own heart-beat, are in some wise the signs or the manifestations of his own soul’s possibilities.  And he is right.  That of the flower which is its beauty, that of the mountains which is their magnificent grandeur, that of the stars which is their ineffable glory and sublimity, is his, is within him, is a part of his soul’s life, waxing or waning so in unison with its richness or poverty that wise men mark the soul’s stature by the part of it which is akin to the violets, the hills, or the infinite sky.

“The world is as large as a man’s head.”  In that there is a fine hint of a great truth, but beyond that is the truth.  It is not the mere knowledge of Alcyone that necessitates the sublime.  After that comes the wonder.  The world is as large as is a man, and its relation to him is marked by a sympathy which acts and reacts with the certainty and precision of law.

The ideal of Landscape Art, used in alliance with representations of the human figure, must, then, be founded upon this immutable sympathy between the landscape world and the human.  Thus, in the painting alluded to in the article on Mr. Page, “The Entombment” of the Louvre, the landscape is charged with the solemnity of the hour.  No blade of grass or shadow of leaf but seems conscious of the great event, and the sky reveals, by its heavenly tenderness, that there all is known.

How different in expression, yet how similar in strength, is the landscape of that seeming miracle, “The Presentation in the Temple”!  It is clear, confident day,—­so pure and perfect a day abroad over the happy earth, that all things lure forth into an atmosphere so unsullied that to breathe it is life and joy,—­over an earth youthful with spring, fresh with morning; and hither have come the people to see confirmed the future mother of Christ, now the child Mary.  As the maiden ascends the steps of the Temple, a halo surrounds her,—­not her head alone, but all the form,—­and far away a fainter halo rests upon the hills.  Her youth, its purity and half-recognized promise, seem sweetly imaged in the morning freshness and spring-life of the landscape.

We can remember no landscape by Titian which is not in full sympathy with the motives which actuate his groups.  It is the unison of scene and act that gives his pictures a unity and completeness never or rarely found elsewhere.

After Titian came painters—­among them, mighty ones—­who, like Tintoretto, wrought from the external.  The elements of the landscape were treated with knowledge and power, but not often with feeling, and very seldom with a recognition of its central significance.  One example is so marvellous, however, that we cannot forbear referring to it.  Its truthfulness is the more remarkable from the fact that the painter’s conceptions rarely were such that any true landscape could be found capable of harmony with their character.  In this picture, “The Temptation of Saint Anthony,” one of the Pitti Palace Gallery, Salvator has wrought marvellously like a demon.  The horizon and the sky near it are charged with a sense of demoniacal conflict for human souls, and forebodings of defeat and woe.