PERHAPS the reason Alere never took to colours was because of his inherent and unswerving truthfulness of character. Genuine to a degree, he could not make believe--could not deceive--could not masquerade in a dress-coat. Now, most of the landscape-painting in vogue to-day is nature in a dress-coat. In a whole saloon of water colours, in a whole Academy, or Grosvenor Gallery you shall hardly find three works that represent any real scene in the fields. I have walked about the fields a good deal in my brief, fretful hour, yet I have never seen anything resembling the strange apparitions that are hung on these walls every spring. Apparitions--optical illusions, lit up with watery, greenish, ghastly, ghost-light--nothing like them on earth I swear, and I suspect not in Heaven or Hades. Touched-up designs: a tree taken from one place, a brook from another, a house from another--_and mixed to order_, like a prescription by the chemist--xv. grs. grass, 3 dr. stile, iiij. grs. rustic bridge. Nature never plants--nature is no gardener--no design, no proportion in the fields. Colours! Passing a gasworks perhaps you may have noticed that the surface of the water in the ditch by the roadside bears a greenish scum, a pale prismatic scum; this is the colour-box of modern landscape. How horrible the fields would look if they wore such hues in reality as are accepted on canvas at the galleries! Imagine these canvas tints transferred to the sward, the woods, the hills, the streams, the sky! _Dies iræ, dies illæ_--it would, indeed, be an awful day, the Last Day of Doom, and we should need the curtain at Drury Lane drawn before our eyes to shut it out of sight. There are some who can go near to paint dogs and horses, but a meadow of mowing grass, not one of them can paint that. Many can _draw_ nature--drawings are infinitely superior generally to the painting that follows; scarce one now paints real nature. Alere could not squeeze his sketches into the dress-coat of sham colour for any sacred exhibition wall whatever. One thing Alere never attempted to draw--a bird in flight. He recognized that it was impossible; his taste rejected every conventional attitude that has been used for the purpose; the descending pigeon, the Japanese skewered birds, the swallow skimming as heavily as a pillow. You cannot draw a bird in flight. Swallows are attempted oftenest, and done worst of all. How can you draw life itself? What is life? you cannot even define it. The swallow's wing has the motion of life--its tremble--its wonderful delicacy of vibration--the instant change--the slip of the air;--no man will ever be able to draw a flying swallow. At the feet of this Gamaliel of Fleet Street, Amaryllis had sat much, from time to time, when the carpet-bag was packed and Alere withdrew to his Baden-Baden--_i.e._, to Coombe Oaks and apple-bloom, singing finch, and wild-flowers.