re or less a student of the
spiritual in mentality, and of the supernatural in cause and effect.
Such eyes do not stare, they merely gaze. When they look at you, they
look at something else through you and behind you, of which you may or
may not be a part.

Let me say here, (this chapter being professedly episodical,) that the
painter who can succeed in transferring to canvas that expression of
_seeing more than is presented to the physical eye_, has achieved a
triumph over great difficulties. Frequent visitors to the old Dusseldorf
Gallery will remember two instances, perhaps by the same painter, of the
eye being thus made to reveal the inner thought and a life beyond that
passing at the moment. The first and most notable is in the 'Charles the
Second Fleeing from the Battle of Worcester.' The king and two nobles
are in the immediate foreground, in flight, while far away the sun is
going down in a red glare behind the smoke of battle, the lurid flames
of the burning town, and the royal standard just fluttering down from
the battlements of a castle lost by the royal arms at the very close of
Cromwell's 'crowning mercy.' Through the smoke of the middle distance
can be dimly seen dusky forms in flight, or in the last hopeless
conflict. Each of the nobles at the side of the fugitive king is heavily
armed, with sword in hand, mounted on heavy, galloping horses going at
high speed; and each is looking out anxiously, with head turned aside as
he flies, for any danger which may menace--not himself, but the
sovereign. Charles Stuart, riding between them, is mounted upon a dark,
high-stepping, pure-blooded English horse. He wears the peaked hat of
the time, and his long hair--that which afterward became so notorious in
the masks and orgies of Whitehall, and in the prosecution of his amours
in the purlieus of the capital--floats out in wild dishevelment from his
shoulders. He is dressed in the dark velvet, short cloak, and broad,
pointed collar peculiar to pictures of himself and his unfortunate
father; shows no weapon, and is leaning ungracefully forward, as if
outstripping the hard-trotting speed of his horse. But the true interest
of this figure, and of the whole picture, is concentrated in the eyes.
Those sad, dark eyes, steady and immovable in their fixed gaze, reveal
whole pages of history and whole years of suffering. The fugitive king
is not thinking of his flight, of any dangers that may beset him, of the
companions at h