this band of shy artificers. In fact, Beauty had existed long before
1880. It was Mr. Oscar Wilde who managed her de'but. To study the
period is to admit that to him was due no small part of the social
vogue that Beauty began to enjoy. Fired by his fervid words, men and
women hurled their mahogany into the streets and ransacked the curio-
shops for the furniture of Annish days. Dados arose upon every wall,
sunflowers and the feathers of peacocks curved in every corner, tea
grew quite cold while the guests were praising the Willow Pattern of
its cup. A few fashionable women even dressed themselves in sinuous
draperies and unheard-of greens. Into whatsoever ballroom you went,
you would surely find, among the women in tiaras and the fops and the
distinguished foreigners, half a score of comely ragamuffins in
velveteen, murmuring sonnets, posturing, waving their hands. Beauty
was sought in the most unlikely places. Young painters found her
mobled in the fogs, and bank-clerks, versed in the writings of Mr.
Hamerton, were heard to declare, as they sped home from the City, that
the Underground Railway was beautiful from London Bridge to
Westminster, but not from Sloane Square to Notting Hill Gate.

Aestheticism (for so they named the movement,) did indeed permeate, in
a manner, all classes. But it was to the haut monde that its primary
appeal was made. The sacred emblems of Chelsea were sold in the
fashionable toy-shops, its reverently chanted creeds became the patter
of the boudoirs. The old Grosvenor Gallery, that stronghold of the
few, was verily invaded. Never was such a fusion of delightful folk as
at its Private Views. There was Robert Browning, the philosopher,
doffing his hat with a courtly sweep to more than one Duchess. There,
too, was Theo Marzials, poet and eccentric, and Charles Colnaghi, the
hero of a hundred tea-fights, and young Brookfield, the comedian, and
many another good fellow. My Lord of Dudley, the virtuoso, came there,