In the purlieus that surround this great square, art struggles feebly for existence. Here and there is a picture shop, where the artist finds immortality in a cob-webbed window, or al fresco on stone flags outside the door. There is a particular passage where his works may be seen displayed with a conspicuousness, that if granted them by the rulers of the Royal Academy, fortune would be sure to follow.
Through this passage General Harding and his solicitor had to make their way, for the purpose of reaching the Strand, en route to Downing Street.
In this passage there is a woman, whose sharp glance and sharper voice has a tendency to keep it clear. On seeing the one, or hearing the other, the wayfarer will be disposed to hurry on. She is the proprietress of a furniture shop, of which the pictures in question are an adjunct—being usually what are called in the trade “furniture pictures.”
Neither General Harding, nor his solicitor had any idea of stopping to examine them. They were hurrying on through the passage, when one, so conspicuously placed that it could not escape observation, caught the attention of the old officer, causing him to halt with a suddenness that not only surprised his staid companion, but almost jerked the lawyer off his legs.
“What is it, General?” asked Mr Lawson. “Good God!” gasped the General. “Look there! Do you see that picture?”
“I do,” answered the astonished solicitor; “a sporting scene—two young fellows out shooting, accompanied by a gamekeeper. What do you see in it to surprise you?”
“Surprise me!” echoed the General; “the word is not strong enough. It astounds me!”
“I do not understand you, General,” said the lawyer, glancing towards the old soldier’s face to see whether he was still in his senses.
“The picture appears to be of very moderate merit—painted by some young hand, I take it; though certainly there is spirit in the conception, and the scene—what is it? One sportsman has his knife in his hand, and looks as if he intended to stab the dog with it; while the other seems protecting the poor brute. I can’t make out the meaning.”
“I can,” said the General, with a sigh, deeply breathed, while his frame seemed convulsed by some terrible agitation. “My God!” he continued, “it cannot be a coincidence; and yet how could that scene be here—here upon canvas? Surely I am dreaming!”