miss Medwin, after shaking hands, expressing her regrets that he could not come, and saying good-bye to Maddock, followed.

Mrs. Medwin, Miss Medwin, Alcock and Gildea gathered opposite Maddock, with whom they talked while the ropes were being cast loose and the yacht got ready for starting. Then, as she glided away, bending slightly as the wind caught and filled her sails, Maddock took off his hat and stood bare-headed, bowing and waving farewell.

A more charming day for such a trip, it would have been hard to choose. The air was warmer than in the morning, but the breeze was still strong enough to prevent the volumes of foul smoke which issued from the funnels of the harbour steamers from polluting the air and spoiling the view. The “Petrel” made straight for the main channel of the harbour in the direction of the Heads.

While Gildea was away talking with his skipper about the arrangements that had been made for the trip, the other three passengers moved about looking at the yacht, praising and admiring its neatness and cleanness. And it was worthy too both of the praise and admiration which they bestowed on its general completeness, that namely of silence, and of the praise and admiration which they who were skilled in such matters bestowed on its sailing-powers.

Presently Gildea rejoined them, and the conversation flowed on lightly and pleasantly.

“I notice,” said Miss Medwin, “that you carry very little gear up aloft. Your masts too are unusually tall, are they not?”

Gildea gave a pleased smile.

“Yes,” he said, “they call her the ghost yacht at Cowes. I use as little hempen rope as I can. When the great point is speed, every extra inch that you give to the prise of the wind is of importance. The steel, you see, does not offer half as much resistance as the ordinary hempen rope. Besides which, I have in several cases done away with a rope altogether where I believed one, if properly handled, could do for two.”

Miss Medwin, who knew the rigging and handling of a sailing-ship fairly well, asked for an explanation of how one or two things were done, which he gave her with a certain pleasure.

“And what,” she said, “do your sailors think of your alterations?”

He laughed.

“They say the Old Man—that is my name with them—”

“It is the name of all skippers with their sailors, is it not?” she asked smiling.

He assented.

“—They say, or rather used to say, that I had a twist that way. The conservatism of sailors and builders as regards ships is quite wonderful. Imagine that, when they came to build iron sailing ships instead of wood, they actually had and have the stupidity to put up masts of the same circumference as the old wooden ones, although thereby they gain no extra strength, and expose square yards on yards needlessly to the prise of the wind! I would venture to say that this alone makes a difference of three or four knots per hour in a head wind to the speed of the vessel.”

Miss Medwin thought Gildea more charming in his capacity of intelligent amateur captain than as consummate master of things social. They moved down together towards the stern, and stood there talking and looking forward. Mrs. Medwin and Alcock were standing together talking a little way in front of them. Then Edgar appeared with seats and rugs, which he offered to Mrs. Medwin and Alcock, who sat down, Mrs. Medwin with a rug over her knees, and then came aft to the other two, who accepted two chairs, but for the present remained standing as they talked.

Presently there came a pause in the conversation and Miss Medwin sat down, Gildea following suit. The pause became a silence. At last he broke it.

“You have noticed,” he said, “how different is the effect on you of the sea, in a steamer and in a boat?”

“Yes,” she said, “I have noticed it. The steamer goes its own determined way, breaking its sympathy with winds and waters, and you—you are so high up that you cannot mingle in the being of the spirits, the breathings of their lips, the wavings of their hands, the tossings of their hair.”

“Where,” he said smiling,

“where the wild white horses play,champ and chafe and toss in the spray.”

“where the wild white horses play,champ and chafe and toss in the spray.”

“where the wild white horses play,champ and chafe and toss in the spray.”

“where the wild white horses play,

champ and chafe and toss in the spray.”

She smiled in turn. She was looking before her across the sunny rolling billows to where, against some high brown jaggedrocks, the foam-mantle of the breakers rose ever silently and fell. She was breathing in gently and serenely the delight of the sea, the bright breeze, the movement of the yacht, the divine blue free expansion of the clouds and skies. There was a silence.

“You are not fond of steamers, then?” he asked with a side-look.

“No,” she said, “except in rough weather, and then I too feel the elation of my kind,—the frail race of men which can yet dominate the winds and waters and make their paths along the neck of the untameable sea.—You do not know,” she added, leaving her extraneous delight for a moment and looking at him with a touch of self-amusement, “you do not know how I swell with pride when I watch a great man-of-war sailing on and on with such serene confidence, dominating the expanse of water like a thing of self-evident strength and beauty. I remember once making sand-forts with some children in England in a little rock-girt cove, and suddenly I looked up and there, almost filling our narrow horizon, was a great white troop-ship passing close to the shore. It struck me quite dumb for a moment; and then I began to applaud and shout like a Bacchant, the children following suit.” She turned her face away again, laughing, looking here and there, delighting again in what she felt and saw.

“You are a true daughter of kindly men,” he said, laughing too, all suspicion of mockery passed away from look and tone. There was another silence. Gildea was beginning to perceive in himself a feeling he had never felt before, the feeling that he was in the presence and even in the influence of a girl-woman, (such was the idea presented to him), of a spiritual force as consummate as, but wholly differing from, his own. In a few moments he had recognized this, and by a wonderful stroke of intuition divined the meaning of it. It partook of the nature of a revelation. He seemed to see all his past life in a new light. He felt that she—she, this woman, this girl, this child here—had, by some unknown wonderful means, won the true talisman of life, that talisman whose omnipotence is perpetuity. It was, then, possible, after all, to combine perfect knowledge of life with the radiant joy and peace of perfect trust in it!—It partook of the nature of a revelation and, to second thoughts, of a delusion. His lip curled: he almost despised himself for the swift speed with which a suddenly begotten hope hadleaped to a birth whose form and pressure was but the mask of credulity. “There has been no man,” he said to himself, “save Goethe, who knew what life was and yet could have a weariless joy in it. Carlyle well said that this man was to have no imitators or successors.—Nostra vita a che val? solo a spregiarla.” And yet the idea of a new life, a life wherein might be found something more than sweet resignation, hedonistic merely or even optimistic, but supplying thought, action, and speech with a motive-power whose strength should be in its truth—the idea would not be shaken off by mere self-contempt at credulity in it.

“To tell you the truth,” he said to her, “I could almost envy you your pure free joy in things.”

She looked at him, surprise passing swiftly into serene observation.

“What troubles you,” she said, “that you should not have it yourself?”

He smiled slightly as he answered her.

“Pleasure, however sweet, however clear, is not joy.—And yet,” he added quickly, “I would not change my pleasure for your joy.”

“No?”

“A child has joy, a man has pleasure: joy, then, is a step backward. It may excel in height, as we should say, but breadth is the finer quality. The mountains are noble, but the sea, encompassing all lands, is great.”

“The sea also is deep, it has its valleys whose shadow is nadir to the zenith peaks and light. I will not grant you your simile. You must not mock at joy, for joy is the gift not only of childhood which precedes, but of maturity which follows, manhood. I would sooner be a Christian and have joy than a Heathen with only pleasure.”

“Christianity,” said Gildea, “is spiritual opium. You do not eat it?”

“No,” she said, “I see no use in drugs. But, as I said, I would sooner take drugs that give me joy than live on meats and wines that only gave me pleasure. Joy is mine, but pleasure is every one’s.”

“You had, then, once the temptation of drugs?”

“Yes,” she assented a little dreamily, “I had the temptation.—And yet,” she added with a sudden return of interest, “it is wonderful how little ofthesedrugs you can take, and livewith energy and joy. Are the lips of Monica pallid or her eyes stony? Theresa has a clear mind: she can set her house in order. The songs and glories of the Creatures, do they not pass purely and freely, as you say, through the lips of Saint Francis?”

“True, but for us this aspect of the thing is past. The central trust in the Christ-God is a skeletoned shadow, that the grate holds up a moment beyond its time of falling in. You see it lying, a pile of shapeless ash, and wonder it ever stood. The Mother of Love and Grief appears no more save in the brilliant burning of distorted vision. It is a case of opium or nothing!”

“You are right,” she said, “and so I saw it.”

“What, then, remains,” he asked, “but resignation? There is no joy in patience. Nay, worse, there is little pleasure. I too take drugs, and I have more than once thought that, if Fate had not kindly given me the wherewithal to buy them, I should have ended the dreary business for ever. What is the good of our life except to despise it? says Leopardi. It is just bearable with drugs, but, without, I cannot think it worth the bearing. Pure indifference keeps more of its high souls alive now than the world wots of. They are careless of life, but they are equally careless of death. They live merely waiting for chance to kill them, or for life to become unendurable enough for them to care to kill themselves. Such men are not miserable. Sometimes, it is true, they suffer disgust; but they know nothing of despair, for despair means illusion, and they have the truth. Sometimes, again they have pleasure. But how, tell me, is it possible to have at once both truth and joy?”

“All this,” she said, “I too felt, and not so long ago—although I could not have put it to myself so clearly. You, I think, have learned your belief more by living than by reading: with me it was different. Before I began properly to live,—to be free, that is, to examine and try everything for myself,—I had arrived at my belief, and all my living has only confirmed me in it.”

“Whatis your belief?” he asked.

She smiled and shook her head.

“I will not try to tell it you explicitly,” she said, “for fear of harming it. Analysis is a mistake, and now I have so long known this, that I have little temptation to give way to it.You, it seems, have tried to be a Heathen. You gave yourself up to the natural joy of your youth and fortune, your health and strength and riches and powers, until the joy turned to pleasure and the pleasure to almost pain. Then you went for interest to the spiritual life of those about you, and again joy turned to pleasure and pleasure to almost pain. Butyou—you were not one that knew how to be resigned! You could not, as your great Master could, add to the ‘Vanity of Vanities, all is vanity’ the ‘Fear God and keep his commandments; for this is the whole duty of man.’ Far otherwise withyou, as you have told me, was ‘the conclusion of the whole matter.’”

“And you?” he said with the tone of comrade to comrade, “and you?”

“I had a revelation. It took place in a London fog in front of a fire in a little backroom where I had my books. And, as it were, scales fell from my eyes, and I saw men as trees walking.” Gildea, the true arch-mocker, for the first time in his life had to undergo the sensation of doubt whether or no he was being mocked at.

“Well?” he said.

“Well, I was in a rather miserable state at the time. Someone to whom I was attached had had to leave me. I was sick of trying to satisfy myself with the life of pleasure as pleasure, and I had the temptation to take spiritual drugs, for I felt an appalling loneliness of soul. I thought that no one had ever looked at things as I felt I should like to look at them, and I was at times almost afraid that I was suffering under a delusion that might end in something very like madness. Then I had my revelation. I found out that there had been a whole race whose central belief was the one I was stretching out my arms to.”

“Greece?” said Gildea, “Greece?”

“Yes, Greece! Here I found were men who realized the secret of life, who knew what Truth was. They looked at life as it was, and they saw calmly and clearly that the butterfly’s life is enough for the butterfly, and the man’s for the man. They took no spiritual opium as the Christians do: they have no yearning love. They have not resignation as the Heathens have, resignation that sullenly accepts the evil, or that brightly determines to make the best of the good in things. They have better; they have truth and light and joy! Take, then, your Christian Faith and Love: your Heathen Trust and Hope:Iam a Pagan, and my care is Truth and Light!—And I found,” she went on, “I found, after a time, that there had been others in these later days that had looked, or striven to look at things, as I did. Such was Goethe, such was Keats. With Goethe the freedom of his Paganism was bought at a great price, but Keats was born free. When Goethe recognised what it was to have been a Christian, to be a Heathen, and to wish to be a Pagan, he renounced his past and present with all the strength of his soul, and fixed his eyes resolutely on his future. But he never won it—that is to say, as he had won the others. He was never a Pagan as he was a Heathen or a Christian. The Second Part of Faust is not like the First. It is not with impunity that we have passed through the Christianity of Catholicism and the Heathenism of the Renascence. A Dante or a Shakspere could not be shaken off by a Goethe, and a Sophokles wholly put on. Is a great pagan soul possible yet? How shall we say no with what Keats might have become before us?—Sometimes I think,” she said a little dreamily, “that I am the only one of my time who understood these great men; Goethe, the god of the Transition, Keats, the Herakles of Modernity, strangled in his cradle by the serpents of Hera! And, for either of them, I would readily have given my life.” ...

Mrs. Medwin turned round towards them, Alcock turning too, as if they had reached a point in their conversation in which a break was expedient. Then Mrs. Medwin and Alcock rose and came up to them.

“Is not the water exquisitely clear?” she said to Gildea, “It reminds me of Capreae. It only wants the beautiful coral rocks.”

Gildea smilingly assented. He remembered a remark of Mrs. Medwin’s to the effect that, as you approached Melbourne from the north, it was like the bay of Naples with Vesuvius.

“Miss Medwin,” he said, with the smile changing on his face and becoming sweet and radiant, “Miss Medwin has just been explaining to me a passage from Goethe which I never understood.”

“Indeed?” said Mrs. Medwin, “I did not know you read German, Alice. Was it a passage from Faust? I think Faust is very difficult, and I do not understand the Second Part in the least.”

“No,” answered Gildea, “It was not from Faust.—

Vom Halben zu entwöhnen;im Ganzen, Guten, Schönenresolut zu leben.”

Vom Halben zu entwöhnen;im Ganzen, Guten, Schönenresolut zu leben.”

Vom Halben zu entwöhnen;im Ganzen, Guten, Schönenresolut zu leben.”

Vom Halben zu entwöhnen;

im Ganzen, Guten, Schönen

resolut zu leben.”

“That is not very difficult, Sir Horace,” said Mrs. Medwin.

Gildea, in answer to the dumb look on Alcock’s face, who did not happen to know German, translated it with courtesy:

“‘I resolved to wean myself,’” he said, “‘from halves, and to live for the Whole, the Good, the Beautiful.’”

“And what does itmean?” asked Alcock.

“Ah,” answered Gildea smiling, “Miss Medwin must tell you that!”

April, 1885.

THE END.

FOOTNOTES[1]The remark is, of course, general. Most of Victoria, as we all know, is unfortunately definitely sold.[2]Melbourne Review, October, 1883. (No. 32.)[3]Victorian Review, May, 1884. (No. 55).[4]Melbourne Review, April, 1884. (No. 34).[5]I may parenthetically remark that the idea that Gordon is buried in St. Kilda Cemetery is incorrect, as my doing so may perhaps save others from the trouble of a fruitless pilgrimage there, not to say an examination of all the Cemetery books. He is buried in Brighton Cemetery. The tombstone is a block of blue-stone, topped with a shattered column crowned with a laurel-wreath. The four sides of the block have marble tablets let into them, on which are severally written: “The Poet Gordon. Died June 24, 1870, aged 37 years;” “Sea-Spray and Smoke-Drift;” “Bush Ballads and Galloping Rhymes;” “Ashtaroth.” The Cemetery is wooded and wild, the vegetation, including the grave-flowers, stragglingly luxuriant. Not altogether an unfitting “sleeping place” for him.[6]His little article on it in theContemporary Reviewis a mere circular.[7]Victorian Review, February, 1885, in a series of articles on contemporary English poets.[8]It is gratifying to notice at the Technological Museum, where one would least expect it, the number of sunday visitors more than halves that of all the other days put together.[9]A volume of his, in which is included his “Miscellaneous Poems” and “Convict Once,” has lately appeared—at last another book, out of so much of this hopelessly worthless colonial literature, which counts![10]Three of Miss Ironsides’ pictures were, when I was in Sydney, housed in a sort of shed behind the temporary Picture Gallery. On one side of it the windows were open to the dust and rain! One of the pictures, the “Ars Longa, Vita Brevis,” was much spoiled; another, the “Adoration of the Magi,” a little. I did what I could to alter this state of affairs, but I could do nothing. The Trustees do not know to whom the pictures belong, and there is not room enough in the Gallery, as it is, for even the purchased pictures. Perhaps when these three pictures are permanently spoiled, something will be done. For me, I must confine myself to pointing out the wonderful depth of quiet feeling which is the chief characteristic of the work of this remarkable girl. This is to be noticed most in the “Marriage” picture and the “Ars Longa.” At the same time there is something of passionate—of passion suppressed, but none the less existent and strong, which adds a peculiar flavour and attraction to her work. The mother’s face in the “Adoration” and the girl playing on the harp in the “Marriage” are really beautiful in thought and execution. For pure execution, however, I would direct attention to the drapery of the angel in the former picture, or, in a particular shape, the thorns in the “Ars Longa.” I suppose that there is such a plethora of work like this of Miss Ironsides’ in both Sydney and Melbourne that only one or two mentally impoverished people like myself can be expected to trouble about it, and it is in the hope of attracting the attention of one or two such that I write this. There are, however, three pictures by Mr. Folingsby in the Melbourne Gallery which would, I am sure, look quite nice in one of our new æsthetically furnished hotels, Mr. Hosie’s (say) or the Grand, and then perhaps someone might put Miss Ironsides’ in their places. This would be a gain for both the Hotels and the Gallery.[11]Crescat et proficiat tam singulorum quam omnium, tam unius hominis quam totius Ecclesiæ, Intelligentia Scientia Sapientia.[12]“In Memoriam,” cxiv.[13]In the Land Act that came into force in March, 1885.

FOOTNOTES

[1]The remark is, of course, general. Most of Victoria, as we all know, is unfortunately definitely sold.

[1]The remark is, of course, general. Most of Victoria, as we all know, is unfortunately definitely sold.

[2]Melbourne Review, October, 1883. (No. 32.)

[2]Melbourne Review, October, 1883. (No. 32.)

[3]Victorian Review, May, 1884. (No. 55).

[3]Victorian Review, May, 1884. (No. 55).

[4]Melbourne Review, April, 1884. (No. 34).

[4]Melbourne Review, April, 1884. (No. 34).

[5]I may parenthetically remark that the idea that Gordon is buried in St. Kilda Cemetery is incorrect, as my doing so may perhaps save others from the trouble of a fruitless pilgrimage there, not to say an examination of all the Cemetery books. He is buried in Brighton Cemetery. The tombstone is a block of blue-stone, topped with a shattered column crowned with a laurel-wreath. The four sides of the block have marble tablets let into them, on which are severally written: “The Poet Gordon. Died June 24, 1870, aged 37 years;” “Sea-Spray and Smoke-Drift;” “Bush Ballads and Galloping Rhymes;” “Ashtaroth.” The Cemetery is wooded and wild, the vegetation, including the grave-flowers, stragglingly luxuriant. Not altogether an unfitting “sleeping place” for him.

[5]I may parenthetically remark that the idea that Gordon is buried in St. Kilda Cemetery is incorrect, as my doing so may perhaps save others from the trouble of a fruitless pilgrimage there, not to say an examination of all the Cemetery books. He is buried in Brighton Cemetery. The tombstone is a block of blue-stone, topped with a shattered column crowned with a laurel-wreath. The four sides of the block have marble tablets let into them, on which are severally written: “The Poet Gordon. Died June 24, 1870, aged 37 years;” “Sea-Spray and Smoke-Drift;” “Bush Ballads and Galloping Rhymes;” “Ashtaroth.” The Cemetery is wooded and wild, the vegetation, including the grave-flowers, stragglingly luxuriant. Not altogether an unfitting “sleeping place” for him.

[6]His little article on it in theContemporary Reviewis a mere circular.

[6]His little article on it in theContemporary Reviewis a mere circular.

[7]Victorian Review, February, 1885, in a series of articles on contemporary English poets.

[7]Victorian Review, February, 1885, in a series of articles on contemporary English poets.

[8]It is gratifying to notice at the Technological Museum, where one would least expect it, the number of sunday visitors more than halves that of all the other days put together.

[8]It is gratifying to notice at the Technological Museum, where one would least expect it, the number of sunday visitors more than halves that of all the other days put together.

[9]A volume of his, in which is included his “Miscellaneous Poems” and “Convict Once,” has lately appeared—at last another book, out of so much of this hopelessly worthless colonial literature, which counts!

[9]A volume of his, in which is included his “Miscellaneous Poems” and “Convict Once,” has lately appeared—at last another book, out of so much of this hopelessly worthless colonial literature, which counts!

[10]Three of Miss Ironsides’ pictures were, when I was in Sydney, housed in a sort of shed behind the temporary Picture Gallery. On one side of it the windows were open to the dust and rain! One of the pictures, the “Ars Longa, Vita Brevis,” was much spoiled; another, the “Adoration of the Magi,” a little. I did what I could to alter this state of affairs, but I could do nothing. The Trustees do not know to whom the pictures belong, and there is not room enough in the Gallery, as it is, for even the purchased pictures. Perhaps when these three pictures are permanently spoiled, something will be done. For me, I must confine myself to pointing out the wonderful depth of quiet feeling which is the chief characteristic of the work of this remarkable girl. This is to be noticed most in the “Marriage” picture and the “Ars Longa.” At the same time there is something of passionate—of passion suppressed, but none the less existent and strong, which adds a peculiar flavour and attraction to her work. The mother’s face in the “Adoration” and the girl playing on the harp in the “Marriage” are really beautiful in thought and execution. For pure execution, however, I would direct attention to the drapery of the angel in the former picture, or, in a particular shape, the thorns in the “Ars Longa.” I suppose that there is such a plethora of work like this of Miss Ironsides’ in both Sydney and Melbourne that only one or two mentally impoverished people like myself can be expected to trouble about it, and it is in the hope of attracting the attention of one or two such that I write this. There are, however, three pictures by Mr. Folingsby in the Melbourne Gallery which would, I am sure, look quite nice in one of our new æsthetically furnished hotels, Mr. Hosie’s (say) or the Grand, and then perhaps someone might put Miss Ironsides’ in their places. This would be a gain for both the Hotels and the Gallery.

[10]Three of Miss Ironsides’ pictures were, when I was in Sydney, housed in a sort of shed behind the temporary Picture Gallery. On one side of it the windows were open to the dust and rain! One of the pictures, the “Ars Longa, Vita Brevis,” was much spoiled; another, the “Adoration of the Magi,” a little. I did what I could to alter this state of affairs, but I could do nothing. The Trustees do not know to whom the pictures belong, and there is not room enough in the Gallery, as it is, for even the purchased pictures. Perhaps when these three pictures are permanently spoiled, something will be done. For me, I must confine myself to pointing out the wonderful depth of quiet feeling which is the chief characteristic of the work of this remarkable girl. This is to be noticed most in the “Marriage” picture and the “Ars Longa.” At the same time there is something of passionate—of passion suppressed, but none the less existent and strong, which adds a peculiar flavour and attraction to her work. The mother’s face in the “Adoration” and the girl playing on the harp in the “Marriage” are really beautiful in thought and execution. For pure execution, however, I would direct attention to the drapery of the angel in the former picture, or, in a particular shape, the thorns in the “Ars Longa.” I suppose that there is such a plethora of work like this of Miss Ironsides’ in both Sydney and Melbourne that only one or two mentally impoverished people like myself can be expected to trouble about it, and it is in the hope of attracting the attention of one or two such that I write this. There are, however, three pictures by Mr. Folingsby in the Melbourne Gallery which would, I am sure, look quite nice in one of our new æsthetically furnished hotels, Mr. Hosie’s (say) or the Grand, and then perhaps someone might put Miss Ironsides’ in their places. This would be a gain for both the Hotels and the Gallery.

[11]Crescat et proficiat tam singulorum quam omnium, tam unius hominis quam totius Ecclesiæ, Intelligentia Scientia Sapientia.

[11]Crescat et proficiat tam singulorum quam omnium, tam unius hominis quam totius Ecclesiæ, Intelligentia Scientia Sapientia.

[12]“In Memoriam,” cxiv.

[12]“In Memoriam,” cxiv.

[13]In the Land Act that came into force in March, 1885.

[13]In the Land Act that came into force in March, 1885.

MELBOURNE:WILLIAM INGLIS AND CO., PRINTERS,FLINDERS STREET EAST.

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