ever before seen in one place in our country; nay, it is doubtful whether more than one or two displays of equal value were ever known in the world. It was not national, in the sense of being the production of British artists, but in being the property of British residents. The Queen sent some of her best pictures; then came the lordly owners of picturegalleries-the Cowpers and the Wards, the Ellesmeres and the Marlboroughs, the Hertfords and the Devonshires, the Darnleys, the Overstones, the Richmonds; and then the wealthy men who have no particular ornaments to their names, but have taste and wealth enough to collect fine pictures, proffered their art treasures. Of the eleven hundred ancient pictures, the seven hundred modern, the nine hundred watercolour drawings, the fourteen hundred engravings, the six hundred photographs, and the seventeen thousand articles in ornamental art, all the papers of the day discoursed at length, while the delight of seeing the pictures was personally enjoyed by an immense number of people. The Exhibition in London in 1851 suggested that at Paris in 1855, which, in its turn, suggested that at Manchester in 1857; and if the last named, far more artistic in its character than either of the other two, were successful, it would augur well for Fine Arts exhibitions in future. Now, the Manchester display attracted, in the space of a few months, no less than one and one-third million visitors, who paid more than eighty thousand pounds sterling as admission money!

When, therefore, preliminary arrangements were being made for the Exhibition to which all are now looking forward, it was determined that art as well as industry should take part in it. Foreign nations were to be invited to send us their pictures as well as their manufactures. But a difficulty arose-where to pack all the treasures? Nineteen acres were covered with useful or beautiful things at Hyde Park in 1851; and if the pictorial creations of genius in past ages were likewise placed at our disposal, where on earth (or rather, where at Brompton) should we put them all? When the commissioners had got through all the puzzlements relating to site, size, style, architect, contractors, and cost, they were able to announce that they had at their disposal so many thousand square feet of wall-space for pictures, to be appropriated to the artists of all nations. Should they allow each country to send any pictures, of any age, within the limit of a certain total quantity; or should there be other restrictions? They sought the advice of competent men on the subject. There was formed a committee of the fine arts (not to settle anything, but to advise the commissioners), comprising six or seven noble lords, several wealthy commoners and patrons of art, and a select body of artists. This committee made recommendations to the following effect-that the works of art admitted, although modern, should not be exclusively confined to the productions of artists now living; that in the English department any painting, drawing, engraving, sculpture, &c., of later date than 1762, should be admissible, so as to make the whole collection range over one century; and that foreign nations should be permitted to name their own limitations as to date, in such way as best to shew, in reference to each particular country, 'the progress and present condition of modern art.' These recommendations were accepted by the royal commissioners, and were by them communicated to intending exhibiters all over the world. Then, to let our English artists have a fair chance of shewing what they have done, and can do, the commissioners appointed special committees of advice and assistance for each of the chief branches of fine arts. Such wellknown names as Tite, Donaldson, Gilbert Scott, Beresford Hope, Digby Wyatt, Sydney Smirke, and Fergusson were found in a committee relating to architecture; Eastlake, Watson Gordon, Hurlstone, Warren, and Redgrave, in that relating to painting;

Foley, Layard, and Westmacott in the sculpture committee; Carpenter, Colnaghi, Doo, and Lane in the committee which took cognizance of engraving and etching; while the committee on art designs included Maclise and Cole.

It will here be seen that engravings, as well as paintings and sculpture, enter into the plans of the commissioners; indeed, the value of engravings is becoming more appreciated than ever, as a means of diffusing among the general public a feeling for, if not exactly a knowledge of, art. The reason is obvious. A painting is like a manuscript; an engraving is like a book. A real picture by Raffaelle is a thing complete in itself; it can belong only to one individual, or one community; and when destroyed, can never be replaced, however cleverly it might be imitated. So an old manuscript of the tenth or twelfth century, or an autograph of Wolsey or of Shakspeare, derives its value, not wholly from the interest of the thing itself, or the celebrity of the person who wrote it, but in part also from the oneness of the production-the feeling that, if I possess it, my next-door neighbour cannot: my pride is flattered. Books and engravings have a different mission; they enable all the world to share the pleasure which was before enjoyable only by the wealthy. Good engravings from good pictures have, besides their fine arts value, an educational one depending on their power of diffusion. Some months ago, the veteran George Cruikshank presided at a meeting of the Society of Arts, on an occasion when Mr Collins described his curious process for enlarging and diminishing engravings by simple mechanical means. The particulars of the process, and the discussions to which the reading of the paper led, need not be adverted to here; but we may mention that Mr Cruikshank took advantage of the opportunity to express his warm sympathy with any project for rendering good engravings purchasable by persons of humble means. A fine work of art is always an expensive affair, and it requires persons of property to become the purchasers. But as the taste and intelligence of the people increase, they will desire to possess these works of art themselves. Their means will not allow them to obtain the first impressions from the plate itself; but when the plate is done with, as far as the more wealthy class of people are concerned, we can bring them within the means of the second and third classes of society by the aid of this process. I think a good work of art, once produced, should never be destroyed. I disapprove of the course of enhancing the value of an engraving by destroying the plate after a given number of impressions have been worked off.' Whatever may thus be said in favour of making good engravings available to the bulk of the population by cheap but effective processes, may also be said in favour of collecting, on the rare occasions when such a course is possible, the veritable products of the genius of all nations in this particular line of art.

The Exhibition building, as we explained in the former article, is of a permanent character so far as concerns the picture-galleries. Nobody expects to live to see those substantial brick structures pulled down; and, architectural critics notwithstanding, we doubt whether there are many persons who will wish for such a result. If we (the people) give a sufficient number of shillings between May and October next (in 1851, we gave ten million shillings for permission to visit the Hyde Park Exhibition), the building will be paid for; and then John Bull will be a very silly fellow if he does not get both advantage and pleasure from it in future years. The galleries, the reader will remember, are fifty feet high, but pictures will be hung only to about a height of thirty feet. How many pictures can be hung on a hundred thousand square feet of wall, will, of course, depend on their average size; but whatever the number, Captain Fowke is earnest in assuring us that they will all be

1

well seen, whether the day be bright or dull, and that they will not be exposed to the action of an ill-ventilated atmosphere. It may sound oddly to talk of two acres of pictures, but there will be more than this if all the space provided be occupied.

According to the plans laid down, British art will be illustrated by specimens produced within the last hundred years; while foreign art will be placed within such limits as foreigners may determine. No prizes or medals are to be awarded in the fine arts section; thereby getting rid of a difficulty that would be found almost insuperable; for artists are a sensitive race, who would be sure to dispute the justice of awards which might happen to be unfavourable to themselves. No prices are to be marked on the articles in this section; though it is believed such will be allowed in the sections relating to manufactures. Exactly one-half of all the wall-space will be allotted for foreign pictures, the other half being for British and colonial. The quantity of space allowed to each foreign country will depend partly on the actual demand, and partly on the relative importance of the various foreign countries in connection with fine arts generally; but when the award has once been made, each foreign country will settle for itself how many exhibiters to admit, and what proportion shall be observed between the number of paintings, drawings, sculptures, architectural models and designs, cameos, dies, intaglios, engravings, and etchings. There is to be a central authority in each foreign country to manage all the arrangements in reference to it; our commissioners will not recognise any foreign exhibiter otherwise than through the medium of such a centre or focus. In the English section, a committee of artists and fine art connoisseurs will be appointed, to whom will be intrusted the delicate duty of weeding the pictorial garden, so as to retain as many of the beauties and as few of the deformities as possible; at the same time giving a systematic completeness to the whole. A question has arisen, whether a living artist loses all power over a picture which he has sold and been paid for? Without going particularly into the artistic copyright question, the commissioners decided that an artist's feelings, at anyrate, should meet with attention; and they therefore ordered that no picture by a living British artist should be admitted, if the artist should send a written protest against such a step.

There will be a court devoted to high-class decorative art, where the Ecclesiological Society, the Architectural Museum, and others, will display choice specimens of modern church furniture and fittings, stained glass, ecclesiastical plate and embroidery, carvings, and so forth. There will be photographs, too, in abundance. The paintings, however, will be the glories of the place; and when we remember whom we have had amongst us since Hogarth's days -Reynolds, Gainsborough, Wilson, Romney, West, Barry, Fuseli, Opie, Northcote, Copley, Lawrence, Stothard, Wilkie, Etty, Turner, Constable, Callcott, Haydon, Collins, Leslie, Clennell, Prout, Landseer, Stanfield, Roberts, and a phalanx of others, it will be strange indeed if we do not hold our own in pictures against all comers at the forthcoming Exhibition. As sculpture, too, is invited equally with painting, we may call with pleasurable anticipations such names as Banks, Flaxman, Chantrey, Westmacott, Bell, Baily, Lough, Gibson, Behnes, and Marshall. Foreign nations have availed themselves of the permission awarded to them, to name such limits as seemed best to correspond with their ideas of what constitutes modern art. Austria proposes to go no further back than 1784; Russia prefers 1764; Spain begins with 1682, in order to include her great Murillo; France would like to go back to the days of Poussin, Bourdon, and Le Brun. Italy, considering the decadence of art in that country in recent times, would fondly revert to her grand days of painting.

All this is very liberal, on the part of the royal commissioners; but doubts are entertained in many quarters whether, after all, it would not have been really more illustrative of modern art to apply the same limits to all countries. France did this in 1855, when works of art were limited to the productions of artists living on a certain day in 1853. If such a plan were acted upon next May, the Exhibition would really shew the state and progress of modern art in all countries. However, it is easy to find fault, especially when the enterprise criticised is surrounded with difficulties. Let us be thankful for what is promised, and be prepared to enjoy it when it comes.

THE BLOOD-HOUND'S REVENGE. As many doubts have been cast upon the truth of the following story, I shall merely say, by way of preface, that I tell it as I heard it told, and that I believe it.

How I came to hear it was thus: As my father, my mother, my sister, and I were sitting round the fire one evening after dinner, we were suddenly surprised by hearing four distinct and deliberate raps on the street-door. So deliberate were they, that they sounded like four single knocks given by an importunate beggar.

That,' said my father, who was the only one who seemed to take no notice of them at the time—' that is Skinny Grimber.'

'Skinny Grimber!' ejaculated my mother; and pray, who is he?'

Thirty years ago,' said my father, composedly sipping his third cup of tea, he was an old friend and school-fellow of mine, famous for his long face and his queer stories. What he is now

Whatever my father was going to say was said for him, by the entrance, unannounced, of a tall figure, clothed in a long cloak, such as they wear in the West Indies, whose hood, in the shape of an extinguisher, supplied the place of a hat, and who, without a word, advanced, took a vacant chair by the fireside, and warmed his hands-long, slim, sallow hands, that must have been very cold; for first he held the palms to the fire, and then the backs, and then he chafed them gently, and then he toasted them again, and then he rubbed them again, till I thought those long, slim, sallow hands would never be done. My father watched him with a smile, until, as he was beginning to toast the backs of his hands for the fifth time, the smile broke into a laugh, and he cried out: Grimber all over, by Jove!'

Scarcely had the words passed from his lips, when the owner of the sallow hands rose slowly from his seat, threw his cloak on the back of his chair, and thus addressed his astonished hearers: Having proved my identity, allow me to make amends for my rude behaviour. Williams, old boy, how are you? Mrs, Master, and Miss Williams, I presume, and I salute you.'

Solemn and slow was his voice, and monotonous. His face, now that we could see it, was long, slim and sallow as his hands, without expression, except that at the corners of his mouth and eyes there slept the embers of a dry smile, that occasionally broke out in a flicker, as though his whole life was a good joke that he kept to himself.

'And where have you been, and what have you been doing these thirty years, Grimber?' said my father, after his guest had been silently imbibing tea for a quarter of an hour.

'West Indies-sugar-plantation,' said Grimber. 'And what has brought you back again?' said my father.

mastiff jump over the low wall of the yard, and try to take possession of the bone; that Rudolph did little at first, but with a stroke of his paw, just

'No-o.'

My father laughed in spite of himself, and relapsed into silence; my mother, after several vain attempts to go on with her work, gave it up, and yawned; my sister and I tried to intercommunicate, in the dumb language, in the shade of the table-cloth, our opinions of the strange guest, but he found us out, and told us so with his eye; and so we took to yawning too. I don't know how long it was that we remained in this condition, but it must have been a long while. The candles had burned, unperceived, to the sockets, and the fire was nearly out, when we were recalled to a sense of the present by a most provoking and impertinent remark from Mr Grimber. You seem dull,' he said.

It was too bad; but I controlled my feelings, and contented myself with saying sarcastically: 'Perhaps you will enliven us, then, sir.'

'With the greatest pleasure,' he answered blandly, if you will have the kindness to blow out those candles, and make up the fire, I'll tell you a story that will make you afraid to go to bed.'

'That's right, Grimber,' said my father; 'let's have it. A Jamaican ghost-story, I'll be bound.' 'Nothing of the sort, Williams; English, and not the shadow of a ghost in it.'

'Never mind. Put the lights out, Charles, and make up the fire. That's right. Now for it.'

But he was not the man to be humoured in this way, but kept us waiting for at least five minutes.

My story,' he began at length in a cavernous voice, "I shall call "The Blood-hound's Revenge."

It is now six-and-twenty years ago last November, on the 18th day of the month, that the events occurred which I am about to relate. Twenty-six years ago; yes! on the 18th day of November one thousand eight hundred and twenty. I shall remember that date till my dying day.

My brother and I had gone to spend our vacation, at the invitation of an old friend, in a scantily populated district of Herefordshire, for the purpose of recruiting our health and shooting over his extensive estates. He himself was away, so we preferred taking up our quarters in a snug lodge in the park, to living in the cheerless magnificence of an unoccupied mansion.

With us we brought a dog: it had been sent over from Spain a few months previously as a present to my brother. He was a blood-hound, and thoroughbred, standing full forty inches high, with tapering muscular limbs, and with a countenance so intellectual and human in its expression, that, when at rest, it appeared as though it were working out some vast problem for the future benefit of his race. For myself, I shall never believe but that that dog was a deep thinker. It was curious to watch his eye, now turned upwards thoughtfully, as if it were seeking for some calculated result-now slowly dilating and brightening as that result became plainer and plainer-now shooting out a bright ray of light, as though the long-expected illumination had burst upon him, and then slowly sinking down again, to brood upon and amplify his newly acquired theory. Rudolph, for that was his name, was a grand dog, and of immense strength; but his slender legs, his finely-cut head, and, let me add, his sensitive nose, gave him somewhat the appearance of an effeminate giant. Even we did not fully appreciate his enormous power till one day, on coming home, we found the iron chain that bound him snapped, and a large mastiff, that had dared to question his right to a bone, stretched dead at his feet.

Upon questioning our servant, he said he saw the

laid hold of it; that at last the mastiff by a jerk tossed it out of the reach of Rudolph's chain, and was following it, when, with a yell, he sprang to his feet, took a huge leap, snapped his chain, seized the mastiff by the throat, and before he (the servant) could come up, the big brute was dead.

The farmer to whom the mastiff had belonged called next day. Though greatly grieved at the loss of his dog, which had been a great favourite, he nevertheless refused all offers on our part to make restitution, and declared that his only motive for calling was to make the acquaintance of a dog powerful enough to kill such an animal as his mastiff. Rudolph was produced, and behaved so well, and looked so handsome, that the farmer declared he had never seen such a dog; and requested, "if it wasn't making too bold," that we should come and lunch with him some day that week, to see his farm, and bring Rudolph with us. Knowing that we could depend on him as long as he was within sight, and loath to refuse so kind a return for an injury, not the less real because unintentional, we heartily accepted the invitation for all three.

A few days afterwards, then, in accordance with this invitation, we presented ourselves at the farmer's door. The house was a long, rambling structure, nowhere more than one story high, and stretched its shapeless length round three sides of a large farm-yard, containing the usual medley of pigs, ducks, manure, chickens, cows, and straw. Our host received us very kindly, introduced us to his wife, a comfortablelooking body with six small children, two in her arms, and the others peeping timidly out of different folds of her gown like little chickens. They were nice, cleanlooking Saxon children, with white hair and blue eyes. The youngest, a pretty-looking girl of about two years old, was so dreadfully frightened at the sight of our big dog, that the mother was obliged to carry her off to bed, weeping piteously with terror, aggravated, perhaps, by the pain caused by the advent of sharp little teeth.

We were ushered into a large low room, with a great fagot lazily smouldering on the hearth, and a long table spread with a snowy homespun cloth, and covered with substantial fare-cold sucking-pig, roastbeef, and fowls. Presently the good wife came back, saying that her pretty darling had gone to sleep. The farmer produced a jug of sound old home-brewed, with an extra streak of malt in it, and what with that and the rest of the good cheer, and the good-humour and pressing hospitality of our host and hostess, the first part of the day passed as pleasantly and merrily as could be. Presently, however, we were startled by hearing loud screams issuing from a distant part of the house; then they were hushed for a moment, and then they arose again louder than before. "The child! the child!" cried the mother, and rushed out of the

room.

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Where's Rudolph ?" said my brother.

"Oh, don't worrit yourselves," said the farmer, with his mouth full; "the dawg's found its way to the child's room, and she's squealing. That's all."

And so it proved, for presently Master Rudolph made his appearance, walking, or crawling rather, with his belly close to the ground, and his tail between his legs, closely followed by the mother, who was scolding him sharply, and beating him with a stick. "I'll teach you to go afrightening our poor little Mary, that I will-yes; and you killed poor Towser, too!" Now, whether it was at this reminiscence, or with anger brought to a pitch, as woman's anger often is, by the uninterrupted sound of her own voice, it matters little, but certainly the stick came down with greater violence than ever, and, as fate would have it,