the pastures, the stark ruggedness of the newly-turned earth, the strange deep turquoise of chilled mountain tarns, all broke into bloom and ultimate fruition in this last phase. The mysterious and fantastic figures do not matter. It is the landscape which holds the observer in thrall.

The last work Segantini painted was fittingly his greatest. Painters and critics ere now had recognized his immense genius and the art world had been astonished at the discovery of this strange peasant who was able to dispense with the advantages of town life and isolate himself in high places. Segantini intended this last work to be a complete expression of the multifarious glories of the Alps, a pæan in praise of mountains which would take the material form of a huge panorama.

In a letter to Signor Pico he writes: "Only those who, like myself, have lived above the high luminous pastures in the azure days of spring, listening to the faint indistinct harmonies of distant sounds wafted up by the winds, making around us a harmonious silence which extends upwards into the infinite blue space, can feel and understand the high artistic meaning of these harmonies. That is why I thought of composing a grand work, in which I could include, as in a synthesis, all the great feelings of Alpine music, and I chose as my theme the upper Engadine.

Here the ranges and the eternal glaciers blend with the tender green of the meadows, the blue sky is reflected in the lakes and tarns which are a hundred times bluer than the sky, and the rich open pastures are everywhere intersected with veins of crystal waters descending to make all things green and fresh where they grow."

Owing, however, to the enormous expense which would have been entailed in the preparation for completing this laborious project, Segantini was forced to abandon it and he painted instead his famous Triptych, the three principal panels of which are entitled Life, Nature and

Death. Segantini intended them to comprise every sort of beauty and to embody the whole range of his thought. His hatred of luxury was often expressed in his letters, indeed, all through his life he gave it practical demonstration by his eagerness for work, but in this last achievement he surpassed himself, working fifteen hours a day with almost furious concentration for several months, in storm, sunshine, tempest and snow.

The sense of the sublime distinguishes everything connected with this final display of his genius; the idea of the panoramic survey, the embodying of all the Alpine moods, his strenuous toil in realising his vision, and lastly his death occurring suddenly and dramatically, while engaged in putting in the final touches. In this triptych he again impresses remorselessly upon us the dominance of Nature over humanity; the pathetic peasant folk are once more depicted as overpowered creatures, cowed and submissive in the presence of the serene and pitiless mountains. Segantini himself was eventually overcome, but his submission to the power of the hills was a complete one, involving as it did the sacrifice of his great spirit on the altar of a high mountain. For many years he had with indomitable will-power fought and resisted the intense cold of the region wherein he worked, but in a shepherd's hut on the summit of the Schafberg, whither he had gone to finish his great work, he died. In the end the cold had triumphed.

His body lies in the bosom of his adored mountains, and it seems well in accord with the fitness of things that one who worshipped and painted with such ardour the snowy pinnacles and glaciers, the dark forests of fir, the weird tarns and placid lakes, the voiceless ravines and immaculate ice-fields, should find death and an everlasting dwelling-place among the hills he loved.

By J. REDFEARN WILLIAMSON.

As the result of a promise made to a friend, I found

myself driving with him on a jaunting car to the village of Moy. His purpose was to buy a horse at the fair; mine was to see a fresh phase of life. Both were successful. As we drew nearer to our destination, the stream of horses, ponies, people and cars coming from the country side down lanes and byways, steadily increased, like a river fed by tributary brooks and rills. When we alighted at the livery stable, my friend wished to find a dealer whom he knew, to assist him in his purchase, and I was left free to observe the humours of an Irish horse fair without hindrance.

The village of Moy stands on the crest of a gentle slope. It is divided by a broad highway, shaded in summer by a row of umbrageous trees. On one side of the way are the church, vicarage and cottages. Opposite are more cottages, stables, and the principal taverns.

For half-a-mile the village street was lined with hunters, roadsters, hackneys, cart horses, carriage horses, horses of all sizes, shapes, colours, ages and condition. These were attended by a motley throng of men and boys, natty grooms, country squires, townsmen, English and French dealers, frieze-coated farmers, and a picturesque assortment of hangers-on, in bare legs and no coats at all. Occasionally, when a high-spirited animal dashed past in sidelong fashion, a group would scatter like fowls in a

farmyard when a half-grown puppy gets amongst them, then collect together again, and resume their chaffering and bargaining. The scene was animated and exhilarating, and the mellow light of a warm autumnal day gave it the atmospheric effect of a beautiful picture.

While strolling on the outer fringe of the busy crowd I several times noticed a little old man with russet-coloured cheeks and a quick, perky movement of the head, like a robin spying a worm. He was surrounded by two sons and a large circle of acquaintances of the Dick Swiveller type. The intention evidently was to sell a pony whose only fault, to a casual onlooker, appeared to be a weakness in the knees, caused by age or hard work. A convenient seat under one of the trees induced me to sit down and watch developments. Presently a farmer came up to the group, and looking the pony over, asked the price.

"Sivin pound tin," replied the old man.

The farmer said he must have mistaken him for the Lord Lieutenant, and walked off.

During the next half-hour there were several nibbles, but no serious offers, and the farmer passing again at a short distance, one of the body-guard rushed out, seized him by the arm, and dragged him into the circle, at the same time inviting him to make an offer for the finest pony in all Ireland. Would he give seven pound for him? No. Would he give six pound ten? He would not. What did he want then, a crathur that could 'bate' all comers for speed for nothing? The farmer replied that when he saw such a horse he could afford to pay for it. A few more henchmen now joined in the argument, and at this point my friend came and took me to luncheon at an ordinary. After lunch, my friend went with the dealer to look at a horse he thought would suit him, and I for a walk in the lanes and fields round the village. On my return, the fair was gradually thinning, but the throng The round the old man and pony was thicker than ever. farmer was still there with the addition of several neigh

bours who had finished their own business, and now had leisure to attend to his. For an hour I watched the deeply interesting scene, and listened to the strife of tongues in Irish and English, in ceaseless praise or depreciation.

The price had now gone down to thirty-five shillings, when it was declared that, if the pony knew, he would never be able to look himself in the face again.

As this did not effect a sale, half-a-dozen satellites seized the principals, and by main force brought their hands together, energetically moving the arms like pump handles. But to no immediate purpose: the hands did not clasp. Then the pony's points and pedigree were gone over again, and his virtues and vices discussed with an eloquence that would have done credit to any assembly in the world. Finally, when the afternoon sun was getting low in the sky, the sale was clinched at thirty shillings. The halter was hastily given to a boy standing by, and the friends on both sides, numbering at least as many as the shillings paid for the pony, adjourned to the nearest tavern to celebrate in fitting fashion the conclusion of the Homeric battle.

As the last man disappeared through the doorway, I repeated from my heart the national aspiration: God save Ireland.

D