the satin-album-loving school, we should assuredly style this “a duck of a picture”—­one after their own hearts—­treated in mild and undisturbed tones of yellow, blue, and pink—­and what yellows! what blues! and what pinks!  Some kind, superintending genius of landscape-painting evidently prepared the scene for W.F.  Witherington, R.A.  It displays nothing of the vulgar every-day look of nature, as seen at Romney Lock, or any other spot; not a pebble out of its place—­not a leaf deranged—­here are bright amber trees, and blue metallic towers, prepared gravel-walks, and figures nicely cleaned and bleached to suit; it is, in truth, the most genteel landscape ever looked on.  Nothing but absolute needlework can create more wonderment.  Fie! fie! get thee hence, W.F.  Witherington, R.A.

Just placed over the last-mentioned picture, and, doubtlessly so arranged that the gentle R.A. should find that, although his bright specimen of mild murder may be adjudged the worst in the collection, still there are others worthy of being classed in the same order of oddities.  Behold No. 19, entitled, “Landscape—­Evening—­J.F.  Gilbert,” and selected by Mr. John Bullock from the Royal Academy.  “What’s in a name?” In the charitable hope that there is a chance of this purchaser being toned down in the course of time, after the same manner that pictures are, and, by that process, display more sobriety, we most humbly offer to Mr. B. our modest judgment upon his selection (not upon his choice, but upon the thing chosen).  That it is a landscape we gloomily admit; but that it represents “Evening” we steadily deny.  The exact period of the day, after much puzzling and deliberation, we cannot arrive at; one thing yet we are assured of—­that it has been painted in company with a clock that was either too fast or too slow.  The composition, which has very much the appearance of the by-gone century, is a prime selection from the finest parts of those very serene views to be found adorning the lowest interiors of wash-hand basins, with a dash from the works of Smith of Chichester, whose mental elevation in his profession was only surpassed by the high finish of his apple-trees, and the elaborate nothingness of his general choice of subject.  In the foreground of the picture, the artist has, however, most aptly introduced the two vagabonds invariably to be seen idling in the foregrounds of landscapes of this class—­two rascally scouts who have put in appearance from time immemorial; they are here just as in the works alluded to, the one sitting, the other of course standing, and courteously bending to receive the remarks of his friend.  By the side of the stream, which flows through (or rather takes up) the middle of the picture, and immediately opposite to the two everlastings, is a little plain-looking agriculturist, who appears to be watching them.  He is in the careless and ever-admitted picturesque position of leaning over a garden fence; but whether the invariables are aware of the little gentleman,