240 THE ZOOLOGIST. 
picture which possibly we may see next year upon the walls of the 
Academy, under the title “‘ The survival of the fittest.” We like 
this picture much, although its size strikes as being incon- 
veniently large. But there is evidence of careful observation 
of the animals delineated. Each separate wolf is a study; the 
attitudes are varied and well chosen, and the fore-shortening in 
some cases is excellent; while an admirable effect of colour 
is produced by the juxtaposition of the thick grey fur of the 
wolves and the glistening white of the snow in which they are 
fighting. A little more blood upon the snow, although not a 
pleasant thing to look upon asa rule, would have added, we think, 
greater force to the picture. If we have one fault to find, it is 
from the naturalist’s point of view. It has been observed of 
wolves that they always make a combined attack upon their victim, 
and one would therefore expect to see the dead wolf in the fore 
ground in the process of being torn to pieces and devoured, 
instead of being allowed to le unmolested as soon as he has 
ceased to struggle. Upon this point, however, the artist has 
perhaps exercised a wise discretion. After all the great aim of 
art, in the first place, is to please, and it cannot be said that 
the contemplation of blood and mangled remains can be pro- 
ductive of pleasure to anyone. The dead wolf, therefore, must 
either be swpposed to have been eaten, in which case he would not 
be seen, or he must lie there in his entirety. The artist bas 
preferred the latter alternative, and in no other way, does it seem, 
can “the survival of the fittest,” in this case, by the death of 
the weakest, be indicated. For one wolf may be as good as 
another, and it does not neccessarily follow that a struggle of the 
kind depicted should always end in death. Thus, we take it, 
in this case the naturalist must give way, and allow that the 
artist is right. 
An equally remarkable picture, though for a different reason, 
is “The Poacher’s Widow” (195) by Briton Riviére. We pre- 
sume it is intended to be pathetic, but it nearly approaches 
the ludicrous. The widow in question, without bonnet or shawl, 
although it is night, is seated on the ground behind a solitary 
furze-bush on the slope of the hill at the edge of a cover. With 
her hair dishevelled and her head buried in her hands, she is 
absorbed apparently in contemplation of the spot where her 
husband, the poacher, met his death. But the solemnity of the 
