and the cummin, and has therefore necessarily neglected the weightier matters of the law. He might perchance have received tithes from Melchisedec, instead of which he has gone to Jerusalem to gather among the stubble of that miserable city a few scattered ears of corn, sometimes even putting into his garner tares instead of wheat.

We think it also incompatible with the elevation essential to the loftiest argument, that Mr Hunt should find himself so closely wedded to the actual and realistic schools. In sacred subjects, which are avowedly not wholly of this world, it is not only desirable, but necessary, that ordinary earthly forms and characters should be inspired with somewhat of a supermundane purity, dignity, and holiness. What is the function of creative genius, where the sphere of inspiration, if not found here? What constitutes the victory of imagination-the vision divine of the originative poet-if not in the realisation of a beauty and truth beyond the ken of the common eye? What was the glory and the genius of Raphael, Da Vinci, and others, if imagination, and creation, and all that is ideal and transcendent, go for naught, and painting be but a blind transcript of ordinary nature just in her everyday garb? These great painters went through the labour and fag of minutest study from actual characters, as their sketches and drawings abundantly testify. But for what purpose? Why, that they might at length reach by a wide induction a high generic type of noble humanity-that rabbis, and prophets, and apostles, might indeed be something more than mere old toothless Jews found about thestreets. We need scarcely say that Mr Hunt's great work fails grievously in the elevation required of such a subject. We think, indeed, there is but one opinion, that just as the characters involve divinity is the picture most at fault. The Christ is a noble generous youth, but little more; the Madonna a youthful_interesting maiden. The artist does not appear to have asked for inspiration; and assuredly he did not get it. Short of this highest element, which

indeed includes all that is usually meant by genius, imagination, and original creation, "The Finding of Christ in the Temple" is a great and successful work. We wholly dissent from the eulogists who have already handed it down to posterity as the marvel of the age; yet, without hesitation, we pronounce it, with all its shortcomings, the great picture of the season. We honour the artist who has laboured so zealously and so well. He has already found his reward, and time will give him a place in history.

Finally, we would say a few words on Mr Watts' "School of Legislation"-a fresco which, after several years of protracted labour, was opened to public view some months since in the noble dining-hall of Lincoln's Inn. It is in most respects the direct opposite to the work we have just criticised. Mr Holman Hunt is consummate in his handling, technical skill, drawing, drapery, and detail. It is just in these points that Mr Watts has failed. He has attempted more than he has power to carry out; the subject is beyond his grasp: feebleness of hand and want of technical and academic knowledge make him hesitate in the utterance of his noblest thoughts. We should be sorry to assert that the drawing is absolutely bad; yet certainly we have found figures which, from infirmity of internal anatomy, would, if not held together by drapery, absolutely fall to pieces. The drapery itself, too, is often imperfectly studied and understood; its cast is frequently inharmonious, sometimes impossible, distorting the figure it is designed to adorn. Action in such a composition was scarcely to be expected, yet we may fairly object when figures are wholly paralysed, and kings of the earth are crippled into corners. The difficulties to be met, however, were immense. The subject and design, moreover, at once provoke comparison with a class of works to which Raphael alone was fully equal.

So much, then, for defects and objections. On the conception, general character, and expression of the work, we can bestow an almost unqualified approval. In Italy we see in

many a refectory paintings of the Last Supper, giving by their presence solemnity to the evening meal. And it was indeed a noble thought here, in the dining-hall of one of our Inns of Law, to enthrone, as in everlasting remembrance, the great jurists of the earth, Moses and Justinian, Alfred and Edwardthe solemn past looking down on the living present; all that is memorable in history inspiring our English law and legislation. The general effect and composition, suggested by Raphael's great fresco, "The School of Athens," are, moreover, in the highest degree imposing. The figures are beyond the size of life-they are noble in bearing; and the style of the entire work has the signal advantage of comporting well with the dignity of the architecture and the uses of a forensic body. All this we conceive to be no ordinary merit. Mr Watts has been known by works animated with lofty poetic purpose, and is himself a noble example of an artist inspired by the love and the honour of his calling. This, then, his grandest composition, we receive as no unworthy tribute to the cause of national and historic art.

In conclusion, our English school,

in its struggles and tendencies, is marked, if not by decided progress, at least by promise. The activity which in a thousand channels opens to our civilisation a career of stirring enterprise, reflects itself into our national art. Our Exhibitions, in the countless multitude of their works, in the wide diversity of their subjects, show a facility of resource and a fertility of production beyond all previous example. If art be not lofty, it is at least all-embracing; if it fail in satisfying the aspirations of the more cultured few, it at all events ministers to the refinement of the people at large. If it be not rapt in the beatific vision, it certainly, as an art-militant, is struggling and fighting not ignobly in the lower sphere of earth. We live in a day of warfare, and the victory is not yet declared. In the empire of art, schools and creeds and factions are in contest. The material and the spiritual, the realistic and the ideal, humanity and a brute naturalism, are in hostile feud ranged against each other. It is as if Satan were let loose before the Millennium is proclaimed. As critics we look on and watch the strife, trusting in the final triumph of the beautiful and the true.

BREAKFAST, at Wilbury Hall, was a regular meal, at which it was understood that all the company should assemble; not, as in some houses, a prolonged and desultory repast, to suit the habits of the lazy or irregular. Ten o'clock was the stated hour; and here I may remark, as the question of early rising seems anew to be earnestly discussed, that ten, during the winter months at least, appears to me to be an admirable point of compromise between the slothful and the restless. It is a horrid nuisance, either in country or town, to be compelled to leave the warm and comfortable couch in the grey and cheerless dawn, to perform an unsatisfactory toilette by gas or candle light; and precipitately to undergo that semi-scalping process which the majority of the sons of Adam, who still adhere to the use of razors, are doomed matutinally to inflict upon their smarting countenances. Let the sun by all means have the precedence. It is time enough to rise when he has appeared above the horizon; but to be moving before him, is an act of disrespect to the sovereign orb of day. Able counsel, who have undertaken the defence of the sluggard who maintains that he may lawfully and legitimately keep possession of his pillow until eleven, have framed a tolerable argument in his behalf; but they cannot subvert the leading dictum of Solomon, who, being himself of luxurious habits, has pronounced authoritatively on the other side. Ten, therefore, we may assume to be the proper hour for breakfast, and it was so observed at Wilbury.

During the meal the plans for the day were discussed and arranged with that perfect freedom of choice to all the guests which renders English country life so peculiarly attractive. Some of the gentlemen, who

were keen sportsmen, determined upon beating the covers; one or two had business at the county town: while others declared that the whole morning would scarce suffice to enable them to get rid of their correspondence. I daresay that George Carlton would very willingly have remained at home to act the part of a squire of dames, nor should I have felt any objection to follow his example; but as we could hardly frame a proper excuse for doing so, we agreed to take a ramble together. I own I had a certain hankering after the pheasants and woodcocks, but, not having contributed to the national revenue as a sporting licentiate, I did not consider myself entitled to assist at the battue.

Therefore, some little while after the sportsmen had sallied forth, we began our walk through a noble country, which even in winter gave token of its fertility. The farmyards were filled with the bounteous produce of the bygone season; we heard the merry whirring of the fanners, and the measured strokes of the flail; and great fat sheep, worthy to have been consumed by the captains of the Grecian host, nibbled complacently at their turnips, and shook their stumpy tails as if in commendation of the merits of the juicy esculent. Mr Stanhope was not one of those shortsighted squires, who, acting under the niggardly advice of their stewards, consider that they provide sufficiently for the wellbeing of the labourers, if, in some remote corner of the estate, they are allowed to inhabit sheds wherein their families are packed without regard to comfort, decency, or ventilation. He held the doctrine that the day-labourer, being unable to erect a house for himself, was entitled to such accommodation on the estate of the employer as would attach him to

home, and strengthen the social ties and domestic affections which are so apt to be loosened and impaired, or even to disappear altogether, under the pressure of abject misery. It is in most instances the want of a happy home, and the sense of discomfort there, that drives so many labouring men to the alehouse, where they sot away their small earnings, heartlessly indifferent to their wives, who may be suffering from cold and hunger. Then, through intemperance, arises the temptation towards poaching, which affords so easy a means of obtaining an illicit supply; and that step once taken, the ruin of the man is sealed. Nowhere in England have I seen more substantial and comfortable cottages than were provided at Wilbury for the accommodation of the labourers; and it was quite evident that this wise liberality was properly appreciated, for the little gardens were without exception trim and well stocked with herbs and bushes, the houses were scrupulously clean, and Master Pig, in his own quiet snuggery behind, gradually developed himself into proportions which would have rejoiced the heart of Mr Huxtable.

George was unusually taciturn. I knew what was on his mind, but thought it best to leave him to come out with it, and therefore did not hazard any remark that might lead the conversation towards the subject. I think that the confessio amantis, when it is to be made, should always be spontaneous. I felt fully satisfied that Carlton was dying to begin; but some men are very shy about making these kind of confidences even to their most trusted friends-and George was one of that order. At last he broke the ice.

an enigma to myself. In regard to most matters, I can form strong resolutions, and adhere to them with the utmost tenacity of purpose, which you may call obstinacy, if you will; but on other points I am as nerveless, helpless, and undecided as a child."

"Therein I apprehend you are not singular. Does not Ariosto tell us that the great paladin Orlando, that lion of Christian chivalry, had his wits unsettled by love, hung up his armour on a tree, and walked the forests as a sylvan?"

"Pshaw! Let Ariosto alone for the present. Poetical examples are marvellously akin to banter, for which I am in no humour. What I mean to say is this, that I have been for years living as it were in a dream, waiting for the realisation of my hopes; and now, when all that I had wished for and prayed for appears within my reach, a deep sense of my own unworthiness paralyses every energy of my nature makes a coward of me-fills me with irresolution-and prevents me from going further."

"You must explain yourself somewhat more clearly, Carlton, for I really do not understand you."

"Well, have a little patience. I daresay I am talking nonsense for love has a language of its own, and that language is not always of the clearest kind. Besides, it is a very difficult thing adequately to convey our own sensations to another. But thus it is :-When a youth,. I was much at Wilbury-Mr Stanhope being my guardian. Amy was then a beautiful child-you see what she is now; and I, being fantastical, and not altogether unimaginative, began to dream dreams and to see visions for the future, in all of which a certain fair young head was the predominant feature. In short, I constructed for myself a romance, of which Amy was the heroine, and I hoped that the day might come when, the bud having expanded into the blossom, I might win and wear it as my own. I grant you that such a sentiment as mine was out of the usual course.

Boys commonly begin by falling in love with women older than themselves, and pass from the worship of

one idol to that of another, until their affections are squandered away; and love, or what passes by its name, becomes a thing of custom rather than a holy talisman. It was not so with me. I went abroad, as you know; but I carried with me the image of Amy Stanhope; and often, in the hour of temptation, such as besets us all, that image has saved me from the commission of folly or of crime. But still I remained a dreamer. I have done nothing-I have made myself no name--I have performed no service to my kind—I am a mere useless atom in the vast ocean of humanity. And therein lies the failure-the woeful incompleteness of my romance. I had foreshadowed the day when I might approach her who has long been the loadstar of my heart, and ask her in all humility to become the partaker of my fortunes and my fame. Fortune, indeed, I have-for that was the result of accident; but famereputation-honourable distinction -alas! Sinclair, I have utterly neglected the opportunity of attaining to these. I have not one single leaf of laurel to lay before her feet."

Intimate as I had been with Carlton, I was not prepared for such a burst as this. I knew that he had a chivalrous nature, and high romantic notions; but that, in our degenerate days, it should be my lot to hear a confession, more transcendental of its kind than was likely to have occurred even to such an enthusiast as Sir Philip Sidney, filled me, I acknowledge, with astonish

ment.

"Pardon me, dear Carlton," said I after a pause, during which I tried to think how I might best contribute to dispel this hallucination, "for saying that I think your conclusion is much more fantastical than your dream. You lament that you have no fame; what sort of fame would you have? These are not times when distinction can be won by knightly deeds-such fame as professional success can give, I know you utterly despise. What then remains but a political career, in which you have always declined to embark; or a literary one, which is still open to you, if you have the ambition to proceed? And, after all,

what is fame? Ask those who have attained it, and they will tell you that it is no better than a bubble. What says your favourite Milton ?— 'Fame is the spur that the clear spirit doth raise

(That last infirmity of noble mind) To scorn delights, and live laborious days;

But the fair guerdon when we hope to find,

And think to burst out into sudden blaze, Comes the blind Fury with th' abhorred shears,

And slits the thin-spun life -''

"Ah, but," said Carlton, "you must not omit the answer, and a noble one it is'But not the praise, Phoebus replied, and touched my trembling ears;

Fame is no plant that grows on mortal soil,

Nor in the glistering foil

Set off to the world, nor in broad rumour lies;

But lives and spreads aloft by those pure

eyes,

And perfect witness of all-judging Jove;
As he pronounces lastly on each deed,
Of so much fame in heaven expect thy
meed.'"

"But don't you see," I replied, "that there is an ambiguity in this; for Milton, though he uses the word fame, evidently implies nothing more than the upright and conscientious discharge of duty. Come, come, Carlton; you are really too sensitive about this. If you are so deeply attached to Miss Stanhope, why should you trifle with her happiness and your own? Can it be your wise purpose not to approach her until you have written half-a-dozen books that shall make a noise in the world, or delivered the same number of set speeches, which shall fall flat on the ear of the House of Commons? For shame, man! get rid of these fancies, which are but the whims of an over-indulged brain; take your proper place in

society, for you have been too long secluded from the world; seek occupation, and if fame lies in your way, you will find it at the proper time. Oh, you can be practical enough in your suggestions to others- be a little more confident and consistent as regards yourself."

"Well, perhaps you are right, for I have been a sad dreamer. And to tell you the truth, Sinclair," he added,