was coolly rejecting the love she had almost offered him, the love he must have read in her eyes in that one brief, passionate moment heard in her tones, seen in her richly suffused face; but

Yes, she felt wronged and injured; but still, when he, with that melodious voice of his, and that fervent yet polished air, pleaded for her 'friendship' in place of the love he had been assiduously seeking during these last few days, she could not refuse it. Outwardly he had spared her pride, though she felt in her soul that he knew what was passing in her mind. Outwardly he had spared her pride; and though now she determined with all her force and will to uproot the tenderer feelings that he had striven to plant she could not resist the witchery of a manner that was never suffered to rust through a too long cessation of the art of pleasing. So she gave him her hand in 'friendship,' and he raised it to his lips and impressed such a passionate kiss upon it as caused the indignant blood once more to mount to Flora's face. She could not trust herself to speak now; but, with an undefined feeling that solitary intercourse with Horace Greville might not be conducive to her future peace of mind, she gave Firefly her head, and did not relax her sharp gallop until she drew rein at the broad flight of steps at Kempstowe entrance-hall. She sprang to the ground before he could dismount to assist her, but he was by her side the next moment.

'Flora,' he began in low tones, you will not utterly destroy my faith in woman by refusing to fulfil the promise so-so tenderly_given, will you? When I test it I shall find your friendship staunch?'

'Yes, yes; of course,' she answered, hurriedly, but with burning cheeks (Why would the man remind her of the terribly misplaced tenderness?' she thought). But do let me go in now, Mr. Greville, and do not make so much of so little.'

'Dearest, dearest,' and Flora did not know how to resent or put a stop to these epithets, I have your promise, then. In my dark life there is one bright spot-your love

-friendship I mean.' He allowed her to pass now, and Flora flew up stairs to her own room, feeling that she disliked-no, dreaded Mr. Greville. That man will be disagreeable to me, I'm sure,' she thought, as she slowly prepared to dress for dinner. This morning I thought I cared for him, but I must have been mistaken; he interests me and frightens me a little; and altogether I wish I had not indulged in a quiet canter through a "turfy lane" with him.' And then Flora Forrester shed some burning tears of excited mortification, though, as she truly said to herself, the feeling that would have merged into deep love for him had died out.

The tramping of horses' hoofs outside shortly afterwards informed one or two anxious watchers within the walls of Kempstowe that the riding party had returned. Horace Greville had taken up his position under a tree on the lawn, for the express purpose, as it seemed, of offering a particularly fine flavoured cigar to Philip Morton on his return. At least that is what he did as soon as ever Mr. Morton had assisted to her feet the lovely little lady who had been endeavouring, not altogether unsuccessfully, to bewitch him. The two gentlemen sauntered about on the lawn together for some little time; and when they separated they were rather intimate, considering how aloof Greville had hitherto held himself from the new man.' Before dinner that day Greville knew that Morton's wealth was not fabulous, for the young man was remarkably frank as to his affairs.

I very seldom trouble myself about any one,' Horace Greville remarked, as they were ascending the steps, for the reason, I suppose, that I rarely meet with any one sufficiently interesting; you are an exception. Will you pardon something I am going to say that borders on advice?'

He had a very seductive way, when he willed, to men as well as women; he was a good many years older than Philip; he had the reputation of being an elegant cynic; above all, the man he addressed was warmhearted and frank. The reply to his question was—

Say on. I am flattered by the fact of your interest being aroused on my behalf.'

'This is my caution, then. Take care you are not trapped into a declaration to one of the fortunehunters in that house, who one and all regard you as fair game. There is only one girl here who has not come down hoping to carry out certain views.' Pshaw! man; I know all you can say' (Morton had interrupted him with an impatient exclamation). But I tell you I am right. There is only one girl who has a heart-if you can win it you are lucky; the rest have only calculating machines. So be careful of them all, save Miss Forrester.'

'Miss Forrester! Ah! indeed. She's the dean's daughter, isn't she?' asked Morton, indifferently, for his head was full of admiration for the tiny Venus by whose side he had spent the last two hours. 'She is a handsome girl, that Miss Forrester,' he continued, but too tall, too stately a beauty. Now I came from the land of " ' stately beauty ;" therefore I want a contrast

'Such as Lady St. Clair offers, eh?' asked Greville, laughing. And though Morton laughed too, the blood darkened his brow as he parted with his new friend.

When he reached his own room he seated himself by the writingtable, and fell to sketching heads, the outline of which all bore a strong resemblance to the graceful little one of Lady St. Clair; and as he sketched he held converse with himself-not connectedly, as I shall write it down-for he was not so totally unlike his fellow-creatures as to think' in unbroken sentences.

'Halte-là; hold hard, Philip Morton; where is your rough gallantry leading you in this land of circumspection; you are young in the ways of life, my friend-in the ways of such life as this, at least' so plainly said the eyes if not the tongue of this model of his order, Mr. Greville; 'you must not soften the natural harshness of your voice and manner to suit the gentle ear and eye of a lovely English lady who is kind to you, and sweet and good, and inno

VOL. II.-NO. VI.

cent as an angel, lest that lovely lady's name should be mentioned lightly. He's a good fellow, no doubt, that Greville, but if he only knew how I longed to choke that laugh of his, when he indulged in it after uttering Lady St. Clair's name! Ida St. Clair-Ida Courtenay (her maiden name was ever so much prettier than the one she now bears). Ida! that was my mother's name; singularly enough! Ida Morton, and a very sweet one it is too. There may be some truth in what he said about these girls. Well, their heartlessness does not matter to me, for I want none of them. Flora Forrester seems to be a favourite of his; I wonder he don't marry her himself, if that is the case, instead of offering her to other people. I can't catch the innocent, confiding expression of her brow and eye; that's better, that last stroke ; warmer than heaven, purer than earth, her glances are. Such a fairy as she is, and such a brave fairy too, without being coarse and rough, or strong-minded, as your gallant women too often are. I must refrain from talking to her to-night though for not a shadow must darken that spotless fame, through her kindness to me. I shall not like this England, I fear, after all; I'll go back to the "old glad life in Spain."

After this perusal of his secret thoughts, we may safely come to the conclusion that Philip Morton was not an evil-disposed Don Juan, as more than one of the party had been wrathfully disposed to regard him previous to, and during the ride, that afternoon. But he was wrong in supposing it necessary to throw any additional softness into either voice or manner, when he addressed Lady St. Clair, for both were naturally only too thrillingly soft and harmonious; this was an error of judgment, not of heart; the latter he might have worn upon his sleeve without fear of prying eyes discovering aught there that should not have been. And so with a clear conscience he rose up to dress for dinner, leaving the table scattered over with sketches of female headsall faint attempts at reproducing Lady St. Clair's charms.

E

their difference is commensurate with their superiority. Every Frenchman is profoundly convinced that the French school of art is the first in the universe, and that every other is good in proportion as it approximates to it. Difference therefore betokens inferiority, and in proportion to the difference is the inferiority. But to an English eye the French pictures differ as much from those of the great schools of old as they do from the modern English; and hence a sturdy patriot might be tempted to draw a conclusion precisely opposite to that of the Parisian. Difference, however, we may readily admit, is in itself no proof of inferiority; and, without giving up our own views, it would be well if before broadly condemning any school we were to examine its productions as far as may be from its own point of view, tempering a hasty judgment by a recollection of foreign misconceptions of our own efforts.

Assuredly the French pictures will grow in the estimation of the general visitor in proportion as they are dwelt upon, just as they do in that of the professional student. French art, in fact, is very seducing to those who are for a while subject to its blandishments. It has a brilliancy, clearness, power, a vivid conception of purpose, a sharp logical precision and vigour, an air of confidence, security, and knowledge, which the student finds difficult to resist. In the days of David -the painter, not the king-French art leavened more or less that of the whole Continent. There was a reaction afterwards, and it seemed as though the Gallic influence was passing away and the Teutonic assuming the ascendancy. But the pendulum is swinging back again, and among the rising painters of the Continent, French taste, or French practice, is once more the vogue.

French contemporary art is on the whole very well represented. There are the great canvases from the Luxembourg, Versailles, and other national buildings; a tolerable culling from the treasures of the Emperor, Prince Napoleon, Count de Morny, and other less distinguished but

not less enthusiastic collectors, and these are supplemented by contributions sent by the artists themselves. Few remarkable names are missing, though of some the examples are unworthy. On entering the room the eye is arrested by the huge battle-pieces-clever, spirited, and exquisitely French-all offerings exclusively to the glory of the nation or the Emperor-curious, and not uninteresting in their way, if only as psychological studies, but hardly belonging to the region of Fine Art. Maclise has shown too impressively, in his Meeting of Wellington and Blucher,' how a great battle should be commemorated for us to dwell on these stage displays.

From them, therefore, and their appropriate companions, the gaudy portraits of the French marshals, we turn to the works of the really great painters. Of those who have themselves passed away, Ary Scheffer and Paul Delaroche are the greatest represented here. By the former there is only the St. Augustine and St. Monica,' an earnest, noble work, in colour too pale and unreal, perhaps, to satisfy an eye accustomed to the glowing hues of healthy, active life, or to the subdued splendour of Titian or of Reynolds, but assorting well with the devout, almost ascetic, feeling of the picture. Delaroche's chief work is his MarieAntoinette.' The unhappy queena life-size figure-walks forth from the room where she has heard her sentence, with a calm, queenly bearing, resolved to meet her fate worthily, and yet showing, as the jeers of the brutal crowd assail her on every side, how her woman's heart yearns for one touch of human sympathy. This, perhaps, is the grandest single figure Delaroche ever painted, the truest, the most thoughtful, and that which makes the most direct appeal to the feelings of the spectator. The remark is often heard that the countenance is too impassive. Dwell on it for a moment, however, and you will feel that the 'painter intended to represent an assumed impassiveness, and that in that difficult effort he has been successful. But in order to give importance to the queen he has sunk the whole of

the other figures in obscurity. It is only when your eye gets accustomed to the obscurity that you recognize through the open door the malignant countenances of the judges, the guards, or the envenomed rabble.

Delaroche has another large picture, A Martyr under Diocletian,' a beautiful and imaginative work, but one which has, for our taste, too much of that peculiar sentiment which French painters love to throw around subjects of this class. He has also three small pictures-mere studies, in fact, but of wonderful power-the family of Jesus watching from their chamber window the procession on its way to Golgotha; their return after the Crucifixion; and the Virgin contemplating the crown of thorns.

At the head of the living painters of France stand by general consent Ingres and Delacroix. Each has here only a single picture. That of Ingres is simply a nude figure the size of life, entitled 'The Source' (in the English catalogue inaccurately rendered The Spring'). A well-known French critic, speaking of English paintings in which young ladies are represented in scant drapery, says that he is always shocked when he looks at such pictures, because, although there is never anything shown that even a Puritan would care to conceal, the fair ones look so conscious, so much as though they were going to cry out for shame,' that out of very modesty he is compelled to turn aside his face. Certainly, neither in M. Ingres's picture, nor in any other of the many similar ones here, is there any reason for a like delicacy. They conceal nothing; and, like our first parents, are naked and not ashamed-though it may be not exactly for the same cause. M. Ingres's Source' we must suppose to be an illustration of a Greek idea. But the lady is certainly not a divinity, and certainly not a Greeksimply a disrobed Parisienne. The figure is admirably drawn-observe especially the skilful expression of hands and feet-cleverly though coldly painted, and-utterly uninteresting, except as the work of a man of eighty, in which respect it is almost a marvel.

Delacroix's picture, the Murder of the Bishop of Liége,' is full of vigour and spirit, but exaggerated, murky, confused, and conventional, and, if one may say so of a favourite work of one who is regarded by Frenchmen as the prince of colourists, illcoloured.

As a principal work of one of the most popular of the rising artists of France, Gerome's 'Ave, Cæsar Imperator, morituri te salutant,' must not pass unheeded. It is a production of unquestionable power, careful study, and, despite some peculiarities of drawing and colour, of great technical skill: but what is repulsive in the subject is not rendered less so in the treatment.

As examples of a class of pictures essentially French may be noticed the tremendous Vision of Zachariah,' by M. Laemlein; Flandrin's magnificent study of a young man, -though why he should have chosen such a spot to rest upon it is hard to imagine; the Pillory' of M. Glaize; and Illusions Perdu' of M. Gleyre. M. Gleyre's picture is the best of the favourite Parisian semi-poetical, semi-classical pictures in the room. It is the old allegory of man reviewing the departed joys of life; a commentary on the text' Vanity of vanities,' not very hard to read, but sufficiently obscure to induce the 'Art Journal' (always fond of inventing titles to pictures, instead of accepting those of the painters), to inscribe under an engraving of it given some time back in that journal,

The Evening Hymn,' and that though there sits in the galley a winged Cupid, laurel-crowned minstrels, and the like!

But if we linger thus over the first few French pictures that meet the eye, how shall we ever get through the thousand and one of this and other nations that remain? Well, it is just the fate that befals all who visit the gallery; and we must do as others do-linger while we may, and break off when we must.

We will then pass over Cabanel's vast apotheosis of St. Louis, though it has won itself a place in the Luxembourg, and his almost as large Satyr carrying off a pearlyskinned Nymph, though this is the