xims in pigment
of extraordinary durability--counsels of perfection in colour and
conduct. Of all the Pre-Raphaelites, Mr. Hunt will remain the most
popular. He is artistically the scapegoat of that great movement which
gave a new impulse to English art, a scapegoat sent out to wander by the
dead seas of popularity. I once knew a learned German who regretted that
none of his countrymen could paint 'Alpine scenery' as Mr. Hunt has done
in the 'Scapegoat'! Yes, he has a message for every one, for my German
friend, for Sir William Richmond, and myself. He is a missing link
between art and popularity. He symbolises the evangelical attitude of
those who would go to German Reed's and the Egyptian Hall, but would not
attend a theatre. After all, it was a gracious attitude, because it is
that of mothers who aged more beautifully, I think, than the ladies of a
later generation which admired Whistler or Burne-Jones and regularly
attended the Lyceum. When modern art, the brilliant art of the 'sixties,
was strictly excluded from English homes except in black and white
magazines, engravings from the 'Finding of Christ in the Temple' and the
'Light of the World' were allowed to grace the parlour along with 'Bolton
Abbey,' the 'Stag at Bay,' and 'Blucher meeting Wellington.' You see
them now only in Pimlico and St. John's Wood. A friend of mine said he
could never look at the picture of 'Blucher meeting Wellington' without
blushing. . . . Like a good knight and true, Sir William Richmond,
another Bedivere, has brandished Excalibur in the form of a catalogue for
Mr. Hunt's pictures. He offers the jewels for our inspection; they make
a brave show; they are genuine; they are intrinsic, but you remember
others of finer water, Bronzino-like portraits of Mr. Andrew Lang and
Bismarck and many others. Now, you should never recollect anything
during the enjoyment of a complete work of art.

Every one knows the view from Richmond, I should say _of_ Richmond; it is
almost my own . . . Far off Sir Bedivere sees Lyonesse submerged; Camelot-
at-Sea has capitulated after a second siege to stronger forces. The new
Moonet is high in the heaven and a dim Turner-like haze has begun to
obscure the landscape and soften the outlines. Under cover of the mist
the hosts of Mordred MacColl, _en-Tate_ with victory, are hunting the
steer in the New English Forest. Far off the enchanter Burne-Jones is
sleeping quietly in Broceliande (I cannot bear t