of the primeval world might sprawl on the rocks, for all the evidence
of lapse of time since their day, in many of his pictures. He, too,
has refined away his world until only fragments of the earth remain
to him where he can dream in; and these are waste places, where
the salt of the sea is in the wind, and the skies are gray and vapor-
laden, or the loneliness of dim twilights are over level sands.
Whatever else he paints is devoid of its proper interest, for he
seems to impose on the cattle in the fields and on the habitable
places a sentiment alien to their nature. He has a mind with but
one impressive mood, and his spirit is never kindled, save in the
society where none intrude; but in his own domain he is a master,
and is always sure of himself and his effect. There is no tentative,
undecisive brushwork, such as we often see in the subtle search for
the unrevealed, which makes or mars Mr. Yeats' work. He is at home
in his peculiar world, while the other is always seeking for it.

"A Sunset on Malahide Sands" shows a greater intensity than is
usual even in Mr. Hone's work. There is something thrilling in
this twilight trembling over the deserted world. Philosophies may
prove very well in the lecture-room, says Whitman, and not prove
at all under the sky and stars. Pictures likewise may seem beautiful
in a gallery, yet look thin and unreal where, with a turn of the
head, one could look out at the pictures created hour after hour
by the Master of the Beautiful; but there is some magic in this
vision made up of elemental light, darkness, and loneliness, and
we feel awed as if we knew the Spirit was hidden in His works. But
primitive as this peculiar world is, and remote from humanity, it
is just here we find a human revelation; for is not all art a symbol
of the creative mind, and if we were wise enough we would understand
that in art the light on every cloud, and the clear spaces above