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but a short time on it, and passes away, and the future is not known.
What an influence Mauve had on his brother artists, and on his fellow countrymen, their loving and affectionate memory of him shows. This is beautifully expressed by M. A. C. Loffelt, in his study of the artist's life and work: “But Mauve is not dead! When we “Dutch walk in those pretty country lanes under the
the Painters of
the Ninebirch trees, with their silvery leaves and pearly teenth Cen
tury.” aspect; when we watch the sun caressing the green meadows and playing about among the branches of the willow, or over the alder and hazel trees; when we hear the echo of the tinkling bell of the sheep on the heath, we say: ‘Mauve lives, he is here, he is here!!”
THERE are some artists about whose place in the art world there is always great discussion; they have strong admirers, and these perhaps exaggerate their good qualities, and on the other hand there are many people who go to the other extreme, and do not care even so much as to look at their works, are even annoyed at them for their apparent impossibility and unreality.
Matthew Maris is one of these artists, and while very many admire the paintings of his earlier period, with their fine colour, perfect tone, and poetic realism, the work of his maturer years is little understood, and appeals to those only who are willing to accept without questioning as much as he is able to disclose to them, in weird but beautiful terms, of the dreamland in which he lives, and
the shadowy, haunting forms of the men and women who dwell in that realm of
If it be a gain occasionally to escape from this matter-of-fact world, with its trivial rounds, its cares and troubles, and lose ourselves awhile in a purer air, perhaps even visit the fairyland we read of, and almost believed in when we were young, then must we be glad that art exists; that Matthew Maris lived; and that he painted those visions of an unseen world, in which we can let our thoughts wander at will, though we never fully realize the meaning of their wonderful mystery, which he only partially reveals, only imperfectly sees himself, yet indicates in such suggestive manner, with so evanescent a charm, and in colour tender, delicate, and rich.
The advent of one great artist is a rare enough occurrence, but that three brothers should all be painters of note is almost unheard of, if it be not a unique event in the annals of art. Yet it has happened in this remarkable family in the nineteenth century. James, Matthew, and William Maris have,