ch Mr.
Millais contributes nothing) are other artists, as yet not greatly
known, but with feeling and purpose about them such as must make them
remarkable in time. Some of the best papers are by two brothers named
Rossetti, one of whom, Mr. D. G. Rossetti, has a very curious but
very striking picture now exhibiting in the Portland Gallery. Mr.
Deverell, who has also a very clever picture in the same gallery,
contributes some beautiful poetry. It is perhaps chiefly in the
poetry that the abilities of these writers are displayed; for, with
somewhat absurd and much that is affected, there is yet in the
poetical pieces of these four numbers a beauty and grace of language
and sentiment, and not seldom a vigour of conception, altogether
above the common run. Want of purpose may be easily charged against
them as a fault, and with some justice, but it is a very common
defect of youthful poetry, which is sure to disappear with time if
there be anything real and manly in the poet. The best pieces are too
long to extracted in entire, and are not to be judged of fairly
except as wholes. There is a very fine poem called "Repining" of
which this is particularly true. [Next comes a quotation of Christina
Rossetti's "Dream Land," and of a portion of Dante Rossetti's
"Blessed Damozel."] The last number contains a remarkable dialogue on
Art, written by a young man, John Orchard, who has since died. It is
well worth study. Kalon, Kosmon, Sophon, and Christian, whose names,
of course, represent the opinions they defend, discuss a number of
subjects connected with the arts. Each character is well supported,
and the wisdom and candour of the whole piece is very striking,
especially when we consider the youth and inexperience of the writer.
Art lost a true and high-minded votary in Mr. Orchard. [A rather long
extract from the "Dialogue" follows here.]

It is a pity that the publication is to stop. English artists have
hitherto worked each one by himself, with too little of common
purpose, too little of mutual support, too little of distinct and
steadily pursued intellectual object. We do not believe that they are
one whit more jealous than the followers of other professions. But
they are less forced to be together, and the little jealousies which
deform the natures of us all have in their case, for this reason,
freer scope, and tend more to isolation. Here, at last, we have a
_school_, ignorant it may be, conceited possibly, as yet with but