So I am content to tell my simple story, with-out trying to make things seem better than they were; dreading nothing, indeed, but falsity, which, in spite of one's best efforts, there is reason to dread. Falsehood is so easy, truth so difficult. The pencil is conscious of a delightful facility in draw-ing a griffin 2 —the longer the claws, and the larger the wings, the better; but that marvelous facility which we mistook for genius is apt to forsake us when we want to draw a real unexaggerated lion. Examine your words well, and you will find that even when you have no motive to be false, it is a very hard thing to say the exact truth, even about your own immediate feelings--much harder than to say something fine about them which is not the exact truth. It is for this rare, precious quality of truthful- ness that I delight in many Dutch paintings, which lofty-minded people despise. I find a source of deli- cious sympathy in these faithful pictures of a monotonous domestic existence, which has been the fate of so many more among my fellow- mortals than a life of pomp or of absolute indi-gence, of tragic suffering or of world-stirring actions. I turn, without shrinking, from cloud- borne angels, from prophets, and heroic warriors, to an old woman bending over her flower-pot, or eating her solitary dinner, while the noonday light, softened perhaps by a scr0een of leaves, falls on her cap, and just touches the rim of her spinning-wheel, and her stone jug, and all those cheap common things which are the precious necessaries of life to her;—or I turn to that village wedding, kept between four brown walls, where an awkward 000bridegroom opens the dance with a high-shouldered, broad-faced bride, while elderly and middle-aged friends look on, with very irregular noses and lips, and probably with ale-pots in their hands, but with an expression of unmistakable contentment and goodwill. "Foh!" says my idealistic friend, "what vulgar details! What good is there in taking all these pains to give an exact likeness of old women and peasants?” But bless us, things may be lovable that are not altogether handsome, I hope? All honour and reverence to the divine beauty of form! Let us cultivate it to the utmost in men, women, and children--in our gardens and in our houses. But let us love that other beauty too, which lies in no secret of proportion, but in the secret of deep human sympathy. Paint us an angel, if you can, with a floating violet robe, and a face paled by the celestial light; paint us yet oftener a Madonna, 3 turning her mild face upward and opening her arms to welcome the divine glory; but do not impose on us any aesthetic rules which shall banish from the region of Art those old women scraping carrots with their work-worn hands, those heavy peasants taking holiday in a dingy tavern, those rounded backs and weather-beaten faces that have bent over the spade and done the rough work of the world--those homes with their tin pans, their brown pitchers, their rough curs, and their clusters of onions. In the world there are so many of these common people, who have no picturesque sentimental wretchedness! It is so needful that we who write should remember their existence, else we may happen to leave them quite out of our religion and philosophy, and frame lofty theories which only fit a world of extremes. There-fore let Art always remind us of them; therefore let us always have artists ready to devote loving attention to the faithful representing of common-place things.