“Why, did you ever know a conceited man dare to _praise_ a picture? The one thing he dreads (next to not being noticed) is _to be proved fallible_! If you once _praise_ a picture, your character for _infallibility_ hangs by a thread. Suppose it’s a figure-picture, and you venture to say ‘draws well.’ Somebody measures it, and finds one of the proportions an eighth of an inch wrong. _You_ are disposed of as a critic! ‘Did you say he draws _well_?’ your friends enquire sarcastically, while you hang your head and blush. No. The only _safe_ course, if any one says ‘draws well,’ is to shrug your shoulders. ‘_Draws_ well?’ you repeat thoughtfully. ‘Draws _well_? Humph!’ That’s the way to become a great critic!” Thus airily chatting, after a pleasant drive through a few miles of beautiful scenery, we reached the _rendezvous_—a ruined castle—where the rest of the picnic-party were already assembled. We spent an hour or two in sauntering about the ruins: gathering at last, by common consent, into a few random groups, seated on the side of a mound, which commanded a good view of the old castle and its surroundings. The momentary silence, that ensued, was promptly taken possession of—or, more correctly, taken into custody—by a Voice; a voice so smooth, so monotonous, so sonorous, that one felt, with a shudder, that any other conversation was precluded, and that, unless some desperate remedy were adopted, we were fated to listen to a Lecture, of which no man could foresee the end! The speaker was a broadly-built man, whose large, flat, pale face was bounded on the North by a fringe of hair, on the East and West by a fringe of whisker, and on the South by a fringe of beard—the whole constituting a uniform halo of stubbly whitey-brown bristles. His features were so entirely destitute of expression that I could not help saying to myself—helplessly, as if in the clutches of a night-mare—“they are only penciled in: no final touches as yet!” And he had a way of ending every sentence with a sudden smile, which spread like a ripple over that vast blank surface, and was gone in a moment, leaving behind it such absolute solemnity that I felt impelled to murmur “it was not _he_: it was somebody else that smiled!” “Do you observe?” (such was the phrase with which the wretch began each sentence) “Do you observe the way in which that broken arch, at the very top of the ruin, stands out against the clear sky? It is placed _exactly_ right: and there is _exactly_ enough of it. A little more, or a little less, and all would be utterly spoiled!” [Illustration: A LECTURE ON ART] “Oh gifted architect!” murmured Arthur, inaudibly to all but Lady Muriel and myself. “Foreseeing the exact effect his work would have, when in ruins, centuries after his death!”