What those two lines in the poem express, and express well for a piece of wording, the picture might easily make a principal incident and a principal part of its subject—its artistical subject. The blaze of the search-lights half illuminating the ocean and leaving the rest of it the darker by contrast, while the fatal torpedo-boat eludes the light and is dimly recognized by the path it has drawn of ripples and foam which themselves catch what little light is diffused through the damp atmosphere from the white beams which pierce the darkness; all this would be a picture, and this which is here described would be the sufficient subject of the picture. On the other hand, the battle-field scene might easily be the stupidest thing possible; red uniforms, with dust and horses of several colors, the gleam of light on the guns and accoutrements; all of this is artistic subject, indeed, but it is of the slightest and most commonplace kind, and unless treated with wonderful technical skill, would fail to command much respect. Unquestionably, the "human interest," if strongly felt by the painter in this case, might be effective to give personality to the driver, to the driver's brother, and even to the slaughtered horse, and a dramatic composition might possibly be made out of that which, in almost any painter's hands, would become a mere narrative picture of the kind most commonly in evidence and most to be deprecated. And yet there is "human interest" to be found in pictures which are none the worse for having it. The discussion of these is simply the most difficult task that is set to one who would write about the art of painting. Let us take Paul Baudry's picture of Charlotte Corday. The scene is a very small room with a low dado for the protection of the wall, as befits a bath-room. On the left is the bath-tub with high straight sides, and filled with the sheet, the _fond de bain_, so commonly in use even now on the continent of Europe. Beside the bath-tub, a rough wooden box has been "up-ended" and carries, like a little table, an old-fashioned round ink-stand, a sheet of paper, and a quill pen. A short plank which has been lying across the foot of the bath-tub has tipped into the tub, carrying with it some sheets of paper. A chair which has been standing by the side of the bath-tub is overset. With the chair has fallen a garment which still partly covers it; and a plumed hat fills the extreme right-hand lower corner of the picture. A map of France, as large as the wall of the small chamber allows, hangs opposite to the spectator and to the eye of the person occupying the bath-tub. The well-known facts are that Marat, while following the prescription of his physicians and taking the long-continued bath prescribed, was occupied in writing, and that Charlotte Corday, on her persistent demand, was admitted that she might lodge with him some complaint, and that she then stabbed him to the heart. Of the