Gerôme does not exhibit, nor, among less celebrated names, does that original and as yet little-known artist, M. Ridel, whose "Dernières Fleurs" was one of the most charming pictures in this year's Salon. Among the prominent works are M. Gervais's noble "Jugement de Paris," one of the finest pieces of color in modern painting, and M. Harpignies's "La Loire;" M. DagnanBouveret's "Bretonnes au Pardon!" Mdme. Demont-Breton's "Dans l'eau bleue;" M. Tattegrain's horrible, but probably only too true, picture of a chapter in mediæval warfare, "Les Bouches Inutiles;" M. Bonnat's remarkable portrait of Renan, and M. Béraud's picture of Christ and the Magdalen translated into modern Parisian life, which has been the parent or suggestion for a number of pictures based on a similar idea, and without the merit of originality which certainly belongs to this one. M. Benjamin-Constant's portrait of the Queen, somewhat artificial in lighting and color, is, in its way, one of the most remarkable works in the gallery, and his "Urban II entering Toulouse" one of the largest, but not of an artistic value commensurate with its area in square yards. M. Bouguereau, the prince of correct and elegant painters, is, of course, largely represented, and his small work, "Idylle enfantine," is one of the sweetest things he has painted; it may be a question whether his children are not better than his classic nudes; they have expression, at all events, while the nudes serve to show how learned and admirable an executant a painter may be, and yet leave you perfectly uninterested in his work. Here, too, the younger generation may make acquaintance with the work of Jules Breton, who

3 As usual in French exhibitions, it is impossible to find any picture you see in the catalogue except by chance. Really a general insurrection ought to be made against that preposterous and exasperating method of cataloguing pictures which the French calmly persist in; the result of num

has almost ceased practically to belong to the present generation; some of his earlier works also are to be found in the Centennial Exhibition. M. Chartran's two great plough-oxen again illustrate "St. François d'Assise au labor," a monumental work which one is glad to meet again; his group of portraits under the title "Signature du Protocole de Paix entre l'Espagne et les Etats-Unis" is obviously a new work, which will have historical interest. M. Detaille's chivalrous picture, "Sortie de la Garnison de Huningue," one of the most interesting and characteristic of war pictures, one is glad to see again; and M. Rouffet again affords a cynical amusement to the British mind by his immense picture, "Fin de l'epopée," illustrating Victor Hugo's elaborately worked-up fable (or shall we use a stronger word?) that the real cause of the loss of the battle of Waterloo was the accidental mishap of the French cavalry in tumbling into an unexpected ravine when in full charge; the artistic value of the work is not such as to atone for the bravery of the fiction. Among other remarkable works is M. Henri Martin's "Chacun sa Chimère," not a sort of painting one cares to see too much of-the literary element is too strong in it; but it broke new ground, and left an ineffaceable impression on the mind; nor has its author since then produced anything equally powerful in an intellectual sense, though he has produced better pictures in a decorative sense. French landscape is not as largely represented as one could wish, but there are two of the best of M. Quignon's works, two by M. Didier-Pouget, two by M. Lamy (which I did not see3), and a whole collection of M. Cazin's beau

bering the pictures before they are hung instead of after. It is too ridiculous. You see a number on a picture, but you have not an idea where to find it in the catalogue; you see an artist's name in the catalogue, but you have not an idea where to find his work. At the Salon this year

tiful small landscapes, works which show the perfection of style in landscape painting.

The English school-or shall we say English painting? since the French critics deny that we have any "school" -is not as well represented as one could wish; that is to say, many eminent artists are represented, but few of them by their best works. The only prominent English artists who are seen here at their best are, perhaps, the late Henry Moore, whose splendid sea in "The Race of St. Albans" ought to be a lesson to French sea painters, and Mr. Dicksee, whose "A Confession" is certainly the best thing he has ever done. To be sure one must remember that the selection is limited to the last ten years, and perhaps during that period "The Return of Persephone" and "The Old Garden" may be considered adequate presentments of the art of Leighton and Millais respectively; there are other works of each, bat these are the most important. Mr. Watts has only a landscape. Mr. Mark Fisher is not represented (he would have been appreciated by the French), and what is still worse, Mr. Sidney Cooper is. But though the English collection might well have been a stronger one, there is enough as it is to give one the satisfactory feeling that France and England are ahead of every other country in painting. The Americans, it is true, have Mr. Abbey and Mr. Sargent, but they are very exceptional Americans, and, beyond their works, the American gallery is a collection of mediocrities. As to Italy, the less said the better. The Germans, with their characteristic vigor and thoroughness, have got up and decorated their galleries better than any other nation; their columned ex

M. Harpignies had only one small and inconspicuous work; seeing his name in the catalogue, I wanted to find this, but after a half an hour's hunt had to give it up and appeal to an official, who in his turn had to appeal to another; between the two they at last found it. Had the pic

edræ, black plinth and gold walls, and frieze of emblematic animals, are very effective; but the general style of the paintings hung in these sumptuous rooms is coarse and their color harsh. If Providence had given the Germans artistic genius in proportion to their energy and ambition, there would, indeed, be another story to tell.

The block containing the Centennial Exhibition, examples of French art since the commencement of the century, is connected with the main building by a portal of communication, which leads to a very fine central circular domed hall in two stories, with a wide gallery running round it; on the upper floor are wide centre galleries stretching right and left the whole length of the building, with a vista from end to end across the domed hall. On the ground floor the central space is occupied by sculpture halls, and on both stories there is a range of picture galleries outside of the central halls. The selection of works has been made on the principle of not admitting anything which was included in the similar department of the 1889 Exhibition, one result of which is that this collection is not quite equal to the 1889 one; the best things had been shown already; but still there is a great deal of interesting work. In the downstairs picture galleries are placed the earlier paintings of the century, including a considerable number of the works of Ingres and Delacroix, some of them rather passé in style, but others furnish very fine examples of the French art of that period. In the centre galleries upstairs is a collection of studies and drawings by French masters-sketches by Chapu, Legros, Delaunay and others of the later deceased artists; a powerful red

tures been numbered consecutively, as at the Academy, it could have been found in half a minute. The fact that most French artists sign their pictures legibly is one's only chance of finding out what they are.

chalk study of nude men at a forge, by Puvis de Chavannes, giving a new side of that artist's work; portrait studies by Cabanel, figure studies by Jules Breton, etc. The opposite side contains studies by an earlier generation of artists-Prud'hon, Géricault and others. In the circular hall is a fine collection of French sculpture of the earlier part of the century (mostly), not equal, certainly, either in power of modelling or intensity of conception and expression to the finest work of the last twenty years, but nevertheless containing much fine work by Rude, Jouffrey, Idrac, David d'Angers (whose statue of Cuvier is a work of great power), Dubois, Giraud and others; while among the later men we find Pradier and Carpeaux well represented. In one of the side galleries downstairs is a collection of furniture, mostly of the First Empire period, but containing also some very fine examples in Louis Seize style, for the style survived into the present century, though the unhappy king for whom it was named did not.

If

To these remarks on the artistic centre of the Exhibition we have only space to add a few notes on the remainder of the Exhibition buildings considered in their general aspect. we follow the aforesaid vista southward toward the Invalides, we pass between two ranges of temporary buildings which are rather too exuberant in style, but which present some fine effects of color from the decorative pictures with which they are adorned. The buildings, flanking the entrance opposite the Invalides building, form however, one of the best bits of the Exhibition, with their recessed semi-circular porticos, delicate spirelets in white and gold sparkling against the sky, and on the outside, towards the road, two beautiful bas-reliefs symbolical of Industrial Art. Returning northwards to the foot of the new bridge, we find, going westwards along the Quai d'Orsay, one VOL. VIII. 417

LIVING AGE.

of the most picturesque portions of the Exhibition-the row of pavilions of foreign Powers which line the river bank. Italy comes first with a sumptuous erection to which reminiscences of Venice, the Florence Cathedral, and the Certosa at Pavia, have all contributed. Turkey follows with its white mass of buildings and colored tiles. Denmark shows a pretty timbered pavilion, with carved woodwork; the United States a stately erection, with a dome over which is the eagle with outspread wings, while internally the stars and stripes banner is repeated in every possible position. If we had flaunted the Union Jack everywhere in the British pavilion in the same way, it would have been called "bad taste," but the British pavilion is a sober reproduction of an English Jacobean mansion, admirably finished and fitted internally, and apparently much appreciated by the crowds who keep filing through it. Belgium shows a Late Gothic Hôtel de Ville; Norway a red timber building, with white window frames and an interior redolent of nets, cordage, models of ships, and a pleasant sea-faring scent over everything (notice the piquant treatment of the stair-newels, with their walrus heads); Germany a sumptuous pavilion, too obviously "made in Germany," and covered with decorative painting of a robustious character; Finland a most characteristic little house, one of the most piquant things in the Exhibition. Spain shows a dignified piece of Spanish Renaissance; "little Monaco" has made a most spirited show; Sweden shows an extraordinary and preposterous erection covered with red tiles: Greece a small building of Byzantine type, with red-tiled cupolas. Whatever one ma find to criticize in the individual buildings, the whole make a most picturesque show, especially as seen from the river. On the opposite (right) bank of the river the most noticeable ob

jects are the great pavilion of the City of Paris, appropriately designed with something of a Hôtel de Ville type about it, and filled with illustrations of the work of the Municipality; the restoration of "Vieux Paris," which looks picturesque at a distance, but is not worth entering-it is at best a trumpery piece of sham antique; and the large "Palais de l'Economie Sociale," one of the most dignified erections in the Exhibition.

Coming to the upper end of the Champ de Mars, we find on either hand large masses of building of extraordinary effectiveness in a sense, and certainly of extraordinary boldness and originality. Here, as everywhere else, we are struck with the French facility and vigor in modelling, and the lavish use of the figure in decoration; nude figures everywhere, hanging on cornices and ledges as if blown there by the wind, with their feet kicking out into the air; always well and vigorously designed, but a little too omnipresent. The view is closed at the lower end of the Champ de Mars by the Palais de l'Electricité, a most brilliant bit of improvization in The Fortnightly Review.

which the building seems to symbolize something of the flashing and restless character of electricity; and in the centre of it the vast architectural cavern of the Château d'Eau, whence issue cascades of water, to be illuminated at night by colored light, to the delight of the festive Parisian. This may be called pronounced and rampant rococo, no doubt, but it is impossible to deny that there is a touch of genius in it.

In conclusion, let it be said, that while the Paris Exhibition is a remarkable effort of French genius, it is to be hoped that Paris will now be left in peace for a considerable period. The cost to her, in every sense, of such shows recurring at such short periods as the eleven years which separate this from the 1889 Exhibition, and that from its predecessor, is too great to be regarded without alarm. Once in a generation is often enough for such an Exhibition, to exhibit the progress made in arts and industries during that period, and it will be well if a quarter of a century is allowed to elapse before such another effort is. made.

H. Heathcote Statham.

It was high noon in the New Zealand bush. The great silence was made only the more impressive by the little breaks of sound-the rippling of the stream or an occasional tui flitting overhead, with a gush of melody. Scarcely a leaf stirred in all that green wilderness. Here and there, where a shaft of sunlight had found its way through, spotted lizards lay basking among the dry leaves and fragments of brown and silvery bark that covered the moist black earth on every side.

Above were myriads of leaves and. branches; below, myriads of ferns. The stately tree-ferns towered up above the gravel bed of the stream, and in every gully by tens and hundreds the ferns multiplied and grew. Life was so rampant here as to hide death and decay. If a tree fell to-day one would expect to find it green to morrow with ferns and young suckers. There seemed something almost savage and unnatural in this swarming luxuriance of life, this insistence of growth. A touch

of quiet autumn would have come as a benediction. In such an hour one feels most the mystery and the solemn grandeur of the bush.

Presently a man came limping into sight. He was covered with dust from head to foot, and the great beads of perspiration rolling down his face had made runlets through the dust, and gave him a strange, ghastly look. His eyes were like those of a hunted animal; his tongue lolled out in the heat like a dog's.

He made straight for the stream, and, painfully scrambling down the edge of the gully, among ferns and creepers, he flung himself over the water and drank eagerly, laving his face in the stream as he drank. Then he drew a deep breath of relief, and lay back, his arms behind his head, in a state of exhaustion.

He had thrown aside his hat; and his hair, wet with sweat, lay limply on his brow. He was a stalwartly built fellow, with a keen, hard face, and hands roughened by years of toil. His clothes were old and rough; on the knee of one trouser was a stain like that of recently spilt blood.

As he lay pillowed among delicate fern fronds, still hot, and panting now and then, a wild pigeon came close above him on a fallen tree bough. The mild, innocent creature looked at him with its full red eye, and showed no sign of perturbation; its kind had not yet learned to be afraid of man. This man lay and watched it awhile in silence. His eye marked its one beauty after another; its broad, snowy breast, its red bill, the lovely mingling of green, red and purple on its wings and back. He had opportunity to examine it fully, for it sat there with great composure, only now and then pulling off a green leaf and eating it. At last the man reached out his hand for a big pebble; he could knock it down easily without changing his position. He had

his hand ready to throw, when a swift compunction seized him and he flung the pebble crashing through the distant underwood.

"No, I'm darned," he muttered, "if I can hurt the pretty, innocent thing after all!"

At the noise of the falling pebble the bird rose with a loud whirr of its magnificent wings, and passed on to another tree. The man was sorry; he wished it had stayed where it was, that he might watch it. Then things gradually grew indistinct, and he fell asleep as easily as a child.

He slept heavily for a time. Then his sleep became broken, dreams troubled him-ugly dreams of things that had happened since this summer sun rose.

Again he was at the little village public-house, smoking and drinking with his mate, Bill Harris. The drink was bad, but the day was hot, and both men thirsty after hours of work in the scorching sun. Then they turned out again, going back to their felling and sawing of timber. And as they went a quarrel sprang up between them and grew fierce. Then Bill, in an unhappy moment, reminded his mate Jack of the 301. he had been owing him these months past. This brought Jack's wrath to a climax; he raised the axe he was carrying and struck Bill, who fell like a log on the dusty road, the blood spouting from his wound. Jack knelt down and gazed stupidly; Bill was dead. The shock sobered him on the instant. He dragged the dead man into the shade of the bushes, and fled for his life, feeling the hot breath of the avengers behind him every second.

Bill dead? Bill? Oh, confound it all, no! Things were getting mixed up in his brain. It was he himself who had been ill for weeks together in the winter-nigh at death's door-and Bill had nursed him and waited on him with the tenderness of a woman. Yes, it was Bill who had saved his life-brave,