AQUILIUS.—I know not that. I doubt if the pre-eminence will be admitted as established. What works do our collectors mostly purchase—your men of taste, your caterers for our National Gallery, those to whose taste and discernment not only our artists, but the public, are expected to bow? We have heard a great deal of late of encouraging the fine arts. We have had a premier supposed to be supreme in taste. Nay, as if he would cultivate the nation’s taste, show the importance of art, encourage collecting, and teach how to collect, has he not, of late, opened his house almost to the public, and exhibited his collection; and what did it show? doubtless, beautiful specimens of art, but specimens of the great, the sublime, the pathetic? Alas, no! I did not see mention made of a single Italian picture. Now, what would you think of the taste of a man who should profess to collect a library of poets, and should omit Homer, and Æschylus, and Dante, and point with pride to the neatly-bound volumes of the minor poets, and show you nothing higher than the “Pastor Fido,” or the “Gentle Shepherd?” LYDIA.—Or in a musical library should discard Handel? GRATIAN.—Well, that is strange, certainly; but if we are becoming more home-comfort-seeking people, is it not right to encourage the production of works for that _home market_? I cannot agree to put in the background our more domestic artists—and at least they avoid the fault of choosing disgusting subjects. AQUILIUS.—Do they? I am not quite sure of that: we shall see. I suspect they fail more in that respect than you will gladly admit. GRATIAN.—Now, what fault can you find with my favourite Landseer? Do you not like to see the faithful, poor dumb creatures ennobled by his pencil, and made, as they ought to be in life, the humble companions of mankind? CURATE.—If humble, not ennobled! GRATIAN.—Master Curate, do you not read—“Before honour cometh humility?” AQUILIUS.—I agree with you, Gratian. I quite love his pictures: they are wonderfully executed, with surprising truth, and in general his subjects, if not high, are pleasing. Yet I hardly know how to say, in general: there are so many exceptions. I could wish he were a little less cruel. LYDIA.—Cruel! how can that be? his pet dogs, his generous dogs, and horses, and that macaw, and the familiar monkey, and that dear begging dog. The most gentle-minded lady I am acquainted with is working it in tambour—and has been a twelve-month about it! GRATIAN.—And has he not a high poetic feeling? Can you object to the “Sanctuary,” and the “Combat,”—I believe that is the title of the picture—where the stag is waiting for his rival?