Who does not know the _Great Expectations_ set, wherein the expectant nephew, to his joy, is telegraphed for by his dying uncle; and how the latter miraculously gets stronger and plumper day by day, just as the erstwhile buoyant and vigorous nephew’s growing disappointment drags him visibly nearer and nearer to an untimely grave. Then there is the little set of three _Shooting Impressions of my Friend Marius_, who presumably hails from the _Midi_. First he is in the North of France with his gun and his dog--nothing in sight, _no game at all_! Next he is in the Midlands, both man and dog are happier, _There’s just a little_, and a bird has been bagged. Lastly, he’s in his beloved and romantic _Midi_ and _there’s too much_; there’s no room to walk for the game; they press round and caress the bloodthirsty Marius, a hare is making up to the dog, and one confiding game bird has brought its nest of young and actually settled with them on the gun barrel! Another splendid set is that of _The Finest Conquest of Man_, wherein is traced the marvellous horsemanship of a swell, who, with the greatest of ease and suavity, completely subdues a very demon of a horse. But we could proceed thus _ad infinitum_ and yet never give an idea of the wonderful spirit of the drawings, which must be seen to be loved. Most of them are executed with a thin, very precise and sensitive line. How successfully he can manage bold masses when necessary we can judge by his excellent Cossack poster for the “Exposition Russe,” or in those used to advertise the exhibition of his own works at the Fine Art Society, London, in 1898. III H. DE TOULOUSE LAUTREC Lautrec is one of those artists whose work is so uneven and out of the ordinary, that opinions as to its merits or demerits will ever remain as strongly divided now that he is gone, as ever they were during his lifetime. His short life work consists of a mixed series of talented absurdities, and of veritable _tours de force_. His genius, alas! was of the species that borders on insanity. Occasionally the border was overstepped. In more ways than one Aubrey Beardsley’s short life may be compared to that of Lautrec. His genius was of a similar order, and as one examines his work, so will one be inclined first to call him an unwholesome incompetent, and next feel convinced that he is a pioneer artist of the first rank. Lautrec’s life story is a very pathetic one. With him in 1901 was extinguished the last remnant of an ancient line of nobles. His father was an amateur sculptor and painter, who was extremely fond of sport. The family came to live in Paris in 1883. The artist son was a dwarf, and after fighting hard against his handicap, and cheerfully entering the ring to tilt successfully for fame, his mind gave way, and he died at an early age in his father’s castle at Albi, after having been confined in a private asylum.