GARDENS OF CELEBRITIES 
of an artist’s work, and possibly not in another—which is the 
unconscious expression of his own pleasure at the moment in what 
he does—expressed itself in Leighton’s case in an exquisite sensitive- 
ness to line and colour, to grace and sweetness, and, when under 
its influence—in an unrivalled delicacy, a charm of touch and 
treatment. This sort of “‘ feeling” he possessed in abundance, 
and it shows in such idyllic pictures as ‘‘ Cleobaulos teaching his 
daughter Cleobouline ’’—in ‘‘ Wedded,” ‘‘ The Music Lesson,” 
““Winding the Skein,” and in some delicious Oriental studies— 
but I cannot help wishing that he had never painted “Elijah and 
the Angel,” ‘‘ Rispah,”’ and “‘ The Sea gave up her Dead!” 
Sir Frederick Leighton was the handsomest man I ever knew— 
perhaps more handsome as he grew older, and his hair began to 
whiten—than when I first became acquainted with him. The 
charm of his manner and his smile were felt by all who, having 
the entrée to Holland Park Lane, flocked there on Studio Sundays. 
On such occasions one saw there in the seventies and eighties, 
many of the most eminent men and women of the day, he himself— 
generally wearing a brown velvet coat—being in appearance the 
most distinguished. 
Many will remember the gallant and stately figure he presented 
on the evenings of the Royal Academy. conversazioni, when, wear- 
ing the gold chain and badge of his office, and supported by some 
members of the Council of the year, he stood to receive the 
Academy’s guests with a charming grace, at the end of the long 
crimson pathway, lined breast-high with flowering plants, that 
led from the staircase to the Central Hall. Behind this flowery 
barrier, many of the earlier comers took their stand to watch the 
arrivals, and hear their names announced by a pair of dignified 
Academy servitors attired in long crimson betasselled gowns. 
Somehow, the Royal Academy soirées seemed more brilliant affairs 
in Leighton’s time than ever they have done since, even in those 
seemingly far-off days, after his death, but before the great war, 
which has put a veto on all such functions—for no President, how- 
ever courtly, was ever so popular in Society and among his con- 
fréres and students as he. He always stood to “ receive ” in person 
from nine to twelve o’clock—never moving from his place till after 
the stroke of midnight—when with a sigh of relief, he would turn 
away and mingle for a while with the gay throng in the Galleries. 
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