ness and delicacy of the touch, less suggestive of labour than the vegetable life in Millais' "Royalist," is accompanied by quite as much minute reality. The grief in the younger child's face is the most touching thing imaginable; and the bare legs, scratched across and across with thorns, must be included as an element of ex

pression. To miss seeing this group, or the two landscapes by the same artist (182 and 541), would be as great a loss as could happen to any visitor.

The main body of pre-Raphaelites, from the extraordinary degree of labour they bestow on their works, do not paint pictures beyond a limited scale of dimensions. Yet Anthony, who exhibits by far the largest picture in the gallery, must be approximated to the school quite as closely as Redgrave. Anthony! whose "Monarch Oak" (480), an elaborate portrait nearly the size of life, with a great deal more yellow in its composition than Anthony ever used before, looks as if it had swallowed a score of Redgraves, and they had made it a little bilious! It is a noble work, though; under the boughs to the left you perceive a crowd of young trunks, as if drawn aside to contemplate, at a respectful distance, their grand old chief in his proud retirement. That portion to the right is the weak point of the picture, it being a remarkable fact with Anthony, that while he paints tree-tops so real that they seem to stir, and ivy-clusters in which you fancy you could bury your arm to the elbow, and wet fern with every prominent stem and fibre glistening in the sunlight, he dashes in men, women, and children, as carelessly as if they were a mere fungus kind of intrusion amid his rich growth of botanical forms, and might be there or not with very little effect on the composition. No one will like this picture so well as the famous beech trees and fern exhibited in a large oval frame last year; but the difference, on the whole, is such as might exist between two real scenes, and is not a difference attributable to a falling-off of the artist's skill.

In our first article, we alluded to a picture by Frith, in last season's exhibition, illustrating the comedy of manners, with some infusion of such serious interest as lies, indeed, at the bottom of most comedy. As a present instance of the application of art to

the pourtrayal of modern sophistications, we will take A. Solomon's "Phillis and Brunetta" (470). The situation is described in an extract from the Spectator, which is given in the catalogue, and which we reproduce:

"Phillis was draped in a brocade more gorgeous and costly than had ever before appeared. * * * Brunetta came in a plain black silk, attended by a negro girl in a petticoat of the same brocade with which Phillis was attired. This drew the attention of the whole company, upon which the unhappy Phillis swooned away."

The result attained by Mr. Solomon is the result which any clever painter would be sure to attain, and it is nothing more. Cleverness may do for this kind of subject, where none of the life is really real. Go to Webster's picture of the "Dame School" (116), not as good as the same subject by him in the Vernon collection, but only a little less forcible, and see how much more earnestness it requires to paint life which has not been taught to dissemble the least part of its vitality. It is easy to get at the secret of so much artistic power being directed to the study of lower animal life. There are Landseer's pair of pictures (46 and 69) in one of which two stags are seen fighting on the shore of a loch by moonlight; while in the other the same two stags lie dead, with antlers interlaced, in the clear crisp morning atmosphere. There are the other pictures by the same great painter, "Children of the Mist" (170), a herd of deer, gazing at the spectator through a morning haze; and the Twins” (291), in which picture there is as much observation of nature as would enable some artists to fill the side of a gallery. The twins are young lambs, by the side of their dam, guarded by two large sheep-dogs. An almost equally fine picture in respect of truthful skill, and superior in the matter of interest, is Ansdell's "Sick Lamb" (395). The ewe steadfastly faces a large vulture, waiting to seize as its prey the little creature which lies gasping on its side. Wolf, too, is a painter who will soon make a name as great, perchance, as that of Landseer; which he could not hope to do were he only a follower of that artist. The "Proud Bird of the Mountain" (349) is a grand old eagle perched on a jutting rock, and coped with The other two pictures by Wolf are

snow.

66

buttercups and daisies was one of the highest pleasures of life? Cowper says it is a pity that a kitten should ever become a cat; and there certainly are individuals for whom one is tempted to wish that they had ever continued to be children.

But the lilacs! how delicious their fragrance! so thinks the wild bee, which has just been sipping their nectar; and the lily of the valley, with its unobtrusive beauty and delicate odour. Then, too, the wild crab-trees, with their pink buds and white blossoms, and the horse-chestnut, with its fan-like leaves, and stately bunches of wax flowers!

But how I am wandering from the subject on which I intended to write. Be it so -it is very excusable for those who love nature to wander amongst her varied beauties in the month of May; and especially delightful is it to have so many of the senses refreshed at the same time by different objects.

What can be more delightful than the song of the birds?-for "the time of the singing of birds is come, and the voice of the turtle is heard in our land," and the swallow, true to her appointed time, is also come to pay us a summer visit, and all the

host of summer birds-the black-cap, the red-start with his tail of fire, the willowwrens, and last, not least, the cuckoo, with his wandering voice, flitting about from tree to tree. Everybody likes to hear the cuckoo; for my own part I always pay him the respect of standing still to listen to him until he has finished his song-if song it may be called-for I love to hear him; his voice seems like a promise of warm weather, and brings with it so many old remembrances and associations, that it is both pleasant and painful. But amongst our numerous songsters at this season of the year, who would wish the blackbird to be overlooked? the melodious blackbird, with his golden beak and jet-black feathers. He is, generally speaking, a wild and timid bird, though we have them tame to a certain degree in winter, when they come to take their share of food with the little bantams, together with clouds of sparrows, numerous chaffinches, robins, hedge-sparrows, and titmice. The blackbird makes a shrill and peculiar noise before going to roost at night; and also when he has a nest and young ones he makes the shrubbery almost ring again with his piping, angry notes. Once I reared a young

blackbird-humanity, not choice, compelled me to do so, for I have no sympathy with those who take birds' nests or eggs, or young, but consider it extremely cruel. The parents of the one I speak of had built their nest in some ivy on a stone wall. It looked rather insecure; but had the weather continued fine it might have remained in safety till the young ones were fledged. As it happened, a sudden storm, with heavy rain, came on, and the little birds, alarmed probably at the pelting of the heavy drops upon the ivy-leaves, had scampered out of the nest, and lay upon the ground-all were killed save one, and that was brought into the house and placed in a basket. Poor Dick! one eye was injured a little, and his life seemed doubtful. At night I placed him and his basket on the drawers in my room. Very early the next morning, the loud chirps which the poor little thing made for his father or mother to come and feed him told me that he was not only alive, but vigorous; so I fed him with crumbs of bread, and for a time we both went to sleep again-but he was very clamorous, and as long as he was unable to feed himself it was no little trouble; for during the day-time I had to carry him upstairs, and put him in an attic, where I locked him up, for fear old pussy should take a fancy to him. Many and many a journey had I to feed poor Dick; but he grew so fast, and looked so well, that it was really pleasant to see him, and I became quite fond of my forlorn little bird. When he was somewhat older, I gave him a large wicker bonnet basket, which was a palace to him, with a pan of water in one corner, a piece of board

and sand, and his raw unsalted meat, with bread-crumbs, now and then a few worms; and when strawberries and currants were ripe he had many a feast. When I was in the room with him I used to let him out of his cage, and he enjoyed his liberty very much, pattering about the floor, picking up bits of mortar, and entertaining himself in his own peculiar manner, and much to his satisfaction. Often I placed a pan of water for him on the floor, into which he would plunge with great glee, and throw the water over his back till he was wet all over; then he would shake himself and sit in the window to dry his feathers in the sunshine. He was a pleasant bird, so healthy and happy. When he heard me coming to feed him he almost shoutedso loud and eager was his cry. He was very much pleased if I set him on my finger and sung for him; he would sidle closer and closer to me, and sometimes begin to pull my hair gently. He never knew me if I went into the room with my bonnet on, but was quite terror-stricken. As he grew older, he became more shy; and as I never intended him to be a prisoner, and it was a time of year when fruit was ripe, and there was plenty of food to be found, he was allowed to fly away. He was turned out in the garden, and never came again, so that what became of my poor bird I do not know. I try to hope he is happy; and when I hear a blackbird singing sweetly in the garden, as one has done this spring, how do I know that it may not be my pretty pet Dick? I was very sorry to part with him; and though I knew it was for his happiness, yet a tear was in my eye!

THE MYSTERY OF THE DAY. THERE is a manifest tendency abroad to believe in the impossible. This scientific age of ours is not satisfied with the wonders of mesmerism, electro-biology, steam, phrenology, and all the other wide ranges of phenomena which has been opened to its view. That thirst after the unknown or the supernatural, which a wise discretion has excluded from religion, re-appears under the mask of science. Much painstaking observation and elaborate experiment are lavished upon objects which can yield no satisfactory result. The alacrity to give credence to a fact, because it is marvellous, may be natural, but it is very far from scientific. Hundreds, nay thousands of people, are occupying themselves in turning tables, refusing to believe that the process can be accomplished by any other than a spiritual agency. Nor is

their attention confined to this amusement; but like those who find sermons in stones, they have discovered a voice in mahogany. The delusion is spreading rapidly; it threatens to become epidemic. We would therefore present our readers with such information as may enable them to, at least, understand the strange subject; and we shall give them, further, the benefit of our own opinion-for we have been to pay a visit to this modern witch of Endor.

It is to America we are indebted for this new wonder. Some years ago, the family of a gentleman named Fox was disturbed by strange noises. The furniture began to move about without any assignable cause; rappings were heard upon the doors and walls; and at length it was discovered that these peculiar noises accompanied the persons of two girls, the daughters of Mr. Fox, who, it became evident, were able to summon them at pleasure. This matter caused great excitement in the neighbourhood, and the young ladies were removed; but the strange companions followed them to their new abode; and at length the girls became exhibitors in public of the miraculous influence they were supposed to possess. It was thought that this singular noise, if it proceeded from any supernatural agency, should have some meaning; and it was at length suggested that an alphabet should be placed in the hands of some spectator, as a means of in

terpretation. This being done, accordingly, when certain letters were pointed to, the sounds were distinctly heard, and thus words were spelled out. The whole affair was of course pronounced to be a deliberate imposition upon the credulity of the public. It was taken up by the authorities of one of the States. A committee of respectable and intelligent persons was appointed to investigate it; but they could arrive at no conclusion except that the precautions they had taken rendered it entirely impossible there could be fraud or deception of any kind. The phenomenon, such as it was, existed beyond a doubt, and that was all they could say. When this became known, the wonder grew; persons became infected with the strange influence; and there are at this moment upwards of thirty thousand people in America who profess to have the power, at their own will, of producing this mysterious conversation. It has at length travelled across the Atlantic in the person of a Mrs. Hayden, who professes herself to be a recipient of this peculiar power, or a medium of establishing a correspondence between the inhabitants of this world and of that which lies beyond our ken. This seems somewhat startling; but, strange to say, this lady has many visitors, distinguished not less by position than by intelligence; and at her house may be witnessed phenomena, the nature of which has hitherto baffled all attempts at investigation. Now, when persons of high attainments and unblemished charactermen who would not lend themselves to the propagation of any human falsehood, or even to the fostering of what might create delusion, are found, not only approaching the consideration of such a subject, but bringing forward theories scarcely less extraordinary than the subject itself, it is right not only to pause, but to endeavour to obtain such information as may enable us, if possible, to unravel the mystery.

The mode in which this spirit-conversation, as it is termed, is carried on, may be described shortly as follows:-The audience assemble round a table at which the lady is

seated, who plays the part of "medium." Large squares of pasteboard are scattered about, each containing the twenty-four letters of the alphabet. Any one desirous of holding conversation with the spiritworld has to think of some individual who