. Genevieve (the saint is a portrait of his princess), at
the Pantheon; Summer and Winter at the Hotel de Ville, the decorations
for the amphitheatre of the Sorbonne, the decorations at Rouen, Inter
Artes et Naturam; at Rouen, The Sacred Wood, Vision Antique, The
Rhone, The Saone; the decorations at Amiens, War, Peace, Rest, Labour,
Ave Picardia Nutrix, and two smaller grisailles, Vigilance and Fancy;
at Marseilles, the Marseilles, Porte d' Orient, and Marseilles, the
Greek Colony; the decorations for the Boston Public Library, and his
easel picture, The Poor Fisherman, now in the Luxembourg. As to this
latter, the painter explained that he had found the model in the
person of a wretchedly poor fisherman at the estuary of the Seine; the
young girl is a sister, and the landscape is that of the surroundings,
though, as is the case with Puvis, greatly generalised. The above is
but a slender list. New York has at the Metropolitan Museum at least
one of his works, and in the collection here of John Quinn, Esq.,
there is the brilliant masterpiece, The Beheading of John the Baptist,
and two large mural decorations, The River and The Vintage. They were
painted in 1866. They are magnificent museum pictures.

All his frescoes are applied canvases. He didn't worry much over
antique methods, nor can it be said that his work is an attempt to
rehabilitate the Italian Primitives. On the contrary, Puvis is
distinctly modern, and that is his chief offence in the eyes of
official French art; while the fact that his "modernity" was
transposed to decorative purposes, and appeared in so strange a
guise, caused the younger men to eye him suspiciously. (Just as some
recalcitrant music-critics refuse to recognise in certain compositions
of Johannes Brahms the temperamental romantic.) Thus in the estimation
of rival camps Puvis fell between two stools. He has been styled a
latter-day Domenico Ghirlandajo, but this attribution rings more
literary than literal.

Mr. Brownell with his accustomed sense of critical values has to our
notion definitely summed up the question: "His classicism is
absolutely unacademic, his romanticism unreal beyond the verge of
mysticism and so preoccupied with visions that he may almost be called
a man for whom the actual world does not exist--in the converse of
Gautier's phrase. His distinction is wholly personal. He lives
evidently on a high plane, dwells habitually in the delectable
highlands of the intellect. The