whose eyes were focused to see in patched bulk rather than in sharp outline? What were the thin fields of color used by the Florentines to one who could work to advantage only with a heavily loaded brush? One portrait by Velasquez-say the "Innocent X," in the Doria Gallery-were worth them all. Raeburn may have seen this portrait; he may have seen Venetian, French, even Dutch painting at Rome, for that city has always been a great depot of art; but there is no tale in his life, nor trace in his art, of influences from these quarters. The simple Scot came home to Edinburgh, and, barring some acquired facility and a slight tendency to pay tribute to Sir Joshua's point of view, painted his portraits in the old way. He soon established himself as the first portrait-painter in Scotland, and for many years employed his brush in painting such national characters as Blair, Erskine, Mackenzie, Robertson, Wilson, Dugald Stewart, and Walter Scott. At one time he contemplated moving up to London; but Lawrence persuaded him that it was better to be the Scottish Reynolds in Edinburgh than plain Raeburn in London. He visited London only a few times, and it was not until 1814 that he began sending portraits to the Royal Academy for exhibition. He was then elected an Associate, and the next year an Academician. In 1822, when George IV was in Edinburgh, Raeburn was knighted, and shortly afterward made" his Majesty's limner and painter for Scotland"; but he did not live long enough to enjoy the office. After a week's illness, he died June 16, 1823, leaving as the last work upon his easel a portrait of Sir Walter Scott. In addition to being a member of many foreign art societies, he had been president of the Society of Artists in Scotland, and had received honors even from far-away America.

Considering the lack of technical education, Raeburn's art seems little less than astonishing. He achieved almost at the start, and apparently without effort, those qualities of simplicity and directness which many painters struggle for all their lives, and then often fall short of attaining. It was not only that he was able to paint simply, but he saw things simply, to begin with. And yet it remains to be said that both his range and his success were limited. The problem he undertook was not complex. He made few sallies into the domain of historical painting, and he knew nothing about decorative composition. He was a portrait-painter, and as such saw little more than the human face.

By his own confession, a head was much easier for him to paint than a piece of drapery. He stumbled over accessory objects, often slurred them, and even his countryman, the Duke of Buccleugh, complained of his carelessness in painting hands. It is probable that he cared little for them. His Scotch mind went directly at the head, and his painter's eye was drawn by the expressive features. In giving the characteristic look of his sitter he was usually successful, though Scott said that he made a "chowderheaded person" of him. When he went further, and tried to give the whole-length portrait in landscape or with elaborate background, he was not so happy. His "Lady in White," in the National Gallery, London, done after the Reynolds formula, is somewhat heavy in spirit and flat in handling; his" Professor John Wilson," standing beside his horse, in the Scottish Portrait Gallery, is weak; his "Niel Gow," in Highland costume, with a violin, comes perilously near the bizarre. Given the bust portrait, and he could, at times, render it with great force. Nothing could be better of its kind than the portrait of Lord Newton that Mr. Cole has engraved. The bluff bulk of beef and beer in the head and shoulders is something wonderful. In giving the physical presence Frans Hals could not have gone beyond it. The portrait of Dr. Adam, hanging near the "Lord Newton" in the National Gallery, Edinburgh, has the same qualities of structure, and is struck off with the same square touch. Both portraits are quite perfect in their way.

66

These heads show Raeburn in his most energetic style-in fact, his best style. He could not always reach up to it, and with portraits of women he frequently fell below it. He never understood the eternal womanly," and the gaiety and coquetry of the sex made no such appeal to him as to Reynolds and Romney. A somewhat matter-offact Scotchman, large-framed and athletic, fond of outdoor games, machinery, shipbuilding,-all strong, muscular pursuits,he naturally sympathized with the powerful, and preferred the masculine to the feminine type. But he was not wholly indifferent to womanly grace and charm, and in such portraits as those of Mrs. Scott Moncrieff, Mrs. Bell, and his own wife he showed refinement, delicacy, and not a little sense of beauty. These portraits are given, however, with less pronounced modeling than shows in his portraits of men, and with the surfaces rubbed smooth. His concession to Sir Joshua was

more marked just here than elsewhere. His fair women hardly suggest an individual point of view, and one gains the impression that the painter is somehow following the Reynolds pattern-working with intelligence and skill, but without enthusiasm or conviction. The graceful contours and elaborate costume of a duchess were not to his fancy, as compared with the rugged features and the strong flesh-notes of a well-fed judge or a Scotch landlord.

One cannot imagine a head like that of the "Lord Newton" having been first drawn with chalk or coal. It must have been painted, like so many of the heads by Frans Hals, with a full brush and a free hand. And that was Raeburn's way of working. He used the brush from the start, drawing and modeling with it, relying upon it for everything, and finishing a portrait with it in four or five sittings. Absolute accuracy did not always accompany his facility; but bulk, weight, character,-in short, the personal presence, were almost always given in a convincing manner. Unfortunately, Raeburn was fond of bitumen (something he may have heard of from Sir Joshua), and he employed that painter's plague not a little in his shadows. The results were, of course, disastrous. To-day the forehead curls in the portrait of Mrs. Scott Moncrieff have nearly slipped over the eyes from having been underbased in treacherous bitumen. The head of the "Lord Newton" has suffered in the shadows from a like cause. Raeburn did not use it invariably, and some of his portraits, like that of the Rev. John Home, in the National Portrait Gallery in London, are sound in every respect, and models of good craftsmanship.

There was nothing remarkable in Rae

burn's art, aside from his simple point of view, his grasp of the portrait presence, and his mastery of the brush. He had little subtlety, shrewdness, or depth, little decorative sense in either line or color. His coloring was sober, often somber; or, if brilliant, it was shrill, or perhaps false, in its lighting. Tone was a feature he never quite mastered, and atmosphere bothered him whenever he tried to give a naturalistic background. He lacked knowledge of the aërial envelop, just as he failed in the perception of the relation of objects one to another. The isolated face and figure he did very well, but the grouped or related figure baffled him.

He had several different styles of working, but it is almost impossible to give them in order, for he never kept a record of his sitters or dated his canvases. It seems that at first he was timid and tentative, employing his early miniature methods upon an enlarged scale. Then he grew broader and freer, developing a robust manner, resembling at times that of an American painter,-Gilbert Stuart, but oftener recalling the style of Velasquez. It seems that finally, following Reynolds or Lawrence, he painted with a smoother and a weaker brush. His method of handling must always have an interest for people of the craft; but to the public, that cares little about methods, he has been, and will doubtless continue to be, simply a good painter with limitations. He never illustrated history or poetry, and had nothing to do with figures in group or tales in paint. He was only a portrait-painter, and even in that department he was more of a skilled craftsman than a creative artist. As a craftsman he had no rival in his age and country, and to this day Scotland is still looking for his superior.

I

66 HIS WIFE WAS A SLENDER LADY."

WAS on a French steamer bound from Havre to New York, when I had a peculiar experience in the way of a shipwreck. On a dark and foggy night, when we were about three days out, our vessel collided with a derelict a great, heavy, helpless mass, as dull and colorless as the darkness in which she was enveloped. We struck her almost head on, and her stump of a bowsprit was driven into our port bow with such tremendous violence that a great hole-nobody knew of what dimensions-was made in our vessel. The collision occurred about two hours before daylight, and the frightened passengers who crowded the upper deck were soon informed by the officers that it would be necessary to take to the boats, for the vessel was rapidly settling by the head.

Now, of course, all was hurry and confusion. The captain endeavored to assure his passengers that there were boats enough to carry every soul on board, and that there was time enough for them to embark quietly and in order. But as the French people did not understand him when he spoke in English, and as the Americans did not readily comprehend what he said in French, his ex

hortations were of little avail. With such of their possessions as they could carry, the people crowded into the boats as soon as they were ready, and sometimes before they were ready; and while there was not exactly a panic on board, each man seemed to be inspired with the idea that his safety, and that of his family, if he had one, depended upon precipitate individual action.

I was a young man, traveling alone, and while I was as anxious as any one to be saved from the sinking vessel, I was not a coward, and I could not thrust myself into a boat when there were women and children behind me who had not yet been provided with places. There were men who did this, and several times I felt inclined to knock one of the poltroons overboard. The deck was well lighted, the steamer was settling slowly, and there was no excuse for the dastardly proceedings which were going on about me.

It was not long, however, before almost all of the passengers were safely embarked, and I was preparing to get into a boat which was nearly filled with the officers and crew, when I was touched on the shoulder, and turning, I saw a gentleman whose acquaintance I had made soon after the steamer had left Havre. His name was Crowder. He was a middle-aged man, a New-Yorker, intelligent and of a social disposition, and I had found him a very pleasant companion. To my amazement, I perceived that he was smoking a cigar.

"If I were you," said he, "I would not go in that boat. It is horribly crowded, and the captain and second officer have 'yet to find places in it."

"That's all the more reason," said I," why we should hurry. I am not going to push myself ahead of women and children, but I've just as much right to be saved as the captain has, and if there are any vacant places, let us get them as soon as possible."

Crowder now put his hand on my shoulder as if to restrain me. "Safety!" said he. "You need n't trouble yourself about safety. You are just as safe where you are as you could possibly be in one of those boats. If they are not picked up soon,-and they may float about for days, their sufferings and discomforts will be very great. There is a

shameful want of accommodation in the way of boats."

"But, my dear sir," said I, "I can't stop here to talk about that. They are calling for the captain now."

"Oh, he 's in no hurry," said my companion. "He's collecting his papers, I suppose, and he knows his vessel will not sink under him while he is doing it. I'm not going in that boat; I have n't the least idea of such a thing. It will be odiously crowded, and I assure you, sir, that if the sea should be rough that boat will be dangerous. Even now she is overloaded."

I looked at the man in amazement. He had spoken earnestly, but he was as calm as if we were standing on a sidewalk, and he endeavoring to dissuade me from boarding an overcrowded street-car. Before I could say anything he spoke again:

be seen than anything that can flutter from those little boats. If you have noticed, sir, the inclination of this deck is not greater now than it was half an hour ago. That proves that our bow has settled down about as far as it is going. I think it likely that the water has entered only a few of the forward compartments."

"I am going to remain on this ship. She is a hundred times safer than any of those boats. I have had a great deal of experience in regard to vessels and ocean navigation, and it will be a long time before this vessel sinks, if she ever sinks of her own accord. She's just as likely to float as that derelict we ran into. The steam is pretty nearly out of her boilers by this time, and nothing is likely to happen to her. I wish you would stay with me. Here we will be safe, with plenty of room, and plenty to eat and drink. When it is daylight we will hoist a flag of distress, which will be much more likely to

I

The man spoke so confidently that his words made an impression upon me. knew that it very often happens that a wreck floats for a long time, and the boat from which the

men were now

frantically shouting

for the captain would certainly be dangerously crowded.

"Stay with me," said Mr. Crowder, "and I assure you, with as much rea

son as any man can assure any other man of anything in this world, that you will be perfectly safe. This steamer is not going to sink."

There were rapid footsteps, and I saw the captain and his second officer approaching. "Step back here," said Mr. Crowder, pulling me by the coat. "Don't let them see us. They may drag us on board that confounded boat. Keep quiet, sir, and let them get off. They think they are the last on board."

Involuntarily I obeyed him, and we stood