“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.