But the catalogue once studied, it was clung to with almost comical persistency. A picture by Jacob Maris, lent by Mr. J. S. Forbes, of a ‘Street in Amsterdam,’ was next in the catalogue, though not in the room, to one of Mr. F. F. Dicksee’s of ‘Christ walking on the Water.’ The Amsterdam picture was one in Maris’s best style--a row of quaint, irregular houses, boats by the wharf, still cold water from the midst of which a post protruded, catching the light. ‘No doubt a fine picture,’ commented a spectator, ‘but it requires a deal of imagination.’ ‘Why? I don’t see that; it’s plain enough: there are the ships, houses, wharf,’ explained a friendly neighbour. ‘Yes, I see all them; but it’s the rest of it that wants the imagination.’ Further pause, and then, ‘Oh! I see; I’ve got the wrong number; I thought it was “Christ walking on the Water”--that’s what I was looking for.’ The historical or domestic pictures, such as J. B. Burgess’s ‘Presentation,’ the English ladies visiting the house of a Moor who is presenting his children to them; or Edwin Long’s ‘Question of Propriety,’ the priests watching the dancing-girl to decide if the dance was proper or not, perhaps attracted the most immediate attention, just in proportion as they told their own tale; but, aided by catalogue or talk, the pictures embodying the highest spiritual truths became the most popular. The sentiment pervading J. F. Millet’s ‘Angelus’ which makes prayer--the communion with the ‘Besetting God’--at evening time, ‘Earth’s natural vesper hour,’ seem right and fitting was an unspoken sermon beyond their comprehension as art critics, but within their reach as men and women capable of communion with the highest. And, at present, when ordinary religious influences appear to make so sadly little impression, shall we not use such pictures also as stepping-stones towards the truer life? Some amount of fine art is now lost to the world because the construction of most modern houses puts narrow limits to the size of pictures. ‘We are often unable to express our best ideas for want of room,’ I was told by a living artist whom this or any age would, I think, call great; and another painter has had what he considers his finest picture left on his hands because it is too big for any drawing-room and most galleries. Is there not a double work here for the rich to do? Might they not, by buying such pictures, encourage the artists to paint their best thoughts, whatever size they require, thus making the world richer by enabling it to possess a little more of the knowledge gained by those who ‘hang on to the sunskirts of the Most High’? Might they not put them as gifts or loans on the walls of churches or hospitals, making bare walls speak great truths, not the less audible because of the murmur of the people’s thanks, real, if unheard by the donors?