The Sketcher's Dream.

WAS taking a stroll one summer morning along the shore of a beautiful bay on the south-west coast of Scotland, when I came upon an artist sketching in water-colours a bold and richly-coloured group of rocks. Having myself made an attempt at the same subject, I could not help asking leave to examine his drawing, which, as saw at a glance, was the work of a master hand.

I learned in the course of conversation that

he was one of our most eminent water-colour artists; notwithstanding which he was most ready to give me the benefit of his counsel and experience in my amateur efforts, and insisted on seeing the sketch-book I happened to have with me.

"I don't think you are wise in your choice of colours," he observed, after turning over two or three leaves. “May I look at your box? Ah, there is a colour I advise you to give up using."

"Indeed!" I answered, with surprise. "I never met with anything that gave one peculiar effect of light so truly."

Yes," he answered; "it's all very well if one was painting only for the present; but no one should use that colour who wishes the brightness of his pictures to last. That colour quite fades in a few years; and not only so, but it is one of those that only retain their tint by daylight."

"I thought that was the case with water-colours generally," I replied.

"No, indeed," he said, smiling good-naturedly at my ignorance; "not with a good painting. Why, don't you know that some of the most famous collectors of watercolours choose their pictures by lamplight, and wouldn't think one worth looking at that didn't stand that test ?"

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But," I persisted, "I see you keep the colour among your own."

"Yes; I don't say it need be wholly discarded," he answered. 'A little of it, mixed with certain other colours, may safely be used; but if you let the brightness of your picture in any way depend on it, there will be nothing but failure in the end."

As we parted, Mr. gave me a cordial invitation to visit him at his London studio; and, thanking him for his kindness, I passed on.

The day was hot, and my walk had been long, so presently I lay down, for rest and coolness, under shadow of a rock, upon the soft white sand. All around was still with

the stillness of a summer noon, broken only by the soft plash of the incoming tide. I had been in my resting-place for a while, watching the white clouds float, gauze-like, across the deep blue sky, and thinking of the foregoing conversation, when suddenly I saw two men walking quickly along the sands. They passed close by without noticing me, and I observed that they carried easels and other drawing apparatus. When they were at a little distance I arose and followed them. They soon took a path that led away upwards from the shore and into a wood, where, after some windings, it ended in an open space; here the ground was covered with purple heather and rich green moss, upon which the sunlight danced gaily with the shadows of trees, which met in aisle-like arches overhead. By the cutting away of some branches in the direction of the shore a beautiful distance view was disclosed, including the blue waters of the bay and the far-away hills on its opposite shore. I wondered that in all my wanderings I had never till now discovered so lovely a spot. The artists, after a few minutes spent in choosing each his point of view, set up their easels and commenced sketching. At length I ventured to approach one of them who had placed himself nearest to me, and much more in shade than the other. He had pencilled in a careful outline, and washed over his whole drawing with a uniform tint; and, as he was waiting for this to dry, he readily entered into conversation. He told me that both he and his brother artist were striving for a prize. "There is no rivalry between us," he said: "we are both to make the best picture we can of the scene before us, choosing our own colours, and may both obtain the prize, which is, to have our pictures admitted to the royal collection; if we succeed in that, our future position is made."

"Are you obliged to choose the same subject?" I asked. "Yes," he answered. "This spot is appointed us; but, as you see, we may choose different points of view."

"Is there a stated time allowed you for your work?"

"No; at least it is not told us. A messenger will be sent to call us away, one of us, perhaps, sooner than the other; only it is insured that the call will not come till our work is so far advanced as to serve as a test of our qualifications for the prize."

And now his foundation-tint was dry, so he resumed his colouring, and began by putting in the distance, where the horizon line between mountain and sky was almost lost in a transparent blue haze. After watching him a little, I passed on to examine his friend's work. Even at that early : stage there was a striking contrast between the two pictures. That before me was apparently much the furthest advanced ; the painter had evidently dispensed with a foundation-tint, and was already colouring in a foreground with brilliant hues. I saw that in his pencil outline the distant view was omitted. On my remarking this, he said :

"Oh, that will come all in due time; my plan is always to leave that part to the last, and then it can be harmonised with the rest. As I mean to have my principal light on some near object, the distance must be subdued."

On returning to my first acquaintance, I found he had made steady progress. His system was clearly the reverse of his friend's; for the foreground objects of his sketch were toned down so that the eye was at once caught by the light he had thrown on the far-away hills; and every shadow cast by tree or cloud was faithfully depicted.

"Is that your usual method of proceeding?" I asked.

"Yes," he said. "I learnt it of a great master, whose teaching I follow, from my foundation-tint to the end of my work."

"Your companion does not seem to have studied under him," I remarked.

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"No," he answered; strange to say, very few attend his school, though his valuable lessons may be had for the asking."

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May I ask what colour you use for the bright light on your distant hills ?" I asked.

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"This," he replied; and, as he held his box towards me, I saw that every colour had a name of some length marked on the japanned setting which held it. He pointed with his brush to one, on which I read : an inheritance incorruptible, undefiled, and that fadeth not away." "That," he said, "is what gives the peculiar brightness; but to be permanent it must be blended with these: kept by the power of God,' and 'faith unto salvation;' and the three together would neither be bright nor lasting without this foundation-tint, with which, as you see, I have first covered my paper; and, indeed," he added, on that foundation-tint depends the harmony as well as durability of all my after colouring." It was called "the name of Jesus Christ of Nazareth."

He now proceeded to colour the middle distance of his view; and here he used chiefly quiet, cool tints, which bore such names as 66 patient continuance in well-doing," and "endure, as seeing Him who is invisible." I told him I feared the effect would be dull; but he only smiled and went quietly on; so I left him, and went to look at the other picture.

In this the painter was still engaged on the foreground, which was in rapid progress. I thought there was a monotony about it, and that some of the tints first laid on had somewhat faded; and it seemed to me that when he was obliged, by the requirements of his subject, to put in shadows, his colouring was heavy and black; yet this picture looked very bright compared with the other; and I said:

"A little of that colour you have just been using would be a great improvement to your friend's painting."

"Yes," he answered, in a tone of pity; "but I believe it is quite left out in his system of colouring."

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May I take it to him for a few minutes ?" I asked. "Certainly; I shan't want it again till that wash is dry; you see I have laid it on thick."

As he took it out of his box I looked over his shoulder