admit it is not a "fox to order :" Mr. Spalding or Mr. Engleheart, whoever of you wish, can take the compliment.

For some reason or other which we will not care to more closely investigate, the consideration of Mr. Ansdell's works seem to come naturally after those of Sir Edwin Landseer. A few years since and the said Mr. Ansdell came somewhat suddenly out of the ruck of horses, striding away at a great pace, pulling double, and, as his friends said, with plenty left in him still for a close finish. We confess we thought, ourselves, he looked "dangerous" at times; but his stride seems shortening, and altogether he does not appear to be going on anything like such favourable terms the nearer he gets to home. We fairly admit we are disappointed with him this year. Does he paint too fast, or too carelessly, or is he suffering from ill-health, or why is it we have not the promise of the Wounded Hound, or the Stags Fighting, further fulfilled? His best picture this season is the "Auld Mare Maggie," in which the mare and calves are certainly well painted, but it lacks much the sentiment of the subject, and the grouping is tame and poorly conceived. "Turning the Drove," a far more spirited picture, in the same room, no doubt will fairly find admirers; but in the hardness of our hearts we repeat that we miss much of the "progression" we were told to expect. Abraham Cooper has again this year a full compliment of studies, embracing sporting and battle scenes, for which he has been so long and justly celebrated, as well as two or three passages from life in the East, made up of good-looking horses and well developed handmaidens, to whom he has more lately turned his attention. His best picture, as we take it, quite a gem in its way for pathos and quiet appropriate effect, is "The Dead Trooper," of the time of the Commonwealth, watched over by his still faithful horse. The story is exceedingly well told, and, with maybe a more suggestive title, we should estimate the work as one likely to meet with much popularity if reduced to black and white. It has just the tone and treatment too, to make a grateful return for the 'graver's care. Unlike his namesake, however, we think A. Cooper least successful when working in company. There is a portrait piece, the pony by him, and the boy by Webster, that, taking them at their proper value, is scarcely worthy of either one or the other. Perhaps they have not yet learnt the secret of running in double harness, whereas Messrs. Sidney Cooper and Lee are never so great as when the former's cows, sheep, and goats are supported by the beautiful foliage and landscape of the latter. They have several pictures so made out this year, as well as some single-handed works-another of Cooper's wonderful sun-set effects amongst them. There is, moreover, in addition to these contributions, a portrait of Mr. Lee himself, by Mr. Associate Hollins, and about the best "portrait of a gentleman the exhibition. Mr. Lee is a good-looking black-muzzled Englishman, and we will pound it, can play a fair part with the fly rod he has in his hand. There is none of the turn-down collar, smutty moustache, or dirty beard, that some of the weak-minded take as part and parcel of the artist. Indeed the R. A. looks as much like a sportsman as any man we ever saw; and as we consider this a high compliment, we will not ttempt to lessen it by saying anything more. Yet still, if you do want estimate it properly, take a look at one of Macclise's, close by. Can nis over-trained dandy be the author of "The Caxtons," or the man

in

who just now wrote so straightforward a letter to his friend John Bull ? We are loath to believe it, and sorry that Mr. Macclise did not arrange with Mr. Elmore for a place in the latter's only but excellent picture -Hotspur and the Fop.

Though we have paid the shilling we will give the pas to the academy with a word or two at once for some few more in our line that we have a favourable recollection of. To begin alphabetically, as well as numerically, Mr. Armfield has a couple of subjects with whose style our readers should be now well acquainted, but these are too exalted for one to expect more than the mere sign of friendly recognition.

The not very cuphonious title of Huggins sends from Liverpool a couple of animal or horse-painting sketches that give good promise. and the equally new name to us of Weekes, jun., has an ewe and lamb, that if as young as the junior would imply, will make us look carefully - for him again. In any case we take the " March" as a good introduction.

A large picture by Barker, illustrating a hunting mishap in the life of William Rufus, who seems, by-the-bye, to have had his share of danger as well as sport, is somewhat too ambitious an attempt, although well and very energetically designed. It has all the spirit and excitement of the hazard run by "the noble sportsman," if not quite finished or worked out to the same high standard.

By such titles as "Popping the Question," "Barney Leave the Girls Alone,' "Seven for Sixpence," and so forth, one might be led to suppose another change of scene with Mr. Herring. He has scarcely yet, however, left the homestead, all his fancies having still that domestic turn where pigeons, goats, pigs, and other accessories of the occasion, work in so effectively. In painting these, as well as in still adding to the strength of that beautiful touch and texture he gives to his horses, we can sincerely congratulate him; he has never advanced more systematically than he has within the last very few years. With the human figure, which he is now becoming more prone to give a prominent place in his works, there is not the same progress, at least from what we have already complained of. These may be perhaps quite as true to nature as the animals associated with them; but in many the presence of something like an agreeable form is absolutely necessary to the perfect effect and attraction of the picture. Like the Pre-Raphaelites, Mr. Herring does himself an injustice in being content to copy the more ordinary species of mortality. His "Popping the Question "might appropriately enough illustrate the well known lines of Pope

"There swims no goose so grey but soon or late
She'll find some faithful gauder for a mate."

And as for "Barney leaving the Girls alone," if the one we are favoured with a full view from be but a fair sample, we can more pity than pardon Mr. Barney's indiscretion. Again, what a sulky-looking pair is found in that otherwise capital work the Duck-Hawkers; and the male model here, if we are not mistaken, is repeated in two or three other pictures. It does not follow because a man is a labourer that he should have a hang-dog depression of countenance, no more than that a woman in the same station of life should lose all the attributes of the

graceful and beautiful. One of the most elegant steppers, and happy as well as good-looking girls we ever saw, was waiting-maid at a village inn. Remember this, Mr. Herring, in your stirrup-cups and other road-side scenes. Indeed, if Mrs. Herring doesn't object, we will engage to let you have one look to judge for yourself-and profit by the

peep.

We are glad to be enabled to add on to this the fact that Mr. Herring has not quite forgotten the studies he once so wholly devoted himself to. We have just seen at Messrs. Fores', in Piccadilly, four hunting subjects by him, giving a panorama of the run with fox-hounds, and promising to furnish us with the most perfect set of plates on the chase ever issued. We see, moreover, that he, as well as Harry Hall, is engaged to paint the great match; if the latter can go on improving as fast as he evidently has done in his portrait of Rhedycina, exhibited this year in Suffolk Street, he must be no mean opponent. In the management of colour few will excel Mr. Hall; while his taste for the sport, and the making its home his, must gradually perfect in practice what has been so far auspiciously persevered with. There is room for both, and the great match has been all through too good a thing to our objecting to see it run over again.

For a comfortable stroll through, the only way to enjoy a gallery, the Society of British Artists' rooms rank amongst the first; and in these as well as at the Academy, Mr. Earle has several of his tempting little pictures, the rough terrier being still his favourite theme. He has, however, been generally unfortunate this year in the disposition of his pictures, which are either hung too high or too low to ensure much notice-without it be from those who know what they are looking for, and then the exertion is well repaid.

At the British Institution, beyond a couple of Herring's "The Rabbit-fancier," a kind of companion to the "Duck Hawkers," and "The Green Grocer's Cob," we found one subject from Mr. Woodward, who does not shine much this year either here or in his Mazeppa scene at the Academy. Of Mr. F. Tayler's "Children Feeding a Tame Eagle we can speak in terms of more decided admiration : the expression of every one of the lookers-on is really wonderful for truth, and the picture altogether one of the most pleasing as well as talented of the season's show. A Mr. Davis, dating from Oxford, exhibited in Pall Mall a couple of hunting scenes-one of hounds breaking up their fox on Dartmoor, nicely arranged; the other but a sketch, and not reaching in any way to fellowship with the "Déjeuner." Farther than Mr. Rolfe, who depicts fish a vast deal better than he does riverside scenery, we think we have nothing more to detain us here.

At the National Exhibition, or Portland Gallery, we are continually reminded of the loss of poor Barraud, though his brother is one of the chief contributors. Disposing of Mr. Earle, who has sent some of his best works, we see little in our way to notice more than a very excellent study of dead game by Mr. Duffield. The plumage is astonishingly well treated, and the whole detail of the work-basket, matting, and so on, reminds the spectator not unfavourably of Mr. Lance's art. In the Water Colour room Newton Fielding has a number of his clever sketches while our especial favourite, the Junior Water Colour Society, confirms more and more the promise of Mr. Harrison Weir. He has a

home scene here-Cows in the Water-of great merit. Mr. Laporte, who is more yet in our way, is, we are glad to find too, still a contributor.

It is not often the sporting reviewer is detained long in the sculpture room a nymph of Diana in full chase may now and then give him a passing glance, but modern sport affords little attraction for the chisel. We must, still, this year have one dive into the shades below, at the Academy, to take a last lingering look at "Baron Meyer de Rothschild, on his favourite hunter, Oscar," and if anybody can look at the group without laughing we will forfeit our opinion forthwith. We are quite willing to allow the difficulty of manufacturing a marble hero out of a man in top boots and a "tail coat;" but if the task is attempted we have a right to look at it, particularly when it is exhibited for that very purpose. The poor baron, who appears altogether dreadfully distressed, has got his neckcloth tied to suffocation pitch, and his hat in his hand, whether to signify he wants a little more air, or for the sake of showing (as it does) that he has got a habit of carrying his handkerchief in it, we can't say. Anything more thoroughly miserable than Baron Meyer looks, on his hunter Oscar, it would be impossible to believe in, if it wasn't for the couple and a-half of hounds around him, all of which show the most melancholy and appropriate sympathy for the position their unhappy master has allowed himself to be placed in. We never felt so much inclined for a "cock-shy" since we left school, as when contemplating this wonderful work of art by Mr. J. E. Jones; and if that gentleman will only advise the baron to gratify our longing, we are sure neither will repent it hereafter. Fancy the statue in Don Giovanni marching down in a Brummel-tye and top-boots! It cannot be the costume

must beat you, Mr. Jones.

Ascot Races-I nearly fall a Victim to Superstition-The Gipsy's Device-A Day with the Foxhounds-Death of Reynard-The young Etonian-Providential Escape.

Ascot Heath on the Cup day, when the weather is propitious, is, or rather was, one of the finest sights that can be conceived. We talk of the past, for the railway has done considerable damage to the present, by adding to the quantity and diminishing the quality. To witness a youthful Sovereign, surrounded by a devoted husband and a loving offspring, without escort or guards, making their way peacefully through a throng of thousands of her subjects, the air reverberating with their

heartfelt cheers, is a purely English picture of domestic happiness and loyalty, which cannot be met with in any other part of the globe. The cortège, too, is one that cannot fail to be admired-the admirably built carriages, the fine horses, the neatly-dressed postilions and servants, headed by the Master of the Buckhounds on his blood steed "witching the world with noble horsemanship," and attended by his huntsman and whippers-in, are all in perfect taste. The well-appointed carriages are filled with some of the fairest of Albion's daughters, beaming with youth and health; while warriors, senators, and distinguished foreigners join in the happy train. Another loud hurrah is raised, and, like the gathering of Clan Alpine, is responded to by all, of every rank and station; the handkerchiefs of the gentler sex flutter in the summer breeze, and Wellington is the cry. The hero, the "conqueror of conquerors,' modestly acknowledges the homage paid to his brilliant military services; an open carriage, conveying some of the attendant courtiers, dressed in the Windsor uniform-blue frock coats with red collarsexcites the risible faculties of the populace, and the similarity of their costume to that of the useful body of men, the London district lettercarriers, calls forth an occasional jest "You have not got a letter for me?" "Where's your gold-laced hat?" Postage one penny!" "I'll not forget your Christmas-box" and other jocosities escape from the lips of the holiday revellers.

66

There

To a foreigner, perhaps, the life that is going on in every part of the heath is more amusing than the course itself. The Royal Pavilion, a sort of "Court Circular," with its luncheon containing every luxury of the season, spread in Tippoo Saib's tent, is particularly delightful to the privileged few who have the entrée. The Grand Stand filled with welldressed ladies, decked out in variegated colours, gives the spectator the idea of a bed of tulips. The building devoted to the Jockey Club and their betters resembles the Stock Exchange on a day of excitement. The judge's private box, and the enclosure for the jockeys, give an air of business to the whole. The quadruple lines of vehicles, comprising the emblazoned family carriage, the elegant barouche, the neat chariot, the fashionable landau, the sporting "drag," the snug britchka, the unassuming tilbury, the "Tom-and-Jerry" dog-cart, the lumbering waggon, the laurel-decked van, and the Whitechapel cart, filled with every class of patrician and plebeian, add greatly to the scene. may be seen the aristocratic pillars of the State, and the Corinthian blood; the antiquated London dowager, with her attenuated sickly progeny; and the fresh, ruddy, lowborn country beauty; the turbanned Turk; and the "cadger" from the east; the west-end exquisite; and the Hounsditch "fence." The stalls, too, with their varied ware, gingerbread nuts, toys, lollypops, dolls, china and glass, the lotteries and the targets for nuts, and last not least, the refreshment-booths, from that of Judge Nicholson, of the "Garrick's Head," down to the Lilliputian perambulating ones of the vendors of fried fish, roast potatoes, fruit pies, or "pologne, give animation to the whole. Nor should the wanderers of this and other countries be passed unnoticed-the dark-haired, black-eyed gipsy, deep in palmistry, crossing the hand with silver, and telling tales of hope and love; the coarse over-grown Dutch women and girls, with their croaking voices and diminutive brooms; the poor Italian minstrel from the land of clear skies and