At length, after protracted studies, full of moments of fear and hesitation, I beheld, emerging from the gloom, little by little, the luminous figure of the sovereign, serene and dignified, gazing into the future, as if oblivious of her surroundings, on the throne of state, victorious, as her name indicates.

And from this vision of contemporaneous history one must evolve a veritable poem of royalty, to be considered with emotions of admiration and respect. Have I succeeded in this? I repeat, it is not for me to say.

But I know that the subjects of the Queen, come to Paris for the Exposition, have returned to London impressed with this portrait, and some have told me my labors were not in vain.

Now, I long to see this portrait displayed in London, properly placed, in some large and handsome gallery; and nothing will interest me more than to

note how the people of England, large and small, are impressed by this work, signed with a French name . . . and representing a Queen who, if nothing else, was ever the friend and ally of France.

Little things sometimes lead to important results, . . . so this portrait, perhaps, will have the honor of reviving many sympathies that have grown cold. Such, at least, is my sincere and profound wish. Providence will do the rest.

THE PRINCESS OF WALES (NOW QUEEN).

A subject almost formidable (redoutable)! Many painters, too, before me had essayed the task. The grace of the model, her air of supreme distinction, offer immense difficulties. What would be the result in my own case? I thought. I cannot say, but in London, very soon, opportunity will be afforded for the judgment of this portrait by the English

people-a people, I dare affirm, who would be little disposed to regard even the counterfeit presentment with less admiration than the actual person of their beloved Princess.

66 MY TWO SONS."

It is now one year since I produced this work, submitted to the public at the Paris Exposition. That it has achieved a great success I have reason to believe, while appreciating that all the honor is due to my two sons Emmanuel and André.

The world knows, perhaps, that of these two youths only one remains, my son André, the younger, seen at the left in the painting. The one at the right, my son Emmanuel, with the stronger face, and chin resting on his hand-that one is no more. At twenty-three years of age, handsome, of fine intelligence

and lofty spirit, he was taken from us; but my art has fixed his likeness for all time by the side of his brother; and notwithstanding the void that he has left, his place, at least in my work, is not vacant, and the title of the portrait remains "My Two Sons."

Yes! my beloved child, notwithstanding thy departure from this life in the fulness of youth, the spring-time scarcely commenced, I have established thee for eternity in this painting, by the side of thy surviving brother. To impart the semblance of life, that is everything! Of what value to me is all the skill with the brush, if my son Emmanuel does not present to me on the canvas the illusion of life, of his own life?

Painting in the domain of art is nothing more than the means to represent the life of an individual, to reveal the soul in an expression, to suggest the

spoken words in the parted lips. I recall now that, after having completed the portrait of my cherished son Emmanuel, I was seized with a certain vague presentiment, a mist of mourning clouded my eyes, . . . it seemed to me that his expression was full of sorrow, as if he wished to utter a farewell to life. I became overwhelmed with grief, . . and the same tears that fall now as I write these lines were present then.

And the countenance of my son Emmanuel, of my adored child, remains pensive and tinged with melancholy in my picture. It could not be otherwise.

All the instantaneous effects of photography can never give that indefinable spirituality, that revelation of one soul through another, which the art of the portrait-painter makes possible. And this is why in my misfortune I am consoled, in that I sought to transfer to canvas the living features of my son Emmanuel, and because I finally fixed them for aye, with all of a father's love, with all of an artist's soul.

MADAME FMILE FOURTON.

Here I have wished to paint a beauty of the North, with dazzling flesh tints, with mouth and eyes sweet and candid, in an arrangement of rich, antique draperies.

Madame Émile Fourton, Swedish by birth and grande dame in all the decorative sense of the word, demanded amplitude of treatment; and therefore, although enclosed in an oval frame, I have endeavored to give the pose a certain grand air and tournure, by painting the figure, so far as possible, with broad execution and in elevated style, to fairly reflect on the canvas the majestic beauty of Madame Émile Fourton.

MADAME VON DERWIES.

A Russian lady of supreme elegance is seen leaning against a pillar of a balustrade, the color scheme otherwise being a harmony of orange tints.

In the midst of this warm and yellowish pallor of autumn appears a face, white and red, with two sparkling, piercing eyes. This is what I have endeavored to render on a background of landscape and architecture, which forms the decorative complement of this portrait.

MADAME LANGIER.

Niece of the great astronomer François Arago, and daughter of Ernest Langier, member of the Academy of Sciences, Madame Langier was a woman of the finest intelligence.

Her uncle, François Arago, regretted always that she was not a man, in order that she might continue the erudite labors of his wonderful brain. She did, in fact, act as secretary to the astronomer for many years: a woman could hardly have been more highly honored.

Nothing was more interesting than to hear her relate the notable events of 1830 and 1848. It was indeed history by word of mouth. Thus, she would recall, thanks to her prodigious memory, the facts in the lives, and the intimate traits, of the great men of the past, such as Balzac, Lamartine, and Guizot, and many other illustrious citizens who were drawn into the vortex of exciting events, or were themselves leaders in the same. All these scenes of other days were revived with a sympathetic warmth of description that one could never forget. Such is the remarkable woman whom I have endeavored to fix on the canvas.

Let us now consider some of my earlier portraits, not included amongst those shown at the Paris Exposition, and which I recall especially as having preserved the personal traits of certain individuals either celebrated or at least interesting.

About 1890, while in New York, I painted the portrait of Jay Gould, the famous millionaire, who had ordered it as a gift for his son George.

During the execution of this work he never displayed the least curiosity in regard to it. When the portrait was completed, I showed it to him, and he gave it about two minutes of his attention. It was, however, worth more than that. In fact, it is a work which I shall always rank among my best.

While Jay Gould posed in silence, his eyes fixed-on a paste button as the centre of his attention, I could feel the entire abstraction of vision in his sombre, preoccupied mask, whose lines and features betrayed the burden of the man's colossal fortune.

He had a pale yellowish complexion,