With his characteristic enthusiasm, Lord Kinnaird resolved to go in for the new art. Sir David kindly agreed to get an apparatus constructed for his lordship, and to procure the requisite chemicals; and a party was arranged to commence operations when these should arrive. In due time they made their appearance, the party assembled, and, in beautiful summer weather, operations began. But how shall we describe the anxiety with which the first results were looked for, and the disappointment which fell on all hearts and faces, when the blurred and hazy outline of an old lady, who had sat for twenty minutes in full sun-light appeared? We had expected great things, and such a result was hard indeed to bear. But it became manifest, after a few attempts, that we were nevertheless at the peristyle of that temple which none of us doubted would in time be filled with gems which no artist, however exquisite, could rival.

Sir David was our teacher. He alone, in those early days, knew anything of the process or of its philosophy; and a most patient and painstaking teacher he was, showing us how the different parts of the manipulation were to be performed, and taking his full share of all the dirty and disagreeable work.

Know, ye modern photographers, who have manipulated nothing but the clean and comfortable working collection, and who can buy almost everything requisite prepared and ready to hand, that a quarter of a century ago you could do nothing of the kind. In those days it was expedient to divest yourself of your coat, and invest yourself in a blouse or old greatcoat, to save your garments from the greenish-black stains and smudgings they were sure otherwise to receive. All available tubs, buckets, foot-pails, wash-band basins, and every sort of vessel which would contain water, were laid hold of for the frequent washings and soakings which were required. Every room which could be darkened was needed for the drying in the dark. The region of every domestic in a household was invaded, and servants were kept running perpetually with pails of hot and cold water, warm smoothing-irons, etc. The whole establishment was turned topsy-turvy while its superiors were bent on photographic studies. Rossie Priory is one of the largest houses in Scotland, yet we have often seen it moved from one end to another, and all in it, from its noble owner to the humblest domestic, in a fever of excitement.

It was delightful to see Sir David, then a lithe and active old man, engaged, with all the eagerness of youth, in the fascinating pursuit; for it was a most fascinating study, because, coarse and brown and poor though the pictures produced were, when compared with those now obtained by the improved process, the operator was irresistibly drawn onward by the conviction that experience and care would lead to much more satisfactory results. Generally, each picture was an improvement upon its predecessor, because the time of exposure in the camera, the proper amount of development, and the due strength of the solutions were being ascertained. The art manifestly had great capabilities, and the operator was pleased with the hope of being able to succeed in bringing them out.

For several weeks the interesting operations were carried on at Rossie Priory, while as yet few or none knew anything about the art - hearing only of it as a new thing which was beginning to attract notice. Meanwhile the pictures steadily improved in quality, through increasing experience, and the ample supply of the best materials which could be procured. Lord Kinnaird not only furnished these, but wrought himself from morning till night with unflagging energy, and discovered a dexterity of manipulation which none of us could surpass. To those unacquainted with the early processes, a few words of explanation may be given, as this will convey the best idea of the progress which has been made, and will better enable the reader to understand what we have to state.

A few sheets of thin, close-grained writing paper were taken, and cut up into pieces the size of the intended pic tures. There were brushed over (in the dark) on one side with a solution of iodine of potassium, having in it a trace

of nitrate of silver. After the superfluous moisture ha been removed by blotting-paper, they were laid in a larg vessel of rain-water to soak for twelve hours, in a darkens room, and were then hung up by their corners to dra and dry in the dark, after which they were placed betwee the leaves of a blotting-book for future use. When a p ture was to be taken, one of these iodized sheets, whid had become of a beautiful straw color, was taken, and placed with the prepared side uppermost, on a sheet blotting-paper, and rapidly brushed over with a solution of ammonia-nitrate of silver, no more light being used than would allow the operator to see what he was doing The sheet was then rapidly blotted between the folds perfectly clean blotting paper, and, while wet, placed the dark side of the camera, and, as speedily as possible exposed to the action of light in the instrument. When taken out of the dark slide, and again laid with the side which had been exposed uppermost, no trace of a picture could be seen. Certain parts had undergone a greater chemical change than others, in proportion to the amount of light which had fallen on them through the lens; but they required to be developed in order that the picture might appear. The developing solution consisted of equal parts of aceto-nitrate of silver and saturated solution of gallic acid, to which four or five bulks of water were added. The surface was rapidly brushed over with this, when the picture gradually appeared, one part after another coming into view, like the phantoms in a phantasmagoria: the development was continued until the lights threatened to become yellow, at which stage the process was arrested by the sheet being plunged into clean water and thoroughly washed. It was then laid in a solution of hypo-sulphate of soda, which removed the undecomposed silver from the tissues of the paper, and so fixed the picture, preventing light from having any further action on it. It was again soaked and washed for several hours to remove the hyposulphate, and finally pressed and dried. This, then, was the negative picture in which, as in a collodion negative, the lights were reversed, and from which any number of ositives or proofs could be printed by light being transmitted through it in much the same way as at present. The proofs obtained were called calotypes, or more frequently Talbotypes, from the discoverer of the process.

When the paper was thin and close-grained, and free from any metallic impurities, these negatives were extremely beautiful, and capable of giving proofs of wonderful delicacy and beauty. The writer has by him several landscapes, which, after an interval of more than twenty years, still discover a clearness and beauty of detail which is astonishing.

The first great improvement in these negatives was saturating them with pure white wax, which greatly increased their transparency, without impairing their sharpness. Many of the delicate shadings, which were formerly lost through the coarseness of the paper, were thus easily rendered in the proof. The negative, also, was rendered leathery, and tough, and less liable to be dirtied or injured.

Still, however, it was felt that a much more transparent and homogeneous material than paper was required to impress the exquisitely beautiful pictures painted by the pencils of light, ere the much-desired perfection could be obtained. Many a long conference the venerable philosopher, Lord Kinnaird, and the writer had on the subject, and many a substance was experimented with. After the long interval, it is curious to remember that the glutinous slime exuded by snails was tried, but alas! it was found that, however transparent, it had the great drawback (which most substances we tried had)-it was too easily soluble in water. The film of it, which was spread on the glass, would not endure the manipulation and frequent washings necessary to complete the picture.

What was requisite was a thin, transparent film, which would absorb water, and yet not be soluble in it. At last some one (whose name we forget) hit upon the happy idea of employing the white of an egg. This substance is nearly pure albumen. As it is taken from the egg, it is perfectly soluble in water, but when it has been exposed

to a temperature approaching that of boiling water, it be comes insoluble. It had, therefore, the requisites sought.

On the discovery being made known to Sir David, he again visited Rossie Priory, and operations with the new medium were eagerly commenced. Lord Kinnaird had provided himself with a large four-inch object-lens camera, by Ross of London; the weather was beautiful, eggs abundant, and we were soon all engrossed in our experi

ments.

This

The modus operandi was simply this. The whites of a dozen eggs were turned into a large basin, an equal bulk of rain-water was added, a few grains of iodide of potassium were flung in, and the whole was whisked up into a white froth like snow. The basin and its contents were set aside in a place free from dust, and in a few hours a beautiful transparent fluid, the color of pale sherry, was found at the bottom. It was decanted into a wide-mouthed stoppered bottle, and was immediately fit for use. was the new material, for which the inventor deserves immortality. It has not yet been surpassed, and must be resorted to when pictures of ordinary delicacy are required. The material having been thus prepared, a sheet of glass, the size of the intended picture, was made perfectly clean, the albumen was poured over its surface, and drained off at one corner, and the glass, with the still wet film upon it, was then held vertically before a clear red fire, when the aibumen was immediately coagulated and rendered insoluble. The sheet of glass when cool was dipped into a strong solution of nitrate of silver for two or three minutes, by which means it became sensitized. It was then put in a dark slide, and carried to the camera. After being exposed to the light, it was developed by a mixed solution of aceto-nitrate of silver and gallic acid.

By this method pictures far surpassing the talbotype process were produced; indeed, they left almost nothing to be desired except rapidity.

Almost immediately after the discovery of the albumen process, the application of collodion was suggested, and it was found to give such beautiful results, to be so friendly in its workings, and so high in its sensitiveness, that it has taken precedence of all other methods. In the Ordnance Office, however, albumen, from the clear, sharp details it gives, is still employed for the enlargement or reduction of the ordnance maps, etc.

During the albumen epoch, Sir David was actively engaged in perfecting his invention of the refracting stereoscope, one of the most beautiful instruments of modern times, which, by its wonderful creations, has conferred pure and refining pleasure upon millions. As it was of the highest importance for displaying the powers of the instrument that the pictures to be united should be perfect representations of the same scene or object from slightly different points of view, Sir David early saw the value of photography to his instrument, and zealously prosecuted it, well knowing that it would give the exquisite drawing, and chiar-oscuro, indispensable to that perfection which his mind saw to be attainable. It was amid the labors and researches at Rossie that he fixed upon the form of the instrument the focal length of its prismatic lenses, the size of its pictures, and many other details in regard to it, which have now long characterized the instrument. However simple these may appear to the stereoscopist, they were all the result of patient thought and lengthened experiment. The first stereoscope with which he experimented was a clumsy, ill-made thing, somewhat like a demented opera-glass, which some unhandy tin-smith in St. Andrews had made for him. Misshapen and unsightly though it was, it served the purpose, and led ultimately to the elegant and effective instrument with which every one is so familiar. The first stereoscopic photographs were taken for the St. Andrews tin-smith's affair, which, wretched though it was, served to show what glorious reproductions of all that is beautiful and grand in nature and art were about to arise, through the genius of the grand old man, and as the reward of his interesting labors.

It was a striking illustration of Sir David's wonderful physical vigor, as well as of the versatility of his mind,

that he could work during the greater part of the daylight in taking pictures, and then could, after dinner, retire to his room, and write for hours, carrying on his controversy with Wheatstone, and keeping himself up with all that was going on in the scientific world. He must often have sat till far in the morning preparing his papers for the different journals to which he contributed, and carrying on his large correspondence. Probably he then laid the foundation in even his well-strung and wiry frame of the neuralgia, from which he suffered so severely in his latter days. But at the time of which we write he was ever the first ready for operations, always having some new phase of the work to suggest.

When the stereoscope had, by his improvements, become very much what it now is, the albumen process furnished exquisite pictures for the display of its powers. It opened up, as it were, a new world to many, enabling them to see, with all the reality of nature, some of those scenes in which all that is grand and beautiful is combined, and which they could never hope to visit. At a very early stage in the history of the stereoscope, some French artists sent Sir David some most beautiful slides, containing views in Switzerland, which, through his published communications, they had managed to produce. He was greatly gratified by their reception, and exhibited them with no little pride.

It is not our purpose to follow the history of photography further. At this point its connection with Sir David to a great extent ceased. It was taken up by a rapidly increasing multitude of professional artists, who established themselves in all parts of the country. Many of them have risen to eminence, and produced works of great beauty. Since the introduction of collodion, the art has had, in different countries, able expositors, and well-conducted journals, specially devoted to its advancement.

It is pleasing to look back, and to think of the wonderful progress which has been made since the first attempts, above described, were undertaken, but it is melancholy to think how the once joyous and happy party which used to assemble at Rossie Priory has been broken up by the ravages of death. The scions of that noble house are in the grave, and the grand and good old man, who shed light and joy over all our amusements, has followed these bright ones to a better world.

A PROFESSOR EXTRAORDINARY.

BY BAYARD TAYLOR.

“THE whole Art of Success in music, painting, and light literature, taught in one or two lessons by a Professor of the greatest experience. Terms reasonable. Apply by letter first, and stating full particulars, to Tityrus,' Post Office

Strange, even for an advertisement. But such are the curiosities of literature in which the outer sheet of the Times is rich, that the above paragraph would hardly have detained my attention, but for the signature" Tityrus.”

Long years ago, I had been at school with one Thomas Everard, nicknamed mad Everard, and not without cause, by the boys a general favorite, good at everything, very good for nothing, hating trouble, and shunning it as his ghostly enemy; a boy all promise, but rather like a box of samples, promising too much, too cheaply, and in too many departments; the unfailing spring of laughter in and out of season, and of all jokes practical and ideal; the comic genius of the school. There he and I fell in friendship, we swore by each other, we were the closest chums possible,shared pocket money, hampers, studies, and sports. Moreover, after the wont of school-boys, we invented a language for the convenience of confidential intercourse, and corresponded in it under the classical pseudonyms of Tityrus and Melibus. When we left school our paths separated, and I had now lost sight of him for ten years.

But Tityrus had been his private signature to me in our

66

My dear old fellow, is it, can it be you ?

I wrote back, establishing my identity beyond a doubt, and requesting an answer to my former letter. He sent me an invitation to breakfast with him the next morning, at his residence, "The Laurels," in one of the suburbs.

I accepted of course. After much wandering among the forest of villas, lodges, and cottages, I at last hit upon "The Laurels," a sinall house standing apart from the road, in a shady grove of the tree whence it took its auspicious name.

The garden was pleasantly and significantly planted with bays, the dining-room window edged with parsley in pots, and the entrance led through a miniature conservatory full of bending palms. A very odor of victory which was quite exhilarating pervaded the spot. The internal decorations were similarly appropriate; the hall clock, even the barometer, set in frames of carved olive and ivy leaves; the walls hung with pictures representing triumphant scenes in the lives of modern art competitors: a prima donna buried in bouquets; a painter honored by a sitting from royalty; a poet receiving his badge of knighthood. My spirits rose as I crossed the threshold. This was the House of Fame indeed.

In the library, a small room, but exquisitely furnished, I found my old friend Everard, and here we renewed our suspended acquaintance over as free a breakfast-table as even an Englishman could desire to see.

Ten years! They had worked but small change in him. Yet it was not for nothing that his hair was streaked with gray, and his brow lined at seven-and-twenty; for that inveterate propensity to see the ludricrous everywhere - to look at everything, so to speak, in the bowl of a spoon amiable weakness in the thoughtless school-boy, turns to bitterness in manhood, when applied to what are called the stern realities of life.

- an

He avoided talking of himself. The conversation turned chiefly on me and my affairs. I was perfectly unreserved, drew a picture more faithful than flattering of my first experiences in the literary career I had embraced - of certain effusions so warmly praised beforehand by dear literary friends, summarily despatched by a few words of blame from the critics, unnoticed by the world at large, and of the inefficiency of the consolation administered afterwards by private admirers, that these, my works, were "too good to succeed." My children, it appeared, were all too good to

live.

This reminded me of what I had almost forgotten- that ridiculous advertisement; and I begged to know what might have been his object in putting it in, and attempting to play off so transparent a hoax.

"Hoax?" he repeated, in apparent surprise. "Perhaps the advertisement was not a hoax," said I, laughing.

"Perhaps this house is a hoax," he returned; "perhaps the coffee and hot rolls are false shows; the cabinets, tables, and chairs, vain and airy appearances; the pianoforte a mere whim of fancy - an unknowable phenomenon. But if these, my household gods, are substantial objects, so was the advertisement genuine that caught the eyes that stood in the heads that pertained to the men who owned the purse that held the fees that paid for them."

Pray explain," said I, “and in language adapted to the understanding of a gentleman of average intelligence mind, average."

"Well, I can do so in a few words. Believe me, it would be difficult to name the branch of art I have not taken up, meeting everywhere, however, with no better fortune than

your own. But now, after having devoted ten years to the diligent study of failure in all its branches, I have acquired, thanks to a long and painful training, so intimate a knowl edge of the obstacles that beset the road to renown as at least to qualify me thoroughly for a professor in the art of getting on; and it is in treating success as one of the Fine Arts, that I have met with a first, a triumphant success myself. So, let all my friends flourish."

"Will you be serious?" I urged.

He took a letter from his pocket and handed it to me. "So you won't believe me serious. Possibly you will be. lieve that a perfectly serious fifty pound note. Read: 'In grateful acknowledgment of services rendered,' and so forth. From Fogson, the artist-received this morning."

"What, Fogson, the celebrated author —I won't say painter of those color-pieces that have excited so much notice lately?"

"Exactly. That man and his fortune were made by me. He allows it himself. His pictures command any price already."

"Well, I saw his lasta study of sky, water, and forget-me-nots. In the Blues,' he called it. I should call it an art aberration."

"Very likely; but he errs to his pecuniary advantage at least. Color without form · a peculiar style I recommended to him—and, as you see, he finds it answer very well indeed."

"Such pictures serve no true purpose of art that I can see." "Do

"But that is not the artist's object," he persisted. I even profess to show the high road to excellence? Fogson comes to me, and says:Sir, what shall I do to be known?' It was evident that he would never shine in competition with others in treating ordinary subjects, so I suggested Chaos as a field for art he might have to himself. Now, if any students are so foolish as to follow his lead, he rises at once to the height of a founder of a new style the Chaotic School."

"Still at a loss?" he resumed, laughing at my dubious expression of countenance," or do you wilfully shut your eyes to the rationale of my theory? Listen: I expect several visitors this morning. Would you like to be present at the consultation, unseen of course - say behind the curtain in the recess?

"Certainly I should," I replied, with alacrity; "I feel the strongest curiosity to see your disciples, or patients I ought to say."

"I can rely on your discretion," he said, as he placed me where I was effectually concealed, yet able to observe. "Understand, none of my visitors are strangers to me, for I undertake no one without careful preliminary inquiries. A short correspondence is usually enough, and I have an unerring diagnosis of the particular case ready before I consent to prescribe or fix an interview. Incurables I decline. Such are the radically obstinate, the constitutionally inane. But with average material and strict obedience I have worked wonders."

He had scarcely settled himself in his chair when his servant threw open the door, announcing "Mademoiselle Annetta Solferino."

Everard's visitor was a young lady of about nineteen or twenty, extremely good-looking by nature, though not enough to satisfy herself, as appeared from the symmetrical curve of her pencil-arched eyebrows and those heavy, impossible coils of rich dark hair. She was well, but showily dressed, and held a roll of music in her hand. Loveself-love-in her eyes sat playing, and whatever one thing she might have lacked, it was certainly not assurance. She entered into conversation at once, and went to the point without the slightest embarrassment.

"You have heard from me, Mr. Everard, and how I was recommended to consult you by Marterton, the ballad singer of the season. He declares you have been the making of him. Can you do anything for me? I am most anxious to hear."

"Allow me to refer to my notes," said Everard, taking up an album with a list of names alphabetically arranged.

S. Solferino. Yes, here you are, and the particulars your case."

They were written in her physiognomy. He who runs ay read. Principal: youth, a pretty face, fresh voice, nd a dozen lessons from a fashionable master; set against is, little knowledge of music, less love of art, no anxiety o learn, only to rise.

"I understand," said Everard, gravely," that for two ears you have been a concert singer in the provinces with ery limited success. You are dissatisfied with the position, nd impatient for an opening. Is it so?"

She assented.

“First, will you let me hear you sing? What have ou brought? Ah! the old, old story. Operatic airs and English ballads, ancient and modern. Well, you shall hoose your piece."

She chose the Jewel Song from "Faust," attacked it bravely, and slaughtered it with energy and resolution.

"Indeed, you have a most lovely quality of voice," observed Everard, almost mournfully, when she had finished; a sound ear, too. Ah! if you were to give up public singing for a time, and study seriously for two years, say -you might do much."

"Two years!" The young lady's countenance fell. Oh, Mr. Everard!" she continued, reproachfully, "is this fair? I thought you undertook in one or two lessons to "

"Yes, yes," he broke in, changing his tone," and from that point of view you have nothing more to learn except from me. I will not hide from you that your execution is faulty, your intonation careless, your shake absurd, your style of vocalization — what style there is as bad as can well be. Go on as you have begun, and in a few years it will be painful to listen to you. But my remedy is as simple as your case is serious. First tell me, Annetta Solferino, is that your real name?"

"My real name is Hannah Simmonds," she replied, blushing, and with a little laugh;" but it would never do for a singer, you know."

"Of course not. There's a fitness in all things, and programmes must be considered. The question is, would you mind being, shall we say, Annouchka Sobieski for a change?"

"Well, no," she replied; " but what for, Mr. Everard ?" He unlocked a drawer and took out a roll of music. "Come and try over this air. The words you won't understand, but they are written above, phonetically, as they ought to be pronounced. It is a Russian song."

Is it pretty ? she asked, rather doubtfully, when she had read it through.

say

that.

Everard shrugged his shoulders. "I don't But it is strange, quaint, new- and quite easy. Let us go through it again. You have really some very good points"

So she had. She sang extremely well with her eyes, and if she could not shake, at least she could smile and knew it.

-

He gave her a careful lesson on the proper reading of the song, with hints as to producing the greatest effect in passages here and there. He was very particular about a certain long drawn unaccompanied note coming once in every verse one of those little bits of (musical) local coloring, like the Irish howl, or the clic-clac of the Spanish muleteer, which, as he explained to her, have a power beyond melody or harmony for procuring a rapturous encore. "I have here about a dozen of these songs," said he, "arranged by myself. Pearls without price, for they have never yet been published. They are all within your compass, and I have added all the necessary notes and marks. Sing these songs as directed; and I have but one more injunction to make, but that I must insist upon. Never, in public, sing any others. Be known every where-for everywhere you soon will be known as the singer of Russian songs. Once for all, can you renounce Mozart and all his works, and, in a word, all vocal music in which you invite comparison with other performers, your supe

riors?"

"I will," she answered, impressed by the solemnity of his tone.

"Young lady, I congratulate you," said the Professor, with a bow.

"Thanks, thanks." She rose to go, but hesitated. Probably "Terms reasonable" was in her mind.

Everard interposed. "That we will settle, later, when my bright predictions are in a fair way to be realized. My terms may sound high to you now. They will not then, when you make your fifty pounds a week."

Her eyes glittered at the golden vision.

66

Only mind you keep to the unpronounceable name. Be photographed in furs, or on a sledge."

66

But stay," she said, suddenly; "after all, here are but a dozen songs, and when people get tired of these " "That day will be long in coming. Such little bits of 'genre' music do not require to be varied."

"But it must come at last; and then, when I have sung them all again and again in every concert room in England, what shall I do?"

"Go to America."

There was no more to be said. Away went the future Russian nightingale, in all the plenitude of hope.

Apparently my friend had a large practice. She had scarcely disappeared when a second visitor was admitted - a thin, spare man, a melancholy object with a long beard, sunken eyes, rusty coat, and a generally rejected and dejected look about him that could not be misread. Here, indeed, was a bad case—one who had called in the physician at the eleventh hour.

"Mr. Gabriel Gaunt, I believe," began Everard, courteously. "I must apologize for not having yet returned those pictures you sent here for me to see."

"Thanks; but they have not been missed," he retorted, with bitter emphasis; "there is no demand for them elsewhere that I am aware of."

..

"But you paint uncommonly well, let me assure you," said Everard, soothingly. "Have you been at it long? "Only all my life. I am five and forty now, and all to find Gabriel Gaunt no nearer fame than at starting."

"Because you have missed the way. You complain that your pictures are neither hung nor sold. But, in the first place, you seem so fond of large canvases, my dear sir, and aim at such ambitious and varied subjects - Prometheus,' The Earthly Paradise,'' Alexander's Feast,' The Good Samaritan.'"

"But I have given to each the attention it deserves; grudged neither time, nor pains, nor thought."

"And all in vain, sir, as you see, this self-sacrifice of yours to the sublime."

66

What!" cried the artist, disgusted; "but is it not the essence of art to fly high? Of all its purposes, surely the last to be neglected should be its mission to offer the ideal to refresh, refine, and elevate the minds of men wearied and debased by the commonplaces and uglinesses of everyday life?"

"Sir, no more," broke in Everard; "you are in a dangerous way indeed. Have you never reflected that your public for the most part are accustomed in every-day life to disclaim for themselves, to pooh-pooh and decry in others, all lofty motives and ideas? We are unprepared to take pleasure in these, even in art. Ideal beauty, grandeur, heroism - their shrines are deserted; for the popular idols whose worship it is usual, not to say universal, to profess are gain and comfort."

66

Then, do you hold out no hope? Am I not a man as well as an artist? Must I go on forever working in vain, and all through this fatal utilitarianism that is overspreading the tree of English art like a parasite, and eating the heart out of the good old oak?"

Everard smiled at his warmth. "Sir, let us hope even your case will benefit by my treatment. Unfortunately you have no tricks, no mannerisms, for us to work upon."

"I trust not," he replied, "considering how I have worked to avoid them. I abhor art mannerism."

"So much the worse for you," said Everard, dryly. “It is too late to begin the study now; but there is a chance

for you still. Sir, I must be plain with you; you must renounce your lofty images, grand sentiments, and all the aspiring principles of ideal art. They don't agree with that mass of organic matter, the public I mean, on whom your success depends. These are not what they hunger and thirst after, that can afford them the pleasure, the relaxation they look for in the intervals of business. You have, sir, a pleasing style, a true sense of beauty, and your coloring is excellent. Put away the fascinating creations of mythology, religion, and poetry. My plan for you is that you should become a painter of juvenile life, of scenes from the nursery stage of existence, exclusively. Keep your old titles if you like; the contrast between the imposing name and the pretty subject is always piquant. Thus:

"Prometheus:' A little urchin has stolen his father's cigars, and is smoking on the sly.

The Good Samaritan: Little girl giving away her bun to a beggar.

"The Earthly Paradise: ' A child in the midst of its birthday presents.

"Alexander's Feast:' Children at tea - eldest boy presiding.

"There is a mine which is practically inexhaustible. You may ring the changes on such themes forever. With your technical dexterity I can promise you wealth, fame, popularity to your heart's content. These works make comparatively little demand upon you, require but slender forethought, study, or research. You are married, sir, I dare say.'

"I am."

"Yes, but how trite! poetical beauty, elevation, tion?"

Where is imagination, where force, significance, and sugges

"Excluded, I grant. But, trust me, triteness is the safest art investment for the coming year. Make up your mind to it, and, with your abilities, you may look on your

fortune and name as established."

"And then- then, I shall be able to return to subjects of a higher stamp, and the very works that passed unnoticed, signed by an obscure name, will be appreciated at last."

"At your peril!" said Everard, decisively. "And this is another important constitutional peculiarity in the artloving but conservative public with whom you have to deal. Once become their favorite painter in some special groove, and others are closed to you. They will allow you no merit in other walks, and think it impertinent if you try to change. Choose, then, once for all, between the great and the little Prometheus, high art and obscurity, the nursery and renown."

He had chosen. He took from Everard the list of subjects, pressed his hand, and silently withdrew. Suddenly he came hurrying back:

"I beg pardon, Mr. Everard, but could you manage to let me out some other way? I see Crotchet, a friend and brother artist, waiting in your hall, and I don't care for him to know that I've been here."

Everard smiled, and kindly allowed Mr. Gabriel Gaunt to make his exit by the garden.

I was amused at hearing Crotchet's name. He was an acquaintance of mine, too; a young painter with plenty of facility, ambitious, greedy of praise, yet disturbed by certain misgivings, founded, I thought, on an intuitive sense of want of original genius.

He and the Professor talked long and confidentially. Crotchet described his symptoms, his inability to ennoble

slight subjects, or to cope with great ones - his failures composition, in portrait painting, except the drapery. H was quite conscious of his shortcomings, and did not, li Mr. Gaunt complain of the unappreciative public; he hat a personal craving for success, which he knew to be alto gether out of proportion to his powers.

"You should adopt some well-known manner," said E erard, deliberately; "some particular quality or texture as it were the woolly, the fluffy, the silky, the velvety the streaky, the spotty, or else some pervading tint: some thing which shall always be prominent in your pictures by which they may be identified directly. It is like hoist ing a flag. Other striking qualities wanting, strangen may know you then by your colors at a distance. The pe culiarity may sometimes seem to you a fault in itself; bu the secret is not to be ashamed of it. Seize the eccentricity of some fashionable modern painter, exaggerate it into a vice, make it the leading characteristic of all your work, and you will always find a party who will extol it as a merit.” "And the subject, sir”. "Is- a detail. Artists may one day learn to dispense with it altogether; but I advise you to retain a nominal one -no matter what, if you have a fashionable manner. You may range from a young lady in her toilette, from Madame Elise to- -a pot of pickles."

"I fear you consider vulgarity to be one popular charac teristic in modern Art," said Crotchet, looking up suspi ciously. "But we must live, you know."

"Aye, and thrive; and so you will," said Everard. “I only undertake to answer for the present; I am no prophet, but sometimes unborn ages will crowd upon the soul, and in such moments I see a picture gallery of the future. Al the paintings are sold, and at large prices. A new era has dawned - a golden age for artists, if not for art, and the exhibition is become a series of ingenious advertisements. Thus No. 1 represents a burglar picking, or attempting to pick, a safe. The safe is admirably painted, and the picture playfully entitled, 'Who is Griffiths? No. 2 is a study of a laundrymaid turning over a pile of snow-white collars, cuffs, and lace handkerchiefs on a shelf; beside her a large packet of the unrivalled Glenfield Starch." No. 3, a girl walking out in the rain — the figure is secondary; the conspicuous object, the Desideratum Umbrella.' No. 4, the modern Lady Godiva,' holding a pamphlet on Mrs. Allen's Hair Restorer. No. 5, a sick child fast asleep-thanks to the only genuine Chlorodyne;' and so on throughout the catalogue. And if to-day a picture is worth hundreds as a useless luxury, how much more will it not be worth to the purchaser, who sees in it a lucrative trade investment! However, the Royal Advertisement Academy is not yet, and all I have to say to you, sir, is— take care of your manner, and let the subjects take care of themselves."

Crotchet was looking thoughtful exceedingly. "I think I begin to see my way, at all events," he said."

"It is a smooth and easy one, and soon leads to a rich art sinecure. Good morning, sir, and be sure to let me hear from time to time how you get on."

Crotchet took his departure in the highest spirits; he is now one of the most expensive painters we have. "Who is next?" asked Everard of the servant.. "Mrs. Tandem Smith."

"Ah! and this is her third consultation. It ought to be the last, and perfect the work. Well, we shall see. Bring me those MSS. on the table, and show the lady in."

A very interesting-looking person she was; still young, with a pretty featured, intelligent, refined countenancewell-dressed in black, and extremely graceful. There was that in her appearance which, like the opening period of a good poem or novel, promised attraction.

They proceeded to business at once. I could see that the lady was in earnest. Here was no sentimental girl solacing herself for imaginary sorrows by the sight of them in print, but an ambitious woman with a definite goal she was bent on reaching. No wonder that Everard seemed o enter into her affairs with special empressement.

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