So famous had "The Horse Fair" made her in Great Britain that there was an urgent call for her to visit the people to whom she had given so much pleasure. Then she remembered those nights of enchantment when, with the others of the family circle, she had listened to Walter Scott's wonderful tales, and she longed more for "the land of the thistle" than for "the land of the rose." With happy memories and keenest anticipation she accepted Mr. and Mrs. Gambart's invitation and started for England in the late summer of 1856. She crossed the channel without the usual sea-sickness and soon, in company with her friends, she was enjoying the lovely scenes of England. Windsor, with its beautiful parts and wild-eyed deer, made a lasting impression upon her and she wrote home of its beauties. Hers, however, was a nature more fully in touch with the rugged aspects of the great world, and so we find her occasionally describing the scenery of England as tame. Sherwood Forest, Robin Hood's stronghold in days gone by, was quite to her liking.

When, however, she crossed the line into Scotland, her heart was stirred as that of one who plants his foot, after long absence, upon his native heath. Here were mirror-like lakes, bold mountain peaks, tumbling streams, ragged crags and great expanses of heather, reddish purple in autumn and nut-brown in spring. Over all, the shifting clouds chased each other in silvery silence the livelong day, giving no sign of their warfare beyond a few sluggish raindrops—just enough to dampen clothes and make us wonder how long it will continue. Such droves of wild-horned cattle! Such flocks of meditative sheep feeding on the jagged steeps! We need nothing more than the names of Rosa Bonheur's pictures drawn from the Scottish scenes to know how deeply she was affected by what she saw. Here are some of them— "Denizens of the Highlands," "Skye Ponies," "Changing Pasture," "A Scottish Raid," "Crossing a Loch," and never were the beauties of Scotland more tellingly embalmed by pencil and paint than in the hands of this artist.

Were it possible for those we love to re-inhabit their former places, we would gladly call back Sir Walter Scott to welcome to many-halled Abbotsford Rosa Bonheur. What a meeting it would have been! There would have been no mincing on the lady's part about visiting stables and kennels, or riding in the swift chase over rocky slopes and heather-carpeted downs. Our wish is but a dream and the artist, as humble you or I, could but gaze upon that vacant chair, those unused books, those voiceless halls, Maida's mound in the garden there and the sweetly-flowing Tweed just yonder, and turn her to the melancholy pleasure of visiting Sir Walter's grave in Dryburgh Abbey.

On her return to Paris, her growing fame more than ever pressed upon her with its social duties. In the great city of the Seine she had ever led a nomadic life. Now with wealth and patronage she looked lovingly toward a home of her own in some quiet and inspiring neighborhood. What wonder that in her search for this desirable combination her artist soul turned to the splendid old forest of Fontainebleu beside which gathered that little colony of artists known as the Barzibon School, those men who loved nature more than academic rules and models and who dared stand out and express independently the thought planted of God. For a moment let us recall a few of their names: Corot, with his misty dreamy landscapes; Millet, with his breadwinning peasants; Roseau, with his gnarled and grand old trees. Rosa Bonheur, too, belonged to this nature-loving body of artists even though we may scarcely class her as of their school. They lived at Barzibon, on the outskirts of the forest; she lived at By, nearer still to its very heart.

The chateau she purchased was a rambling old house which she made still more rambling by adding a large studio. Here was room for her pets and her models, quite different from those cramped quarters when she had kept pet sheep and goats on the terrace up five flights of stairs. Here was exemption from the formalities of social life, here was quiet if not absolute solitude. Beyond, but well in sight, lay the magnificent belt of the Seine. In this choice spot one might observe the moods of nature, lulled to rest by quiet breezes and warm sunshine or lashed to fury by the wild storm as it tore through the giant trees and the jagged rocks of the old forest. Truly the little girl to whom the joys of life came so sparingly in her youthful days had now come among pleasant places to live out the maturity and age of her powers.

"Here," she said, "I live the life of a peasant." She rose early and retired with the glowing day. Her food and recreations were of the simplest sort. Here she received the friends dear to her heart, never those who hunted her out on account of her fame, for she would not be lionized, and here until 1889 she enjoyed the sisterly companionship of Natalie Micas.