Frank Brangwyn.—This young Englishman, born in Belgium, is a painter of the great class from which the kings of art spring. In his delight in colour, he reminds us of Delacroix in his _Sturm und Drang_ period; in the dauntlessness with which he wields the brush, of Franz Hals himself, the boldest fighter with this weapon that ever lived up to now. His two first works exhibited in the Paris Salon, “A Sailor’s Funeral” and “All Hands Aloft,” instantly called attention to him. His “Buccaneers” was a veritable revelation. In a boat, floating on the blue-black tide of the Carribean Sea, row some life-sized fellows clad in variegated material, their heads bound with bright red cloths. In the glowing, tropical sun that swelters down on them, everything is a blinding, bright flame: the foam, wet oars, the ship’s planks, the clothing and headgear of the people. The brown cut-throats get in this noonday glory an almost superhuman relief, and in their savage countenances a calm consciousness of their formidableness is revealed, which even in the picture has the effect of a challenge to mortal combat. A year later he exhibited “Goatherds,” likewise life-sized, and likewise plunged in the noonday glow of a southern sky, and, in addition, a reposefully coloured and marvellously deep night-piece, “The Three Holy Kings offering the Infant Jesus Gold, Incense, and Myrrh.” His ability was further enhanced by a “Market on the Shore” and a “Miraculous Draught of Fishes.” The “Market on the Shore” is held in a Barbary harbour. Little bright-coloured carpets are spread on the yellow loamy sand, where negroes in brown and green-lined _haiks_ and _burnooses_ lie squatting. They are surrounded by poorer people in fantastic rags, with red _tarboosh_ on long, clean-shaven Hamitic skulls. Beyond, three ships extend their prows over the flat beach, and in the background, on the further side of a strip of water, we get a glance, through a gateway with three pointed arches, at the dim throng of a mysterious Mohammedan town. The “Miraculous Draught of Fishes” takes place in the evening. The fishing-boat rocks softly on the almost oil-smooth, dark blue mirror of the Lake of Genesareth, on the shallow valleys and crests of whose waves the setting sun’s nearly horizontal beams strew leaves and strips of thin gold. Four fishermen are busy hauling in with powerful movements the net heavy with their catch. Behind their vessel, a green, flat-bottomed boat with sails, steered by a disciple, carries the Saviour, veiled in the gloaming, across the water.