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resented here also; that latest school which we believe may well in future times come to be known by some such title as the Bedlam School. As typical a representative thereof as is Gauguin in France is Van Gogh in Holland. Both these names are well known among a certain class of art-critics, the votaries of the last new thing, the dernier cri. But to the average English picture-lover they are probably unknown, so that a word or two on them and on the origin of the school which they represent may not be amiss.

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The Avatar of this body of fantastics gone mad was first made known to the world by the opening of the Salon des Indépendants some half a dozen years ago. Men had heard (in Paris at least) something before that of Gauguin and a good deal of Cézanne. The former, it ported, had discovered that the only living modern art was to be found in the Pacific Islands, and had long taken to putting on his canvas figures which did no discredit to his savage masters. Cézanne had exaggerated the old trick of the blue shadow (Henley talks of painters "who had just discovered the blue shadow") till it had become a deep purple in ordinary daylight; and even white in shade, as the inside of a white teacup, Cézanne would paint a pure ultra-marine. Deep purple, one does not quite know why, calls for bright pink as its counterpart; and so the portions of Cézanne's pictures which were in light were generally of that tint. Roughly speaking, his canvases were divided between these two colors. At first men went to the Independent Salon to smile and pass on, but lately a change has come in a certain section of art criticism. It came very suddenly. In the course of two years about half the art critics of Paris, including some very respectable names, had made a complete golte-face. If they did not burn what

they had adored, at any rate they found a whole pantheon of new gods to place in the artistic Olympus. Some few of these were men not without genius who had been neglected; all of them were men whose work up to that moment could be purchased almost for a song, but in whom some of the great dealers in Paris had begun to make a corner. And the fortunate if not wholly fortuitous change in the taste of the Parisian critics had its echo in a notable rise of the market for which the dealers had prepared. Since then the ball has gone on rolling, and it asks almost as much courage now to question the merits of the new heroes as it would formerly have done to support them. We need not suppose that Mr. Marius is insincere in his admiration of the Dutch representative of this fantastic art, but the paragraphs which he devotes to Van Gogh show how difficult it is to find sane and sober words of praise for this insane painting.

The work of Vincent van Gogh (he tells us) fell like a meteor into the plains of our national art in the winter of 1892, two years after the painter's death.

A meteor in very truth! Here was no question of gradual, technical, artistic development that had been followed out year by year. That which first greeted our eyes was the most passionate, desperate, and impulsive work, the technical part of which, as it then appeared, before time had matured it, seemed beyond the power of the painter's art. It was the evidence of the artist's struggle with his medium, of his struggle with nature; it was the act of despair of a fanatic; it was the revelation of a visionary.

Van Gogh's work represents not so much a creed as a man-to-man struggle; his color is not the result of a wellthought-out scheme, but is an effort rather to grasp the light, to hold it fast, to suggest color in light without the use of brown or bitumen. And, as it was his chief object to render life, to express what he saw rather than to

produce an harmonious painting, he strove to fling his impressions, as it were, upon his canvas in one breath.

What is singular is that Richard Muther uses almost the same words to express his appreciation of this painter. We may conclude then that of the ordinary pictorial qualities, harmony of color, drawing, and so forth, not much must be asked for from Van Gogh and the painters of the dernier cri.

It is impossible to give any notion of this sort of painting to those who have seen no specimen of it. But the two illustrations of Van Gogh given by Mr. Marius-a group of PolynesianThe Edinburgh Review.

like figures crammed into a parlorand some cypresses whose wavy outlines (like a sort of black flames) are repeated horizontally among the clouds, perpendicularly in the two figures of the scene, are sufficiently enlightening. Those who think "meteors," "man-to-man struggles with nature," "an effort to grasp the light and hold it fast," are satisfactory substitutes for the beauties, the sanities, the temperate aims and great achievement which distinguish the work of masters in all ages, may take pleasure in this last cry of modern art. We predict that their pleasure will be short-lived.

THE HUMPBACK. PART II.

It was near noon when they sighted the cape that, from a distance, looks like a gigantic breakwater built by man, with its level top and perpendicular sides, seven miles in length and never a tenth of that in breadth. Several leagues north of the cave-riddled point the Haakon began to cruise in search of the hoped-for Nordkaper. Here and there, their white hulls gleaming in the sunshine, lay French schooners taking toll from the fishingbanks. These were the laggards, the less lucky, for the majority of the Dunkirk and other fleets had already sailed for home with full holds of salted cod, the reward of six months' toil and peril.

Kaptein Schroeder brought the Haakon within hailing distance of one of the schooners, and bawled his question.

Yes, the Franskmand skipper had seen whales that morning early. The whales had gone. He pointed to the

nor'-east.

Schroeder knew that the French

man wanted the whaler far away from the banks, but he decided to try nor'east, and accordingly the Haakon's course was shaped in that direction.

The hour of middag had come, and he went below to the usual repast of sweet soup, followed by salt-beef, followed by a second supply of sweet soup. The engineer joined him; the mate was still in the lookout, by his own desire, with which Schroeder had not sought to interfere.

"You think we may get a Nordkaper, kaptein?" remarked the engineer. "It is only a chance. I intend to try for two days, and if nothing comes of it we shall go west again.”

"It is worth while trying," said the engineer. "What is the matter with Thorstein?" he asked later.

Kaptein Schroeder wiped a drop of syrup from his yellow beard. "Matter with Thorstein?"

"Ja. Have you not noticed how strange he looks?"

The other shook his head. "Thorstein is always a little queer."

"But he looks as if he were afraid of something. I thought perhaps he had got notice to leave the Haakon at the end of the season. It would be a pity for him. I do not think any other whaler would have him for styrmand now."

"Thorstein has not got notice," said Schroeder. "Maybe he is not very well; maybe he is troubled about his son. Do not ask him any questions, Keller. He does his work well, and we have no business with anything else."

The cook came clattering down the narrow stairway and put his head into the cabin.

"En hratbaad kommer, kaptein."

Schroeder finished his meal hurriedly, and went on deck. Far ahead was a trail of smoke.

From the mast-head Thorstein was peering through a telescope. “Ja. It is a whaler," he said at last, "and with a dead whale, for it is coming slowly."

The captain went into the steeringbox and slightly altered the Haakon's course. In a little while he was able to distinguish the approaching whaler through his glasses. Her hull was green, and ber funnel pinky-yellow with a broad black top. She was not making more than four knots.

"They have two great astern," shouted the styrmand. one of the Vopnafjord boats. Snorri."

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informed him that he had been hunting the two whales for more than a day, and had killed both within two hours of each other. For the Nordkaper usually succumbs easily to the bomb-harpoon, and, moreover, does not sink when death takes him.

"It is good luck for our last trip of the season," bellowed the Vopnafjord man gleefully. "I suppose I shall see you in Tönsberg soon. I leave Island next week."

"Are you not going after more Nordkapers when you have got these two to the station?"

"There are no more Nordkapers, my good Schroeder. There were but two, and I killed them both"; and the speaker roared with laughter.

Kaptein Schroeder bawled a friendly enough farewell, waved his hand, and gave the order for full speed. He believed his friend, and the disappointment was a heavy blow. It had been a wild-goose chase.

He altered the course to west, and descended to the deck, where he walked up and down for half-an-hour, casting many a disgusted glance at the dead sejhval wallowing alongside. It was indeed galling. Two great Nordkapers-and he had been a few hours too late. And the weather was not looking so well. Away in the north-west the horizon had taken on a brownish hue. In all probability he would reach the neighborhood of the ice, only to get fog-bound. He went forward and climbed up the rigging.

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Thorstein, peering over the edge of the barrel, did not take his gaze from the sea.

"You see I am going to the ice," said Schroder.

"Ja, kaptein."

Schroeder looked over his shoulder. He could still perceive Langanaes, or at any rate, the mountains beyond it. "Where is your knöl?" he asked roughly.

A strange expression came into the mate's countenance, but he did not reply.

Schroeder, hanging on to the rigging, continued to search the water around him. All at once he made a quick movement and seemed about to speak, but checked himself.

Five minutes passed, and then he made another quick movement, while a savage look disfigured his good-natured features.

and

"Man! are you blind?" he exclaimed, gripping Thorstein's shoulder shaking it. "What is that yonder?" He relaxed his grasp on the mate and pointed.

Half a mile off the starboard bow a shining black and rounded object rose above the surface. Thorstein, as if unwillingly, turned his eyes to it. It disappeared.

"Are you blind? With my own eyes I saw him rise-twice. You fool! You have not been watching."

"I have been watching, kaptein. He was only a very small sejhval." The speaker was trembling.

"You lie! It was the head of a great"-Schroeder stopped short.

The sea appeared to burst open, and a monstrous, unwieldly-looking, dripping creature, bearing a small hump in place of a dorsal, and gigantic pectorals, shot clear above the surface, and fell back with an amazing crash amid fountains of foam.

"Hval! hval!" yelled Schroeder at the top of his voice, and the crew hurried to their posts. Then he turned to Thorstein. "So," he said wrathfully, "you would cheat me because of a crazy dream. You would cheat me of the greatest knölhval I have ever seen. Go on deck, and keep out of my way. Go to your bunk, you that are afraid of a knöl”

"Kaptein"

"I have no more to do with you. Only keep out of my way. Ugh!"

And Kaptein Schroeder descended rapidly to the deck, where he immediately selected a man to take Thorstein's place. Next he gave instructions for letting the sejhral go adrift with a flag stuck in it.

Thorstein on reaching the deck looked appealingly in his captain's direction, but, being utterly ignored, went dejectedly aft.

The knölhval-or humpback, to use a more familiar name-continued to gambol in his ungainly ways while the Haakon drew near him. He rolled about at the surface, exhibiting his tremendous "wings;" he stood upright in his element, poking his warty head above water; he made unexpected rushes here and there; and once more he hurled his hundred tons of bone, flesh, and blubber into the air.

"The greatest knöl I have ever seen," said Schroeder to himself as he screwed a grenade on the harpoon. "After all, I shall please them at the station to-morrow. Forty barrels will not be so bad."

But he did not sing as he usually did while preparing for action. The thought of the mate's deception rankled. Besides, he missed the mate's assistance. The man now in the crow's-nest would do his best, but his experience was small.

However, Kaptein Schroeder hoped to fire a good first shot which would make the struggle a brief one. And certainly the humpback did his best to make it so, for, after a little more play, he came leisurely to meet the Haakon. Perhaps her bluish-gray bottom deceived him into thinking her a friend.

Schroeder held up his hand for "stop." As the Haakon lay, the humpback, if he continued his course, would cross her bows.

But suddenly the propeller-like motion of his flukes ceased; it appeared as of he were gathering himself to

gether for another rush or a downward plunge.

Believing that he was going to sound, the gunner took a quick aim and pressed the trigger.

It was a long shot, and not a very good one. It struck too far abaft the flipper; and though a muffled thump, as the mighty tail flew up, told that the grenade had duly exploded, Schroeder knew. that death was still far away.

The cable ran out spasmodically till its length was almost exhausted, when the winch brakes were applied, and the Haakon began to forge slowly ahead. Ere long the humpback appeared at the surface, roaring and grunting, and struggling frightfully to free himself, rolling to and fro, lashing about his flukes, and broaching half out of the water-an agony shocking and sickening for any man save a whaleman to witness. Then he took to "bolting," making violent diagonal rushes; till, finding that also vain, he set off at a little distance beneath the surface, towing the Haakon at several miles an hour.

Meanwhile the gun had been reloaded, and when the pace of the humpback began to slacken the winch was set going, and cautiously the cable was reeled in until once more the Haakon was within shooting distance.

Yet again the luck was against the gunner. His shot was a good one, but the bomb failed to explode. And the knöl sounded so violently that the first cable the winch-man having let go an instant too late-parted with a loud snap close to the bow, while the Haakon quivered to her sternpost.

An hour passed, during which the knöl repeated his frantic efforts for freedom, and then came an opportunity for a third shot. As he stood by the gun Kaptein Schroeder threw an uneasy glance around him. A change in the weather was imminent. Blu

ish-black clouds were swiftly gathering, and the sun was already obscured. A breeze, light but very bitter, ruffled the gray ocean, and the ice-fog had changed to white and seemed nearer. A flake of snow fell on the red gun.

The winch clanked and the Haakon forged towards the whale, now lying. almost motionless. But when the bolt struck him he was off again, like a runner who has got his second wind. Yet it was a deadly shot, and a smaller whale would have died speedily. With three harpoons in him and two cables behind him, however, his spurt was of short duration. Within a few minutes he was up again, spouting crimson and roaring through his blowholes.

"He dies!" said Kaptein Schroeder with a grunt of relief. "Nei, kaptein. He dies not yet." The skipper wheeled around. "Get away!" he snapped.

Thorstein's pallid face flushed momentarily, and he stepped from the gun-platform, but did not go far aft.

The captain signed to the men at the winches to wind in. They had not. proceeded, far when the humpback seemed to revive and resumed his struggles.

"Another harpoon-quick!" cried Schroeder, sponging out the gun, and nodding to the winch-men to continue winding. He shouted for half-speed ahead.

From his pocket he took a small cotton bag containing a charge of powder, rammed it home in the gun, and followed it up with a wad. Four minutes later the slotted shaft of the harpoon filled the barrel, the bomb was affixed, the Krupp's screw for firing the charge was adjusted, and all was prepared. This time no cable was attached to the harpoon.

Crash! went the gun at close quarters, and the muffled echo followed. "Now he dies!"

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