(_A Legend of the Grosvenor Gallery._)
[Illustration]
The Spirit of Art glided through the streets of Modern London, seeking
a resting-place. She entered the Diploma Gallery of the Royal Academy,
but hurried away, affrighted at some of the terrible examples of the
illustrious Forty.
"And these are the greatest English painters!" she murmured--"the
countrymen of SHAKSPEARE, MILTON, and ADDISON, TENNYSON, MACAULAY, and
DICKENS! How is it that Painting cannot keep pace with Literature?"
It sounded like a Conundrum, and the Spirit of Art was not good
at Conundrums. So she gave it up. Then she passed into other
Exhibitions--there were quite a dozen in the neighbourhood at the
very least. But she was unsatisfied, and came away. She paused, and
considered. The Spirit of Art had one great English friend (of Irish
extraction), who was a Musician.
"ARTHUR is a clever fellow," said the Spirit of Art to herself--there
was no one else to speak to--"and if he _does_ compose more comic
Operas than Oratorios, it is, I suppose, because there is a greater
demand for the former than the latter."
From this it will be seen the Spirit of Art had, on the whole, a
good head for business. "Now," continued the Representative of the
Beautiful, "I distinctly recollect that the words to one of the songs
of my friend ARTHUR contained a pointed reference to the Greenery
Yallery Gallery. I fancy, from all I have heard, that the sort of
thing I want will be found in the Greenery Yallery Gallery."
She was quite pleased at the notion. To tell the truth the Spirit of
Art was rather weary of perambulating the streets of London--not even
the advertisements of BUFFALO BILL on the hoardings gave her lasting
satisfaction.
"Let me consider," she said, as she hovered on the threshold of the
Grosvenor Gallery, "now I shall find myself amongst the grandest works
of Mister JONES. I am never tired of that pale face with the pointed
chin--no more is Mister JONES. This frequently-reproduced portrait of
a lady is most interesting. No doubt it is a study of a chronic case
of dyspepsia that must have lasted for twenty years. Then I shall see
the choicest works of MORE and MILLAIS, and WATTS, and oh, joy! of Sir
COUTTS-LINDSAY! This is indeed the very spot for a resting-place."
So the Spirit of Art glided up the staircase and into the Grosvenor
Gallery. For a moment she was puzzled. There was no dyspeptic
lady--"no greenery" and very little "yallery." Then she shivered,
for on all sides she found immense pictures of battles and executions
ghastly beyond description.
"Why, what are these?" she gasped. "What are these?"
"Catalogue, Miss?" replied a civil attendant. "Thank you,
Miss,--sixpence."
And then the Spirit of Art read that such and such a picture
represented a dreadful defeat, that a pestilent hospital, yonder one a
scene of torture. She found representations of war treated in the most
prosaic and unbeautiful form.
She was horrified and fainted!
Then the vision, before her became more and more terrible and the
entire contents of the Catalogue was unfolded before her. Dying
soldiers defying vultures, mutilated Russians lying in an open grave,
old men being blown from the guns! Wounds, and fire, and blood!
***
When she came to herself she hurried away. She thought it out.
"I must gradually accustom myself to less horrible things," she
whispered. "I will begin at once. If I were not to do this by degrees,
I should go mad!" She called a hansom.
"Where to, Miss?"
"To the Marylebone Road," cried the Spirit of Art--in these days the
Spirit is a very self-assertive young person, and not at all like an
unprotected female--"Baker Street Station, Marylebone Road."
Then she threw away her Catalogue.
"I must see something less repulsive than this--I must gradually
resume my normal condition. Something less repulsive! I have it! I
will begin with the figures of Madame TUSSAUD'S--in the Chamber of
Horrors!"
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