Mr. H. Deverell was the painter of a picture from “Twelfth Night,” exhibited here last year, which possessed the ery high merit of being, in choice of subject, a general résumé of one of Shakespeare's works. He this year contributes a second picture of the same class—“The Banishment of Hamlet” (53). The exact point is evidently where the King has just named England as Hamlet's destination—

“ Hamlet. Good.

King. So it is, if thou knew'st our purposes.

Hamlet. I see a cherub that sees them.

The florid–complexioned military–looking Claudius is by far the best conception of the character we have seen in a painting; while his sudden nervous action and ill–dis–guised embarrassment, as he quails beneath the scrutiny of Hamlet, are of fine sub–tilty. Not less distinct is the embodiment of Hamlet himself. There is a certain brooding indolence in his whole figure; irresolution is shown in the movement of his hand, and mingles even with the settled scorn of his eyes. The other parts are well combined so as to tell the story. The figures descending the –stairs of the lobby– with the dead Polonius, the whispering faces of Rosencrantz and Guilden–stern, the guards, one of whom holds Hamlet's sword, and the glimpse in another room of the Queen, and of poor Ophelia among her women, not to be comforted, and pressing her head as though to keep out madness,—all these are points of thought and poetic feeling which rank Mr. Deverell high in our new generation of art. We would warn him, however, to remember, that among those of much his own standing there are some who combine all these intellectual qualities with completer executive skill. True, the drawing as far as it goes is generally good, and even of a higher standard, while the colouring is forcible and poetic; yet we are sure Mr. Deverell can go much further in these respects than he has here gone' united also with them a closer attention to detail both in light and shade, and in the representation of objects. We would notice, besides, as defects, the too obvious crushing of the King into the canvass, and the somewhat unsightly combination of the background groups, producing at first view an impression akin to that of a doll's house, or of those models of Chinese dwellings which consist of so many little boxes of figures variously occupied. In these points—and indeed in all that regards general completeness of arrangement—Mr. Deverell might derive a profitable lesson from Mr. Collinson's “Incident in the Life of St. Elizabeth of Hungary” (177).

We come next to a work of very prominent importance, by a gentleman who has hitherto been a stranger to the walls of the Royal Academy, —Mr. F. Madox Brown's large picture, Geoffrey Chaucer reading the ‘Legend of Custance’ to Edward III and his Court at the Palace of Sheen, on the Anniversary of the Black Prince's Forty-fifth Birthday (380). This work cannot fail of establishing at once for Mr. Brown a reputation of the first class; which, indeed, he might have secured before now had he contributed more regularly to our annual exhibitions. And we confess to some feeling of self-satisfaction in believing that, while we watched with interest in various exhibitions the surefooted and unprecipitate career of this artist, we belonged to a comparatively select band. His works have, as we have said, been few in number, and of a different class from those which, to judge from the circle of their admirers, would seem to possess a talisman somewhat akin to the enigmatic “ ducdamè” of Jaques. Yet there must doubtless be many who have not forgotten and will not easily forget the solemn beauty of The Bedside of Lear; and we will even hope that some few must have received, like ourselves, a potent and lasting impression from his cartoon of The Dead Harold brought to William the Conqueror on the Field of Hastings,—the only real work we have yet seen in connexion with that now dead-ridden subject, a very knacker of artistic hobbyhorses; for here alone was present the naked devil of victory as he is, gnashing and awful. We believe that there is no one individual in our younger generation of art whose influence has been more felt among his fellow-aspirants, whose hand has been more in the leavening of the mass, than Mr. Madox Brown's. Of his present picture our space will not permit a detailed description, which is fully supplied in the catalogue. The subject is a noble one, illustrating the first perfect utterance of English poetry. The fountain whose clear jet rises in the foreground, as well as the sower scattering seed in the wake of the plough at the furthest distance, have probably a symbolical allusion. Among the happiest embodiments of character, we would particularize the languid and wasted figure of the Black Prince, propped up in the cushions of his litter; that of his wife, full of a beauty saddened to tenderness, as she sustains in her lap the arm that shall no more be heavy upon France; the foreign troubadour who looks up at Chaucer—his feeling of rivalry absorbed in admiration; and the capitally conceived jester, lost to the ministry of his mystery, spell-bound and open-mouthed. For the figure of Chaucer—whose action and the appearance of speaking conveyed in his features are excellent—Mr. Brown has chosen to adopt a portraiture less familiar than the one which he followed when he had occasion to introduce the poet in his picture of Wycliff. In effect, the work aims at representing broad sunlight, a task perhaps the most difficult which a painter can undertake. Mr. Brown has been unusually successful; and the colour throughout is alike brilliant and delicate. It may be said, indeed, that, owing to the great variety of hues in the draperies, the picture has at first sight a rather confusing appearance. This might, perhaps, have been lessened by restricting each figure, as far as possible, to a single prevailing colour, and by a more sparing admission of ornament and minute detail of costume. Yet this degree of indistinctness may be mainly caused by the light in which the picture is hung, casting a kind of glare over the entire surface, and rendering it impracticable to obtain anything like a good view of it except by retreating laterally to as great a distance as possible. These, however, are but slight or questionable drawbacks. Upon the whole, we have to congratulate Mr. Brown on a striking success; a success not to be won, as he must know well, without much doubt and vexation, and many fluctuating phases of study, and whose chief value, in his case, however worthy the immediate result, consists in the attainment of that clear-sightedness which can still look forward.

Mr. Poole is an artist to whom, in virtue of our sincere conviction of his genius, we would claim the privilege of venturing a few words of remonstrance. He has now for several years been in the habit of exhibiting pictures which have placed his admirers in the painful position of being unable to uphold them, on grounds of strict art, against those who are dead to their poetic beauty. Year after year, the idea upon which he works is sure to be among the finest in modern painting; and yearly he is content that, in all but colour, the execution should be left unworthy of the idea. And we would notice particularly that there is nearly always in his pictures some one personage so unhappily independent of drawing as to reflect discredit on the whole company in which he is found, even if no other were at all chargeable on the same count. Last year, in Mr. Poole's subject from Job, this “bad eminence” belonged to the boy pouring wine in the centre; this year, in The Goths in Italy (344), it has been bestowed, as though in reward of unobtrusive merit, upon the figure of the girl to the left who watches, in harrowing suspense, the overtures which a brutal Goth is making to her childish sister. Surely Mr. Poole must know himself that this figure is too small for the rest, and in every way unsatisfactory: neither will we believe, though he does his best to convince us, that he really thinks hair should be painted like that of the man tying his sandal, or an arm drawn like the right arm of his principal female figure. Not less unaccountable are the folds of his draperies; being moreover, of the two, rather more like water than his sea, which is represented in something of that artless simplicity (whatever may be allowed for poetic effect) in which it exalts the mind on the transparency- blinds of cheap coffeehouses. Mr. Poole's personages, too, seem, like the company of a theatre, to do duty in all parts and on all occasions. One barbarian we especially noticed, lying on the upper bank, whose identity and recumbent tastes Mr. Poole has traced, we suppose on the Pythagorean system, from the surrender of Rome to the surrender of Calais, thence to the shipwreck of Alonzo King of Naples, and so on to the plague of London; only that he has chosen to give us the process of transmigration in an inverse order. Even the atmosphere in his works, beautiful as it is to the eye, would appear equally suited to all seasons and countries; each new Poole, like the pool in Mr. Patmore's poem, seeming eternally to “reflect the scarlet West.” But enough: we have said our say, and assuredly much more for the artist's sake than our own; since we can assure Mr. Poole, that as long as he paints pictures whose merit is of the same order and degree as in those which we have seen—even though they should continue to fall short in the respects touched upon—we shall take up our station before them regularly, as heretofore, nor be able to move away until we shall have followed out all the points of thought and intellectual study brought in aid of the development of his idea; and we can trust him that these will be sufficient for prolonged contemplation.

But among the works embodying the principles referred to, that on which its size and subject confer the greatest importance is Mr. W. H. Hunt's Valentine receiving (rescuing?) Sylvia from Proteus (594). This picture is certainly the finest we have seen from its painter: it is as minutely finished as his Rienzi, with more powerful colour; and as scrupulously drawn as his Christian priest escaping from the Druids, with a more perfect proportion of parts. The scene is the Mantuan forest, deep in dead red leaves, on a sunny day of autumn. Valentine has but just arrived, and draws Sylvia towards his side, from where she has been struggling on her knees with Proteus, whose unnerved hand he puts from him with speech and countenance of sorrowful rebuke. Sylvia nestles to her strong knight, rescued and secure; while poor Julia leans, sick to swooning, against a tree, and tries with a trembling hand to draw the ring from her finger. Both these figures are truly creations, for the very reason that they are appropriate individualities, and not self-seeking idealisms. Mr. Hunt's hangers may claim to have prevented the public from judging of Sylvia much beyond her general tenderness of sentiment: the exquisite loveliness of the Julia there was no concealing. The outlaws are approaching from the distance, leading the captive Duke. The glory of sunlight is conveyed in the picture with a truth scarcely to be matched; and its colour renders it a most undesirable neighbour. It might have been well, however, to avoid adding to the already great diffusion of hues by the richly embroidered robe of Sylvia. We are tempted to dwell further on the position assigned to Mr. Hunt on the walls of the Academy, in connexion with the importunate mediocrity displayed at so many points of the “line”: but, in speaking of the work, we recall the solemn human soul which seems to vibrate through it, like a bell in the forest, drawing us, as it were, within the quiet superiority which the artist must himself feel; and we would rather aim at following him into that portion of the subject which is his domain only.

Perhaps the best service we can render the directors of this exhibition is to record, at the outset of our criticisms, their assurance to the public, that other pictures besides those now on the walls are to reach them shortly from the Continent. There is hope here at least, albeit deferred; and, seeing that their collection is a veritable Pandora's casket, whence every ill quality of art is let forth to the light of day, it was certainly desirable that Hope should remain at the bottom.

It would not be much to the purpose to inquire which school of painting shows most creditably here; nor, if a decision were to be arrived at, need any one set of artists feel much flattered by the preference. The only school whose merits, such as they are, are adequately represented in this gathering, is that of Belgium; which, we fear, would scarcely call for many representatives in a place where nothing should be exhibited that was not worth exhibiting.

After this opening, it will suggest itself at once, that the great mass of these pictures is such as we shall not attempt to criticize; belonging, as they do, to that class where examination and silence are the sum of criticism.

Let us begin with the French works; among which are some of the few good things of the collection. If again we decimate these elect, (supposing such a course to be arithmetically possible,) we shall find that the best work in the place, upon the whole, is Mademoiselle Rosa Bonheur's Charcoal-burners in Auvergne crossing a Moor (53). We are rejoiced to be able to lay our homage, at last, at the feet of one lady who has really done something in some one branch of art which may be considered quite of the first class. Sky, landscape, and cattle, are all admirable; and must have been, though the picture is a small one, the result of no little time and labour. The sentiment, too, is most charming: you see at once that the lumbering conveyances are moving

• “Homewards, which always makes the spirits tame.”

The only fault of the picture consists in some slight appearance of that polished surface which always interferes with the truth of a French painting where any finish has been aimed at. This, however, detracts but slightly from the pleasure of the general impression. Mademoiselle Rosa Bonheur was previously known to us only by a few small lithographs from some of her works: these had always seemed to us to give proofs of the highest power, and her picture more than fulfils our expectations.

Other French landscapes of some merit are those of Rousseau (86 and 177), the latter somewhat resembling Linnell; Ziem (51 and 52), bearing a strong likeness to Holland, though scarcely so good; and Troyon (66), much akin to the feeling and execution of Kennedy. These, however, have mostly been hung out of the reach of anything like scrutiny.

Turning to the French figure subjects, we shall find much that is excellent in the contributions of Biard, though he has sent no work of prominent importance. The best is A Performance of Mesmerism in a Parisian Drawingroom (378). Here the variety of actions and expressions under the same drowsy influence are very diverting; and there is even a rude grace in the colour, in spite of its sketchy and almost “scrubby” character: but perhaps this is only a study for a larger picture. The same artist's Henry IV. and Fleurette (195) has a good deal of pastoral freshness and beauty; though the landscape lacks brilliancy and variety of tints, and the monarch is little better than a ballet- lover. There is great humour in the Arraying of the ‘Virgins’ for the Fête of Agriculture (379), a scene from the last Revolution; as well as in the Review of the National Guard (377). The pair entitled Before the Night and After the Night (196 and 197) are, however, very vulgar and unpleasant, and must be, we should think, early productions.

The humorous sketches of Adolphe Leleux (190, 191, 192), relating to the Garde Mobile, have strong character, but are both unfinished and unskilful.

The most remarkable among the productions of Henri Lehmann in this gallery, are his Hamlet and Ophelia (37 and 38), a pair of small copies from the larger works, probably made for the purpose of being lithographed. The Hamlet especially gives proof of thought and intention,—the brooding eyes and suspended movement of the hand suggesting indecision of character. The Ophelia is much less good, and is little more, indeed, than a posture-figure with a sort of reminiscence of Rachel: the proportions of the face, too, betray a very unnatural mannerism. The execution of both figures, though careful, is not satisfactory, and reminds us in this respect of Mr. Frank Stone; having the same laborious endeavour at finish, and the same inability, apparently, to set about it in the right way. The Virgin at the foot of the Cross (36) is an utter mistake, of that kind which makes the heart sink to look at it.

In the St. Anne and the Virgin of Goyet (62), there is a pretty arrangement of the background; but the Virgin is mere waxwork, and St. Anne sits listening like one of the Fates in a tableau vivant.

The Woman taken in Adultery (63), by Signol, is the companion to the well-known picture in the Luxembourg, and one of the couple which have been published. We never much admired these works, though they are not without delicacy and even sentiment of their kind. That at the Luxembourg is decidedly the better picture; though the action of the woman in this other, crouching, and raising her arm as if she feared that the first stone were about indeed to be cast, is certainly the best thing in either of them. The colour is very dull and flat, and the hands of the Saviour much too small. The picture by the same artist, from the Bride of Lammermoor, (where Lucy Ashton, stricken with insanity, is discovered crouching in the recess of the fireplace,) displays much dramatic power in the principal figure, which is also finely drawn. The subject, however, is a repulsive one, unredeemed by any lesson or sympathetic beauty. And there is a stationary look, so to speak, in the figures, and a general want of characteristic accessory, together with that peculiar French commonness in the colour and handling, which is so especially displeasing in this country, where, whatever qualities in art may be neglected, an attempt is almost always made to obtain some harmony and transparency of colour. A word of high praise is due to Mademoiselle Nina Bianchi, for her pastel of An Italian Lady (20[?]): it is really well drawn, and shows remarkable vigour. Mademoiselle Bianchi should practise oil-painting, and leave her present insufficient material.

There are few better things in the gallery than a very small picture by Gérome, bearing the singular title of The humble Troubadour in a Workshop (209). It is poetical in subject and arrangement, and dainty in execution, though the tone of colour is not pleasing. Something of the same qualities, but with a want of expression, and a servile Dutch look, may be found in the Interior of an Artist's Studio, by Alphonse Roëhn (219). The picture by Beaume of The Brothers Hubert and John Van Eyck (220), is a subject of the same class, but in treatment resembling rather the works of Robert Fleury. John Van Eyck is apparently engaged on his picture of the Marriage of Cana, now in the



Louvre: and we would remind M. Beaume, that that work is not, as he has represented it, of the colour of treacle, but rather distinguished by a certain delicacy and distinctness, which might not be without their lesson to any modern artist who should be sufficiently “poor in heart” to receive the promised blessing.

Summing up in one sentence of condemnation the platitudes or pretentious mediocrities of Ziegler, Cibot, Henry Scheffer, and Etex, and the execrable Astley's Martyrology of Felix Leullier (179), we come lastly to the most important in size and character of all the French works—the Nicean duplicate of Cromwell at the Coffin of Charles I., by Delaroche (102); a picture on whose merits we should dwell at some length, had it not been already exhibited last year at the Royal Academy. Admirable it is in every respect, always taken for granted the artist's view of the subject and personage. We think, however, that it might prove of some benefit to M. Delaroche, supposing Mr. Carlyle could be persuaded to go for once to an exhibition, to stand behind that gentleman and hear his remarks on the present picture. We fear the painter would find that this is not exactly the “lion-face and hero-face” which our great historian has told us is “to him royal enough.”

Proceeding next to the Belgian school, we find another English hero presumptuously maltreated by a foreigner, in Ernest Slingeneyer's monstrous Death of Nelson (32). Is it possible that this abortive mammoth is to take its place on the walls of Greenwich Hospital, for which purpose a subscription has actually been set afloat? For our part, we believe that the old grampuses there have enough fire left in them to resent such an indignity; in which case, one would gladly let them have their own way with the daub for an hour or so, if it once got within their walls. Of greatly superior pretensions is Baron Wappers' picture of Boccaccio Reading his Tales to Queen Jeanne of Naples and Princess Mary (344). It is far, however, from being a work of a high standard, though a good enough painting in all artistic respects. The face of the Queen, if not very expressive, is beautiful, and the Princess is a handsome wench; but the conception of Boccaccio is commonplace; neither is there anything in the work that demanded a life-size treatment. The other two productions of this painter—Genevieve of Brabant (163), and Louis XVII. when apprenticed to Simon the Shoemaker (286), are mawkish, ill-drawn, and ill-coloured in the highest degree. The cattle-pieces of Eugene Verboeckhoven, of which there are two or three here, appear to us extremely overrated. They are very coarsely painted, very loosely grouped, and supremely uninteresting.

The only other Belgian work which has anything to claim attention in it is Brigands Gambling for the Booty (25), by Henri Leys. There is some merit here, both of colour and arrangement We may notice the absence of any paintings by Gallait, perhaps the best of the Belgian artists.

The German schools can scarcely be said to be at all represented here. Perhaps the most striking picture is that of Pagan Conjurors foretelling his Death to Ivan the Terrible (458), by Buhr of Dresden. Indeed, there is probably no picture in the gallery displaying more couleur locale and characteristic accessory. There is expression, too, here and there; but in many of the figures this is sadly exaggerated, and the whole has a somewhat theatrical appearance. The two little pictures from the life of St. Boniface (351 and 352), by Shraudolf of Munich, are very excellent, especially the latter. They are the work of an artist who thoroughly knows his art. In a collection like the present one, such productions, though the subjects have no dramatic interest, are an indescribable relief. Still more so are the Subjects on Porcelain (287), chiefly from the Italian masters, by Pragers of Munich.

The Young Girl at a Window (326), by Herman Schultz of Berlin, has a very sweet German face, but is flatly painted; the Nymphs of the Grotto (393), by Steinbruck of Dusseldorf, is pretty and fanciful; the Monk demanding Gretchen's Jewels, from Faust (373), by Bendixen, is a well-found subject entirely spoilt; the Deputation before the Magistrates (240), by Hasenclever of Dusseldorf, has some character, but no art; the Recollection of Italy, Procida (133), by Rudolf Lehmann of Hamburg, is a contemptible and vexatious piece of affectation; and the pair of half-figures entitled Tasting andSmelling (103 and 104), by Schlesinger of Vienna, are not such as we should have expected from the author of various popular prints, which, in spite of their sometimes questionable subjects, give proofs of much sense of beauty and even poetical feeling.

Of the English pictures we shall have but little to say, since nearly all of them have been exhibited before. The biggest is G. F. Watts's piece of dirty Titianism, entitled The Ostracism of Aristides (135). It has something in it, however, which somehow proves what was certainly the one thing most difficult of proof, considering the general treatment of the picture,—namely, that the painter is not a fool. The Lake of Killarney (164), by H. M. Anthony, is a picture with a wonderful sky, and two highly poetical brackets; but as it has been exhibited before, our space will not permit us to speak of it at length. The same may be said of E. M. Ward's dramatic but somewhat coarsely painted Fall of Clarendon.

Redgrave's Quintin Matsys (152) assimilates in execution to the Belgian pictures, of which it is in every respect a fitting companion. The Tower of Babel (228), by Edgar Papworth, is ill placed, but seems to display no small imaginative power, and is further remarkable as an evidence of considerable proficiency in painting on the part of one whose merit as a sculptor is acknowledged. Preparation (248), by Lance, is a bright but scarcely natural-looking picture, with an absurd title. Titania and the Fairies (246) is an imbecile attempt by the son of an Academician: it would seem almost incredible that this thing should have occupied a place on the line two years back at the Royal Academy, and its author been nearly elected to an Associateship. Petrarch's first Interview with Laura (120), by H. O'Neil, is very ill executed, though rather less commonplace in general aspect than most of the painter's works.

H. Stanley, the author of Angelico da Fiesole Painting in the Convent (331), is one of the artists lately selected by the Royal Commission to execute works for the Palace at Westminster. His present picture is hard in outline and monotonous in colour: Angelico is on his knees, with his back to the spectator, so that even his full profile is scarcely seen; and the treatment seems to us altogether somewhat tasteless and wanting in interest; the best incident perhaps being that of a second monk who is seen playing on the organ in a dark anteroom. Another artist commissioned lately by Government is W. Cave Thomas; whose picture here, Alfred sharing his Loaf with the Pilgrim (99), we shall not dwell upon, as it has been seen at the Royal Academy. It is only fair that the same excuse should come to the rescue of the picture from the life of Beatrice Cenci (376), by Willes Maddox; on which, both as regards subject and artistic qualities, we should otherwise have a very decided opinion to express.

By young and unknown English artists there seems to be scarcely anything. Some prettiness and rather nice painting, though without much expression or sentiment, will be found in Cinderella (464), by M. S. Burton. There appears to be a feeling for colour in a rather incomprehensible performance by W. D. Telfer, entitled The Baron's Hand (273), which is hung nearly out of sight. We may mention, however, that our notice was attracted to it by the recollection of a far superior picture in the same name, which we saw lately, happening to pay a visit to that now somewhat renovated sarcophagus of art, the Pantheon in Oxford Street. The subject of the picture in question is “Ariel on the bat's back”; and it possesses undoubted evidence of the qualities of a colourist, though as yet hardly developed, as well as a kind of fantastic unearthliness in conception. In the catalogue of the present exhibition occur the titles of two other paintings by the same artist, but we looked for them in vain on the walls.

We have now concluded what we have to say of this gallery. To argue, from its contents, anything as regards the relative position of the different schools, would of course be out of the question, since among the specimens contributed are scarcely any from artists who enjoy a decided celebrity in their respective countries. For our part, we have sufficient reliance on the sound qualities of a few of our own best painters, to entertain some regret that on their part, as well as that of foreign schools, no attempt has been made in the present instance to enter into anything which deserves to be called a competition.

This is the second year of an experiment which promises to prove a successful one. The sketches exhibited number about an equal proportion of oil and water-colour, and include contributions from mem- bers of all our artistic bodies. Among those from Suffolk Street, however, we are sorry to miss Mr. Anthony; who, we trust, does not intend to withdraw his coöperation from this annual gathering.

In productions like sketches, where success in the general result depends almost entirely on dexterous handling of the material, the real superiority is, of course, more than ever to be argued chiefly from the presence of something like intellectual purpose in choice of subject and arrangement. We shall therefore endeavour, in the first place, to determine where, in the present collection, this quality is to be found.

This brings us at once to Mr. Cope, Mr. Madox Brown, Mr. Cave Thomas, Mr. Cross, and Mr. Armitage; in whose contributions may be summed up the amount of thought or meaning contained in the gallery. We do not recollect to have seen any work in which all the essentials of a subject were more nobly discerned and concentrated than they are in Mr. Cope's Griselda separated from her Child, of which a sketch (287) is exhibited here. Mr. Madox Brown's Composition illustrative of English Poetry (164) shows that his large picture of Chaucer at the Court of Edward III., seen this year at the Royal Academy Exhibition, was in fact only the central compartment of a very extensive work, embodying, in its side-pieces, personations of our greatest succeeding poets, and other symbolical adjuncts. As regards pictorial effect, it is to be regretted that these were not added to the exhibited picture, since, in the sketch, their chaste and sober tone completely does away with that somewhat confused appearance, resulting from a redundancy of draperies and conflicting colours, which was noticed in the Chaucer. The design is admirable, both in conception and carrying out. The symbolical subject by Mr. Cave Thomas (11), where the last watchers of the earth are gathered together in a chamber, while outside the Son of Man is seen, habited as a pilgrim, coming noiselessly through the moonlight, may without exaggeration be said to rank, as regards its aim, among the loftiest embodiments which art has yet attempted from Scripture. The mere selection of the glorious words of the text (Mark, ch. xiii. v. 34) is in itself a proof of a fine and penetrative mind. Mr. Thomas exhibited a drawing for this work last year at the Royal Academy, and he now gives us a sketch in oils. We are fully aware of the importance of consideration to an artist who really has an idea to work upon; but we hope the picture is to come at some time or other. At present it seems to us that much of the costume and accessories would be susceptible of improvement; being too decidedly Teutonic for so abstract a theme. Mr. Thomas exhibits here also The Fruit-bearer (16), and Sketch for the Compartment of Justice, House of Lords (142). The two other artists we have named above, Mr. Cross and Mr. Armitage, have sent, the former, two studies for The Burial of the Princes in the Tower (114, 202)—of which we prefer the less finished one, which, though perhaps almost too slight for exhibition, shows the greater share of dramatic faculty; and the latter, a sketch for Samson Grinding Corn for the Philistines (93)—not very well executed, nor by any means representing the merits of the fine picture for which it was a preparation.

In the second order of figure-pieces, the best are the contributions of Messrs. Hook, Egg, and Lewis. Mr. Hook's study for the Dream of Venice (240) is among the most charming things of the kind we know, and certainly superior in various respects to the picture. The finest among the drawings sent by Mr. Lewis, (the painter of that talisman of art The Harem,) is the Lord Viscount Castlereagh (140), represented in Eastern costume. In Mr. Egg's Anticipation (35)—a young lady glancing over an opera-bill—the features are perhaps slightly out of drawing, but the colour is most gorgeous; in this respect, indeed, it exhibits more unmistakeable power than anything here. Mr. Frith, an artist whose name is generally associated with that of Mr. Egg, (while in fact there are no two painters whose chief characteristics are much more different,) sends a half-length figure of a lady in an opera-box (22)—very loose as to arrangement, wherein the principal value of such things should consist. He has also here the Original Sketch for the Picture of the Bourgeois Gentilhomme (222)—which is a fair specimen of his usual style of painting, the picture having been among his happiest efforts; and the Squire Relating his Adventures (286)—which is not a fair specimen of him, nor would be indeed of most other artists. Of Mr. E. M. Ward's couple—one, a study for a figure in his last picture (87), and the other, a sketch for La Fleur's Departure from Montreuil (266)—the latter is the more interesting. Perhaps nothing can well be more repulsive than the prurient physiognomy of Mr. O'Neil's Novel-Reader (40): there is no name on the cover of the book, so that the fancy is free to choose between Sofie, Justine, and Faublas. Several studies of flowers here, by the same artist, are so good as to leave us a hope that he deserves to be ashamed of himself for his notion of female beauty. Regarding Mr. F. R. Pickersgill's large sketch for Rinaldo Destroying the Enchanted Forest (84), the only point admitting of argument is as to whether the sketch or the picture be the more meretricious in style; unless indeed we were disposed to discuss which of the female figures is the most unlike a woman. Much better, however, and in their way displaying a high sense of colour, are Mr. Pickersgill's slighter sketches (69 and 119); in which the beauties of his present system of painting are more apparent than in his pictures. Indeed, the one of the Contest for the Girdle of Florimel is exceedingly brilliant and delightful. Mr. Kenny Meadows's drawing entitled Which is the taller? (54) has much grace and spirit; but we had far rather meet him in the more intellectual class of subjects, where, when he chooses, no one can show to greater advantage. Mr. Hine's Fellow of the Society of Antiquaries (111) might belong also to the “Odd Fellows” as regards his appearance, which is very quaint and humoristic. Mr. Gilbert's Sancho Panza (126) is a clever pen-and-ink drawing; but it has, in common with the artist's other productions here, a disagreeable air of “book-keeping” dexterity with the pen. Mr. Webster's contributions (184, 270) are of that utterly uninteresting class which can only be redeemed by the highest artistic finish. Mr. Cattermole has several very effective drawings in his well-known and peculiar style. Everything about Mr. Uwins's sketches here is of a very obvious description; especially the intimation that the picture of Sir Guyon at the Boure of Blisse is “in the artist's own possession”;—we should think so. The mild-drawn domesticities of Mr. Marshall, the frozen Frosts of Mr. Rolt, and that omnipresent Gleaner (64) by the relentless Mr. Brooks, are only not worse than it was possible for them to be: a boundary which has almost been triumphantly annihilated by Mr. Eddis, in the puny and puling production entitled The Sisters (83). We were amused with Mr. Templeton's Study of a Head; the “idea” of



which is pompously said to have been “suggested by a passage in the life of Galileo”; whereas it is very evident that the only “suggestion” consisted in the good looks of a model well enough known among artists, and whose portrait has been exhibited scores of times.

Of the landscapes, &c., we shall have but little to say; since, notwithstanding the excellence of many among them, they scarcely require comment, the styles of their respective authors being so universally known. Mr. Lucy's Windermere (171) calls, however, for particular mention, as showing how serviceable in landscape-painting is the severer study of historical art: this sketch is of great excellence in colour, and replete with poetic beauty. There is a sketch here, unprovided with any name (194), by Mr. Turner; and specimens, all very good and some unusually fine, by Messrs. Roberts, Stanfield, Linnell, Prout, A. W. Williams, Cooke, Clint, Holland, Linton, Lake Price, Davidson, Pidgeon, Vacher, and Hardy. The Sketch, North Wales (92), by Mr. Branwhite— chiefly known hitherto for his frost-scenes—is really astonishing in depth and gorgeousness of colour: the same qualities are perhaps rather excessive in his other two contributions (139, 144). In Mr. Hunt's Winter (78), we cannot but think that the crude and spotty execution detracts from the reality of aspect; but the same artist's Bird's Nest and Primroses (271) is absolutely enchanting in truth and freshness.

In the class of animal-painting, we should not omit to notice Mr. Newton Fielding's Woodcocks (188)—very delicately and conscientiously painted, and reminding us in some degree of Mr. Wolf's inimitable Woodcocks taking Shelter, exhibited two years ago at the Royal Academy.