Although the public, after having become accustomed to the artist's uncompromising Pre-Raphaelitism, must have been warned by the symbolism of _Autumn Leaves_ of the coming change in his methods, the appearance of his _Vale of Rest_ at the Academy in 1859 caused a very definite sensation. People then found themselves called upon to accept him as a didactic and imaginative moralist. He had, indeed, entered upon his transition, and had moved far from the literalism of _Christ in the House of His Parents_, and the obvious actuality of _Ophelia_, towards the closely impending declaration of those individual preferences which were to guide him in the work of the latter half of his life. _The Vale of Rest_ is said to have been of all his paintings the one that Millais estimated most highly; and it is with justice reckoned among the most brilliant achievements which mark great moments in his career. It is certainly the picture which combines most surely his power of thought, and his capacity for stating forcibly and dramatically the things which he imagined. There is in it a manly sincerity which cannot be questioned, and there is besides a kind of solemn beauty that comes from his instinctive avoidance of sensationalism and from his naturally correct preference for simplicity of treatment. This simplicity and sincerity of manner can always be found in his best paintings, and when applied, as in _The Vale of Rest_, to the avowal of a strong conviction must be regarded as accountable for the extraordinary persuasiveness of his art. An artist of less straightforward habit of mind would have sought to complicate his statement by adding little things with the idea of stimulating the curiosity of the observer; but Millais was content, when he had found a subject inherently dignified and impressive, to leave it to tell its own story and not to embroider it with trivial accessories. To this reticence is due the monumental character of _The Vale of Rest_; there is nothing in it to distract attention, and nothing which could jar on the imagination, and so diminish the value of the lesson which it is intended to teach. Perhaps the greatest triumph of all is the way in which the picture, despite the sadness, the grimness almost, of the subject, escapes morbidity. It would have been so easy to introduce into it a touch of fantastic mysticism, or to spoil its mystery by asserting too plainly the moral of the story, but the artist has been proof against every temptation, and has gone through with the work in the way that his wholesome instincts told him would be most correct. The dominant note is one of peace, and the restfulness of the secluded convent graveyard in which the last act of the drama of life is played typifies truly the long sleep which comes at last to end the troubles and strivings of humanity. None of the turmoil of the world intrudes into this vale of rest, and even nature herself is in sympathy with its gentle calm.