"An Autumnal Evening," " A Roman Peasant,"
"The Caprices of Cupid," " Fugitives escaped
from the Massacre of Glencoe," and " Preparing
the Ark for the Infant Moses"—are nine
specimens of pictures which, I am positively
certain, before I see them, are all hung
scandalously high or scandalously low. In the
interests of these works, and of others too numerous
to mention, I shall take with me, when I
get to the Academy, at the end of July, a
telescope for the high latitudes, and a soft kneeling-
mat for the humble regions of the wainscot. In
the mean time, I would privately suggest to the
painters of this uniformly ill-treated class of
works the propriety of changing their titles, in
such a manner as to administer a few dexterous
compliments, next time, to the Academy authorities.
If the "Caprices of Cupid" had been
called " Ideal View of a Member of the Hanging
Committee;" or if " Preparing the Ark for
the Infant Moses" had been altered to
"Preparing a nice Place for a meritorious Outsider,"
the destiny of these two pictures might have
been happier. " Dead Game," again, might
have done better if the artist had added to the
title, "not higher than you would like it at
your own hospitable table, and not low, out of
consideration for the landed aristocrat who once
preserved it." I throw out these slight hints
on the assumption that even an Academician
is a man, and that, as such, he is not inaccessible
to flattery.

Head Number Three: The pictures that I
don't think I shall look for. Here, once more,
I trust myself implicitly to the titles. They
warn me, when I go to the Exhibition, to be on
my guard (without intending any personal
disrespect towards the artists) against the following
works, among many others:

"PÅ“onian Woman. ' When she came to
the river, she watered her horse, filled her
vase, and returned by the road, bearing the
water on her head, leading the horse, and
spinning from her distaff.—Herod. Terps. 12.'"
No, no, madam; I know you, and your extract
from "Herod. Terps. 12" has no effect upon
me. I know your long leg that shows through
your diaphanous robe, and your straight line
from the top of your forehead to the tip of your
nose, and your short upper lip and your fleshy
chin, and your total want of all those embraceable
qualities which form the most precious
attribute of your sex in modern times.
Unfascinating PÅ“onian woman, you can do three
things at once, as I gather from your extract;
but there is a fourth thing you can't do—you
can't get me to look at you!

"Warrior-Poets of Europe contending in
Song"? Well? I think not. What can
Painting do with such a subject as this? It
can open the warrior-poets' mouths; but it
cannot inform me of what I want to know next
—which is, what they are singing? Will the
artist kindly stand under his work (towards the
end of July); and, when he sees a sickly-looking
gentleman approach, with a white handkerchief
in his left hand, will he complete his picture by
humming a few of the warrior-poets' songs? In
that case, I will gladly look at it—in any other, No.

"So sleepy!" Dear, dear me'! This is
surely a chubby child, with swollen cheeks,
and dropsical legs. I dislike cherubs in
Nature (as my married friends know), because
I object to corpulence on any scale, no matter
how small, and I will not willingly approach a
cherub, even when presented to me under the
comparatively quiet form of Art. "Preparing
for the Masquerade"? No; that is Costume,
and I can see it on a larger scale in Mr.
Nathan's shop. "Felice Ballarin reciting Tasso
to the people of Chioggia"? No; I never heard
of Felice Ballarin; and it does not reconcile
me to his being painted, to know that he is
reciting at Chioggia. "The Monk Felix"? Bah!
a snuffy man with a beard; let him move on,
with the PÅ“onian woman to keep him
company. "Ideal Bust of a Warrior"? I fear
the temptation to look at this will be too much
for me; although I know, by experience, that
ideal busts of warriors always over-excite my
system even when I am in perfect health. It
will be best, perhaps, not to venture into the
sculpture-room at all. "Unrequited Love"?
"The Monastery of Smolnoi"? "Allsopp's
new Brewery"? No, no, no; I must even resist
these, I must resist dozens more on my list—
time and space fail me—let me abandon the
fertile third head in my classification, and get
on to my fourth: The pictures that I shall be
obliged to see, whether I like it or not.

"Equestrian Portrait of His Grace the
Duke of Bedford." The horse will run me
down here, to a dead certainty, the
moment I get into the room. "Cordelia
receives Intelligence how her Father had
been ill-treated by her Sisters." Cordelia had
better have received intelligence first on the
subject of English grammar—but, no matter;
right or wrong in her construction, she has
been from time immemorial the most forward
young woman on the Academy walls, and she
will insist, as usual, on my looking at her,
whether I like it or not. "General Sir
George Brown." This case involves a scarlet
coat and decorations—and who ever escaped
them at an exhibition, I should like to
know? "Dalilah asking Forgiveness of Samson."
When I venture to acknowledge that
I am more unspeakably tired of these two
characters (on canvas) than of any other two
that ever entered a painter's studio, all
intelligent persons are sure to understand that
Dalilah and Samson will be the very first
picture I see when I look about me in the Academy.
For much the same reason, " Portrait of a Lady,"
and "Portrait of a Gentleman," will of course
lay hold of me in all directions. Are not
pictures of this sort always numerous, always
exactly alike, always a great deal too large, and
always void of the slightest interest for any one,
excepting the "ladies" and " gentlemen"
themselves? And, granted this, what is the necessary
and natural result? I must see them,
whether I like it or not—and so must you.