nting the tower, we looked down into the apparently
bottomless abyss, dark with clouds of mist, seething, foaming, and
thundering. We shuddered, and hastened down the narrow stairway, feeling
as if all nature must speedily be drawn into the terrible vortex, and we
become a mere atom amid chaos. The picture caused us a shivering thrill,
and we acknowledged the power of the artist.

No. 90. 'Mansfield Mountain, Sunset'--S. R. Gifford, N. A. A glorious
tale, gloriously told! 'The heavens show forth the glory of God, and the
firmament declareth the work of his hands. Day to day uttereth speech,
and night to night showeth knowledge. * * * He hath set his tabernacle
in the sun; and he * * * hath rejoiced as a giant to run the way: His
going out is from the end of heaven, and his circuit even to the end
thereof: and there is no one that can hide himself from his heat.' This
artist seems literally to have dipped his brush in light, pure light. We
remember a juvenile book, entitled, 'A Trap to catch a Sunbeam;' such a
trap must Gifford possess; he surely keeps tubes filled with real rays
wherewith to flood the canvas and transfigure the simplest subject. Here
we have a mountain, a lake, some sky, clouds, and a setting sun--but
what an admirable combination! The picture seems fairly to illumine that
part of the gallery in which it is placed. Had the artist lived in the
olden time, he might have been feloniously made way with for his secret,
but the present age seems more generous, and his fellow workers delight
to praise and honor his genius. We find from the same hand 'Kauterskill
Clove' (No. 15)--a flood of golden beams poured upon a mountain glen,
with rifted sides, autumn foliage, and a tiny stream; a coming storm
obscures but does not hide the distant hills. A bold delineation--but
very beautiful, and true to the character of the scenery it represents.
There are also a reminiscence of the present war ('Baltimore,
1862--Twilight,' No. 409), and one of foreign travel ('Como,' No. 385),
equally suggestive of--not paint--but real, palpitating atmosphere.

No. 49. 'Mount Tahawas, Adirondacs'--J. McEntee, N. A. A picture of
great simplicity and grandeur, and one we should never weary of looking
into, waiting for the opaline lights of dawn to deepen into the full
glory of day. This, like all the works of McEntee we have had the good
fortune to see, bears the impress of a poet-soul. A vague stretching
forth toward the regions of the