The Fortnightly Review: No. CCCCLXIII, New Series [‎592r] (74/239)

A MORNING IN THE GALLERIES.
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it has never been painted with greater truth and force. I rejoice
to see a veteran, who has been too often undervalued, turn in his
old age to a grand subject like the cliffs of Cornwall in a breezy
sea.”
And so we wandered through the galleries, each of us throwing
in a w T ord from time to time.
” How tedious it must be for those poor royalties,” I said, ” to
have to stand year after year for official portraits whilst the artist
is piling on velvet robes, gold lace, ribbons, garters, crosses, sword-
tassels, and jack-boots! It’s just making tailor’s dummies and
modistes’ blocks of the poor things. How they must hate it!—
but royaute oblige."
“ There’s a fine thing, indeed,” said Visto, ” what life, manli
ness, vigour, and breezy air,” taking us up to Furse’s cub-hunting
group; ‘ ‘ what a loss to art! ”
Heu, miserande puer, si qua fata aspera rumpas,
Tu Marcellus eris !
” Yes ! indeed, a cruel loss,” we all said.
‘‘There are some good portraits, too, as well as Sargent’s ! ”,
said Visto, ‘‘ Ouless, Shannon, Cope, Solomon, Fildes, Dicksee,
and other less-known men. But the only man who can hold it
with the great Frenchmen of to-day is plainly Sargent, and let us
trust he will not spoil the rest.”
“ He won’t spoil Ouless,” said I; ‘‘ he is as steady, and solid,
and thorough as ever.”
Nor did we neglect the ladies. Lady Butler, as true and
vigorous as ever; Lucy Kemp-Welch, with her inimitable feeling
for a horse, and the rest.
‘‘ One of the most striking facts in modern art,” I said, ‘‘ is the
immense addition of women as painters. I can remember in the
’forties, or even in the ’fifties, no woman exhibited an oil picture.
You will now see every third name is that of a woman, and in
the water-colours they have it all to themselves. Why is Lady
Butler not R.A., I wonder ! ”
“ Perhaps she declines the honour,” said the young rebel.
Some of us lingered beside the Peter Grahams, the David
Murrays, the H. W. B. Davis, MacWhirters, Arnesly Browns,
Alfred Easts, and the quiet English rural bits which are not
behind their usual form. But Van Dyke w T as all for Stanhope
Forbes, La Thangue, and Clausen.
‘‘All good men, and sound, pure, manly work,” said Vis^p;
‘ ‘ but you need not suppose that this is the last word in modern
art, dear boy. A picture has not only to be painted well, it must
be a thing that is worth painting—interesting, original, beautiful,