, and to
have been less hampered in his choice of poses. Centuries of study and of
observation had intervened between the great animal painter of the T'ang
epoch and his worthy rival of a later period.

[Illustration: PLATE XVII. HORSE
Painting by an unknown artist. Yuean or Early Ming Period.
Doucet Collection.]

Like Chao Meng-fu, Ch'ien Hsuean, or Ch'ien Shun-chue, retired from public
life at the downfall of the Sung dynasty. He was a member of a group of
the faithful over which Chao presided, but, more decided than the latter
in his opposition to the new dynasty, he was indignant at his confrere's
defection and refused to follow his example. He lived in retirement,
devoting himself to painting and to poetry up to the time of his death. He
also continued the Sung tradition under the Yuean dynasty to which, as a
matter of fact, he belonged only during the second part of his life. He
painted figures, landscape, flowers and birds. His delicate line is not
lacking in strength, and he seems to have been especially endowed with a
sense of form which approached greatness in its simplicity. Whether the
subject is a young prince or a pigeon perched on the summit of a rock from
which chrysanthemums are springing, the same dignified and tranquil
nobility is asserted with ease. He still used the quiet and restrained
coloring of the Sung period and prolonged, without impairing it, the
great tradition that a century and a half could not quite efface.

Of Yen Hui we know almost nothing; the books state briefly that he painted
Buddhist figures, birds and flowers, and that he was past master in the
painting of demons. Nothing is known of the date of his birth or if, by
his age and training, he could be classed in the Sung period, but several
admirable paintings by him are extant which serve to show how Sung art was
still interpreted by exceptional masters in the Yuean period. His line is
strong, broader, fuller and more abrupt than that of Chao Meng-fu or
Ch'ien Shun-chue. The quivering vitality that emanates from his pictures is
thrilling. Whether the subject is a peony heavy with dew, whose drooping
petals presage the approaching end, or a Buddhist monk patching his
mantle, the fleeting moment is seized with such intuitive power that
prolonged contemplation of the painting creates the impression that it is
suddenly about to come to life. There is something sturdier, more
startling, less dreamy in these great painters who co