People who live in London, and those who live in the depths of the country, are both equally inclined, for different reasons, to laugh a little, and even sneer, over the obvious disadvantages of suburban residences. By suburban I mean more the character of the surroundings than the actual distance from London or any other large town. The more favoured a place is as regards soil and climate, the more thickly populated it becomes. But the near neighbourhood of London has certainly immense advantages under many conditions. For young couples, if a man is strong and well, and has work to do in town, it is the very poetry of life compared to London itself, and is a phase of existence which a woman, if once she has had it, always looks back upon with pleasure. She has her children and her duties all day, and in the evening the man throws off his bothers and worries and comes back to peace and happiness, rest and pure air at home. When children get big, and have tastes and talents of their own which must be developed and educated, there is certainly much to be said in favour of moving the home for some years to London. When the parents are no longer young, and when, however friendly they may be and proud of each other, they have to pursue individually their own lives, and carry out that partnership which is the only perfect form of middle-aged married life, for the good of the children and the general well-being of the establishment, then the oneness of married life cannot possibly be carried on without a certain sacrifice of what is best for the growing-up children. But, again, in the evening of life, when friends gradually fall away, and we become rather a duty and perhaps even a slight burden to our children and relations, who have their own lives to attend to, I consider that residing in the suburbs solves, once more, a great many of the difficulties of our complicated family existence. Our children can easily visit us, and, if we are not too old, we can so well go to London for duty or pleasure, and in this way see, and hear, and learn all that is going on. If all this is true, as I think it is, we are saved, without actually living in London, from the reproach that, being buried in the country, we let ourselves go, and grow old prematurely. To be an easy distance from town, though saying this may'seem rather a drop from the sublime to the ridiculous, certainly helps us to cultivate the enjoyment of Nature, and, at the same time, gives us the opportunity, if we have the power in however slight a degree, of acquiring knowledge for its own sake without regard to its practical application. Surely these are the only two perfect sources of human happiness? I do not say this thoughtlessly. Love, in all its forms, gives a far intenser happiness, but even in its purest form-parental love-it is accompanied by anxiety and doubt. It begins with a kind of animal enjoyment, and ends in the practising of continual self-denial.

Much as I dislike leaving my garden, yesterday I obeyed the summons of my oldest friend to spend the day in London with her; and certainly it turned out an example of what I have been saying-so much so, that I yield to the temptation of giving a slight account of it. We spent our time in visiting Burlington House, and I will tell you what struck us most as we wandered through the rooms there, in the way we used to do at the old Academy in Trafalgar Square, when we were young and enthusiastic. First, I took my friend to the work that I admired most, which, I believe, will no more die in the generations to come than that of either Raphael or Benvenuto Cellini has died, though it will be more or less admired according to the fashion of the day. Mr. Gilbert, the sculptor, is in my opinion one of the greatest geniuses we have amongst us just now, and his exhibited work in 1896 shows with peculiar force the comprehensiveness of his talent. Is not the stretch between the massive, splendid portrait-bust of Professor Owen, and the exquisitely finished, subtle, little full-length figure of St. George, all that the Colossus of Rhodes could boast-a foot on either shore ? With the assertiveness of the true artist he must have insisted on the hiding of the hideous colour on the walls, and hung a piece of yellow-brown drapery, which harmonises splendidly with his plaster cast. We crossed the room to look at the least remarkable work of the three, perhaps, artistically speaking; and yet how the bust of Sir George Grove stands out and lives, and almost breathes, compared with the cold dead heads that surround it! It has not the colour of life nor the vulgar realism of waxwork, but the plain chalk cast is a man of flesh and blood, rugged and strong. Then we went back to the St. George, and enjoyed it for ten minutes. Perhaps we shall never see again its exquisite beauty-the little hands that express so much feeling; the sad, gentle face, almost mourning over the worthlessness of human greatness, though the dead dragon lies coiled about his feet, and the princess is to be his bride! Look at the cross-handled sword, and the helmet, and the armour, and think of all it means, in these days of cheap work, to put all that is here into one small figure, which is, after all, only a portion of a railing round a dead young prince's effigy, to be hidden away for ever in a cool, dim chapel. We who studied the little statuette are not likely to forget it, for, as a poet said of his friend:. . . Some, in whom such images are strong, Have hoarded the impression in their heart,

Fancy's fond dreams and memory's joys among,

Like some loved relic of romantic song, Or cherished masterpiece of ancient art.

As we passed back into the picture rooms we were pleased to see that Lord Leighton's last work apparently gains so immensely by being unfinished; and it is in the manner of his youth rather than of his age, rich and harmonious in colour, passionate in sentiment-to be looked at by those who knew him, this ideal President of our Academy of Painting, with 'thoughts which only upon tears can rise.' Far the most striking portraits in the Academy are, alas! by non-Englishmen-Mr. Sar-geant, who is an American, and M. Benjamin Constant, who is a Frenchman. Mr. Sergeant's 'Portrait of a Lady 'is surely consummate: the painting of the pearls, the smart, bright-coloured cape, are not to be beaten by Vandyck at his best; and oh ! how far beyond any effort even of the old masters is the sad pathos of that interesting nineteenth-century face ! Can we look at it and not say with Balzac, 'Les drames de la vie ne sont pas dans les circonstances, ils sont dans le coeur'? It seems rather the fashion not to admire Mr. Chamberlain's portrait, and it is not quite so finished, especially the hands, as one would wish-doubtless for want of time being given for the sittings; all the same, it is a grand portrait of a history-making Late Victorian statesman, and will be looked at with reverent curiosity by the student of the future.

And now we pass on through two or three rooms, avoiding what we do not like when not able to fix our eyes on what we do, which is the acquired knack of the habitual haunter of galleries and exhibitions, and sit down quietly to study Mr. Abbey's most remarkable picture of Richard, Duke of Gloucester, and the Lady Anne.

Was ever woman in this humour woo'd ? Was ever woman in this humour won ?

And the more we looked, the more we studied, the more remarkable the picture appeared to us. The young, angry, and yet wicked face under the strange headdress, the nervous clasp of the left hand, while the right seizes the black veil, true to the instinct of some women, who, in the moment of their greatest joy or deepest grief, never forget their clothes 1 Richard, with his winning courtesy and the bow which conceals the defects of his figure, in his red clothes, is a strange contrast to that other figure which we know, rather than see, lies stiff and cold behind the guards. Historically, perhaps, Richard looks a little old, as he was but thirty-five when killed on Bosworth field. The guards, the crowd, the varied expressions fading actually away into the canvas, are very fine. The painting reminds one of the old Germans, and yet is entirely original. Is it not indeed in Art what 'Esmond'is in literature-an old story told in an old manner, and yet without absolute mimicry of anything ?

And so the two old friends of forty years wandered on and began to get tired, when we met an acquaintance, and she said, 'Have you seen the picture that Mr. Watts in his generosity says is better painted than anything he ever did?' 'No, where is it? What is it?' "The Leper's Wife," by George Harcourt, in the eleventh room.'

And so on we went with renewed strength into this honoured eleventh room, and stood before one of the most dramatic and moving of modern pictures. A splendid young woman, of five-and-twenty or so, clothed in bright red, rushes with her face towards you through a wood, with outstretched arms, her face glowing with love and devotion, and her lips parted; behind her are great banks of cumuli, sanguine-stained from the setting sun, and the stems of the trees glow with the same light. Pure, small, white wood-flowers grow about her feet. All this to represent the joy and the pride of life, which she willingly leaves to join her leper husband, who stands in the dark shadow of his humble hut, clothed from head to foot in grey leper draperies, slightly recalling Mr. Watts's own beautiful figure of 'Love and Death'-the head turned away, and the hand upheld forbidding her approach, unable to appreciate the love she brings him, or loving her too well to allow of any risk for her sake, though she cries: 'Kiss me, in the name of the everlasting God! I will live and die with you!'The sacrifice could bring him no joy; and so it will ever be, not only to the leper-for the love of men is not as the love of women.

It seems impossible anyone should share our ignorance, so I will merely state that as the two old friends, who had led such different lives, stood entranced before the picture, we neither of us knew it was the illustration of a poem called 'Happy, or The Leper's Bride,'in Tennyson's last volume, 'Demeter and Other Poems.'

He gives in a note an interesting account of the decision of the Church, in the twelfth century, that marriage was indissoluble, and that the lepers' wives might rejoin their husbands if they liked.

Once more overcome with fatigue, we sat down on a bench, to rest before leaving, when a wonderful little maiden passed, cleanly but very poorly dressed for these days, with beautifully and yet fashionably dressed hair, and far-away dreamy eyes. 'That, no doubt, is a young artist treading the Asphodel meadows of her youth' My friend answered, 'I daresay it is true. Let us tell her of the picture we have enjoyed so much;'and running after her she brought her back, all smiles, saying to me, 'This lady is not an artist, as we thought, but the next thing to it, a model, enjoying the pictures she has helped to make.' Seeing she had no catalogue, we presented her with ours, and left her in that undying Elysian world of Art, while we slowly went down the steps with the strong conviction upon us that age had not yet robbed us of the power of spending a happy grey summer morning in London.