cter and confusion of color boxes, overturned stools, flasks of oil, and essences, t room to move so as to reaced circular space  from tinted forerange visitor. But in anot t a picture t ormy days of political and religious revolution, a picture t a feen kept t alive in evil days,  to go on pilgrimage to see. tiful panel represented a Saint Mary of Egypt about to pay  erpiece destined for Mary de Medici, er years of poverty.

    quot;I like your saint,quot; t;I en golden croting a spoke in t !quot;

    quot;It is good t;

    quot;; said t;good, say you?--Yes and no. Your good  badly done, but s alive. You artists fancy t s place according to tomy, to be done. You make up tints beforetes according to your formulae, and fill in tlines  one side of time to time at a naked form before you, you fondly imagine t you ure, to be painters, believe t you ed  from God. Psax t it takes t and someto make a great poet. Look at your saint, Porbus! At a first glance s  once t so t you could not e t turns but one side of o all be out of canvas, an image o move nor cion. I feel as if t arm and tance in your canvas. tive is perfectly correct, trengtely diminisance; but, in spite of ts, I could never bring myself to believe t t beautiful body. It seems to me t if I laid my , it o touc flo ivory skin, tide of life does not fluse fibres, t trace a netransparent amber of . o beat, t is motionless, life and deat strife in every detail; atue, tion is incomplete. You o breation of your soul i