With the knowledge of the indifference, because of the unhelped and inevitable ignorance of the town poor in respect to landscape art, special pains were taken with the descriptions, endeavours being made to connect the landscape with some idea with which they were already familiar, or to connect it with some moral association which would attract notice to its qualities; for instance, Mr. John Brett’s ‘Philory, King of the Cliffs,’ was brought nearer to the spectators by the suggestion that ‘the coast of England was, like its people, cool and strong, and not to be hurt by a storm’; and Mr. W. Luker’s picture of ‘Burnham Beeches,’ lent by Mr. S. Winkworth, gained in interest because the catalogue said it was ‘A forest near Slough, about eighteen miles from London, bought by the City of London, and made the property of the people.’ Mr. W. S. Wyllie’s ‘Antwerp,’ a grey, flat picture, had its idea partly embodied in ‘Sea and land seemed to end in the cathedral spire’; while the familiar proverb, ‘It is an ill wind that blows nobody good,’ drew attention to Mr. W. C. Nakkens’s ‘Harvesting in Holland’; and the suggestion that ‘the horses are enjoying the wind which is blowing up the rain, the farmer’s enemy in harvest,’ showed the standpoint from which the picture could be looked at. Not that the catalogue was intended to contain exhaustive explanations of the pictures, but only indications of the lines along which the people could make their own discoveries. Full, however, as some of the descriptions were, they were not full enough to prevent misconceptions. A little copy of Tintoretto, lent by Mr. E. Bale, depicting the visit and embrace of the Virgin Mary and Elisabeth, simply entered in the catalogue as the ‘Meeting of Mary and Elisabeth,’ was mistaken for an interview between Mary, Queen of Scots, and Queen Elizabeth, and produced the reflection, ‘I suppose that was before they quarrelled, then’--a sign that historical had, in this instance, made more mark than Bible instruction. Information about Darwin, concerning whose work the catalogue was silent, was finally volunteered by one of a little group who pronounced him to be ‘the Monkey Man’; and another knew no more about Gladstone than that ‘he was the chap that followed Lord Beaconsfield.’ ‘Lesbia,’ by Mr. J. Bertrand, explained as ‘A Roman girl musing over the loss of her pet bird,’ was commented on by, ‘Sorrow for her bird, is it? I was thinking it was drink that was in her’--a grim indication of the opinion of the working classes of their ‘betters’; though another remark on the same picture, ‘Well, I hope she will never have a worse trouble,’ showed a kindlier spirit and perhaps a sadder experience.