heart, in
feelings and sympathies, all their lives long; neither was ashamed of
his origin, even in the days of his greatest fame; painter and poet
alike loved best to choose their themes from the simple life of the
poor whose trials and hardships they knew so well by bitter experience;
and in each case they succeeded best in touching the hearts of others
when they did not travel outside their own natural range of subjects.
Only (if Scotchmen will allow one to say so) there was in Millet a far
deeper vein of moral earnestness than in Burns; he was more profoundly
impressed by the dignity and nobility of labour; in his tender sympathy
there was a touch of solemn grandeur which was wanting in the too
genial and easy-going Ayrshire ploughman.

In 1848, the year of revolutions, Millet painted his famous picture of
"The Winnower," since considered as one of his finest works. Yet for a
long time, though the critics praised it, it could not find a
purchaser; till at last M. Ledru Rollin, a well-known politician,
bought it for what Millet considered the capital price of five hundred
francs (about 20 pounds). It would now fetch a simply fabulous price,
if offered for sale. Soon after this comparative success Millet
decided to leave Paris, where the surroundings indeed were little
fitted to a man of his peculiarly rural and domestic tastes. He would
go where he might see the living models of his peasant friends for ever
before him; where he could watch them leaning over the plough pressed
deep into the earth; cutting the faggots with stout arms in the
thick-grown copses; driving the cattle home at milking time with weary
feet, along the endless, straight white high-roads of the French rural
districts. At the same time, he must be within easy reach of Paris;
for though he had almost made up his mind not to exhibit any more at
the Salon--people didn't care to see his reapers or his fishermen--he
must still manage to keep himself within call of possible purchasers;
and for this purpose he selected the little village of Barbizon, on the
edge of the forest of Fontainebleau.

The woods of Fontainebleau stand to Paris in somewhat the same relation
that Windsor Great Park stands to London; only, the scenery is more
forest-like, and the trees are big and antique looking. By the
outskirts of this great wood stands the pretty hamlet of Barbizon, a
single long street of small peasant cottages, built with the usual
French rural disrega