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 nature as well as of his education. As a result we have a work rich in striking effects, full of studied arrangement, but superficial, and of dubious taste.

Nevertheless, "The Last Day of Pompeii" cannot be denied a considerable permanent artistic value. Its glaring, frigid colours, its smooth stroke, the classical triteness of the figures, the lack of movement and vitality in the composition,—all this is unable to do away with the general impression, which is one of great power, although, of course, it is the power not of Weber or Schubert, but that of Meyerbeer or Halévi. Whatever its failings may be, Bryullov's "Pompeii" is a good theatrical spectacle, à grand fracas executed with an astonishing amount of technical knowledge and with contagious enthusiasm. It is true that this enthusiasm was the cold passion of an ambitious man, whose aim it was to astound the world. True fervour and genuine passion are alien to the beauty of this painting, but with the public at large this very peculiarity of "The Last Day of Pompeii" could pass for a merit,—for, genuine passion, the cry of a soul deeply wounded or transported with delight, is least agreeable to "reasonable" people. The best portion of the picture is the disorderly group of fugitives forcing the door of a falling house. In this intertwined knot of human bodies, among which the calm face of the artist himself stands