you again the same. "Nothing is shiny in Nature," says Mr. Ben-Gunn as
though rather depressed, surveying a canvas in this respect unhappily
divorced from the truth. "Nature," he adds with Brahminic finality, "is
always dull."

Mr. Ben-Gunn is greeted affectionately by a gentleman you always see at
every art exhibition. This is Mr.--I forget his name--it is French; I
know he writes on Art for _Demos_; a remarkable being who apparently
talks, hears, and sees nothing else but aestheticism. For as there are
types peculiar to art exhibitions, so there are certain individuals
apparently quite peculiar to art exhibitions. Come, let us go on down to
see some Old Masters. Notice there in the corner the foreign-looking
gentleman with the three foreign-looking children. That, the quiet,
cultivated, foreign father and his children, is one of the pleasantest
sights frequently to be seen at art exhibitions. Thus he is to be seen,
easily and intimately discussing the pictures with his attentive
followers.

The great point about the study of art exhibitions from the point of view
of the humanist is the affinity between pictures and people. Here, for
instance, on Madison Square, amid the art heritage of times past, what is
it that at once strikes you? Why, that old paintings evidently are quite
passe to the new crowd. At these exhibitions preliminary to the big
auction sales of venerable masters, and of middle-aged masters, and of
venerable and middle-aged not-quite-masters, there is a very attractive
class of people, a class of funny-looking, fine-looking people, a class,
that is, of rather shabby-looking people who look as if they might be
very rich, of dull-looking people who look as if they might be very
bright. They buy huge catalogues at a dollar or so apiece, which they
consult continually. They arrive early and remain a long time.