Nfcture aud Art, December 1, 18CG. ] 
THE WIN TEE FINS ART. EXHIBITIONS. 
241 
gentlemen of the long robe. Addressing him, he 
says : — ■ 
“ Come, Fortiscue, sincere, experienced friend, 
. Thy briefs, thy deeds, and e’en thy fees suspend ; 
Come, let us leave the Temple’s silent walls — - 
Me, business to my distant lodging' calls. 
Through the long Strand together let us stray, 
With thee conversing I forget the way.” 
There is much uncertainty and doubt connected 
with the very early history of this truly ancient 
church, and there are some curious traditions 
relating to it. Weever, in his “ Funeral Monu- 
ments,” says : — 
“On the credit of ‘ British Story,’ the Temple was ori- 
ginally founded by Dunwallo Mulmutius, as a place of 
refuge and sanctuary for thieves and offenders, about the 
year of the world 4748 ; and Dunwallo himself, with ether 
British kings, is reported to have been buried here.” 
So much for tradition — history, and records 
touching the authenticity of which there can be no 
reasonable doubt, trace the existence of the 
building back to a period as early as 1185, at 
which date it was formally dedicated to the Virgin 
Mary by Heraclius, patriarch of Jerusalem, who 
was sent on a mission to this country by Pope 
Lucius ITL, in order to induce King Henry II. to 
accept the throne of Jerusalem, and who, during his 
visit, was some time a guest of the Knights Templars. 
But as we gossip on thus touching the past, we 
must not altogether lose sight of the present ; for 
there, beside the fountain in which we saw the 
Temple sparrows practising hydropathy, stand the 
gardener and his friend, rigidly scrutinizing the 
depths of the basin, and eagerly pointing out to 
each other something which they evidently see 
below. We pass through the iron gateway and 
join the investigators. What think yotr is the 
object of their solicitude? — “ The black-gowned 
form of some briefless barrister who has drowned 
himself in a fit of despair ? ” — “ some love-lorn 
fair one, who has sought a long repose amongst the 
brown autumn leaves floating in the quiet pool V’ 
“ lost money 1 ” — “ a dead rat 1 ” No ; something 
more lively than any of these — salmon ; silvery, 
glittering salmon, alive. There they are, sure 
enough ; juvenile salmon, it is true, but not “baby 
salmon ; ” either swimming here and there, resting 
on the stonework of the fountain’s foundation, or 
poised in mid-water, with winnowing fins and 
prying eye, in search of insect food. “ How came 
they here 1 ” Simply in this wise. In January, 
1865, a gentleman, zealous in the cause of “ pisci- 
culture,” brought some impregnated ova to the 
fountain, and, with the assistance of the gardener, 
of investigating habits, it was put in ; but not 
without an accident causing a general upset of the 
whole consignment. Cat and sparrow risks stood 
gloomily in the path to success ; but, in due time, 
the tiny brood came forth and sported gaily in the 
sunshine, with which even the Temple is sometimes 
visited. A spring and summer have passed, 1865 
has sunk in the great store of expended years, and 
1866 will be soon called on to abdicate in favour of 
a new monarch ; yet young Salmo Salar still 
continues to dwell in the Temple fountain, which 
may now fairly, by the reasoning adopted by honest 
Fluellen, be placed on an equality with his much- 
beloved Wye, “ as there are salmons in both.” 
T HE W I N T E R PINE 
rjIHE superstitions of art fade as the shadow of its pre- 
JL scriptions. It is no longer essential that exhibitions 
of pictures should be confided to public bodies, or societies 
of artists, and it has ceased to be believed that pictures 
may be only shown to the public in May. Art that itself 
knows no season — perennial in its bounties — should be 
perennial in presence too. The old tradition lived long- 
enough. People who are sufficiently unfashionable to attend 
operas at Christmas or to eat gooseberries all the year 
round, may well have picture galleries open in November. 
The taste for art does not hybernate. The three millions 
of unfashionables who remain in town, are not likely to enjoy 
the solace of art less when trees are bare, and the outer 
world is submerged in fog, -or for the contrast so presented 
between the real world and the ideal one represented in 
art. Good pictures are always enjoyable to people of taste ; 
but never so enjoyable as, when heightening the pleasures of 
life, they serve to transport even from unpleasant reality to 
a realm of very happy illusion. 
Among the five or six exhibitions of greater or lesser mag- | 
nitude opened during the past month, the collections of Mr. 
Gambart, and of the Water Colour Institute, both in Pall 
Mall, and that of Mr. H. Wallis in Suffolk Street, are 
chiefly noticeable. Of the last it is barely too much to say 
that it would by no means in interest or excellence discredit 
the Royal Academy. «• 
Mr. Gambart is less fortunate in his display than on 
previous occasions. He has no remarkable picture in his 
collection, unless, indeed, Mr. Sandys’s portrait of Mrs. Rose 
VII. 
A R T EXHIBITIONS. 
may claim to be so considered, and very few of the works of 
the more distinguished contributors do justice to their name 
or fame. An exception may be probably admitted in the 
portraits, by Mr. G. F. Watts, of Alfred Tennyson and Robert 
Browning, alike exquisite in feeling and heroic sentiment, 
and which may be worthily classed for excellence, though 
not for size, with the best works of the artist. Mr. Watts is 
often “ caviare to the general;” but that the head of the 
laureate has merits of poetic feeling, ideal elevation, and sen- 
timent, it would be difficult for the most obtuse to deny. Ex- 
ception might, perhaps, be taken to the artifice of execution, 
and the lowness of tone in which both these pictures 
appear, and which last is in apparent simulation of the 
Yenetian manner ; but we are content with the result, no 
matter how attained. Gennaro, a third contribution, is 
much inferior. Mr. Thos. Faed, R.A., and Mr. Goodall, 
R.A., are represented respectively by “ Music hath Charms,” 
and “ Hagar and Ishmael,” both works in the artist’s most 
usual and characteristic manner ; but of small interest. 
! The first represents a boy playing on a whistle, at a cottage- 
door ; a tall hoydenisli girl, verging on womanhood, ap- 
parently listening to and enjoying the dulcet strains of her 
brother’s pipe. There is nothing either in sentiment or 
treatment to make this work especially attractive, and in 
point of fact it is as little interesting as any performance 
by so distinguished an artist could be. 
No exhibition, winter or otherwise, would probably be 
complete without one of Mr. E. M. Ward’s burlesque illustra- 
tions of the “ Vicar of V T akefield,” the “ French Revolu- 
tion,” or “ Goldsmith’s Life.” On the present occasion, 
ll 
