To the happy possessors of the artistic tempera ment, there is abundant romance in what we call the prose of every-day existence. Alma-tadema has written on his studio ceiling these words As the sun colours ?owers, so art colours life. The artist lives in a vivid atmosphere of glow and of excitement. There is the ever-recurrent romance of difficulty, and of difficulty con quered; the terrible spur of despair, the eager hope, the continual effort, the glory of success.