As Pigment's work had found favour in the sight of the Council of the Royal Academy, and the hangers had given the canvas a good place, I would have looked him up for the purpose of tendering my felicitations on the night of the varnishing day, had I not felt morally certain that if I allowed a week to elapse it would also be my pleasing duty to congratulate him on having sold.' My impression was realised. He had sold his picture at the private view. And what was more, as Mrs. Pigment radiantly reminded him, he had got the cheque. Never was visitor more welcome than I. Mrs. Pigment insisted on my staying to dinner, Pigment himself, who had given up work for the day, adding his entreaties to hers. As all the fellows up here,' he continued, indicating the artists' colony, of which he is himself such a distinguished ornament, with an airy sweep of the hand, are out of town, we shall have the studio to ourselves. After dinner Madge shall give us some music, and after that we'll brew a jorum of cold punch and talk Art. I have been three times to the Royal Academy, and I think I know all about it. Of course-I guess what you are about to say-it was because of my luck. Fellows who have had their pictures and things kicked out are not in the habit of haunting Burlington House day after day for the purpose of railing at the show. They go once or twice, and lay up a sufficient store of recollections to enable them to

6

sneer at the august corporation with learned ease for at least a twelvemonth. It is pleasant to be congratulated on your good fortune -if you happen to be "in"-at the Academy; I like it immensely, and it is sometimes useful. Wealthy patrons of art hear and remember. But the last place in the world to be condoled with on your illfortune, when you don't happen to be "in," is certainly Burlington House.'

Pigment was obviously 'i' the vein.' Of course I thanked Mrs. Pigment for her invitation, and accepted it. As for Pigment, who is the most unaffected of clever fellows, I bade him abandon rodomontade and talk sense. had gone to the Academy thrice, including his visit on varnishing day, because he was interested in the exhibition, and for no other reason ?

He

Ask

'Interested, to be sure. Did you ever behold an exhibition of the R.A. that was not interesting? But, believe me-I am seriousit pays an artist nowadays to be seen in society a good deal: to be pointed out and made the subject of audible conversation. the R.A.s themselves, and the A.R.A.s. If some of them were honest they would tell you that they owe their position quite as much, if not more, to their knowledge of society as to their skill as artists. But it will be half an hour before dinner is ready, so come into the studio: I have something to show you.' We pottered about until dinner time; we dined,

and we had some music. The pipes were well under way when Pigment resumed his remarks on the Royal Academy, in response to an observation of mine on the subject of this year's exhibition.

'Well, I suppose one does look at an exhibition through personal spectacles. It is natural to think well of the judgment from which one has benefited. Nevertheless, after three visits to Burlington House, I feel it impossible to praise the collection as a whole. Take the swell room, gallery number three, and-"what a falling off was there!" Why, when one remembers the pictures which have occupied the place of honour in that noble gallery, it saddens one to gaze upon Mr. Wells's obtrusive portrait of a mayor of-I forget what distinguished borough -and Mr. Goodall's panoramic picture of ruins and sand and palm trees, and the rest.'

Pigment was not in the least grateful for being set right concerning the title of Mr. Goodall's considerable picture.

'He calls it Memphis, does he? I have no objection, I am sure. He does not give it a sub title, I presume? Properly the description should read something like this-Memphis, design for a dropscene for Messrs. Maskelyne and Cooke at the Egyptian Hall.

for the mayor, the counterfeit presentment of his chain and robe of office has no more right to a place on the walls of the Academy, to the exclusion of more interesting work, than a Salvation Army banner or one of Mr. Wilson Barrett's overpowering posters. In the neighbourhood of the provincial mayor there is one of dear old Sidney Cooper's cattle pictures, which is not at all bad for him; but, Crank, old chap, how it reminds me of the days of my

youth when I look into Cooper's method of painting foliage! You recollect how we used to slave away at J. D. Harding's Lessons on Trees in the ante-Academy school-days? Why, Cooper's picture you know the one I mean -is a lesson on trees.'

A word in deprecation of his wholesale censure of the famous cattle-painter provoked from Pigment the exclamation

'I admit that he has done a heap of good work in his time, very good work indeed. There is, or, at any rate, there was, a picture of his at that most comfortable of old-fashioned hotels, the Fleur de Lys, in his native city of Canterbury, which, to tell the truth, I should myself be glad to possess. All one need to say about Dobson's study of the nude is, that it is rather better than might have been expected. But how a manner sticks to a fellow! I suppose it would be impossible for Dobson to paint eyes that were not emotional; swimming eyes, you know-eyes that suggest tears recently shed, or tears about to flow. Herbert and Cope are represented in this room most characteristically; but there! What is there new to be said about them or about Armitage? Herbert and Cope are seen at their best at the Houses of Parliament; and Armitage should confine himself to flat decoration, for which, as the critics would say, he is eminently fitted.'

As it occurred to me that Pigment had said enough in the jaundiced vein, I ventured to suggest that there were some really admirable pictures in Gallery III., whereupon he replied,

'Stop a bit! We shall come to them presently. Let me finish my grumble. There is Marks! I hope, in the interest of a really sound artist, I am not wrong, but it seems to me that Marks's colour

is more unfortunate this year than ever. Turner and Landseer were afflicted towards the end of their lives with a sense of colour which, probably, had its origin in some optical disease. There is nothing about Marks's painting of flesh which suggests that; only, when a man has given us colour so much better, because truer, than that in his "Jack Cade" picture, one feels inclined to pull him up with a round turn, and ask him what it all means. It is scarcely the sort of mint-mark of colour by which, without looking into the subject, you instantly identified a picture by the elder Leslie or Mulready; it is more like the kind of colourable evidence (pardon my joke!) which we meet with in a picture by Cope. Cope would seem to see things through plum-coloured spectacles, while Marks views through glasses tinged with red. This is to be deplored and altered. He is learned and thoughtful; he draws well; he has plenty of invention; and, when he chooses to let himself go, he is a genuine humorist.'

An observation on the subject of the artist's earlier works-which to me are a source of unqualified pleasure-awakened Pigment's enthusiasm. He said,

'You are right, Crank, entirely right. It was the exuberance of the humour that laid hold of us then. Those pictures made you laugh, precisely as a speech of Falstaff's excites a chuckle, again and again. They were not mere jokes upon canvas. All Marks's are pictures to live with; and they are books as well as pictures: pic tures of character, not caricatures; only I agree with you, Crank, that he is never so enjoyable as when he is exuberant. And when he introduces us to his birds, thereby making us en rapport with his later phase of humour, he is delicious.

But he must really look to his colour !'

Pigment, having eased his mind on the subject of an artist we both admire, replenished his pipe, and prepared for another mental excursion round Gallery III. I thought that he was done with railing. I was in error.

'Nobody but Leighton could have painted that "Phryne;" and yet, for all its plucky modelling and majestic lines, I don't like it. Making every allowance for the effect of light, is this flesh? By the way, talking about flesh, there is a portrait by Alma Tadema—I am not certain whether it is in the principal gallery, which you should look into. Consider the surface of the flesh, and tell me what you think of it. The picture which Alma Tadema would paint better than any living man is a representation of the Pygmalion fable. Were he to depict the figure in the course of transformation, he would achieve a triumph equal to anything we know. In this room, and elsewhere in the exhibition, we have collections of Ansdell's altogether too lovely sheep and goats and dogs. Why is it that Ansdell, who when he began was a painter of some vigour, now paints nothing but carefully washed and groomed animals? Mary had a little lamb, with fleece as white as snow, and everywhere that Mary went that lamb was sure to go. When Ansdell is not painting Mary's lamb, he is busy with the silken wool and carefully trimmed hair of creatures built on the same elegant lines. Cooper is often as intolerably nice but enough of him.'

Át this point I felt it necessary to remind Pigment that he had harped enough on one string. Surely there was something to be said in favour of the exhibition ?

'In its favour? A great deal. Wait a bit!' Here Pigment turned

to the first page of his well-thumbed catalogue. Let us, leaving for the moment Gallery III., run over the names of the R.A.s and Associates, by way of refreshment, and ask ourselves, as we go on, what those gentlemen have done to enrich the exhibition. Calderon does not exhibit. Well, he needed a rest. Faed might just as well have not sent anything for any mark which he makes. The painter of "From Dawn to Sunset" has a good deal of leeway to make up before he reminds us of that splendid poem. Frith's one work, a portrait, required to have been done by Frith to attract special attention. Horsley is the Horsley whose sugar-and-spice pictures have helped to give Royal Academy exhibitions a book-of-beauty air any time these fifteen years. Rivière has been seen to greater advantage in former years. He needs a vigorous recovery. Sant, Watts, and Wells are inoffensive. Of the three new R.A.s, Peter Graham alone vindicates his right to the elevation. As for Long's picture, it is anything but great.'

When a man dogmatises in Pigment's dashing way, there is nothing for the listener who wishes to keep a calm sough,' but to let him run on. After a pause, he said:

"The first A.R A. is Aitchison, a gentleman who is understood to be great at decorating interiors. Until he was made an Associate I had never heard of him, and my ignorance was not singular. We will pass him over. And as we are not concerned just now about the sculpture-an art I profess to know very little about-let us pass Birch and Boehm also. This year Boughton is quainter, prettier, and farther from Nature than ever. Does it not strike you, Crank, that he and men of his class paint according to a recipe? He

Be

has been to Holland for his subjects, but he might just as well have gone to Rotherhithe. Let the models come from Hoorn or Heidelberg, Orkney or Ohio, the painting would be-what shall I sayBoughtonesque? Why has he taken to bigger canvasses? cause, being an A.R.A., he was certain of finding places for them on the line? I should not wonder. Burgess's more important picture is a representation of a subject which, if I recollect aright, John Philip dealt with years ago. As for Eyre Crowe's considerable canvas-well, it is interesting enough to an archæologist, but the theme is the reverse of thrilling, and it is crudely handled. Has Crowe done such good work since they made him an A.R A. as he had accomplished before? I doubt it. Frank Dicksee must be careful lest he play on that rapt lovers' string until it snap. Those two young people among the leaves in the moonlight-could any treatment be more lovely? To me, Crank, it is altogether too beautiful. Fildes's one figure of a dark maiden is commonplace; Nicol has sent nothing; Woods justifies his elevation to the associateship by means of a couple of pictures that show how deeply he is indebted to Van Haanen-and that is the lot.'

I was about to remind him of sundry omissions from the list, when he exclaimed:

'I beg your pardon. There is something more to be said before we discuss the other side of the question, or before I do, since I am monopolising most of the talk. An R.A. who, if he has not retrograded, is merely marking time, is Leslie. I like neither his Molly nor his Sally. Never mind the colour; it is his, and he has a public who believe in it; but look at the drawing! A word on