WHAT are things coming to? Certain artists and critics seem tacitly to have conspired in order to defraud our national art of her grandeur and dignity. Just in proportion as our empire widens in extent do our pictures lessen in size; in proportion as great thoughts struggle for utterance, do our artists play trivially with small ones; and while we compass sea and traverse mountains in science and through commerce, in our Art, on the contrary, week after week, month following month, the painter pitches his camp-stool on a reedy heath or a sandy rabbit-warren, sufficient for his ambition if he immortalise the rabbits and the weeds. Instead of the grandeur of the storm, the gloom of mountain, the infinity of space, the spectator must botanise among foreground flowers, watch the bee as it buzzes over marsh-mallows, marvel at the plumage of the linnet perched upon the twig, glance at the restless weasel as it treads nimbly over broken stones, or shudder at the spotted serpent gliding in the dewy grass. Year by year still the marvel grows; not so much that the untiring hand is unpalsied by fatigue, not that genius can so stoop to drudgery;-as that nature herself still holds her patience, that the leaf of spring does not grow yellow in autumn, and the sapling mature into the forest oak, ere the painter has dotted in the last leaf upon the tree, or put in, with conscientious patience, the indispensable primrose-bud.

Well may we ask what are things coming to, and where shall we stop? When eager crowds gather round the picture-marvel, to catch but a glance at the emerald ring upon the finger, to find the harebell in the thick grass, or the fungus among the ferns, when lady-worshippers exclaim "How lovely!" "How wonderful!" surely it is too much to expect that the artist should stop in his full career of success, and turn into self-reproach the tumult of applause. Of the artist panting for fame from the gaping inultitude thirsting for marvels, what

better can we anticipate? From the critic, however, whose office is to teach by superior wisdom, and guide with calmer discretion, some protest should have come. But when critics acknowledge Mr Ruskin as their chief, when artists themselves have made him their master, when pictures are expressly painted for the purpose of turning into actual practice the extravagance of his cherished theories, the judge himself enters as party to the strife, the master but dispenses rewards among his pupils, the father but distributes his inheritance among his offspring. A rich inheritance most surely. The garment of that tinsel eloquence, brilliant with cerulean blue, spangled with golden stars, is cast as a coat of many colours among bewildered disciples, who, perhaps, just because they cannot follow their master's ambitious flight through heaven, the more servilely tread in his timid and faltering steps upon the earth, stumbling over foreground stones, stooping to the daisy at their feet, but hearing not the thunder which rends the heavens, seeing not the glory which robes the mountainheights.

But although "London Exhibitions" have for some years past suffered from this usurped dictation, we rejoice to find that the great artists who constitute the true glory of our English school, have not yet bartered their honour to this noisy clamour. In writing this present summary, in recording the general results of a season now drawing to a close, we again repeat, that while we must call down exceptional censure upon certain pretenders who seek for fame by the eccentric paths which lead only to noisy notoriety, we can yet for the most part applaud the good and the sterling works of men who have grown old, or at least have become honoured, in the service of their country's Art. Some great names, we regret to say, are this year absent: Mr Herbert is, we believe, engaged upon cartoons for a great national work in the New

Houses of Parliament; Sir Charles Eastlake probably finds the painting of pictures incompatible with his official duties in the service of Art; and lastly, Mr Maclise and Mr Dyce swell the list of absentees from the muster-roll of their fellow-academicians. To these shortcomings, which we deem not merely cause for regret, but somewhat even for censure, we have still further to add the defalcation of Mr Millais and Mr Hunt, from whom at least some startling novel sensation might have been anticipated. The pictures, however, of Landseer, Stanfield, Roberts, Creswick, Frith, O'Neil, and Paton, with others which will fall under more detailed mention, still gain for the Academy its accustomed and crowded popularity.

The two Water-colour Exhibitions may be pronounced, we think, as this year worthy of their deserved renown. The Old Society, which is yet markedly pre-eminent, still glories in works whose annual reappearance has long constituted an essential feature in a London season. It is true that Mr Lewis, having transferred his labours to the Academy, no longer works accustomed marvels in desert encampments and harem revelations. But the President, Mr Frederick Taylor, still true to the vocation of his special genius, is graceful and graphic in Highland gillies, and Highland hunts, aiding with the persuasive force of pictorial enchantment all that can be urged of the good old baronial times, of noble peasantry and manly sports. Mr David Cox, too, is still grandly garrulous-wandering incontinently among mountain-masses, losing himself in mountain - mists; and then through splashing, dashing, washing, scrubbing, and other anomalous processes, at length bringing out, as in his "Snowdon," a drawing matchless for its mystery and inexplicable for its grandeur. The neutral grey of Mr Cox is a marked contrast to the autumn gold of Mr Branwhite; and the "Moel Siabod" of the one and the "

Snowdon" of the other are not less as drawings than as mountains, rivals for kingly supremacy. These two great works are, on all points, opposing contrasts, save in

the one common attribute of grandeur. Mr Hunt still gives to the bloomy peach and the blossoming whitethorn the solid substance of oils, the pure brilliancy of waters, and the startling reality of actual nature. Mr Richardson is sunny and Italian; Mr George Fripp, humble and English; Mr Carl Haag, scenic and showy; while Mr Alfred Fripp is detailed, delicate, and subtle. Mr Jackson, in his "Cumberland Tarn," has given to mountain and to lake the tranquil refinement and poetry which he has hitherto thrown over scenes of ocean; while Mr Newton, still more markedly in his noble drawing of " Ben Nevis," has opened to this Old Society the promise of a new career. Many other drawings merit commendation, but we shall be saved both space and trouble if our readers will kindly task their memories with works of prior Exhibitions, the beauty and charm of which will appropriately serve as fitting praise for the performance not only of present but probably of future years.

We presume that the Exhibition of the New Water-Colour Society may likewise be pronounced as average. Their President, Mr Warren, gives us a remarkably elaborate and sumptuous drawing, "The Song of the Georgian Maiden," made up of Eastern shawls and showy accessories--a picture of mere decoration, in which, consequently, the faces are without character or expression, having no pretence even to drawing. Of the same order of merit is Mr Edward Corbould's "Miracle Play," a work which for any mental attributes is wholly incommensurate with its mere manual effort. The strength of this Exhibition lies in the able though far less ambitious drawings of Haghe, Cook, Bennett, and Rowbotham. Mr Rowbotham is the Richardson of this Society. He takes Italian scenery in its poetry, in the clearness of its sky, in the blueness of its tranquil lakes, in the atmosphere of distant mountains, all treated with an eye to balanced composition, executed with a cleverness of hand, and ennobled by an enthusiasm suited to great Italian subjects. Mr Bennett, who this year is not up to the accus

tomed mark, boasts of excellencies the very opposite. If Rowbotham be of the New Society the Richardson, Mr Bennett serves as substitute for David Cox. Mr Cook, by his drawings from the coasts of Devon and Cornwall, has of late years won for himself a deserved reputation. His" Kynance Cove" we especially marked for its soft glowing harmony of sky, sea, cliff, and shore, suffused by the golden haze of a pervading atmosphere. And lastly, Mr Lewis Haghe, whose drawings will long be remembered among the Manchester Treasures, is here in London represented by less ambitious, but, within their limits, scarcely less able works. His Drinking Song" is especially characteristic of his accustomed manner: the hall of the olden time, with open and ornamented chimneys; the figures of marked character, high in birth and bearing; the colour rich; the execution and detail, carried just far enough, sharp and effective.

Of remaining Exhibitions it is scarcely needful that we should speak. We presume that the public by this time are sufficiently well aware of what may be expected at the Suffolk Street. After the heated crowds of the Academy, it was a relief to pass into the cool solitude, the haunt and home of this "Society of British Artists." In these spacious rooms, for an entire afternoon, we surrendered ourselves to pleasing mental vacancy, delighted as critics to take easy retreat in the conclusion that of one Exhibition at least the less said the better. However, in a collection of nearly one thousand pictures, extending over a suite of five rooms, it might, by the mere doctrine of chances, be predicted that at least a few works of merit would by happy luck intrude. Accordingly, such a per-centage may be found by those who have patience for their extrication. The figure-pictures are almost, without exception, coarse and common-mere models thrown into attitudes, with hackneyed accessories long stereotyped in the trade of picture-making. In landscapes, however, the vigorous naturalism of

Syer and of Pettitt, and the grand range of nature taken into the large canvass of Boddington, are deserving of better company. The Portland Gallery must rank with the Suffolk in opening a roomy refuge to works which elsewhere might not find the appreciation their authors naturally desire. The large family of the Williamses, with Percy, Boddington, and Gilbert among their lists, and the somewhat less numerous ranks of the Messrs Pettitt, all with more or less of telling scenic effect, furnish the walls of this Portland establishment. Lastly, of the gallery of female artists we shall, in gallantry, say nothing, only hoping that in future years dormant female genius may more worthily assert its claim to honourable distinction.

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Let us now discuss more in detail the present aspect and tendencies of our English school. Mr Ruskin, it is well known, has sought to guide our destinies. He has given to the world bulky and multitudinous volumes, with thoughts careering impetuously over many thousand pages, swelling with ideas dilating into the high heavens, yet asking still for more space to dwell in ; and then as an anticlimax, we find, as the only practical result, pictures in size compressed within a few square inches, and for subjects, "wayside nooks, corners of green fields, pools of watercress streams, and the like." Mr Ruskin, exulting in this grand result, has now, it would appear, little more than the pleasing duty to perform of congratulating the public on the steady fulfilment of his prophecies, and bestowing upon disciples the reward of patronising praise. Much yet, however, of the unfolded vision of prophecy has evidently still to be accomplished. The dawn of our great school of national art is but in its first opening; we have done much, it is true, but still, in the words of Mr Ruskin, "everything has to be done yet." See in the following passage what grandeur is still waiting for our ambitious grasp

how manifold nature is ever ready to reveal to gifted genius new wonders which require but a prophet's

eye to see, and a painter's creativeno childlike-hand to seize :-

"Nay," exclaims Mr Ruskin, eren the best of the quiet, accessible, se gifts of nature are yet to come. strange that among all this painting delicate detail there is not a true one English spring-that no Pre-Raphael has painted a cherry-tree in biosson.. dark white against the twilight of April: nor an almond-tree rosy on the blue sky; nor the flush of the apple-blossom, nor a blackthorn hedge, nor a wild-rose hedge, nor a bank with crown-circlets of white nettle, nor a wood-ground of hyacinths; no, nor even heather, and such things of which we talk continually. No body has ever painted heather yet, nor a rock spotted richly with mosses; nor gentians, nor Alpine roses, nor white

oxalis in the woods, nor Anemone nemorosa, nor even so much as the first

springing leaves of any tree in their pale, dispersed, delicate sharpness of shape. Everything has to be done yet, and we must not think quite so much of our selves till we have done it."

Verily, it is to the last degree lamentable that a writer holding this high position, and wielding so weighty an influence, should thus sink his genius to the level of cherryblossoms, apple-trees, and a blackthorn hedge. The mischief he is doing is just commensurate with the absurdity of these words. He ought to know and he does know-that noble art concerns itself with noble thought; that national art throughout the world has been great just in proportion as it has expressed some grand and paramount idea-just as it has shown itself strong enough and broad enough to embrace and embody the largeness of a people's faith and the full glory of a nation's history. When wo but think of the greatness to which national art has in The history of the world attained, the mind kindles with ardour, and fires with rival ambition; and when, in contrast, we turn to this contemplated school of cherry-blossoms, apple trees, and blackthorn hedges, words fail to express the contempt we feel. When we think of the gods of Greece, the Elgin Marbles of Phidias; when, in later and Chris

tian times, we recall to memory the Sibyls of Michael Angelo, the school of philosophy by Raphael, the Peter Martyr of Titian, grand, tragic, and in every sense large and great; when, again, in mind, we revisit the historic triumphs of Veronese in the incal palace, or in San Rocco revel a e restiess imagination, the scenic impetuous hand of Tintoretto; vica even we once again enjoy in

or Claude's wide fields of space, Gaster's and conceptions of castles, Lua 404 Tees, or Salvator's wild tum fature's forces;-when we giory in these grand triumphs of art, once again we repeat, words fail to express the contempt in which we hold Mr Ruskin's cherished school of cherry-blossoms, apple-trees, and blackthorn hedges. Once again, likewise, we express our astonishment that a genius so wide-embracing can content itself in a sphere so narrow; but that it will long find satisfaction within such limits we hold to be impossible. The idolater of Turner who lived to see some evidence in the painter's works of "mental disease"- the critic who one year ranked Mr Millais with Titian, and the next consigned him to a "prison-house," will, we trust, ere long, show his accustomed versatility by blasting with biting breath this rising school of apple-trees. warn these disciples, then, of their impending fate. The Nemesis which has not spared a Turner or a Millais, will, in his vengeful justice, lash the cherry-blossom with the black hail of his terrible denunciation; and the men who now sun themselves in the warmth of praise, will scarcely find for their heads a shelter from the fierce torrent of contempt.

We

For ourselves as critics we aspire not to these awful functions. We neither create nor crush. But if not numbered among the prophets of a new revelation, we at least are not of the fathers who devour their own offspring. We simply take the inglorious course of praising merit irrespective of school, of chastising error unprejudiced by party. In art we acknowledge simply two attributes-poetry in nature, and genius