r fine portrait of Tennyson. An
oil-painting by Mr. Watts, exhibited some fifteen years ago, and now
also forming part of the Forster Collection at South Kensington, is
remarkable for its weird wildness; but it gave great displeasure to
the old philosopher himself! More lately we have a remarkable portrait
by Mr. Whistler, who seized the _tout ensemble_ of his illustrious
sitter's character and costume in a very effective manner. The _terra
cotta_ statue by Mr. Boehm, exhibited at the Royal Academy in 1875,
has received such merited meed of enthusiastic praise from Mr.
Ruskin that it needs no added praise of ours. It has been excellently
photographed from two points of view by Mr. Hedderly, of Riley Street,
Chelsea.

One of the best and happiest of the many likenesses of Mr. Carlyle
that appeared during the last decade of his life was a sketch by Mrs.
Allingham--a picture as well as a portrait--representing the venerable
philosopher in a long and picturesque dressing-gown, seated on a chair
and poring over a folio, in the garden at the back of the quaint old
house at Chelsea, which will henceforth, as long as it stands, be
associated with his memory. Beside him on the grass lies a long clay
pipe (a churchwarden) which he has been smoking in the sweet
morning air. So that altogether, as far as pictorial, graphic, and
photographic art can go, the features, form, and bodily semblance of
Carlyle will be as well known to future generations as they are to our
own.

* * * * *

The impression of his brilliant and eloquent talk, though it will
perhaps remain, for at least half a century to come, more or less
vivid to some of those of the new generation who were privileged to
hear it, will, of course, gradually fade away. But it seems
hardly probable that the rich legacy of his long roll of
writings--historical, biographical, critical--can be regarded as other
than a permanent one, in which each succeeding generation will find
fresh delight and instruction. The series of vivid pictures he has
left behind in his "French Revolution," in his "Cromwell," in his
"Frederick," can hardly become obsolete or cease to be attractive; nor
is such power of word-painting likely soon to be equalled or ever
to be surpassed. The salt of humour that savours nearly all he wrote
(that lambent humour that lightens and plays over the grimmest and
sternest of his pages) will also serve to keep his writings fresh and