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64 The Ritter mounts, and his broad sword clangs: “Master Olaf, I bid thee now good night! Know, thou hast the horse of Odin shod; I hasten across to the bloody fight.”

The black horse shoots forward o’er land and sea, Round Odin’s head a splendour shone; Twelve eagles are straining in flight behind, Swiftly they fly,—he rides foremost on. L. B.

picture commenced by Mr. Hunt at Jerusalem, in 1854, is finished at last. One picture, and that not very large, is the fruit of more than five years of a painter’s labour! This is worth thinking about, not as affording curious data for calculating the number of pictures a man might produce at such a consumption of time, during the comparatively short period wherein he possesses his greatest powers, because if we desire great pictures, or any other thing which is really great, we must not be over-anxious for speed of production. This labour of five years evidences the possession of those very faculties which are needful for the creation of the greatest works—patient labour, unwearied devotion, tenacity of purpose, a willingness to forego immediate fame,—these are the means by which the highest creative power receives its fullest development.

For the last year or two rumours have come from the artist’s studio that the picture was all but finished; the lucky few who had seen it were full of satisfaction; but the painter himself was not satisfied,—the idea was still too far above the embodiment; much that seemed very good had to be painted out and the labour begun anew.

I think that we who are not artists are too apt to under-estimate the artist’s labour. We accept the beautiful outline and splendid colours as a sort of holiday-work wrought in perpetual joy of heart. We do not bear in mind that if the work is truly great it has been executed at the full tension of the artist’s powers, that there has been in all probability a bitter struggle with doubt and uncertainty before the easel, till the man grew disgusted over his brightest thoughts, and had to leave his painting awhile and seek fresh strength ere he could return to his labour. We know that authors are forced to put down the pen. Recollect the grim way in which “Jane Eyre” was written—long intervals when it was not in the heart to work. When we look on a great painting, let us sympathise with the stern labour which is hidden beneath its loveliness.

The pre-Raphaelites will point to this picture in absolute vindication of their principles—it was a reproach to them that the force of their accessories destroyed the main interest of their pictures. You must paint down your objects of still life was the cry. Not so, they replied; we must repair our error by striving to paint our countenances up; if all parts of the picture are truly painted, the interest of the human face will give it due dominance in the composition.

It is curious to observe how this adherence to truth of detail has led the pre-Raphaelites to create a principle in religious painting opposed to previous methods. Great religious painters hitherto have striven to attain their aim through idealisation—the countenance was idealised until it had almost lost its human interest—to mark the divineness of the subject the surrounding accessories were generally of a purely conventional character—the heavenly host introduced;—by making the picture unearthly it was sought to make it divine. With the pre-Raphaelites the reverse; their principle is realisation; in showing us as truly as possible the real, we are to behold the wonder of the divine.

So on this principle it was necessary for Mr. Hunt to strive for the utmost possible truth. It was necessary to resuscitate an architecture whereof all records beyond certain traditions have passed away—the Temple, of which not one stone remains upon another, had to be reproduced in its most probable aspect. According to tradition, one portion of that Temple yet remains—the natural rock pavement, reddish limestone fading at the edges into slate-colour, over which is now reared the mosque of Omar. This pavement forms the foreground of the picture, and above it is raised, as of old, one of the covered outer courts or cloisters of the Temple—slender golden columns in the form of palm and pomegranate stems conventionalised, supporting a series of low arched roofs which run horizontally with the picture: this roofing is of gilt fretted work, the interstices filled in with ruby, purple, and other coloured glass. So by the law of perspective, as we look up, we behold ridge below ridge of jewel- work resting on the golden columns, and glowing with transmitted light. The background, shutting in the court, is a screen of delicate metal work, the details standing out against the bright glare of day. There is an opening in the screen which shows the distant country, clear outline in the noon-day heat, untempered by the slightest mist. To the right of the picture, in the foreground, is a brazen gate opening from a flight of steps which leads down to the Court of the Gentile. Now the architecture of this court follows the fashion of the Greeks,—marble columns and Corinthian capitals, in strong contrast with the distinctive Hebrew character of the holier portions of the Temple. According to a tradition, this court was constructed during our Saviour’s childhood, and the association at such a period of Gentile art with the architecture of the exclusive Jew in the great edifice dedicated to the worship of Jehovah, possesses a strange significance. The builders are still at work, the space for the “corner stone” is unfilled. Beyond the wall of this court rises Mount Scopus, cypress trees and olive gardens; a long range of barren hills in the furthest distance.

After this manner was the glory of the second Temple which Herod the Great had rebuilt with great magnificence to flatter the pride of the Jews, and in the thought of that glory they made their angry retort, “Forty and six years was this Temple in building, and wilt thou rear it up in three days?”

Although this representation of the architecture of the Temple may not be quite historically true, yet, as regards the other portions of the picture, the