Kitabı oku: «Lippincott's Magazine of Popular Literature and Science, Vol. 22, November, 1878», sayfa 10

"Now that Floyd is here," said Mr. Floyd when we were through breakfast, "I shall indulge in laziness no longer, but shall sit by and see him work." And the result was that for the next two weeks he and my mother, Helen and I, all sat in Mr. Raymond's study for an hour or two every morning and looked over his papers. Two or three times Mr. Wickham the lawyer came from New York, and it was easy enough to see that Helen's property was so large, its investments so various, that its proper care was work enough for one man.

"I shall look about for a husband for her at once," Mr. Floyd said half a dozen times to the lawyer when we three men were alone: "nobody can expect me to waste my few energies in looking after all these interests."

"Depend upon it, sir," Mr. Wickham would return with an easy chuckle, "you will find the world full of young men who will be happy to relieve you of every responsibility regarding Miss Floyd's fortune."

"They shall none of them have her," her father exclaimed once, fiercely—"not one! No man but one who loves her for her sweet self alone shall ever have my little girl." At such times Mr. Wickham always looked at me with a critical curiosity which I could forgive in so old a friend of Helen's, but which at the same time robbed me of a certain composure I should have liked to carry through the difficulties of my present position. For I was, in truth, performing all the duties of an executor and mastering the details of the schedule of property, while Mr. Floyd sat by and made jokes upon the way Helen would spend her income.

"Hair-pins cost a great deal," he would affirm solemnly, "and pins. How much pin-money had the princess royal? Put down fifteen thousand dollars for hair-pins, black pins, white pins: what other pins do women use?"

"But," I would expostulate, "you must attend to this."

"And why?" he would ask, turning his fine melancholy eyes upon me. "Don't tire me out, Floyd."

We were alone, although my mother and Helen were almost within hearing on the balcony.

"I am willing to do everything for you, sir," I said, "but nevertheless it seems to me that it is scarcely prudent for you to entrust me with your duties. I am totally inexperienced; my knowledge of finance is the mere mastery of figures; I am—"

"Look here, dear boy," said Mr. Floyd in a kind but weary voice: "I am only trying to save you trouble. When I die you will take my place as Helen's executor and trustee. It would be harder then for you to learn the mystery of all these details by yourself. Now I am here to teach you."

Ellen W. Olney.

[TO BE CONTINUED.]

TO THE RAINBOW

 
O Iris! bringing balm for Summer's tears,
So lightly gliding down thy bridge of rose,
I know not why my spirit drinks repose
Soon as thy footfall the horizon nears.
Spellbound I watch the crimson-shaded piers
As arch by arch the blooming pathway grows,
And where the richest flush of color glows
I trace thy trailing garments. Sighs and fears
Have vanished: in one long and ardent gaze
Thy steps I follow down the heavenly slope.
Iris, be mine thy message! Let thy rays
Write out how I with destiny may cope.
Ah! spanned with light would be all coming days,
Could I but read thy oracle of hope.
 

Frances L. Mace.

THE PARIS EXPOSITION OF 1878

III.—FINE ARTS

IT is the "Memorial Hall" of the Champ de Mars—the Gallery of Fine Arts which there takes the place of the familiar building in Fairmount Park—that has decided the really great success of the Exposition of 1878. The unanimous verdict of popular admiration was given at Philadelphia to the machinery: in Paris it is as strongly pronounced in favor of the fine arts. Paris is, indisputably, the capital of modern art, and her title to this proud distinction is to-day confirmed by the assembled peoples with all the solemnity and authority of a universal congress.

I have, like all visitors no doubt, yielded to the seductive spell of this magnificent collection of objects of art, to which two worlds have contributed, and under the influence of the keen and exalted enjoyment of the first few days I should have found it impossible to qualify by a single censure the expression of my admiration. But after a short retirement in the country, where I allowed my mind to lie fallow, I found that I could revisit the galleries of the Champ de Mars with more judgment and method, and that the beauties of the first order, which I admired as much as ever, no longer made me blind to the defects and the weak points of certain parts.

First of all, it must be admitted that the Exhibition of this year is not equal to that of 1855; and this is no more than was to be expected, when one remembers that the latter had brought together the scattered masterpieces of the long period of half a century—a period illustrated by such names as Ingres, Delacroix, Decamps and others. This splendid assemblage of so many important works could not be repeated in 1867; and at that time there were unmistakable indications that a new artistic current had set in, and we saw the first rays of the coming glory of the painter of genre and of landscape—the triumph of Meissonier, of Gérôme, of Théodore Rousseau, of Corot.

This year, the tiny, pleasing genre pictures are still very numerous, and in this respect the Exposition of 1878 is not unlike that of 1867, while in another aspect it is superior to it. If, on the one hand, we miss the names of the great masters of landscape, who, dying, have left no successors, we have, on the other hand, to hail the advent of some others who have risen above the level of genre and have returned to the traditions of high art: I refer to MM. Bonnat, J.P. Laurens and Baudry. Thanks to these great artists, one can assert with confidence that there has been an advance within the last ten years. And how art widens its borders and augments the number of its adepts! How many painters there are to-day!—of the second or of the third rank, to be sure, but masters of their business, skilful and conscientious. In 1867 the jury admitted but four hundred pictures. In 1878 it has had to receive eleven hundred! Evidently, French art is in the fulness of its summer bloom. Its decline will come, for Art, which knows no country, and has wandered from the East to the South, and from the South to the West, will doubtless travel still, and will some day leave Paris to dwell with other races and under other skies. But to-day her home is Paris—Paris, her well-beloved city.

Since 1871 especially, we have witnessed a fresh starting into life, an activity, indeed, almost feverish. In 1871 and in 1874 the Minister of Fine Arts officially recognized a general return toward serious and vigorous work, and in 1876 he bore testimony to the exceptional brilliancy of the Salon, which showed the "influence and impulse of a genuine revival."

Historical painting, unfortunately, can never be adequately represented at exhibitions. Designed for the civil and religious monuments of France, whence, from the nature of the case, they cannot be removed, its most important illustrations are to be found at the Opéra, at the Palace of Justice and of the Legion of Honor, at the museums of Marseilles and of Amiens, the Hôtel de Ville of Poitiers, and in the numerous churches of Paris and throughout the country. The immense work which Baudry has executed for the foyer of the Opéra is absent from the Exhibition, and this great painter, whom some consider the first of his time, is not represented at the Champ de Mars by even a sketch. Fortunately, the Palace of Justice has parted with two principal works of Léon Bonnat, his Christ and Justice between Guilt and Innocence. The Panthéon has permitted the exhibition of the large decorative paintings in which Cabanel has represented the principal episodes of the history of St. Louis. But the largest historical canvases on the walls of the gallery are those by J.P. Laurens, belonging to the museums of Florence, of Havre, of Nantes and of Toulouse. Laurens delights in the Middle Ages, gloomy and stately periods of ecclesiastical domination and feudal violence. He is the painter of tortures and of tombs (the Exhumation of Pope Formosus, The Interdict, Francis Borgia before the Coffin of Isabella of Portugal), but his vigorous and severe genius never suffers him to fall into overstrained action and theatrical artifice. He does not move us by declamatory gestures and forced attitudes. Nothing can be more simple, yet nothing more affecting, than the Execution of the Duc d'Enghien and the Death of Marceau. Many young artists are following this new path, which has opened such success to M. Laurens. MM. Cormon, Dupain (in his Good Samaritan), Benjamin Constant (Entry of Mohammed II. into Constantinople), and Sylvestre (Locusta and Nero trying a Poison) have sent to the Champ de Mars the fine historical compositions that gained for them the first medals and the prize of honor at the last Salons. M. Tony Robert-Fleury has two vast canvases, the Sack of Corinth and the Reform of the Mad-house in 1795—large and admirable compositions, which engraving has already made popular. Of course we find M. Landelle's inevitable Eastern Dancing-Girl, and an Italian Woman by M. Hébert. There could be no exhibition without these. These two painters have talent, individuality, delicacy of feeling, but they are absolutely without imagination. M. Hébert, in particular, has learned nothing since his Malaria, which has been for a long time at the Museum of the Luxembourg. He has not discovered, nor even sought for, anything beyond this; and this eternal repetition of the same subject is a malady which afflicts too many of the artists of our day. One no longer distinguishes between the pictures of certain of our popular painters. Even M. Luminais never travels beyond his specialty, which is the barbarian Gaul, though he does vary somewhat the attitudes and physiognomy of his characters. Henner and Ribot, two great artists, who are better appreciated by their professional brethren than by the public, will undoubtedly gain much by this year's exhibition. The eulogy of competent criticism will be accepted as authoritative, and will compel the admiration of the crowd, which is not very apt to comprehend new and original forms in painting. Schopenhauer has classified the professions according to the degree of difficulty which they find in making their merits understood by the world at large; and he puts in the front rank, as the most quickly and easily comprehended and applauded, acrobats, dancers and players; philosophers come last of all; and immediately before them the painters.

Portraiture would seem to be more in esteem than ever. Everywhere along the walls are to be seen nothing but statesmen, poets and women of the world, whose identity is indicated in the official catalogue by initials only, but whom everybody recognizes at a glance. Many of these portraits are life-like and admirable in expression, and one can say of them what Victor Cherbuliez said of Mademoiselle Nelly Jacquemart's picture of Thiers: "The house is inhabited: some one is looking out of the window." This time Mademoiselle Jacquemart exhibits portraits of M. Duruy, M. Dufaure and a young lady. Singularly enough, she paints men better than she does women. Her portrait of Mademoiselle G– B– is very inferior to the others. Virility, in short, is the distinguishing characteristic of the talent of this woman.

M. Cabanel's portraits of women of the great world are conventionally painted, and with the coldness of manner which distinguishes him. One feels that if these fine creatures should speak they would utter nothing but the commonplaces which pass for conversation in the salons. The duchess of Vallambrosa—"the queen of the strand," as they call her at Cannes—Madame de Lavalette, the countess of Mercy-Argenteau, are all there, as if against their will and disdainful of the vulgar herd which is staring at them. To make amends, however, the duchess of Luynes is charming, surrounded and, as it were, adorned by her beautiful children. M. Cabanel is the recognized head of what may be called the official school. To get medals and crosses or the prize of Rome, to obtain commissions from government, it is now-a-days almost necessary to have been his pupil. Never had painter a more lofty position. Perhaps it is the opinion at the ministry of Fine Arts that Bonnat and Laurens will be so well paid by posthumous fame and the admiration of future generations that it is but fair to keep the balance between the masters even by rewarding M. Cabanel in his lifetime.

I have said that there are many portraits at the Exhibition, but I do not mean to complain of this. Indeed, we cannot too highly applaud the revival of this noble branch of art, to which we owe the Joconde of the Louvre and the Violin-player of the Sciarra Palace. Many a fair young girl unknown to fame, many a matron whose quiet life will pass unheeded by the world, will by her portrait enter into immortality. Torn, sooner or later, from the family roof and carried to a museum, there to be gazed upon by thousands of eyes, her smile or her reverie will recall for generations to come that sigh of Sénancour's: "O woman that I might have loved!"

It is doubtful if this regretful tribute to genius—which may perhaps some day be heard before the portraits of Henner, of Bonnat or of Madrazzo—will ever be inspired by those of M. Carolus Duran. This artist is the painter of elegant trifles and worldly vanities, of grand and striking toilettes, of blondes in violet and yellow and brunettes in gray and rose, for, like M. Worth the man-milliner, it pleases his fancy to attempt the reconciliation of the most inimical colors. For the rest, the future will no doubt owe him a debt of gratitude for the precious evidence which his pictures will furnish of the dress of the period. Indeed, without the help of certain of our portrait-painters future investigators would find themselves sadly at a loss in reconstructing the Paris of Napoleon III. and of the Third Republic. We are so much under the influence of the past that our artists scarcely have the sentiment of the civilization which surrounds them. Our colleges send us into the world, not Frenchmen, but Greeks and Romans, knowing nothing of modern life, and inspired by our classical studies with a profound contempt for the manners and usages of the present day. Our statues, bas-reliefs, medals and pictures represent the events of all ages except our own. The attempts in the direction of realism of these latest days, the paintings of Courbet and Manet, seem, by a sort of instinctive preference, to seek out the ugly, rather than to give us an exact reproduction of contemporaneous Nature. Some of our genre painters—Millet, for example, and Jules Breton—have, it is true, studied the actual and the modern, but their types are all taken from the rustic class, and it is safe to say that outside of portraiture neither the men nor the women of the world will leave a trace upon the art of the period.

Let us note, however, one exception to this statement. I refer to certain painters of military scenes who have chosen to call up the spectre of the Franco-German war—Édouard Detaille, Neuville, Boulanger. These have ventured to depict one side of modern life—and an important one, alas!—modern warfare, not by showing us those episodes of classical combat where half a dozen cavaliers, mounted upon their heavy historical horses, fight hand to hand for the possession of a flag, and trample under foot a wounded wretch whose very pose is traditional, but by giving us actual scenes witnessed during the autumn of 1870 and the winter of 1871—scenes often frightful, but always grandly effective and worthy of art. A sentiment of diplomatic propriety, with which the Germans were but little troubled at Philadelphia, has naturally kept these paintings out of the Champ de Mars, and banished them to Goupil's in the Rue Chaptal. We certainly do not complain of this, but we cannot help regretting that modern life should be so slightly represented in the art of an epoch indued with a life so intense. There are laurels yet to be won in the field of serious painting—triumphs such as Balzac, Thackeray and Tourgueneff have achieved in literature, and Gavarni in caricature, by the faithful representation of phases of modern life.

Since so many Frenchmen are converted by their early classical training not only into citizens of Rome or of Athens, but into veritable pagans, we naturally find the Exhibition full of gods and goddesses, of demigods and nymphs—the Truth of M. Jules Lefebvre, for instance, and his Vision, losing itself in the mists of morning; the Sarpedon of M. Lévy; M. Bouguereau's Flora and Zephyr and Meeting of Nymphs; the Naiads of Henner, etc. Amongst all these mythological tableaux one's attention is arrested by the striking productions of M. Gustave Moreau, a remarkable union of technical ability and poetical fancy—hallucinations of an opium-smoker who should be able to paint his visions with all the confidence and knowledge of a master. Paul de Saint-Victor, the eminent critic, has called these canvases "painted dreams;" and they cannot be better described. Hercules fighting the Hydra of Lerna, Salome, Jacob and the Angel, Moses exposed upon the Nile, are dazzling phantoms, which, eluding the literal text of history, recede to the depths of an unknown past. We do not think of discussing their accuracy: we are absorbed in admiration of this wondrous art, at once subtle and splendid, which makes us dream of lost civilizations and buried empires. Gustave Moreau is more than a painter: he is a magician and his pencil is an enchanter's wand.

For the rest, we have plenty of archæological painters, who painfully restore antiquity for us, following accurate authorities and examples. The curiosity to know the past, which has created a literature of its own, the researches of travellers and of learned men, the excavations made in Greece, in Asia Minor, in Africa, at Pompeii, have led many artists to search for new effects in this direction. Every one will recall the circuses and the Roman scenes of Gérôme. This year he exhibits hardly anything but modern Oriental subjects—Turkish baths, Bashi-Bazouks and lions—but his pupils have now taken the place which their master held in 1867. Hector Leroux, one of the thousand and one painters of this Neo-Grecian school, shows us a Toilette of Minerva Polias and A Miracle in the Temple of Vesta, his most celebrated work. Gustave Boulanger exhibits his Roman Baths, his Roman Comedians rehearsing their Rôles, and his Roman Promenades, which the wealthiest amateurs, MM. Aguado, André, Stebbins, contended for at the late Salons; M. Lecomte du Nouy his Pharoah slaying the Bearers of Evil Tidings and his Homer Begging; while M. Alma-Tadema completes the group with his best-known pictures, including The Studio of an Antique Painter, An Audience at the House of Agrippa, and The Vintage at Rome, which was also at Philadelphia. Americans will remember the young reddish-haired priestess of Ceres, so elegantly attired and coiffée, advancing with torch in hand and followed by flute-players. The details, which are multiplied almost to profusion, are all calculated to enhance the effect, and are distributed with exquisite art. The amount of research which this work suggests is almost incredible, and it was perhaps a more laborious undertaking to paint the Vintage at Rome than to write the Carthaginian romance of Gustave Flaubert. Alma-Tadema exhibits in the English gallery, and his contribution has raised the average of that section by a good third. If I have spoken of this painter in connection with the pupils of Gérôme, it is that, considering his place of birth (Dromvyp, Netherlands), I think that I have an equal right with the English to classify him according to my fancy.

But let us leave the remote antiquity in which the poet-painters of the Neo-Greek school delight to dwell, and come back to modern times. Passing through one of the central rooms, one is struck by the appearance of a great space of gilded wall hung with pictures considerable in number, but mostly quite diminutive in size. It needs no reference to the catalogue nor to the signature of these works to tell us the name of their author. If the singular talent which they display were not enough, the mise en scène would leave no doubt that this extraordinary piece of wall has the honor of supporting the exhibit of M. Meissonier. M. Meissonier holds a great position in contemporary art—a fact which is known to everybody, and to no one better than to M. Meissonier. But it was in 1867 rather than in 1878 that he ought to have gilded his wall. It was in the former year that he exhibited his 1814, his Reading at Diderot's and other incomparable works, which placed him beyond all dispute at the head of the French school. To-day he shows us but one considerable work, the Cuirassiers of 1805, and fifteen small pieces—very pretty things, but then he has taught his pupils to imitate him too well! They have so often and so skilfully counterfeited the art of their master that the dignity of his work seems lessened and its value diluted, as it were, until for the substance we are given the shadow, and the tableau is replaced by the tableautin. The same tendency to contraction is apparent in every country. Paintings are growing smaller, as if to keep in proportion with the small modern salons. That this is due to the great influence of M. Meissonier there is no doubt, but no diminution of his own fame accompanies the dwindling of his pictures.

And yet there are half a dozen painters at the Champ de Mars who lack nothing but the golden wall to make them the equals of the master. M. Detaille is absent, but we have M. Worms, with seven little chefs d'œuvre; M. Vibert, with his Departure of the Spanish Bride and Bridegroom, the Serenade, and the Toilette of the Madonna; M. Firmin Girard, with his Flower-Girl; M. Berne-Bellecour, in his famous Coup de Canon; MM. Fichel, Lesrel, Louis Leloir and others whom I have not space to mention, as exact and as minute in detail as their chef, and, moreover, almost as well paid by amateurs, especially Americans.

Landscape-painting mourns the loss of its greatest masters. Amongst all the painters, Death seems to have singled out the paysagistes by preference. Since the last Exhibition how many have gone! Chintreuil, Belly, Corot, Courbet, Daubigny, Millet, Diaz, are no more. A few canvases recall them—the Wave of Courbet, an admirable effect of snow by Daubigny, and four or five pictures by Corot—but one regrets that the illustrious dead have not had the honor of a room apart. The members of the jury have been careful to keep the best places for their own works, while the masterpieces of departed genius have been banished to the top of the walls or half hidden in corners. M. Cabanel and M. Bouguereau fill whole rooms with their pale compositions, and—Millet is absent!

Has the school of French landscape-painting survived these serious losses? We may reply with confidence that it has. This very year, in the Exposition of the Champs Élysées, the Haymaking of M. Bastien Lepage reveals a great painter. At the Champ de Mars there are admirable landscapes by living artists—Hanoteau, who with such masterly power of execution bends and crooks in every direction the knotted branches of his giant oaks; Émile Breton, painter of the melancholy scenes of winter; Harpignies, faithful interpreter of the varying aspects of the valley of the Allier under all the changes of day and season; Eugène Feyen and Feyen-Perrin, who delight us with the sea-coast of Brittany and its fisher-women and bathing-women; Van-Marcke, who is less than the successor, but more than the imitator, of Troyon; and finally, MM. Pelouse and Ségé, representatives of new forces and processes.

Americans are supposed in Paris to prefer highly-finished and elaborate work, like that of Gérôme, but I have seen in America examples of the painter who elaborates least of all, who lays on his colors in the boldest manner—in a word, the painter of general effect, Isabey. It is refreshing to meet again, here, his Wedding-Feast, a delightful repose to the eye, almost wearied with minute perfection of detail.

Before quitting the labyrinth of French art we must not forget a class of painters who have received a great deal of admiration, and who deserve it, whatever rank one may be disposed to assign to their special branch of art. I refer to the painters of still-life. There is Vollon, for instance, whose name suggests those wonderful representations of armor, of rich goldsmith's work, superb tapestries and damascened metal, to say nothing of the equally admirable counterfeits of warming-pans and saucepans, which delight the lover of nature-morte. We find here his famous kettle of red copper, sold at a price which might suggest that it was of solid gold. Amateurs and dealers pronounce Vollon the first of painters in his specialty, though there are some who profess a preference for his rival, Blaise-Desgoffes, of whom there are three examples in the Exposition; and though these are only Venetian glass, Gothic missals, jewel-boxes and the like, there are some of them worth thirty thousand francs at the very least: it will be understood that I speak of the paintings, and not of what they represent. Philippe Rousseau displays not less than a dozen pictures, and the names of their owners, Alexandre Dumas, the baroness de Rothschild, Barbedienne, Édouard Dubufe, etc., show how much he is the mode. Indeed, it is impossible to imagine cheeses more savory, fresher oysters, peaches and vegetables more inviting, and flowers—I had almost said more fragrant, so perfect is the illusion of reality.

But we must tear ourselves from these fascinating galleries, for should we write for ever we shall always be sure to forget some celebrity who deserves to be mentioned. We have said nothing of the scenes from fashionable life; nor of the dogs and horses which MM. Claude and J. Lewis Brown render so capitally; nor of the portraits of Pérignon, Édouard Dubufe and Cot; nor of the flowers of Mademoiselle Escallier. Three great names, Jules Dupré, Rosa Bonheur and Puvis de Chavannes, are absent—one knows not why.

Belgium is next in order—thrifty Belgium, where painting is a commercial industry and its products an important article of exportation. The Belgian display in the Champ de Mars is certainly a considerable one in point of numbers, which will not surprise us when we remember that there are at least twelve art-schools in the country—to say nothing of the great academies of Brussels and Antwerp—where hundreds of young men are daily drilled in the grammar and technique of art. But genius is the gift of Nature, not of schools. All that the latter can bestow is probably here, but we miss the imagination, the variety, the sentiment of the born artist, and it needs no very critical examination of these paintings to show us that the acquired dexterity of the academy, the mere business of the painter, is almost the only characteristic of the Belgian school.

There are some examples of "high art," such as The Pope and the Emperor of Germany at Canossa in 1077, by M. Cluysenaar, a composition as cold as it is vast; some illustrations of the national history by M. Wauters, who reminds us, in some respects, of the great French painter Laurens, though lacking his power; and there are the historico-religious pictures of M. Verlat. But much the best things in the Belgian collection are the numerous works of a painter whose aims are not so high, and who in Brussels seems like an exile from Paris. M. Alfred Stevens draws his inspiration from fashionable life; and no Parisian could surpass the execution of his velvets and laces and the thousand new stuffs which Fashion invents every year—gants de Suède, and faces too of a certain type, the pretty chiffonnées faces of girls of every rank in life. But the pretty faces are, after all, mere accessories in a picture where the principals are the hat and the dress and the parasol, upon which, as any one can see, the artist has bestowed all his loving care. Nothing of his, however, in the Exposition can compare with his Young Mother, which I saw last year in the Academy at Philadelphia.

Next after Stevens, in point of reputation, comes M. Willems, who really belongs to the French school of Gérôme, but who feels himself under obligation, in his character of Fleming, to paint nothing but what Terburg and Metzu painted two centuries before him. The man without a plumed hat and big boots and a great sword at his side has, for M. Willems, no existence. I would not say that he does not paint hat, boots and sword as well as the old Flemish masters themselves did, but while they drew from the life he paints at second hand, and the modern artist who passes his days in the vain effort to revivify the models of his predecessors will always rank below the masters whom he imitates, as M. Willems does, with so many others whom a false public taste encourages in a hopeless pursuit.

There are no landscapes in the Belgian section, if one may be allowed to except the marines of M. Clays, and yet Belgium can boast of at least one excellent paysagiste, M. César de Cock, who, unfortunately, is not represented in the Exposition.

French painters have often been blamed for neglecting the material around them, and for trespassing upon the domain of foreign artists by representing Russian peasants and Italian beggars or selecting subjects from Spain or Japan; but I have looked in vain through the various galleries for any evidence that other countries are a whit less obnoxious to this reproach than our own. Each nation forages in its neighbor's field. Is it too much to hope that modern art may free itself from the bondage of a senseless fashion, and may take to the study of the living types close at hand? Russia and America, for instance, have shown themselves capable of producing a literature distinctively national and characteristic: must they ever remain without a school of art as indigenous to the soil, and shall their painting never have its Tourgueneff and its Bret Harte? The law of development may require that the birth of a nation's art shall succeed that of its letters—though the history of the Renaissance would seem to contradict this theory—but whether this be so or not, it is certain that one does not imagine one's self in Moscow while perambulating the Russian salon in the Champ de Mars, where the best representative of the national art, M. Siemiradski, has chosen for the two paintings which have deservedly won a medal of honor subjects from ancient Rome—the one an amateur hesitating in his choice between two articles of equal value—namely, a chased cup and a female slave—and the other representing a soirée of Nero. The subject of this last is horrible. The tyrant, crowned with flowers and surrounded by women and freedmen, descends from his palace. Attached to long poles and besmeared with pitch, ready for the fatal flame, are the living bodies of wretched Christians which will illumine to-night the gardens of Cæsar. Living Torches is the title of the picture, which is one of the most successful paintings of the Exposition, and has given its author a high rank among contemporary artists.