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A GOSSIP ON THE GROSVENOR GALLERY.

How strangely the world is kept upon an accurate balance-vice and virtue, riches and poverty flourish side by side, and each has firm root in the earth. To the wanderers among some of the dreary tomblike squares and sarcophagus-like streets of London, ugliness would seem to have conquered the soul of man and overshadowed his life. But let that wanderer give up his contemplation of the hideous stucco edifices in which rich middle-class families proudly bury themselves, and let him pass down into Bondstreet and enter the Grosvenor Gallery. He will be confronted by vital evidence that the fair spirit of beauty still lives in our midst, tenderly nurtured, and that there are men who consecrate their lives to her worship and service. Here is a retreat from the ugliness of the outer world, and though only a proportion of the foremost worshippers of beauty have given their best work to this particular shrine, yet is its very atmosphere a rest and reprieve to the weary soul. The gallery, too, is just small enough not to utterly fatigue the eye, and the pleasantness of the general effect is greatly added to by the practise of hanging the pictures of each artist in a group, which, however, has not been quite so closely adhered to this year as heretofore. This is a loss of pleasure, for there is a peculiar delight in entering that step farther into the artist's actual sphere which the comparison of one mood of his with another enables one to do. No picture-seeing

can ever be so perfectly enjoyable as that done in an artist's own studio. Everybody who has entered Mr. Watts's or Mr. Linnell's studio will know how infinitely greater was the capacity of appreciation when undisturbed by other artistic influences; and yet these two great masters of our generation lose less by public exhibition perhaps than any others. Mr. Linnell's exquisite "Windmill" holds its own as well upon the walls of the National Gallery as did any of the pictures fresh upon his easel; and

Mr. Watts's "Paolo and Francesca," which is exhibited in the "Grosvenor," gains in grandeur and beauty with every glance given away from it. Nevertheless the near neighbourhood of such a picture as "Our First Tiff" makes it difficult to obtain the cathedrallike atmosphere which "Paolo and Francesca seems to demand. Still there is much wholesome instruction to be obtained in these galleries of mixed work in observing the treatment given by the public to the different artists.

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credible as it may seem, this is really to a great extent true. They pause a moment sometimes-some pause quite a long moment-and give a silent look, and many simply go by the wall without word or look.

They are not attracted. They are as untouched as they would be before the Belvedere Apollo.

Burne-Jones produces an odd effect upon the conversational powers of the chattering sightseers. They pause before his "Pygmalion" and his "Annunciation." They look in silence-then they open their catalogues to see what it is all about, and tell one another with an air of discovery and enlightenment, "Oh, that is Burne-Jones." The name is evidently explanatory and sufficient: after another look, and without any further remark, they pass on. Something similar in effect is produced by Mr. Whistler's name; only, instead of a certain air of quiet enlightenment, people greet it with smiles and amusement. "Look at that picture it doesn't seem finished-how odd, isn't it? I wonder who it's by. Oh, it's Whistler's-an arrangement in brown and black. Now isn't that curious? do look," cries the discoverer to everyone else in his or her party, "this is one of Whistler's-an arrangement in brown and black."

Tissot's pictures, as a rule, afford unmixed delight. "Oh, isn't that capital-isn't that charming doesn't that look delightful?" It is perfectly plain to anyone who will pause here and listen for a little to the remarks that are made, that Mr. Tissot is intelligible to the public mind, and therefore appreciated by it. Then there come some now and then who possess occult knowledge of the lady in the hammock, and they all maintain that she is much prettier

than she is painted. "See," cries one with delight, "there is the colley dog. You know these pictures are all painted in Tissot's garden. This is the garden outside his house, and they have a hammock under the chesnut tree. And do look at the dear little girl in Orphans; that's exactly like her she's always got her finger in her mouth."

The lady who appears and reappears in these pictures is doubtless very charming and very idle: is it too rude to suggest that one gets a little weary of having one's attention so pointedly attracted to her clocked stockings? Nevertheless she does look very comfortable and very pretty, and delightfully tantalising it must be to be one of the "Rivals" in her conservatory.

We certainly see at the Grosvenor the extremes of modern art; it is a finer lesson in artistic affectations than any other gallery. We have real art and realistic art; Watts and Tissot, Burne-Jones and R. W. Macbeth. It is hard to understand how the same race and the same climate could produce a master like Watts and a photographic painter such as Tissot. It is hard to understand, because it is difficult to know how an artist, born with love of form and colour, can look at Watts's work and go on in his own smaller way; but, after all, it is a fact which one should be grateful for, as independence is always a refreshing quality, and moreover such work as Tissot's and Macbeth's enable one to perceive the majesty of the true work.

It is said that one of the typical realistic painters who is represented in this gallery is avowedly a great admirer of the work of that other order of artists which we will call real; and that to one of these latter artists, a great modern master, whom he specially professes to appreciate, that same dmira

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it be genuine," he is forced to say, "when that realistic work is still persisted in and fulfilled to its utmost of insignificance and altogether regardless of its want of raison d'être?" But it seems to us a matter of doubt whether the tadpole does not the better honour the great fish by avoiding him with all respect, and living his own life out in true tadpole fashion, rather than by rushing towards him and being lost in his bulk, as he inevitably must be. They cannot associatethe size is too different.

Mr. Tissot's pictures of flirtation, kettledrums and hammocks, all made charming by an atmosphere of luxurious physical idleness, are pleasant enough and amusing enough for a passing glance, and they are so intensely realistic that one could no more find flaws or incorrectness in them than one would find in a photograph of a fashionable beauty under a parasol.

Come back now to that stately wall, where the great masters work where we may pause and rest our very soul in gazing upon the classic beauty of Paolo and Francesca. Here, indeed, there is rest, for one feels oneself in the presence of something too great for criticism-something which hushes words, and almost arrests thought.

Mr. W. B. Richmond exhibits a daring picture of "King Sarpedon being carried away by Sleep and Death." It is a vigorous conception courageously carried out-whether truly artistic is another matter. It is startling and effective at all events. It contains a curious difficulty to the ordinary mind, at first sight, in Sleep and Death being shown as active instead of passive agents. "But, at least," said one lady, after much perplexity and explanation, "the one that is asleep must be Sleep?" No, no," cried her better-informed

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friend in despair, "that is Sarpedon." There is a sweet little "Spirit of the Shell," by W. G. Wills, which is so delicate and charming as to deserve a little study; but at the same time it is so unobtrusive that it scarcely gets the notice it merits. Close by is a quaint "Hamlet and Ophelia," by the same artist, which, in its quiet rich colouring, produces a pleasant effect. Mr. S. Matthew Hale's "Psyche's Toil in Venus's Garden is illustrative of Mr. William Morris's" Earthly Paradise." The query before this picture is perpetually, "why should the pavement be bright blue ?" But the picture is extremely pretty, though it partakes somewhat of the peculiar style and air of decorative art. Above it hangs Stuart Wortley's

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Charing Cross Bridge," a very good instance of honest straightforward study. Our dingy London river is cram full of beauty; Turner found out its charms and loved it. A sweet little "Morning Mist," by Cecil Lawson, hangs by the doorway just under a very realistic portrait of "An African Beauty."

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would probably be a new view of the matter to most artists. In this gentleman's mind first came the subject; and then the picture upon the subject is either good or bad. Mr. Morris's "Nancy Lee of Great Yarmouth" is a very pretty study of shipbuilding. J. B. Weguelin's "Tired Dancer" is very clear and rich. The girl has flung herself upon a marble seat beneath a marble pillar; her loose dress of dark red gauze forms a brilliant patch against the marble, and yet it does not hide the limbs beneath. Her dark hair is crowned with clustering yellow flowers, the face is utterly asleep, and the right arm flung out straight upon the marble slab behind her well conveys the idea of complete weariness. The execution of the marble is a kind of reminiscence of Alma Tadema's work. Next comes Herkomer's "Alfred Tennyson," a very fine portrait of the laureate. We look from it to "A Portrait" by Millais, one of Millais's really charming portraits, full of character and expression. Mr. Whistler's "Portrait of Miss Connie Gilchrist" is called a harmony in yellow and gold. It is, at all events, something rather novel in portraiture to paint a young lady in tights playing with a skipping rope. But Miss Connie Gilchrist is accustomed to this costume, and, as she is a favourite little dancer, doubtless this picture, which is pretty enough, will be a favourite too.

The majesty of Watts's picture, "Paolo and Francesca," grows upon one the longer one gazes into it. From an artistic point of view it is simply grand: the draperies are filled with beauty in every flowing fold and blown mass. The whole sweep of the figures is full of expression; they fill one's soul with awe and wonder and almost a thrill of terror. The faces-so exquisite in their death-like life—what a stern gleam

of the internal state of these lost souls comes from the closed eyes and pallid lips!

There are two charming terracotta busts by Conent Gleichen, and a very pretty group of Prince Edward and George of Wales as sailor boys, Prince George holding in his hand a coil of rope.

Mr. Burne-Jones's four pictures of Pygmalion tell the oft-told tale of the sculptor from the time of his heart's first aspirings to the moment when

She comes; the ivory marble of her eyes, Softening to Psyche's hidden ether-dews, Reveals the influence of the unveiled soul, And a full stream of living light strikes forth.

The lips half ope, disparting into pearls Rose-girt-spring buds scarce blown but ripely hued

By contrast of the pearls in their caress. Loosed from the stone's embracery, her hair

Becomes instinct through shower of feather-gold

With light and shade the warm life ripples o'er.

The third of these four pictures, "The Godhead Fires," is full of beauty. The form of the statue is just beginning to flush with life. The god of love has just appeared before her, and is communicating by his touch warmth and passion to the marble form; the glow has already begun to arise in her cheek, and wonderingly she leans towards the god who is giving to her this new and marvellous life. The two figures mingle most exquisitely, their outstretched arms interlacing in that wonderful graceful manner which is all Mr. Burne-Jones's own. It is almost beyond belief that any models can be persuaded to adopt such exquisite attitudes. Mr. Burne-Jones's large picture of the "Annunciation," hangs in the midst of these four pictures of Pygmalion. It is a picture of that order which almost requires highly educated or naturally strong

artistic sensibilities for its appreciation. casual picture-gazer cannot help seeing that it is very beautiful, and that its suggestiveness is of so subdued a sort as to need many a long look before it is understood. A wicked tale is told of a certain old lady who, seeing the " Annunciation thus placed in the midst of the pictures of Pygmalion, went home to hunt her Bible for the

Nevertheless, the most

sculptor's story. This, if true, would only be another instance of the extraordinary ignorance of the Bible which exists among educated people. When Miss Thackeray (Cornhill Magazine, Jan. 1867, p. 82.) supposes George Eliot to have been the original author of the words, "The kingdom of heaven is within us," it is too much to expect people to know that Pygmalion is not a biblical hero.

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