Punch (93.1887)

190

PUNCH, OR THE LONDON CHAPJVAKI.

[October 22, 1887.

BOGEY IN BOND STREET.

(A Legend of the Grosvenor Gallery.)

The Spirit of Art glided through the streets of Modern London, seeking a resting-
place. She entered the Diploma Gallery of the Royal Academy, hut 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
Shakspeake, Milton, and Addison-, Tennyson, Macadxay, 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 extrac-
tion), who was a Musician.

" Arthub (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 Buppose,
hecause 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 Arthtjb contained a pointed reference to the

Greenery Yallery Gallery. I fancy, from all I
have heard, that the sort of thing I want will
he 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 Moee and Millais, and Watts, and oh,
joy! of Sir Coutts-Lindsat 1 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 Bides she found
immense pictures of battles and executions
ghastly beyond description.

"Why, what are these?" she gasped.
"What are these?"

" Catalogue, Miss ? "replieda civilattendant.
" Thank you, Miss,—sixpence."

And then the Spirit of Art read that such
and such a picture represented a dreadful de-
feat, that a pestilent hospital, yonder one a
scene of torture. She found representations of
war treated in the most prosaic and unbeauti-
ful 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 I
* * * * #

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 con-
dition. Something less repulsive ! I have it 1
I will begin with the figures of Madame Tr/s-
satjd's—in the Chamber of Horrors! "

CHAIRS TO MEND.

Congregation at Oxford, having (in an
empty House), for the sake of economy, turned
the old Professorship of Anglo-Saxon into
one of English Literature, and having, with a
view to utilising its salary, entirely suppressed
the chair of Poetry, it is rumoured that the
Hebdomadal Council have already in contem-
plation a sweeping list of curtailments in the
same direction.

The Professorships of Arabic, Archseology.
Astronomy, Botany, Celtic, Chemistry, and
Chinese, will, it is said, also be rolled into one.

It is hoped that, by some spirited reforms _in
the direction indicated above, the University
that, from the fashion in which it has dealt
with the Chair of Poetry, appears indeed to be
out at elbows, may survive the financial crisis
in which it is evidently involved.