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ishes these precise and refined productions of mechanical skill. There is not in the whole collection a single picture, never so good, or so bad, that shows the struggling of a lofty spirit, seeking to free itself from the fetters of conventional science, or the short-comings of its own mechanical power, and striving, without due knowledge, to give expression to its noble thought.

We concede that these are not the best works of the artists represented, nor are many of the best artists represented at all, but we hold that the fault is of the school, and of the national character which gave it birth.

But we must from this general category make some exceptions, and, not going beyond the names actually represented, we would class by themselves as a distinct race, yet all differing from one another, Rosa Bonheur, Edward Frere, Isabey, Hamon, Palizzi, Ary Scheffer, and Horace Vernet. We include the latter from what we know him to be, not from any merit in the one little picture, The Combat,' in which he has saved himself the trouble of painting the men, by shutting down their vizors, and the horses, by covering them up in their cloths and trappings, but leaving visible three well-drawn legs, a head and a tail.

Palizzi we do not esteem as an artist of the highest order, but his goats are not moral, refined, and well-behaved goats, and one little kid, inThe Approaching Storm' has a real spice of the devil in his saucy face, and the flirt of his heels, that is quite refreshing in the midst of so much starched propriety.

It was a happy thought we met with lately, in an article speaking of The Horse-Fair,' that Rosa Bonheur paints animals as they are, mere brute beasts, while Landseer always represents them in some moral relation. The remark has even more truth in reference to her pictures in this collection than to the Horse-Fair.' Those two laboring, panting oxen, dragging a plough, are good serviceable animals, such as any farmer would be proud to own, but the composition of the picture is strikingly bare and rugged. The same is true of many of the paintings of this eccentric genius that we are familiar with from lithographs and copies; she paints portraits of animals with a truth and real vitality, that have seldom been equalled, and never surpassed; but, with few exceptions, her ability to do more is never exhibited, although there is a feeling among her admirers, that she has a higher power, foreshadowed in 'The Horse-Fair,' and in the foreground, and the sweeps of mist, in her Denizens of the Highlands,' which will yet make itself known and felt. The 'Limier Briquet Hound' is esteemed the finest of her three representative pictures, and we also notice in it quite an effective back-ground of forest perspective. Dubufe's celebrated portrait of her, the head of her favorite bull in which, is said to have been painted in by herself, is also in the collection. A portrait of the Empress Eugenie, by the same artist, is tame and stiff.

Five charming little 'Scenes in Humble Life,' by Eduoard Frere, are the pets of the exhibition. They are truthful, life-like, and have a home-like element of beauty which touches the heart and awakens its sympathies, while the unobtrusive skill of their composition and coloring pleases the eye, and gratifies artistic or technical criticism. The

figures do not look as if they were sitting to have their portraits taken, but are real, natural, home-spun little bodies, too much engaged in their occupations of dressing dolls, and cutting carrots, and shelling peas, to notice that other folks are staring at them. The face and figure of The Young Artist,' a girl in somewhat higher life than the others, are beautiful and touching. This artist is not to be confounded with Theodore Charles Frere, whose extraordinary looking landscapes may be very truthful, and may be gratifying to Eastern travellers, but they all appear to have been painted in one color, and then besprent with red sand of the Arabian Desert.

The style of Jean Louis Hamon is in direct antagonism to that of the Meissonier school. He is as much too indistinct in his coloring and drawing, as the other is too careful and elaborate. The 'Girl Watering Flowers' is not so defective in this respect, and is simple and lifelike, although the arrangement of the drapery is rather too classic for the subject, but the the Children at Play,' otherwise a lovely little group, are too indistinct in their outlines, and have a faded, washedout kind of appearance. One little tot, who, dragging along a dead rat by the tail, has gone to the old bonne to have his nose wiped upon her apron, and another Bachanalian-looking youngster, who has kicked off his shoes, and is 'playing horse' with them, are especially animated and truthful. Another picture by the same artist, a 'Girl Asleep,' is bad in color and stupid in design.

Three views, by Eugene Isabey, we have also excepted from the overrefined precision of drawing which characterizes the French School. His 'Old St. Valery,' a combined land and marine view, is to us one of the most pleasing paintings of its class; there is noble ruggedness in that old gray pile of irregular building, standing out in the middleground of the picture, which is impressive and grand. It has, too, a free dash about its mechanical execution, which is more pleasing to the eye than Ziem's Venitian Canal Views, or even the white, misty Coast View' of Gudin.

Ary Scheffer's style, and the painting which here represents it, CHRIST Crowned with Thorns,' are both too well known to need more than a passing mention.

We bow to the celebrity, and the long list of medals, which have been granted to Conture, but, save in the representation of two little boys, we should never have discovered in 'The Minstrel' the cause of his celebrity or the elements of his power. We submit to higher authorities, and hold our peace.

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Passing by in rapid review a pleasing Scene in Auvergne,' by Auguste Bonheur, a 'Reaper,' by Fischer, Muller's 'Reading the Scriptures,' and a number of well-executed landscapes by Lambinet, (but sharing the faults of his school,) let us come to the conclusion of the whole matter. If the exhibitions are equally below the standard of a fair representation of 'British Art,' and the Paintings of the Modern Artists of the French School,' and may therefore be fairly considered as representing the comparative condition of each, we must give our judgment that the former is in, by far, the most living, healthful, recreative state of animated existence.

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LANDLORD

BY KIT KELVIN.

WYPE.

IN old times say neighborly times; or in other words, when some of us were boys; when stage-coaches were the world, and the blustering, bragging whips, the potentates of it, curiosity. eager, prurient curiousity, was fully developed. Illustrations of an exalted nature were thickly strewn over New-England, more particularly among those who were labelled and recognized as tavern-keepers; a title, by the way, now known as landlords and proprietors. The one appellation, a rustic wooden handle; the other, more more modern, ivory, mahogany, or cut-glass knob.

Latter days have swept away, and wiped out, much of this meddlesome element; and yet there is enough leaven still left to secure fair specimens of the unadulterated grain.

Landlord Wype was the owner of a fine hotel in a quiet village. He was always fat, having commenced life by pulling down twelve pounds avoirdupois. When a boy, he was of that kind who wore short trowsers of a brown, dingy hue, and shone as if polished with brass-filings. In the winter he ornamented himself with a long narrow strap of calf-skin, which depended on both sides of his legs, and met in obtuseness under a heavy, crushing pair of pegged cow-hide boots. The warm aroma (?) of a school-room, which, being remembered, is very pungent, was the general atmosphere which surrounded this planet.

Growing up in this juvenile, circumscribed way, he finally polished himself by attending a boarding-school, from October to April, during which time he suffered much from the various liberal bestowments of his school-mates. At the end of his minority, his father, a man of means, finished his education by sending him to sojourn awhile in town. The time was exceedingly short, however, as in ten days he returned with but one shirt, and a suit of second-hand clothes, that were orinally made for a larger person. His natural garrulity forsook him when questioned as to the cause; but there were rumors of a country' youth who had fallen into the hands of evil ones, and had been fearfully vendued. Eventually he entered the profession of catering for man and beast, in which he became very successful; and time had settled him into a certain dignity of manner, greatly assisted by an enormous amount of adipose substance. Such was his life-condition, made public by a handsome swing-sign, emblematical of ego non tu. Thus:

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At Wype's Inn, by a blazing hickory fire, in an old-fashioned arm

chair, sat a guest. He was neither old nor young; he had neither black nor gray eyes; a nose neither aquiline nor pug; a mouth neither large nor straight; hair neither black nor white; a forehead neither massively melancholy nor basely low; neither splendidly equipped nor meanly clad; boots neither Wellington nor cow-hide; he was neither smoking nor chewing; he had no silver or gold snuffbox, nor charms upon a pendent chain, nor an elaborately-chased fingerring; neither a pensive nor an abstruse look; neither ogling through an impudent eye-glass nor staring at vacancy; neither biting his lips, nor striking the air with clenched fists, nor uttering harsh expletives. When he came, he did not tear up on a mettled charger covered with foam, nor spring cavalier-like, and summon a groom with a voice of wonted command, nor rush upon the host, with torn accents, for brandy and water, nor chuckle a pretty bar-maid under the chin with the leer of a roué, nor whip his boots with a distingué air, or a sportsman's flourish.

Yet he had two eyes, one nose, one mouth, hair upon his head, fullydressed, his feet resting upon the floor, while he was looking upon the bright red coals that fell and sparkled from the burning wood. He had entered his name upon the office-book, and taken a room. I have forgotten one thing. He was not in love, neither meditating an abduction.

(Dear KNICK: Allow me to apologize for so minute a description, exact and just as it is, by saying, it is highly essential so to do, to compete with the present descriptions of all heroes we read of, figuring in stories: and you know one does not wish to be isolated, when his pen is appearing before the public! Verbum sat !)

'Sir! did you ring?'

The guest turned listlessly, and his eyes fell upon an orbicular-bodied, little, pompous man, who had opened the door, and was approaching, rubbing his hands with a corresponding sympathetic forward nod of his head, while his face was ornamented with a bland, hotel-like smile. 'I did not!' (Quietly.)

'Ah! beg your pardon, Sir.' Pause, while the bustling little man pricked the fire, and looked up the chimney, and punched the fire again.

(Querulouly.)

'I admire that blaze; do n't disturb it.' 'Ah! beg pardon : was not thinking.' And the little man looked out of the window. Then he placed a chair that stood awry; then he looked at his guest, who was looking into the fire; then he pulled hard upon his cravat, and settled his heavy stomach lower into his trowsers; then he fumbled some keys, and a copper or two in his pockets, and finally jerked out a bandana pocket-handkerchief, and made a loud cracking noise with his nose; that is, he blew it.

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What the devil do you want?' and the eye of the guest scanned the little man.

'Ah! beg pardon: no offence I hope. Thought I would come up and see if you were comfortable. It is rather chilly, Sir.'

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Somewhat!' replied the guest. He had read his man, and was again calculating the distance from the fore-stick to the coals.

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