unique work; at the sale of Vermeer's work in 1696 it brought 175 florins.

Vermeer here is at his most vigorous and powerful. His other works are notable above everything for charm; such a picture as the "Pearl Necklace," at Berlin, represents the ecstasy of perfection in paint. But here we find strength too. I never saw a woman more firmly set upon canvas; I never saw a bodice that was so surely filled with a broad, beating bosom. Only a very great man could so paint that quiet, capable face. Some large pictures are very little and some small pictures are large. This" Milkwoman " by Vermeer is only eighteen inches by fifteen, but it is to all intents and purposes a full-length; on no life-size canvas could a more real and living woman be painted. When you are at Amsterdam, you cannot give this picture too much attention; be sure to notice also the painting of the hood and the drawing of the still life, especially the jug and the bowl. It was this picture, one feels, that shone before the dear Chardin all his life as a star.

The other Six Vermeer is that Delft façade which artists adore. The charm of it is not to be communicated by words, or, at any rate, words of mine. It is as though Peter de Hooch had known sorrow, and, emerging triumphant and serene, had then begun to paint again. And yet that is of course not all, for de Hooch, with all his radiant tenderness, had not this man's native aristocracy of mind, nor could any suffering have given it to him. Like the "View of Delft," like the "Young Courtesan," this picture stands alone not only in Vermeer's record but in the art of all time. Many grow the flower now, but the originator still stands alone and apart, as indeed, by God's justice, originators are often permitted to.

The Vermeers at the Ryks were in 1907 two in number (now made three by the "Milkwoman "); and of these one I do not like, however much one is astounded by its dexterity, and one I could never tire of. The picture that I do not like "The Love Letter"-with the "New Testament Allegory' at The Hague, shows the painter in his most dashing mood of virtuosity. Neither has charm, but both have a masterful dexterity that not only leaves one bewildered but kills all

the other genre painters in the vicinity. Both were painted, I conjecture, to order, to please some foolish purchaser who frequented the studio. But the other Ryks picture-the "Woman Reading a Letter"-here is the essential Vermeer again in all his delicacy and quietude. It was the first of his best pictures that I ever saw, and I fell under his spell instantly. What I have said of the "Milkwoman" applies also to the "Reader." She becomes after a while a full-length. picture is only twenty inches, by sixteen, but the woman also takes her place in the memory as life size. It is one of the simplest of all, comparable with the "Pearl Necklace," but a little simpler still. The woman's face has been injured, but it does not matter; you don't notice. it after a moment; her intent expression remains, her gentle contours are unharmed.

The jacket she wears is of the most beautiful blue in Holland, the map is a yellowish brown, the wall is white.

Writing in another place some years ago, I ventured to call Vermeer's picture of a girl's head at The Hague one of the most beautiful things in Holland. I must modify that statement now. I say now quite calmly that it is the most beautiful thing in Holland. To me it is also the most satisfying and exquisite product of brush and color that I have anywhere seen. The painting of the lower lip is as much a miracle to me as a flower or a butterfly. The line of the right cheek is surely the sweetest line ever traced. I don't expect you to come a stranger to this face and feel what I feel; but I ask you to look at it quietly and steadily for a little while until it smiles back at you againas surely it will. Who was this child? one wonders. One of the painter's? One of the eight, whom it amused him to dress in this Oriental garb that he might play with the cool harmonies of yellow and green and the youthful Dutch complexion? If this is so, it is one of his latest pictures, for all his many children were under age when he died.

Heer des Tombes bought her in an auction-room at The Hague for 2 florins 30 cents. Think of it-2 florins 30 cents! And if she found her way to Christie's to-day, I don't suppose that £30,000

have overlooked.

It is at once Vermeer and not Vermeer. It is very rich, very satisfying; but I for one should feel no sense of bereavement if another name were put to it. As a matter of fact, Nicolaes Maes was long held to have been its author. A fifth Vermeer the Mauritshuis possessed just then, the tiny picture of a girl with a flute, in a Chinese hat (or something very like it), with an elaborate background; not one of the most attractive Vermeers, except technically, but Vermeer through and through, and so modern and innovating that were it hung in an exhibition to-day it would look out of place only by reason of its power. The picture (recently reproduced in The Outlook) is 71⁄2 inches by 634, and it now belongs to Mr. Pierpont Morgan.

After Delft, where we roamed a while to reconstruct Vermeer's environment, but where, I regret to say, little is known of him, Brussels. For Vermeer there, one must visit the d'Arenberg mansion, in the Rue de la Régence. It is open to the picture lover, like that of Count Czernin, only on certain days. The gallery is small and chiefly Dutch, with a few good pictures in it. The Vermeer is isolated on an easel-the most unmistakable Vermeer perhaps of all, and yet cruelly treated by time, for it is a mass of cracks. Yet through these wounds the beautiful living light of a young girl's face shines-not the girl we have seen at The Hague, but the ghost of her-her sister, as I conjecture, dressed in the same Eastern trappings-a girl with a strangely blank forehead and eyes widely apart, akin to the type of Madonna dear to Andrea del Sarto. The same girl, I think, sat for the "Player of the Clavichord" in Mr. Salting's picture, to which we soon come. She is a little sad and a little strange, this child, and only a master could have created her. At Brussels also is Vermeer's Geographer," in the collection of the Viscomte du Bus de Gisignies; but this I did not then know.

After Brussels, Paris-a good exchange. Paris has one Vermeer in a private collection-Alphonse de Rothschild's-an astronomer, which I have not seen; and one in the Louvre-the beautiful "Dentellière," before which I have stood scores

is very

small-only

of times. This, too, a few inches square-but the serene busy head is painted as largely as if it were in a fresco. The lighting is from the right instead of the left-a very rare experiment with Vermeer.

In London we have five Vermeers that are beyond question, and at Windsor Castle is another. It is greatly to be regretted that our national Vermeer is not better. Not that it is not a marvel of technique; the paint is applied with all Vermeer's charm of touch, the room is filled with the light of day, there are marvelous details, but it is not a picture of which I am fond; it is a tour de force. That is the English nation's own only authentic Vermeer, but his name is placed conjecturally upon a large canvas of a sedate Dutchman and a little gentle boya beautiful gray thing, painted by no common hand, and yet not, I feel, Vermeer's. Of the other London Vermeers, two belong to Mr. Otto Beit. Just think of any one man having two Vermeers! There they hang, however, no matter what expression of perplexity may cross the face of Justice, in his beautiful house: one of them a tiny "Lady Seated at a Spinet," not in the first rank of fascination, but a little masterpiece nevertheless, and the other "A Lady Writing a Letter," notable for the strong and beautiful painting of the lady's face, foreshortened as she bends over her task. Beside her stands her blue-aproned maid, waiting to take the missive to the door. The table has its usual tapestry and the wall its picture, this time an Old Master. But the head of the lady is what one remembers— with her white cap and her pearl drops and her happy, prosperous countenance. Mr. Beit's Vermeers are in Belgrave Square; there is another in Hyde Park Gardens, the property of Mrs. Joseph; "The Soldier and the Laughing Girl," it is called. The girl sits at the table with a bright and merry face; the soldier, who has borrowed his red from Peter de Hooch, is in the shade; on the wall is a splendid rugged map of Holland and West Friesland. The picture is paintier than is usual with Vermeer. The other London Vermeer belongs to that princely collector Mr. George Salting: "The Player of the Clavichord "-the same girl that we