"If you wish so much to know, I will tell you. I am called Mary!" "Do you live here?" he asked, eagerly.

"No," she replied. "We are only passing through Rouen. This is my papa, and mamma is

A few shrill words fully proclaimed where Lady Tunstall was.

"Sir James, Sir James, where are you? Come and see Cœur de Lion's tomb!"

Thus summoned, Sir James, who had been rather amused at the colloquy between the children, shrugged up his shoulders at the interruption, made a slight inclination to Monsieur Cantagrel, who was Walter's companion, and taking his daughter by the hand, led her away. She turned her head, however, to look once more at Walter; his eyes were still fixed upon her, and in the glance of both might have been read the intelligence of mutual liking. How willingly would they each have lingered to cement the feeling which had grown so swiftly, but Monsieur Cantagrel was quite as impatient to conduct his pupil to the Préfet, who had desired to see him, as Lady Tunstall to dilate on all she saw; and so they parted, without another word.

Mary ran at once to her mother.

"Oh, mamma!" she said, "we have been talking to the English boy with the beautiful voice! He is so nice! I wish you would come and speak to him."

"What, the little chorister! Where is he?"

But the question was asked in vain. The valet de place could see nobody when he went into the aisle to look. Lady Tunstall seemed vexed. She never liked to be disappointed, and the quick interpreter of expression, whose trade was that study, volunteered a means of gratifying the desire of Miladi. He knew a person very well, the gouvernante of the Abbé Ramier, who was the intimate friend of the director of the Maîtrise: from her he could obtain all that was wanted; if Miladi desired to see the chorister-boy, the gouvernante no doubt would hasten to have the honour of bringing him to Miladi's hotel. The proposition was agreeable to Lady Tunstall, and it was settled that when the sight-seeing for the day was over, the valet de place should go to Madame Gembloux and mention Miladi's wishes.

At a late hour that evening the valet de place appeared before Lady Tunstall. He was, he said, au désespoir. Such a thing as a failure had never occurred in all his life before; he had been unable to find the pretty English boy, not from any neglect of his, but the gouvernante, Madame Gembloux, of whom he had asked many questions, could give no information concerning the object of his search: all she said was that the boy had been taken into the country, and would be absent, she knew, for several days.

I will not say that Mary Tunstall cried when she heard this piece of false intelligence, but she sat very quiet all the rest of the evening, as if she were thinking deeply. Miladi, more philosophical-or, perhaps, more capricious-said it was of no consequence; and, turning to Sir James, told him she should leave Rouen very early next morning.

In this manner-through the treachery of Madame Gembloux-Walter lost the opportunity of being recognised by his mother's family.

THE EXHIBITION OF THE ROYAL ACADEMY

FOR 1858.

In the midst of our social mischances, the memory of which is still green in our souls"-while a thousand political failures and the general wreck of statesmanship declare how easily the world is mis-governed—it is a comfort to be assured on every hand that we are to have a good exhibition. Magna Charta and the Bill of Rights are fine things in their way, but somehow or other there is always something to mend in our excellent British Constitution, and at the end of a thousand years we find ourselves very nearly in the place where we began. This, luckily, is not the case with British Art, which year by year goes on improving. The era of imitation has passed, and self-reliance is manifestly the principle of the modern British school of painting: our artists have resources within them on which they do not fear to depend, and while they study with care and reverently listen to sound doctrine, they trust to their own wings for independent flight. But our purpose is not a homily:-let us adduce our proofs.

Mr. Frith's "Derby Day" is a picture, fairly to describe which would fill as much space as we have allotted ourselves for this general notice. Let the reader imagine himself on Epsom Downs within a quarter of an hour of the start, while all the humours of the race-course-some of them no longer extant—are at their height, he then has the scene before him such as can only be seen on that spot, such as can only be represented by an artist so observant as Mr. Frith. Those who don't go to the Derby this year, may remain at home content if they pay their shilling to see this wonderful picture-and succeed in getting near enough to see it. We guarantee them every enjoyment of the course, even that of the crowd!

Mr. Egg, who loves to tell his story completely, has a very remarkable picture, which he symbolises as "Past" and "Present"—the last representing a twofold simultaneous action. It is a series of three subjects on one line. We read the Past first. A husband has just come to the knowledge of his wife's infidelity; seated in a room, furnished with every luxurious appliance, he crushes beneath his feet a small pink note which reveals the story of his dishonour; the guilty woman has thrown herself on her face in the agony of discovery; at a little distance two pretty children are building houses of card, and as they turn in fear and wonder the crumbling edifices denote only too truly how their own house has been brought to the ground. The Present then shows itself. Mother and children are gazing at the same moon in the stillness of the same midnight hour: she, a wretched, degraded outcast, in the last stage of miserable abandonment, from the dry arches of the Adelphi looking out upon the river; they, from a poor lodging where they now live in their orphaned condition, sadly thinking of what fate has overtaken their only surviving parent. Such is the sentiment of this masterly work, the execution of which is faultless.

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Mr. Hart has at length resolved to show the world that the highest reaches of Art, on which he annually discourses with so much eloquence and perspicuity, are attainable by his own efforts. He has chosen a lofty theme, and treated it with corresponding dignity. The subject is the memorable attempt of Athaliah to prevent the coronation of Joash, as we find it recorded in the Books of Chronicles and Kings. The solemn inauguration of the boy-king has just taken place as the daughter of Jezebel rushes into the Temple: the people are prostrating themselves before the throne, the trumpeters are pealing forth notes of jubilation, the singers are uplifting their voices to the music of their ten-stringed harps, the princes and warrior-tribes are rejoicing, the High Priest, with outstretched hands, is blessing the Lord's anointed, and Athaliah, in all the splendour of her beauty and gorgeousness of her array, has come to meet her doom! The picture is full of life and movement, and while it is marked throughout by powerful contrasts, all its parts combine into one great action-the anticipated climax is ever present; in colour, in drawing, and in expression, the work is irreproachable, and as a study of Hebraic and Assyrian archæology we can imagine nothing more accurate. Mr. Hart has also painted a very attractive portrait: a full-length of Tussoon Pasha, the eldest son of the present ruler of Egypt, and the grandson of Mehemet Ali-a lively boy, with a sparkling, smiling face, wearing all the trappings of a full-grown warrior.

Public report has already spoken of Mr. Ward's new pictures, but not more favourably than they deserve. It is a mistake to suppose that Ceremonials are necessarily uninteresting: hundreds of well-known pictures attest the contrary, and when-as in the instance of "The Installation of the Emperor of the French as a Knight of the Garter" a remarkable historical fact is illustrated, we gladly accept the subject even for its own sake alone. The " whirligig of Time" has wrought few changes more extraordinary than that which brought the prisoner of Ham a guest to Windsor Castle-the nephew of Bonaparte to receive knighthood at the hands of the granddaughter of George III.! The event, however, is now matter of History, and in desiring that it should be recorded by the first historical painter of the day, the Queen has shown in what light she views it. But if History lent its attraction to the subject, the technicalities of a ceremonial rendered the treatment difficult. Mr. Ward, however, has conquered every difficulty, and converted the scene into a picture on which no one can look without admiration. All the portraits are excellent-those especially of her Majesty, the Emperor of the French and his beautiful consort, the Marquis of Lansdowne and the Earl of Ellesmere, the latter acquiring an additional value from the fact of its being the last portrait ever painted of a nobleman whose premature death is so universally deplored. Mr. Ward's second work has not only historical claims to notice, but is essentially more picturesque than the first. The subject is the visit paid by the Emperor of the French and Queen Victoria to the tomb of Napoleon I. By the happy accident of a thunderstorm, which made the visit an impromptu, the painter, in rendering it literally, has escaped formality. The Emperor of the French, the Queen, and their attendants including the veteran Count Ornano, the only survivor of the Adieux de Fontainebleau-are grouped on one side of the tomb, the Princess Mathilde, the

Prince Consort, the Princess Royal, and the Prince of Wales stand on the other, and in the centre, in an attitude of earnest devotion, kneels the venerable curé of the Invalides, offering up a prayer for the perpetuation of the alliance between France and England. It is not. possible to look upon the scene without emotion, so many and such powerful associations being conjured up. As a picture, Mr. Ward's "Alice Lisle" will be new to the public. It is the original work from which he designed the fresco now in the Palace of Westminster, and is a most masterly production, remarkable alike for vigorous drawing, fine colour, and depth of expression.

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Often as we have had occasion to offer our tribute of praise to the Academician's accomplished wife-who deserves to have a seat amongst the Forty-the reason for doing so was never so great as now. "Howard's Farewell to England," Mrs. Ward has established an abiding reputation: her rank as an artist is now fixed beyond the reach of cavil. Truthfulness, tenderness, and simplicity, are the befitting characteristics of this well-imagined and well-painted picture. The "farewell" consists in the last of one of those habitual visits of the great philanthropist to his Cardington tenants, where everything indicates the benevolence of his. character and the trusting sympathy which so much virtue awakened. The sentiment throughout is of the purest kind, and the thousand minute details by which the subject is embellished are perfect. Reproduced. as an engraving every one will yearn to possess it.

Mr. Frank Stone gives us more "subject" this year than we have ever yet had from him; and, what is more to the purpose, in enlarging the area of his work he has known how to enhance its value. For the last two or three years the public have reaped the benefit of his experiences on the coast round Boulogne-sur-Mer, and very charming have been the productions in which, with an equally faithful and poetical pencil, the habits and occupations of the picturesque inhabitants of that shore have been rendered. But in "The Missing Vessel"-which is the title of Mr., Stone's new picture-the pleasure afforded by the most careful delineation of the ordinary pursuits of life becomes only a secondary consideration, the spectator's attention being arrested, and his strongest emotions awakened, by a scene of human suffering of which the heart at once: claims its full share. On one of those stormy days that always causes a stir amongst a fisher population, some thirty people are gathered on the beach to watch for the return of the boats that went out the night before to sea. All but one have come back in safety, and on the doubtful fate: of this missing vessel the whole interest is centred. Although those who lose the most have already yielded to despair, doubt still exists in the minds of some. In the central group, on a rough stone platform, is a young man, whose quick eye has discovered a sail in the distance, which he fancies is the one they are looking for, and he eagerly directs the search of another, his elder, who, with straining brow is sweeping the horizon with his telescope, while beyond these two a third is gazing steadily under his hand to discover the object spoken of: the same uncertainty is also suggested in the action of a woman, who, catching at hope, anxiously questions the oldest and most experienced of the party of watchers. There are two persons, however, who neither doubt nor hope. Of these, one is a young mother with her first child, the wife of the

patron of the missing vessel; thoroughly abattue by her grief, she sits mute and helpless behind the rest; at her side her aged mother has fallen on her knees in prayer, and near her is a happy wife, whose husband has returned, looking tender compassion on the bereaved one. The second sufferer is a tall, handsome girl, who stands, statue-like, in the foreground, looking despairingly seaward, where her lover she believes lies buried. A different feeling appears on the face of a young suitor close to her, who cannot shut out the hope that her sorrow may one day prove his own joy, though the accomplishment of his desires may cause more than one heartache elsewhere. Of minor incidents this clever picture is full, without in the least disturbing the leading sentiment: there are women easing a boat which some sturdy fellows are hauling up the beach, there are mussel-gathering, bare-legged girls wending homewards-there are men slowly toiling up the steep road that climbs the cliff, and at its summit appears a crowd of villagers headed by the curé, who anxiously approach to learn the news; animation and excitement inform every part of the subject, and, among the merits of its treatment, brilliancy of colour, carefulness of finish, a perfect daylike effect and a fine background of sea: sky and land deserve particular mention.

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We cannot part from Mr. Stone without congratulating him—and the public also on the promise of excellence held out in the first work offered for exhibition by his eldest son, who, at little more than sevenof years age, has produced a picture which artists of twice his experience might well be proud of. It is called "Rest," and represents an aged knight disarmed and reposing in a forest at the foot of a tree, while two beautiful children are approaching him with fruit; in the distance, skirting the forest, a cottage and rustic figures are seen. The landscape is painted with great truth and a strong feeling for nature, and there is much sweetness of expression in the heads of the children.

Year after year goes by, and still Mr. Stanfield knows how to lead us along the same willing captives to his magic skill. "Age cannot wither nor custom stale his infinite variety." Entellus renewed his strength every time he touched his mother earth; it is the same with Mr. Stanfield whenever he approaches the sea. Witness the noble picture which is his principal work this year, and the finest, in point of composition, that he, perhaps, has ever painted. It is "The Fortress of Savona," on the Corniche, between Nice and Genoa. Savona has many claims upon the traveller's notice besides the beauty of its situation. It was the birthplace of Chiabrera, the great Italian lyric poet of the seventeenth century, and the fortress itself was the prison in which Napoleon confined the Father of the Roman Church. Henceforth the name of Mr. Stanfield will be associated with the locality by all who shall have seen this picture. Let us briefly describe it. On the right hand rises the rugged coast of the Riviera di Ponente, crowned by the snowy summits of the Ligurian Alps; above these, again, the light breaking through the clouds falls on the walls of the fortress of Savona; before us, and filling the canvas, stretches the tumbling sea, still under the influence of a storm, which is passing away in the distance; and immediately in the foreground a number of sailors are pushing off a boat to join a vessel that is standing towards the shore. Every quality of art by which Mr. Stan