or five girls coming out of the sunlit porch into the church, their white garments toned to a warm tint in the golden light, an effect emphasized by the more darkly dressed figure standing in shadow in the foreground. Not only is it a beautiful composition in line and color, but the faces have a tenderness and seriousness of expression in keeping with the scene and subject. A feature of the exhibition is the collection in one room (16) of the late Albert Maignan's pictures, some of them old friends. They include that tremendous piece of diablerie called La Voix de Tocsin, now in the museum of Amiens, where the spirits of discord tug at the great bell in the centre of the composition; and the remarkable painting in memory of Carpeaux, in which the sculptor's chief works are collected together in a kind of dream composition. It is to be regretted that the Tentation-Eve and the serpent-is not among them; one of Maignan's last and finest works, which was in the Franco-British Exhibition last year. Nude studies abound, of course; many able, as studies in execution; a few beautiful with the beauty of line and composition; none, perhaps, with that higher beauty of poetic sentiment which is the crowning quality in a nude figure. The merely perfect execution, perhaps, is so difficult that it is considered as sufficient achievement in itself to glorify the artist. M. Mercié, who is now almost as prominent in painting as he has long been in sculpture, chooses for the subject of his principal work the legend of Pygmalion and Galatea (27), the nude statue just beginning to flush into life. It is a little bit of a trick, and a trick that has been done rather too often. (His other picture, Jeune Parisienne, I could not find.) One is tired. too, of La Cigale, and M. Comerre's figure of her (25) looks comfortless lying on the dead leaves. M. Benner's Reveil de Psyche (6) is pretty, as she wakes and stretches up her hands to a butterfly hovering above; but it is hardly spiritual enough for Psyche. But hung as a pendant to it, in the same room, is the nude of the year, Solitude, by M. Seignac; a young girl lying under trees by the side of a lake; the whole scene, the trees and the distance as well as the figure, painted with the greatest tenderness and delicacy of touch--a harmonious whole; a vision of pure beauty which one does not easily forget. Looking round more generally, we notice that a M. Scott (a Parisian by birth, in spite of his name) has attempted to do with Général San-Martin, Libérateur de l'Argentine (43) what Reguault did with General Prim and his black horse; the imitation is rather too obvious. M. Béroud, who so loves big pictures, has painted Le Rêve de Quasimodo à Notre-Dame; the gist of the picture is that it is a grand and solid piece of painting of Gothic architectural detail on a scale the size of reality; it hangs in the open gallery opposite the grand staircase. The figure is well imagined, but it is the architecture that makes the picture. M. Rochegrosse has missed his mark this year; his Fête Intime (3) in some impossible interior (the "intimity" consists in dancing with transparent garments or none at all) will interest no one. Roybet, on the other hand, has made a new kind of success in his picture (5) of a Flanders burgher refusing to pay his taxes on certain political grounds; he has got rid for once of the fat-faced man with the large moustache, and paints the scene with a great deal of dramatic force. A fine picture is that by M. Ridel, Le Jet d'Eau (6), where a noble-looking woman stands by a small sculptured fountain, her figure relieved against a background of trees; one of those pictures which suggest many meanings M. without defining one; it is a poem, for the spectator who brings his own poetry to it. There are some interesting pictures of real life, some of them much too large for their subject, for the French are more prone than we are to the painting of genre pictures life size. M. Avy, however, has made a fine picture out of the Versailles gardens and the holiday people in them, backed by the rich masses of the trees. M. Sieffert has made a clever study, Au Salon des Poètes (12), of the personalities of some of the audience the child, the sentimental woman, the vulgar bourgeoise old lady, and the girl whose face shows real feeling. The official purchases of pictures are wonderful and bewildering. Their judgment in purchases of sculpture is usually good; but what they are aiming at in their picture purchases one cannot imagine. Why did they buy M. J. Grün's large vulgar picture, La bienvenue (18)? Is it because it represents French middleclass life? And why M. Synave's large coarsely-painted sketch of an ugly woman lying on her bed in a striped petticoat? And why M. Saint-Germier's Entrée du Palais des Doges (7), one of the worst architectural paintings I ever saw? There was some cleverness of execution in the other two, but none in this. Possibly it was supposed to be of topographical interest. They make some amends in their purchase of landscapes, for M. Rémond's small picture, Les Moulins de Marée (3), is a fine work in an original style; and M. Guillemet's La Vallée d'Equihen (30: also a State purchase) still better. There are SO many fine portraits that one must be content with merely mentioning three or four exceptional ones. M. Humbert is the Gainsborough of modern France; that he has studied that master closely there cannot be a doubt. Of his two works (30), that of Madame Regnier, an upright of a lady in a furred walking dress, is perfect in its broad consistent style, avoiding the one fault of some of the most gifted of the French portrait painters, the tendency to hardness and over-precision. M. Bonnat does not quite escape that in his portrait of Général Florentin (13), otherwise a fine production in which he has managed to harmonize (more or less) some very inharmonious details of official costume, as M. Schommer has done also in his portrait of M. Nénot, the eminent architect, and at present the President of the Société des Artistes Français-in other words, of the Salon. There are many beautiful portraits of ladies, none more pleasing and characteristic than that of Miss Phyllis, by Mr. MacEwen, a native of Chicago, though now domiciled in Paris. And one of the chief honors for portraits of men is certainly carried off by the Polish artist M. Tadé Styka (born in Paris, however,) in his portrait of his father (S) seated in his garden in a dressing-gown and straw hat. For ease and natural manner, and (apparently) facile breadth of execution, this is one of the cleverest portraits of the year. In no department is the Salon stronger than in landscape, though a hasty tour of the galleries might fail to bring this out, for the French school of landscape is, for the most part, sober and reserved in its treatment of nature, and is not to be appreciated but by careful consideration. M. Didier-Pouget is an exception; his two large and wonderfully real and powerful pictures (Rooms 22 and 27) no one can pass by; but it must be admitted by this time that he practically only paints two pictures-a morning effect with a high heather-clad plateau in the foreground, and an evening effect with water and heavily massed trees behind it. That a man can paint two such landscapes, however, is something to And M. Biva's L'Après-midi; Villeneuve l'Etang (7), which is quite astonishing in its reality of detail. Having this special power, he is right to make the most of it; but this is not, of course, the typical French school of landscape. The note of that school is breadth of style, the power of giving reality of effect without losing breadth, and the power to seize and express the essential sentiment of રી scene. In M. Cabié's Matinée de Novembre (1), for instance, the foreground road with the sunlight on it is as real as anything in Mr. Davis's foregrounds, but it is painted in a much broader and more vigorous style. As examples of the grasp of the essential quality of a landscape may be mentioned M. Planquette's Dans la poudre d'or du soir, a landscape and cattle picture of one of those evenings in which the level sunset light seems to pervade everything; M. Calvé's Bords du Gat-Mort (18), a dark expanse of heather, painted just as it would appear in fading twilight, with the last light of the evening sky beyond; and M. Cagniart's La Bretagne (21), a grand, sombre, undulating plain, with one level bar of red light in the sky, reminding one of the evening sky in Sordello: Ꭺ last remains of sunset dimly burned O'er the far forests, like a torch-flame By the wind back upon its bearer's hand The veteran landscape-painter, M. Harpignies, too, still paints as finely as ever, in that complete and balanced style of his, the translation of nature into terms of art; if one can say of two perfect pictures that one was more perfect than the other, I think it would be that small upright, Vieux Chênes à Villefranche-sur-Mer (25), as beautiful and poetic a small landscape as ever was painted. Nothing has been said so far of the New Salon, for indeed the new Salon cannot be considered, in' proportion to its extent, as a very important exhibition; it is "thin sown with aught of profit or delight." The most important thing in it is M. Besnard's decorative painting for one of the four divisions of the dome of the Petit Palais, illustrating La Plastique; the three others being La Pensée, La Matière, (which two were exhibited last year) and La Mystique. La Plastique is a more difficult subject to symbolize than the two which have been already exhibited, and it is not equal to them; but the whole will be a fine decorative scheme. M. Dubufe exhibits a rather fine decorative design of ships-Le Départ, intended for the main staircase of the Mairie of Saint-Mandé; and M. Roll's Jeune République, symbolized by a young woman in red robes standing with outstretched arms on the summit of a hill, is an effective piece of bravura. The sculpture at the old Salon is, as usual, a wonderful collection both in extent and in the number of fine things to be found in it. French sculpture is not quite what it was ten or fifteen years ago; there is an evident striving after novelty, at the expense sometimes of sculpturesque quality and of rational aims. Irrational, certainly, is the exhibit of a team of six plaster oxen, with their driver, more than life size, which stretches all across one end of the sculpture court. Yet, if one makes up one's mind to take notes only of works of real interest, it is surprising how many things there are that one cannot possibly pass by; and uo less impressive is the evidence of the official encouragement given to sculpture. I did not keep an exact list, but I am sure that in the wide central portion of the sculpture court I must have counted twenty important works bearing the label "Acquis par l'Etat" or "Commandée par l'Etat." Can one wonder that more is accomplished with sculpture in France than in England? It is worth while to be a sculptor in a country where the art is thus fostered and encouraged. One can only mention a few prominent works. M. Mercié again contents himself with a figure of real life, Le Départ du Village, a pretty peasant girl in her short-skirted country dress setting out for market; charming in her naïve expression and pose, but not what one wishes to see a great sculptor devote himself to. But we may run the whole gamut from the classical to the pictorial (the too pictorial) in sculpture. The old classical ideal meets us in M. Marqueste's beautiful nude Hebe, holding out the cup at arm's length; the pictorial and sentimental in M. Hippolyte Lefebvre's Printemps-three couples, alto-relief, in modern dress, representing three stages of love-the boy and girl, the courtship, the engaged (or wedded) lovers. There is a charming grace and expression about the figures and faces, but it is more a subject for painting than sculpture. Monuments form an important portion of the collection; among others a beautiful one to Corot, by M. Larche; a stele bearing the spirituel head of the painter, and a young girl starting forward from the background, who seems to typify the The Nineteenth Century and After. spirit of Corot's spring woods and foliage. M. Alfred Boucher exhibits his monument to the late sculptor Dubois, in severe classic style; a stepped granite erection bearing the portrait head in bronze in the centre, and seated bronze figures at the sides. M. Marqueste, besides his Hebe, exhibits a striking work of quite different type, called an Allégorie sur la Loi des Syndicats Professionnels, with the further description-"La Démocratie protégeant la classe Ouvrière vient rendre homage à Waldeck-Rousseau." Two noble nude figures of workmen, their gaze directed upward, are attended by the heavily draped figure of Democracy in the rear, forming a fine sculpturesque contrast. M.Guillaume has a large monument of considerable pathos, apparently to a mother and child-Dans le bras de la Vierge elle l'a retrouvée; the whole moves up in flowing lines from the mourning figure at the foot to the child and mother at the apex of the composition; the treatment has a little too much of the art nouveau in its rather formless curves, but it is an impressive work. Among the many works representing fine modelling of the figure, and not without a meaning beyond mere modelling, are M. Blanchard's Jeune Femme interrogeant te Sphinx, a grandly posed nude woman gazing intently into the face of a carved sphinx; M. Allouard's charming figure Innocence; Mdlle. Debienne's La Terre Endormie; and M. Greber's Narcisse, a decorative fountain (a State commission) where a beautiful nude youth looks down as at his own image in the fountain basin below. But one might fill a couple of pages with the mere mention of the things of interest in this collection of what France has thought in marble or clay during the past year. H. Heathcote Statham. HARDY-ON-THE-HILL. CHAPTER II. BY M. E. FRANCIS (Mrs. Francis Blundell.) On the following morning, in response to Stephen's inquiries at the Cottage Hospital, he was told that Baverstock's condition had not altered since the previous night; he called again in the afternoon with a like result; the old man still lingered between life and death. nurse. "He may last till morning," said the "That poor girl must go home. though. She sat up with him all last night, though it is against the rules, but now for her own sake she must try and get some rest. It might go on for days," she added. "It's difficult to tell in a case like this." "I'll see Miss Baverstock home," said Stephen. "Tell her to come down now; I'm waiting for her." Sheba presently appeared, pale and heavy-eyed. She gazed at Stephen, almost sullenly, making no response to his greeting. "You must come with me now." he said authoritatively. "Come home, and take some rest. You can be here as early as you like to-morrow morning." "An' supposin' he dies in the night?" said Sheba. "They think he may last for some days. It is against the rules for you to be here. In any case, Sheba, you must have some sleep." "I'm like to sleep well in yon lonesome place by the water, bain't I?" she interrupted, with fierce irony. Stephen said no more until they were outside; and then, before she was aware of his intention, he drew her hand through his arm. "You're not going home," he said quietly. "You are coming back with me to our place." "Who says so?" she cried, endeavoring to twitch away her hand; but the farmer held it firmly imprisoned within his arm, and bringing forward his other hand, laid it upon it. "Somebody must take care of you, Sheba," he said. "I think I'm the oldest friend you have-I'm going to do it." The kind yet masterful tone, the quiet restraining touch, had instant effect upon the girl. She gave one startled glance at his face and began to sob under her breath. Stephen's strong fingers closed on hers. When they reached the main street of the little town she wiped her eyes, and again endeavored to disengage her hand, but he still held it fast. "Bide as you are, my dear," he said kindly; "you're weak and worn outnot fit to walk alone." "I don't know what the folks'll think," said Sheba, with a pitiful attempt at a smile. "They're starin' at us, some of 'em." This was true enough. More than one curious glance had been cast after the couple, who were, of course, wellknown and easily recognized even in the dusk. "Let them think what they please," returned Stephen. "After all, they can but think the one thing," went on Sheba, after a pause, rather bitterly. "Farmer Hardy be helpin' Sheba Baverstock home-along out o' charity." "I hope folks know better than to talk like that," he announced gravely. "You are helpin' me out o' charityyou're takin' me in to your own place out o' charity-you'm maybe thinkin' o' doin' summat else out o' charity." |