Now, there is nothing new or old in the idea that a picture should have a story, and as we can hardly admire anything which we do not understand, it is not too much to require some amount of perspicuity in those who address us. There are other principles to which we shall have presently occasion to refer; but, before doing so, we wish to notice the impertinence of Mr. Whistler, who, with American modesty, has sent three canvases (233) (243) (670) to this Exhibition. These are said by some critics to be very clever, and we are told that if you were in the artist's company he would himself tell you so. It would appear, however, as if he had not been able to explain his meaning, for he has adopted the humiliating contrivance of putting his idea in words at the bottom of his canvas. Now, pictures must speak pictorially. They must keep to their own tongue. The parts of speech in the language of painting are lines, colour, and light and shade. The laws of art forbid the use of letters. We dare say Mr. Whistler is trying to say something with his brush; we are certain that he has nothing to say with his mind. We listen to him, as he speaks, as if he were a barbarian, and the barbarism "Symphonies in white," proves that we are not far wrong.

The

The greatest work, using the term in its ordinary sense, of this year is Mr Poynter's "Egypt Under the Pharaohs." We had "the labour question" touched awhile since by another artist, and treated much in the same manner. This picture has been so often and so fully described, that it will, by this time, be as well known to those who have never seen it as it is to those who have stood before it amongst the daily crowds. Preachers, politicians, and painters are alike turning their attention to the working classes; and we shall need light and help from every quarter, for a thousand difficulties beset the relation of master and man. We are here reminded that the greatest wrongs in the past as well as in the present have arisen out of this relationship. crack of Mr. Poynter's long, biting thong tells us that it is nothing new for a man who has the whip hand of others to use it, and to use it cruelly. Caught by the sound we turn, and begin to look and listen. We are, however, confused and bewildered. The artist seems to have lost himself in the labyrinths of this great question. We can see nothing because there is so much to look at. He has evidently commissioned himself to investigate the condition of the working classes in the time of the Pharaohs, and we cannot but admire the pains which he has taken, and the industry and ability which he has shown; but we are lost in a maze. The multiplicity of detail reads like a blue-book. The picture has no breadth. There are no leading lines, no masses of colour, no concentration of light and shade; and the result is

that we have only a vague impression produced that some great work is being done, and some great wrong is being suffered. The origin of this picture was, we understand, in this wise. It was produced in the shape of a slight drawing at a sketching club, where the subject "work" had been given as a common topic. The sketch was the foundation of a version in water-colour, and this was afterwards enlarged and translated in oil.

Pictures are never silent, and it may be well for purchasers to remember this, or they may find they have made a great mistake. It is one thing to be pleased with a picture as it is held in the hand of a picture-dealer, or as it hangs on the walls of another man's house, but before we spend our money, we had better bethink ourselves whether we shall like to be always hearing its tale. Mr. Calderon, A., has painted a picture (356), with a story; the story is worth telling, and it is so well told that nothing more need be said. Anywhere, at any time, it would be a word in season to any one. Tried by standard rules, "Home after Victory," is one of the best pictures of the season. We all understand its meaning and are touched with its sentiment; for there are none among us but in our time we have taken our part in such a scene as is here enacted. We may not have been heroes ourselves, but we have been connected in some way or other with those who have gotten victories, either as near relatives or humble dependants. We have heard the shout of triumph and helped to increase its volume, and are therefore able at once to sympathize with, to understand, and discriminate the fulness of joy that rolls into this picture on either side. There is a method in its madness. There is a suggestiveness in its temperance and reticence which is in striking contrast with Mr. Poynter's verbosity. We see, comparing the two, that half is more than the whole, and that they are wise who remember that a word to the wise is enough. The go" of the picture is given by a plan always adopted by Raphael, when he wanted to produce the effect of motion. A figure is split in half by a doorway, or thrusts its head and bust only into the side of the canvas. We believe that this plan is not orthodox; but true art is not only under, but also above law. There are many things to see here, and you will never tire of looking at them. The handling as well as the subject will bear the test of time. The art of the artist, for instance, places the bounding dog where you find him. He was wanted, and wanted where he is. The steps explain the increase of life that would have been given to his motion by a jump; and their parallel lines, by the contrast which they make with the curves of his limbs, develop force and grace. We are so often beaten in the battles of life, and so apt to be faint-hearted if the fight seem to be going against us, that we shall do well to remember the triumphs of bygone days.

Passing from picture to picture, just in a hurried way, to point out some of the secrets of the successes and failures which we see around us, we observe the absence of detail in Mr. Pettie's "Treason" (322), and perceive its value. There is nothing to catch the eye before it looks on what was intended to be seen, and nothing to distract its attention. It glances and settles at once on the point of the picture, which is confined to a comparatively small portion of the canvas. You are led to go up to the figures who are turning their backs, and to look over their shoulders. The lines, the colour, and the chiaroscuro of the picture all are used for this pur pose. The positive red leads you to the chief figure, and, when you find it to be a cardinal, suggests the idea of a plot. The lines in the forms and the features of his companions make you look upon them as confederates, and, as you catch their expression, you see the desperateness of the men and the danger of the undertaking. The light which enables you to do this, and the darkness of the background, confirm your suspicions. Looking into that darkness, you trace the repetition of the subjects in the dim outlines of the figures on the faded arras.

The time of Frith's " Charles the Second's last Sunday" (132), notwithstanding the music, and the gaiety and the gambling, is told by the tilted bell in the steeple of the church that is seen through the window in the distance. You hear that the bells are chiming for church. You find that some of the company, at any rate, remember what day it is. You know this from being led by the line of the arm to look at the laughing figure which is pointing out of the picture. The calibre and character of the company may be argued from the calibre and character of his joke. It does not need much wit to trifle with sacred things. The distance, the church, and the bell take you away, and you think of that day week.

The value of light is felt, perhaps, as much in Mr. Wynfield's "Oliver Cromwell the Night before His death" (494), as in any picture in the present Exhibition. In the picture, as well as in the subject, the light is shining in darkness, and the darkness comprehends it. There is no blackness of darkness here. The shadows are transparent. Both the room and the ante-room are lit by real artificial light. The tone and colour of candlelight is perfect. The day is darkest before the dawn, and the darkness and stillness of the dead hours of the night are added to the darkness and stillness of the death chamber. The night-light is shining through the curtains of the bed, and is so placed as to illumine the outline of the sharpened features of the Protector. The Bible is in his hand, and as you listen hard, you find its light is in his heart, for you catch" divers holy expressions im

plying much inward consolation and peace." The light flickers, and you listen, and hear "some exceeding self-debasing words -the dying man is " annihilating and judging himself.”

There is a picture by D. Maclise, R.A., "A Winter Night's Tale" (216), in which the skill in the form and grouping of the figures is lost for the want of atmosphere and a proper tone of colour. The old crone, whose expression would do well enough, has been persuaded to break silence and tell some terrible secret of the old house to a large group which seem to be sitting on a winter's night round a winter's fire. They are sitting and looking right enough; but yet something is wrong, something is wanting. That something is a Rembrandt effect of darkness and lurid light.

Going out of doors, as you will easily by looking at Mr. Elmore's picture (184), you may listen to the tale of a talebearer. The artist raises you by his art at once to the roof of an Eastern house, and reminds you of one of the sayings of our Lord. Crowds of women are flocking together; you see them gather, but you are not lost in the multitudes, for the story is put strongly in one part of the picture and kept there. It is told by three figures; they are figures of woman who know nothing, and have never heard, of the charity that covereth a multitude of sins. You have before you the scandalmonger, the scandalized, and the one that is rejoicing in the iniquity.

There are plenty of other pictures worth notice, but space forbids; the reader must be left to exercise his own discrimination, and find them out for himself.

TOPICS OF THE MONTH.

THE most triumphant moment in the life of the Emperor Napoleon was probably that in which he greeted the Emperor of all the Russias at the Paris terminus of the Northern Railway, and drove with him down the magnificent Boulevard of Magenta to the Tuileries. For sixteen years he has been scheming for full recognition on the part of the Royal families of Europe. During the first years of his reign our own Royal family alone extended to him their personal courtesies, and though his Government has been formally recognized by the other Continental Governments, yet the Sovereigns of the great empires long looked coldly upon

him. Much was required before they would receive a successful adventurer into the charmed circle of kings who reigned by right divine. Now, however, that the Emperor of all the Russias and the Emperor-designate of Germany have accepted Louis Napoleon's hospitalities, the Empire must be regarded as having outlived its probation, and must be looked upon as one of the settled institutions of the European world. Yet the visit of the Emperor brought its dangers as well as its pleasures. Berengowski's bullet might have lighted where it was not meant, or if it had winged its way to the heart of the Czar, for whom the Pole intended it, the Paris fêtes would have had so disastrous a result that their author would have wished they had never been imagined. The assassin's shot, since it failed, has, however, subserved Napoleon's purposes. The community of interest between the two Emperors seemed to be increased by their having been "under fire together." The Czar became more confidential with his host, and the evident sincerity with which the Parisians rejoiced over his escape, the popularity which he seemed to acquire, inspired him with a much more cordial feeling for his entertainers, and the impression produced upon his mind was just that which Louis Napoleon must have desired. It is unnecessary to inquire whether the Czar was displeased that no invitation was given him to visit England after he had so handsomely entertained the heir to the English throne; he was probably well pleased to hurry home; he knows that Berengowski is but the type of hundreds scattered about Europe, while he was out of his own well-watched dominions. At any turn of the road he might find himself confronted by some blind fanatic who had devoted himself to avenge the stamping out of Polish liberty.

Such a congress of kings and statesmen as Paris witnesses this summer was never before heard or dreamt of. The Emperor of the French has proved himself a magician indeed. All the Sovereigns of Europe, and even some Eastern potentates, are flocking to his capital to see the great sight, and, incidentally, to magnify the glory of their host. Nor does the New World refuse to lend him some of its celebrities; if the President of the United States will not visit him lest even Republican institutions should seem to minister to the triumph of Imperialism, has not Brigham Young, the chief of the Mormons, been showing the wonders of the Exhibition to a few of his wives? Yet Louis Napoleon's tenure of power is no more stable, and his hopes of establishing a dynasty are fainter than ever since the poor child to whom alone he could transmit the glittering diadem, which it has cost him so much trouble to win and wear, is hopelessly diseased. But if the gathering of crowned heads in the French capital can but yield a momentary splendour to Napoleon's reign,